Winterset, Iowa

The obvious question, for those familiar with Midwest geography, might be why I chose to compete in an event located 6 hours from my home. I had never visited Winterest, Iowa for any purpose and knew nothing of its enduro terrain. What I did know was I needed to get away, and far. Two years into a corporate banking career, I was struggling to establish myself among a sea of exceptionally smart and career-driven colleagues. Earlier in the week I had attempted to make a mark for myself and failed spectacularly. Winterset was on the Iowa enduro schedule and I worked with a guy whose parents lived an hour away. I had a bed to sleep in Saturday night and a long drive to reflect on my career. This race would be the getaway I needed.

As most are aware, the Winterset area is famous for its covered bridges and a certain book-turned-movie about a photographer and a farm wife. I can't say I expected to see any Meryl Streep lookalikes, but I did hope to find some 93 octane gasoline, which I'd neglected to purchase on the way to Iowa. It didn't exist in Winterset and neither did moisture. The club members manning the gate at the staging area told me the area hadn't received measurable rainfall in a month. They also warned the course would be rocky. Surrounded by fertile corn and soybean fields, it hardly seemed possible, but this was part of an entire state my KTM's tires had never touched. I would take their word.

The club members seemed correct about the dry conditions. I wandered down a trail near the parking lot and found it a similar consistency as reinforced concrete. High above, floating across the sky were five vultures. I'm not a symbolism kind of guy, but it made me wonder what I'd signed up for. Back at my truck, I kicked over the engine about two dozen times before it fired up and then ran sluggishly. Those vultures were out of sight but under my skin.

I did manage to set up my timekeeping hardware and get myself to the starting line with several minutes to spare. I was joined by three other racers, including a guy riding a Yamaha who sprinted out front when our departure time arrived. True to the words of the club members, these trails were dry. I hadn't see such dust in ages. Even so, the course was marked well and flowed well. Over the first 10 miles of the timed section, I rode decently, despite inhaling the dust of the Yamaha.

After the second reset, I'd had enough of the dust and decided to lead our row at the next timed section. Finally, I could breathe clean air and read the trail without a haze as far as my eyes could see. Those next 10 miles were interrupted only by a handful of slower riders ahead of me, each leaving a dust trail but politely moving over as I approached from behind.

The Winterset course was a cross between the black dirt of Illinois and the angular rocks of Missouri. The mix of terrain was just enough of both, never exceeding my tolerance for rocks and offering plenty of smooth, twisty trails. Little did I know, the rolling hills of Central Iowa would bring out the best of my riding skills. A few years earlier I would have struggled through the rocky sections, but Missouri had given me the experience I needed when trails turned rough. Illinois had taught me about tight woods and black dirt. Winterset came in equal parts.

After 35 miles, we returned to the staging area for a long reset. This enduro was two trips around the same loop, the first of which I'd dropped 20 points. The bike still felt sluggish, so I replaced the spark plug and chatted with a nice lady parked nearby. She had much to say. In the time I changed the plug, I learned enough about her to author a biography spanning multiple volumes. By the time we ended our conversation, I was a minute late and dropped two points at the next checkpoint.

Shortly into the first timed section on the second loop, I noticed an odd sight on my front fender. These were the days where I honestly believed I would change an inner tube beside the trail, should I encounter a flat tire. I only strapped spare tubes to the front fender when racing enduros, and did this mainly because I knew a flat tire was guaranteed if I didn't carry a spare tube. In reality, I wouldn't have known the first thing about changing a tire without the benefit of a bike stand and adequate tools (of which I carried few) and probably would have houred out of the enduro if I ever tried.

When the fender-mounted inner tube began to free itself, my eyes were attracted to the flopping. For a mile or two, the tube bounced around the fender and then released itself from its duct tape restraints. The tube then caught hold of the front tire, which tossed it high into the air. For an brief instant, I had a chance of grabbing the tube in midair. In another instant, I wondered what I would do with it. I allowed the tube its freedom and raced on.

The remaining miles of the course passed by quickly, with as much familiarity as the first 35 miles could remain etched in my mind. Successful enduro racing depends mostly on a rider's ability to react to things seen for the first time. One might think repeating an identical loop would make the riding easier the second time around, but 35 miles through endless trees, hills, blind corners and dry creeks is far more information than my brain can manage. The second half was as challenging as the first, but I made few mistakes and finished strong.

After I turned in my scorecard, I changed out of my riding gear, loaded the motorcycle into my truck and contemplated the long drive home. The enduro scoring process is a lengthy one for the clubs who host these races, and in these early days of the new millennium all results were tallied by hand. Struggling riders might not finish for an hour or more after all the racers were scheduled to have completed the course. I was packed up and ready to go by 3:30, but I really wanted to know how I finished. Few off-road clubs were posting results online and I didn't want to wait a month or more, hoping the Cycle USA regional off-road magazine would publish a race report which might show the Open B class results. The afternoon sun was warm and pleasant, so I opened a can of Mountain Dew and settled on my tailgate.

Around 4:30, club members brought out a handful of scorecards and began attaching them to the outside of an old round, wire-enclosed corn crib. Inside the crib was the club's scoring headquarters, where an army of men and women performed the necessary mathematical calculations and cross-checking of scorecards, every so often passing a handful of the cards to an individual with a pocket full of clothes pins. The scorecards were attached with the clothes pins to the thick metal wires of the crib, attracting a flock of racers eager to see if these were the cards of their class. Groups of cards were arranged in rows, by class and order of finish. This process was repeated again and again. Every group of scorecards produced an energy within the crowd of onlookers, all jockeying for position to see how their rider finished. Every so often a few racers would let out audible groans when a stray scorecard was inserted into the finishing order of a class, relegating certain riders to lower finishing spots.

Eventually the clothes pin process ended and the official scorekeeper announced the beginning of the protest period. Anyone who felt their score was in dispute could initiate a challenge, and the scoring team would review the results again. The protest period was set to end after 5:00, and given the trophy presentation could last another 30 minutes, I was in for a late night.

I didn't care, though.

The Open B class results were hung on the crib with my scorecard situated on the furthest end of the row. This meant one of two things. I either finished first or last, and I was betting on first. I nudged my way closer to the corn crib and examined my score. I was, indeed, the Open B winner. I contained my excitement, for there remained one final check to determine if I was the "true" winner. Enduro clubs often awarded "Overall A" and "Overall B" awards, separating those scorecards from their respective classes. Such was the case at Winterset. But to my relief, the Overall B winner had not competed in the Open B class, so I won my class legitimately.

The only other B class rider who finished with a better score was the Overall B winner. I was elated. In an unfamiliar AMA district, I knew not a single person at this race to share my joy, so my excitement was contained in the form of a permanent smile. Killing time during the protest period, I strolled through the staging area, offering friendly nods to random people, hoping for an opportunity to casually mention I had a decent race. Not a bad day, got the class win. Instead, I received forced friendly nods in return, as if I had been newly elected the Mayor...of nothing.

I gladly waited to receive my first place plaque. I jumped into my truck and began the long drive home with a call to my coworker whose parents had hosted me the night before. He told me of Iowa's special magic, that it does wonderful things for those who take the time to embrace its goodness. I suggested he had been drinking all afternoon watching NFL games, and maybe the good night's sleep at his parents place had made all the difference. We laughed, and I held that trophy for 6 hours straight.