Belleville, Illinois

Every racer, given enough time and experience, remembers that one place where that thing happened which caused this, that or the other, never to be forgotten. For me this distinction belongs to Belleville, where I received my first (and not to be my last) concussion. The Belleville Enduro Team (B.E.T.) property was also a past scene of mud and mechanical problems. Today's event would bring more of the same, save for the injuries, of which I was fortunate to escape without.

With heavy rains during the week, Sunday brought cold and wet conditions, but full sunshine lit up the B.E.T. property like a helicopter searchlight over the Santa Monica Freeway. Matt Sellers, always game for cool, damp Illinois races, joined me for a trip across the Mississippi. We explored most of the course ahead of our afternoon race and found the usual slippery black clay for which the former strip mine is well known. The club enhanced the side-hill trails running along high bluffs overlooking small lakes, with even more opportunities to slide off the trail and down into a watery abyss. The most unusual new attraction appeared in the center of the property, where the club had obtained a huge bulldozer and an even larger excavator for the purpose of building a hill climb area. By the sheer size of the machines and scale of the unfinished work, the club was apparently aiming more for mountain than hill, with a final altitude possibly rivaling that of the St. Louis Arch.

The unexpectedly late start to our race offered enough time to walk the entire course and leisurely dine on my favorite pre-race lunch: Two slices of white bread and a single-serve package of Carl Buddig deli meat in between. This sandwich had all the makings of a perfect meal for the foodie I am not. In less than three minutes, lunch could be assembled and in my belly, possibly with a slice of individually wrapped Kraft American cheese if I felt extravagant. Mr. Buddig rarely disappointed with his variety of protein options, and one can never go wrong with a dollar’s worth of meat and another 30 cents worth of bread and cheese. If I were a sandwich, this would be me.

I added a Mountain Dew and a chocolate chip granola bar to my simple lunch and then fired up my 1999 KTM 300EXC. The aging motorcycle had undergone $661 of engine maintenance during the offseason (not that I was counting), in what dirt bikers commonly refer to as a shitload of money. The piston, rings, connecting rod and lower end bearings had been replaced, which required splitting the engine cases. The voluminous and rapidly increasing internet chatter suggested 200 engine hours might be an appropriate point for this work (subject to approximately 348 different opinions offered on a daily and changing basis). I pulled the trigger at 220 hours, siphoning the aforementioned dollars from my credit card and leaving the case-splitting to professionals. Since I bought the 300EXC new in December 1998, I’d spent over $5,000 in maintenance, repairs and aftermarket gadgetry (yes, I was counting), roughly the amount of money I would have spent on a girlfriend during that period. I could only afford one or the other.

My choice was made clear yet again, lined up with B-class riders at the B.E.T. hare scramble. Just before 2:00 p.m. the sunshine had turned the motocross starting area into tacky soil, if one were to consider pottery clay a soil type. The fresh engine ran crisp and clean and fired quickly when the green flag waved us onto the course. A quick sprint through a portion of the motocross track took us into the woods, where I entered in 4th place. Several other B classes were grouped together on the starting line, leaving me uncertain where I stood among the Open B riders. I knew I was ahead of Matt, which was important for bragging rights, and I intended to keep it that way.

Inside the woods, trees and bushes said no gracias to buds or any form of greenery, having endured snowfall the weekend prior. This early in the spring, lack of foliage should have offered a sight advantage, but the thick underbrush kept me winding through the endless gullies and ridges left over from coal mining. The good riders sliced through the tight stuff like Muhammad Ali in the ring, smoothly weaving in constant motion around trees and ditches, while I was Floyd Patterson wearing concrete boots. I pushed ahead, slogging in 1st and 2nd gear through the narrow trails and 5th gear where the trail opened into wide ATV paths and muddy fields. After a mile or so I passed two riders and settled into a stronger race pace. With nearly all the B riders behind me, I could focus on what lie ahead.

That focus came into sharp view a couple miles later, in a far corner of the club grounds where the course wound itself around a small lake. This marked one of the many spots where the trail was cut into the side of a steep slope. Normally this area would be comfortably above the level of the lake, but weekend rains had raised the water and submerged a short stretch of trail in about a foot of water. To the casual observer, 15 feet across a submerged trail would seem a fairly short distance to overcome, even in the nastiest of conditions. But as the ruts deepened, so did the water. Alternate routes were few and risky. On the left was a steep, muddy slope densely packed with trees, and on the right was the lake, the bottom of which could have been one foot or 10 yards below the surface. This obstacle presented no challenges on the first lap, but the second time around left me searching for alternatives.

One nice part about racing on a smallish property operated by an active club is the manpower to assist through difficult sections. When I arrived at the submerged trail on lap two, several club members offered advice for alternate lines. I suspected they assisted partly to help keep the trail clear, but mainly to enjoy the carnage. Already a pair of motorcycles lay on their sides, positioned in a telltale state water purging. Their riders had tested the bikes’ submarine capabilities and found the limits.

While I surveyed the dozen motorcycles parked on and beside the trail, a spectator suggested I cut through the edge of the lake. From past experience I knew taking this kind of advice is tricky. Sometimes a bystander is there to help, and other times he or she is simply looking to be entertained. Usually a facetious grin gives away a spectator’s motives, and I didn’t see that in the face of this man. He seemed genuine. Surely he wouldn't send me through deep water purely for his own amusement and giggle as my bike sunk into a death dive rivaling that of the Kursk…would he?

I took a chance and pointed my front wheel into the black water. The depth was a bit past my comfort level, but I successfully navigated through the lake and was quickly on my way. The main checkpoint arrived a few minutes later and I sprinted into my third lap. By now, a couple hundred knobby tires had squeezed some of the ooze from the trail and gave most of the course better traction. Along with full sun, the potting clay turned just sticky enough for tires to dig in. Narrow tracks through the rough underbrush became better defined, and the quickest way through most sections were clearly established. Lap three was the point where Belleville becomes fun.

Except for that blasted waterhole.

Approaching it for the third time, I witnessed what appeared to be Lars Valin, newly advanced to the AA class and no longer pulling his bike trailer with an early-1990's Honda Prelude, riding backwards on the trail, apparently searching for a different way through the water. Not a good sign. The bottleneck around the next corner revealed multiple motorcycles idle along the trail, their riders bowing heads as if praying for a second coming of Moses. I respectfully maneuvered to the front of the pack, where I was advised that the water was now about 4 feet deep. John Banes, club member and fast Vet racer, perched himself a few feet up the side of the hill. Armed with a shovel, he dug out a narrow off-camber path about 2 feet above the main trail. While the prayer group continued their devotions, I pushed my bike up to the new Banes Trail and became the first rider to traverse the new path. Other riders followed, and soon enough this section caused no more bottlenecks.

The second half of the race was smooth sailing through tight, rocky 1st gear trails, a grass-turned-to-mud track, and a wide-open stretch through the backside of the club grounds. My favorite spot was a 4th gear natural jump which launched me gently down the trail, landing just in time to slam the brakes and turn hard into the woods.

On my final lap, I sensed the wandering feel of a flat rear tire. Without air in the tube, the motorcycle still carried me through the course, but with less confidence and comfort as the tire spread its sidewall across the rim. The scoring checkpoint had already displayed the white flag, so I knew this lap would be my last. I continued through the course.

On the one hand, I destroyed a perfectly good inner tube. On the other hand, I won my class. Tradeoff acceptable.