White City, Illinois

One month into my new venture as a homeowner, my racing mind was out of place. I'd bought a five-year-old house in move-in condition, yet every evening and weekend was spent preparing it for fulltime living. The first possessions to make the transition, of course, were motorcycle related, and garage setup quickly became a priority. The Big Red Enduro approached, and now -- finally -- I could prepare my KTM 300EXC without squeezing in and around tight spaces. And yet here I stood, the night before the race, scrambling to set up the bike for its last race of the season, an old school timekeeper enduro which had thoroughly beat me down the year before. If ever I should have focused on preparing myself physically and mentally, the Big Red was it, but I'd barely given the race a passing thought until Saturday.

Sunday morning arrived with its usual gathering of riding gear and food and timekeeping equipment, then a relaxing hour in the truck toward White City, Illinois. The Cahokia Creek Dirt Riders (CCDR) have a knack for ensuring those 60 minutes are the only simple part of my day. Their philosophy for off-road racing is itself quite simple: Only motorcycles will compete on their property, courses will be challenging in even the most unchallenging of conditions, and whiners need not apply. The club makes no apologies for hosting enduros in which the primary goal is to finish. Last year's event held true to that mindset, and after reviewing the route sheet, this year promised more of the same. I had heard the more experienced riders, those of ages approaching my parents, speak of enduros over 100 miles in length as typical in the 1970s and 1980s. These descriptions usually followed with claims that today's events had gone soft, clubs designed courses more for entry fees than difficulty, and as children their walk to school was uphill both ways.

Soft would be a poor description of today's Big Red Enduro. The route sheet showed 100 actual ground miles. Not 100 with resets, those magical advances through time and distance which put a rider back on schedule, but a full century's worth of miles through forests, fields and the occasional country backroad. I'd finally found myself entered in a true old-school enduro. And true to a CCDR race, the skies let loose with a rain shower at 8:30 a.m., just 90 minutes before the first riders would depart.

To view the CCDR club grounds from the staging area is an illustration of the terrain through much of the enduro course. Where two creeks collide, high bluffs rise above, some difficult to climb by foot and impossible by motorcycle. Rare is a rock, but smooth dirt turns to snotty grime with the lightest of rainfall. The morning rain promised to slow the pace as knobby tires searched for traction across slippery roots and logs and steep hills. The first 30 miles of the course would run through the trails on the west side of Interstate 55, then head east to another 20 miles on the other side of the highway. Those 20 miles would be repeated, and then riders would be sent back through a network of trails and backroads leading to the club grounds. Other than its length, the route sheet made the Big Red seem entirely doable.

For a time, I did feel confident I could finish this enduro for the first time ever. When I was released into the first 10-mile test section, the club's well-used trails on its property seemed unaffected by the rain. I felt good, blazing through familiar ravines and hills and creek crossings. In 2nd and 3rd gear, I made quick work of those miles while catching three-second glimpses of Pro class riders passing me. Particularly interesting was legendary International Six Days rider Jeff Fredette, whose work was much quicker and smoother than just everyone else. Long since retired as a factory Kawasaki racer, Mr. Fredette still competed locally and earned his living mostly by knowing more than anyone on the planet how the venerable KDX200 could be raced to its fullest potential. He, like the other fast guys, was a three-second symposium on style and technique. Around tight corners and down steep hills, his body moved in concert with his machine, like a barrel racer leading a horse through a 20-second sprint. This race was, for those good enough to finish, a 6 hour marathon on a bucking bronco, yet Mr. Fredette and the other Pro riders kept it up, pausing only for occasional mileage resets and pitstops.

Ten miles in, the first checkpoint arrived and my confidence gleamed like a new piece of plastic bodywork. And like shiny new plastic on a dirt bike, that confidence was quickly scuffed, for the Big Red gremlins had returned. On the road section leading to the next timed test, I missed a turn, riding three miles on country roads before realizing I hadn't seen an arrow in quite some time. The sometimes solitary nature of enduro racing can do this to a person. With no other riders in sight, I was supposed to have relied on my route sheet to guide me through the turns, along with arrows stabled to power line posts and fence posts and whatever else a 5x7 piece of glossy orange paper could be attached. My mistake set me back about five minutes and forced a quick pace to the next woods section.

From there on, the course wandered through wooded areas ridden only once a year. This late in the season, some of the foliage had broken free but the trails were still narrow and tight. I could manage second gear through most of this second test, if I concentrated on just the right clutch and brake work through the endlessly curving paths, some literally carved by club members to make the riding possible. Ten yards of straightaways gave way to sharp left and right turns, dodging tree branches and bushes, sliding sideways across leaves, dropping down into ravines and climbing steeply to higher ground. These were the opposite of the groomed trails one might encounter on a hike at a state park. Trails of this type favored the deer, using only their own wits to find the quickest way through. Like Illinois whitetails, we ducked under tree limbs and hopped over logs, searching for traction to dodge huge cottonwoods and hard maples.

Some miles into the second test, the Big Red gremlins struck again, this time in a deep gully. The trail dropped steeply into a small waterway about the width of a motorcycle. From there, we were expected to ride up and out of its 8-foot depth. At the bottom, dozens of bikes had cut ruts into the soft, leafy timber soil, leaving little opportunity to gather momentum for the trip up the other side of the gully. I found myself stuck at the bottom, joining another rider in the same situation. We searched for alternate routes up and down the gully while cringing as other riders successfully navigated through the obstacle. Minutes passed by before we joined forces and helped each other out of the gully. Gone were ten minutes.

Soon after, I stuck the motorcycle up to its axles in a creek crossing, where more dozens of motorcycles had cut deep ruts up the opposite bank. These small Illinois waterways tend to slice walls from the earth, offering few escape opportunities. My one-rut option had deepened to the point where the swingarm acted like a jack against the mud, leaving the rear tire spinning against nothing. With a little creativity, I can usually solve these hang-ups, but this one cost me another ten minutes.

At the end of the test, my scorecard read 70, enduro-speak for 45 minutes late. Normally a mileage reset and a long road section would get me back on schedule, if only I hadn't killed 20 minutes with mistakes. I checked in late at the next test section, which took us further into the wooded countryside. In the tight trails, perennial Illinois fast guy Lee Lankutis caught up from behind. I attempted to let him pass around a corner, but he came in hot and fell down trying to avoid me. He quickly caught up again and passed without incident, but shortly after test ended I found Lee along the road with an apparent mechanical problem. My own issue came shortly after, when a hand guard bolt worked its way loose and left the guard flopping uselessly around the handlebars.

I continued on the country road to the gas stop, 40 miles into the race along a random ditch. As I refueled, the graciousness of the enduro community came when another rider noticed my flopping hand guard and offered his own bolt as a replacement. He had broken his clutch cable and was done for the day, and I thanked him. Even more gracious was a nice lady parked beside me at the staging area, driving a van to support her crew of riders, who offered to transport my gas jug to the refueling point. Not only was my jug unloaded and ready, but she had food waiting as well. My stomach was in no condition for anything but water, so I politely declined while I poured premix into my tank. As the fuel flowed, I noticed creek-bottom silt caked on my gloves, sprinkling into the gas tank. I stared longingly at the fuel filter of a bike parked nearby, wishing I ever had the common sense to install one on mine.

The next section marked the start of a 20-mile trail which would be run twice, consecutively. Two years ago I broke my ribs here and limped back to the CCDR property in pain. This year I struggled through these same woods, wondering if I'd remember the bone crushing creek bank drop-off and avoid it this time. Random ruts and gullies and logs kept me off-balance, before the course straightened over high-speed runs across cornfields. The tracks ahead had thinned considerably. I counted 15 or 20 at most, suggesting another substantial attrition rate.

At last, I reached a culvert underpass, still fresh in my memory from last year, with its silt and ruts. Near the exit, my wheels sank into the mud and I struggled for five minutes before a CCDR club member assisted. Without his help, my race might have ended right there. Even so, by that time the only confidence left in me was the feeling I probably wouldn't reach the next checkpoint within an hour of my scheduled arrival. With that in mind, I took in the next few miles at a trail rider pace, certain I'd be sent back to the staging area when the scoring crew appeared. That certainty was without doubt a few miles before the checkpoint, where a makeshift wooden bridge across a 3-foot gully had been knocked out by riders arriving earlier. I joined four other riders debating the best way through the obstacle. None of us were brave enough to jump the gap, so we each eased our bikes down into the gully, one by one, and the team of us pushed, pulled, cursed, heaved, cursed some more, and shoved each of the bikes up the other side.

The effort left me dead tired. I limped along the trail with the other four riders until the last check, grateful to have houred out. The thought of repeating the previous 20 miles, then completing the enduro with another 10-mile pass through the CCDR club grounds, was about as enticing as a barium enema, which is to say, wholly unpleasant. Our five-member gully team continued together to the staging area, where I changed clothes and lay down for a long nap in the truck. I simply could not move. For an hour or two, my upset stomach caused nausea each time I attempted to rise up and walk. During one period of sleep the guy who had lent me his hand guard bolt came by to retrieve it from my bike, but I never saw him or had a chance to thank him again. Eventually I gathered enough strength to check my finishing position and drive home.

I slept well and felt glad to be done with the racing season, but the Big Red remained my nemesis. Someday I would finish this beast.