Enduro racing is a lonely, cerebral sport. My inner monologue typically unravels into a dialogue after about half an hour of hard riding, with the inner defeatist advocating retirement from the race and possibly the sport, while another voice advocates “FASTER.” I call the latter voice the Sociopathic Racing Autopilot (SRA, henceforth). “JUST RIDE FOUR MINUTES FASTER THAN USUAL AND IT WILL BE LIKE THIS NEVER HAPPENED!” it insists. I pin it. The rest of the section is slick and rooty (at least by Rhody standards) and I emerge at the secret check knowing that things are grim. I have not ridden four minutes faster--thanks to sliding off a wet wooden bridge and getting stuck in the mud, I’ve ridden maybe two minutes slower.
The key now, I reason, following my route sheet onto a twisting rural highway, is to not panic and burn a bunch of checks. I started on minute 12, my new minute is 29:52, so I’ll want to arrive at 42 minutes (12 + 30) after the time on my route sheet. I do this religiously until I am directed “R TR”--right onto a trail--and almost immediately come upon another secret check. I am dead on time, I think proudly--and am crestfallen when they mark me a minute late. 29:52 is still minute 29, not 30, I remind myself. Another short woods section follows, then a secret check, then I’m back on the road. I go down it for maybe a quarter mile, one eye on my speedometer, and then the route sheet directs me onto another trail. They wouldn’t dare, I think. CAN they even put secret checks this close together? They can and they do. Despite my speedometer, I arrive a minute early. Three points lost to timekeeping errors in the last five miles, I think--this is going very badly indeed.
As usual, though, the trails are so fun I can’t really be annoyed with my spotty performance. Half a hare scramble’s distance into a dense, dusty pine forest, I push the front in a loose corner and low-side. Starting the bike, I realize my shifter is dangling by its bolt’s last thread--I slow-roll onwards, looking for a long enough straightaway to make my repairs without getting run over. Another three minutes lost, I estimate. When the section finally ends, the route sheet directs me to the start for gas. Greg is there