waiting. We choke down some granola bars, re-up our gas and water and hit the road.
Leaving the known control, I immediately lose sight of Greg as we enter a tight, rocky section--but then catch him again minutes later. He is going mysteriously slowly. He doesn’t seem injured, so I pass him and carry on. Only after the race will I learn that a rock snapped the chain guide off his swingarm, which got stuck in his front sprocket, which launched him over the bars, which didn’t do him any serious bodily harm but abruptly ended his race.
Soon, I find the dirt of the trail getting looser and the dust getting thicker. The trees open up and the trail dissolves into a line of landscaping stakes connecting the dots across a blinding expanse of powdered-sugar dunes. I’ve made it to the sand pit. Unlike in years past, the uneven rollers and giant hills hold little terror for me: Greg and I have been riding in Florida every March, so I am old hat at this sort of thing. The section passes without incident--save nearly dumping it in front of the photographer, of course.
Back in the woods, the course doesn’t slow down a bit… and parts of it look oddly--recently--familiar. This was last year’s Woodchopper Hare Scramble, I realize, but we’re riding it the opposite direction. Initially, I am chagrined: Woodchopper involved fighting 100 other C-riders for every line, banging bars and dodging trees inside a dust cloud that you’d need sonar to safely navigate. However, at Rhody I have the whole place to myself, and it’s a riot.
Well, at least I have the first, wide-open half of it to myself. As soon as I enter the tight, twisting pine section, I hear rear brake squeal behind me--the natural siren of an A rider. Not discounting the small possibility that this sound is coming from a C rider whose pads are worn down to the metal, I redouble my efforts. The squeaking draws closer. Damn! I think. The trees are so tight here that making passing room will mean coming to a dead stop--the only alternative, the SRA reasons, is to GO FASTER!
Tossing my bike from corner to corner in the one-line maze of pine trees, I enter a hypnotic, tunnel-visioned flow that I have never before experienced. Somehow, I am setting the bike up for the next corner before I hit the apex of the corner that I am in. I feel sure I am dragging my handlebars in the dust. I start thinking about inertia and control loops and differential equations. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug... And still, the squeaking grows louder.
This is getting a bit rude, I think, emerging from my trance. At the next straightaway, I squeeze the bike into the foliage and wave the A rider by. Within a quarter mile, he’s out of sight.
Still, I keep up the flow for the almost the rest the race. I don’t burn any more checks, and I keep the rubber side down until, not more than 10 miles from the finish, I lose the front end at the top of an extremely steep, sandy u-turn. Out of control, I see my handlebars heading straight for a tree, so I let go--then am baffled and horrified when the tree falls down the bank, stone dead, and the bike and I somersault after it. At the bottom, I drag the bike out of the bushes to find its rear fender is snapped and the airbox cover has come off. I spend 30 seconds trying to fit it all back together and then give up, leaving the airbox cover in the trail. A couple miles of road and a few tenths of field track later, my race is over.
I ride back to the start, fighting back a dehydration headache with the remaining contents of my CamelBak. The results, when they come in, are exactly what I think they will be: I made too many unforced errors to get my 20 promotion points, but on my best sections I dropped the same number of minutes as the fastest riders in the C race. On the way home, I try to hold onto that feeling from the Woodchopper course, riding two corners ahead of my bike. I may not have showed the world what I could do out there, but I showed myself, which in a sport as mental as enduro is more than half the battle.
Little Rhody Enduro