MelloYello
~SPONSOR~
- Nov 22, 2002
- 280
- 0
So there I was, somewhere in the Mojave Desert, lined up with something like a 1000 other dirtbikers (just like in Bruce Brown's classic movie) waiting for the banner to drop. I've got all the symptoms: heart racing at 200 bpm, mouth as dry as the Sahara and little beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I'm all set to embark on my first desert race/adventure.
The peaky revs of two-strokes and the bass tones of thumpers slowly die down as everyone cuts their engine, and it's eerily silent in the desert. A few nervous moments later, it roars back to life as we shoot off down the bomb run. I get a mediocre start and am quickly engulfed in a blanket of dust that demands I slow to a safe speed. A couple of seconds later the dust clears somewhat and I see a terrible sight. Three riders are down and their bikes are strewn about here and there. I get off my bike to see if they are ok, but all three of them are still lying on the ground. A woman rider on a YZ250F also stops to lend a hand and we go around to each of the downed riders.
Fortunately, none of them appear to be seriously injured. A possible concussion (I know because I've had a couple myself:confused: ), one tweaked shoulder and the third guy complaining of lower back pain. I felt like I was in Dirtbike ER, but I'm really glad they weren't hurt worse. I don't think I could have continued if one of them had been badly hurt.
We wait a few minutes for Rescue 3 to arrive and when they do, I take off. The woman stays back and I kid her that she just wants to come from dead last to win. (little did I know. . .) So I start booking down the trail (how did that word come to mean going really fast?:silly: ) and feel pretty good. Being so far back means I don't have to deal with dust and I start to concentrate on my riding. My only goal at this point is to catch one rider and DON"T WAD!
Ooops. Before I could reel anybody in, I decide to swap a little through some decent-sized whoops and end up on the ground fast. As I'm picking my ass off the desert floor, I hear a woman's voice asking me if I'm ok. "Mom, is that you? What 're you doing out here?" No, it's the woman on the YZF screaming past me. I quickly remount and begin pursuit. But it's no use. I watch helplessly as her dust cloud moves farther and farther away.
At about mile 12, I hit a wall. Desert whoops in small doses can be fun, but string together countless miles of them and it becomes a nightmare workout for your thighs and lats. As I'm whining to myself about my dire lack of physical conditioning, Steve Hengeveld (a desert stud) comes flying by, lapping me on this 35-mile loop!:scream: Wow, it's unbelievable how fast the pros really ride.
The next 15-or-so miles were a mix of sand whoops, big sand whoops with some rocks, and really big sand whoops that threatened to swallow rider and bike whole. At sign-up, I had decided to ride in the Novice class because the Beginners only went one loop. Had I known then what I would feel like after 2/3rd of one loop, I probably would have gotten in my truck and driven home.:laugh:
Now too tired to stand through the whoops, I let the earth batter my body and bike until, like an oasis, I see the pits. There's a crowd there and I force myself to rise on the pegs and twist the throttle. (Vanity, vanity, all is but vanity.) The sponsoring club, in their infinite wisdom, have placed a large mud puddle right before the finish. And to the delight of the onlookers I go in hard, showering myself with muddy water. A baptism of sorts, if you will.
Any thoughts of going out for the second loop are dashed as I pull off 3 of the remaining tear-offs by accident. (I swear, it WAS an accident, or a god-send.) I retreat to my truck, tail tucked firmly between my now-battered legs and prepare to head home, having had my sorry ass handed to me by the desert.
Will I go back? Yes. Will I like it? Maybe not, but I will finish.
The peaky revs of two-strokes and the bass tones of thumpers slowly die down as everyone cuts their engine, and it's eerily silent in the desert. A few nervous moments later, it roars back to life as we shoot off down the bomb run. I get a mediocre start and am quickly engulfed in a blanket of dust that demands I slow to a safe speed. A couple of seconds later the dust clears somewhat and I see a terrible sight. Three riders are down and their bikes are strewn about here and there. I get off my bike to see if they are ok, but all three of them are still lying on the ground. A woman rider on a YZ250F also stops to lend a hand and we go around to each of the downed riders.
Fortunately, none of them appear to be seriously injured. A possible concussion (I know because I've had a couple myself:confused: ), one tweaked shoulder and the third guy complaining of lower back pain. I felt like I was in Dirtbike ER, but I'm really glad they weren't hurt worse. I don't think I could have continued if one of them had been badly hurt.
We wait a few minutes for Rescue 3 to arrive and when they do, I take off. The woman stays back and I kid her that she just wants to come from dead last to win. (little did I know. . .) So I start booking down the trail (how did that word come to mean going really fast?:silly: ) and feel pretty good. Being so far back means I don't have to deal with dust and I start to concentrate on my riding. My only goal at this point is to catch one rider and DON"T WAD!
Ooops. Before I could reel anybody in, I decide to swap a little through some decent-sized whoops and end up on the ground fast. As I'm picking my ass off the desert floor, I hear a woman's voice asking me if I'm ok. "Mom, is that you? What 're you doing out here?" No, it's the woman on the YZF screaming past me. I quickly remount and begin pursuit. But it's no use. I watch helplessly as her dust cloud moves farther and farther away.
At about mile 12, I hit a wall. Desert whoops in small doses can be fun, but string together countless miles of them and it becomes a nightmare workout for your thighs and lats. As I'm whining to myself about my dire lack of physical conditioning, Steve Hengeveld (a desert stud) comes flying by, lapping me on this 35-mile loop!:scream: Wow, it's unbelievable how fast the pros really ride.
The next 15-or-so miles were a mix of sand whoops, big sand whoops with some rocks, and really big sand whoops that threatened to swallow rider and bike whole. At sign-up, I had decided to ride in the Novice class because the Beginners only went one loop. Had I known then what I would feel like after 2/3rd of one loop, I probably would have gotten in my truck and driven home.:laugh:
Now too tired to stand through the whoops, I let the earth batter my body and bike until, like an oasis, I see the pits. There's a crowd there and I force myself to rise on the pegs and twist the throttle. (Vanity, vanity, all is but vanity.) The sponsoring club, in their infinite wisdom, have placed a large mud puddle right before the finish. And to the delight of the onlookers I go in hard, showering myself with muddy water. A baptism of sorts, if you will.
Any thoughts of going out for the second loop are dashed as I pull off 3 of the remaining tear-offs by accident. (I swear, it WAS an accident, or a god-send.) I retreat to my truck, tail tucked firmly between my now-battered legs and prepare to head home, having had my sorry ass handed to me by the desert.
Will I go back? Yes. Will I like it? Maybe not, but I will finish.
