justalonewolf007
Member
- Apr 30, 2007
- 657
- 0
Red Horse Ranch (Winter Therapy) Adventure
Here, I start off with an apology to my doctor. You have put a LOT of time and effort into my twice busted up self, and I know I’m not supposed to do anything fun for another two months (April 09 cannot get here soon enough). However you did speak of the importance of physical therapy. So I invested in one of the most fantastic therapy weekends of my life (so far).
Having missed the two most recent Sandbox races due to lack of funds and white-out conditions, the usual hunger to get out and ride had morphed into very ravenous monster. Winter is a time that I really struggle with depression from sitting inside all the time. I find that others still don’t understand the fulfillment I get from a day at the track, or even out in the yard.
“I could load myself up with all the cocaine, methamphetamine, vicoden and alcohol in the world, and still not achieve the feeling that riding gives me. I’m going racing.”
And go racing I did.
Motokazie holds an indoor series near Fergus Falls MN, which is about two hours from where I live. I also have a couple friends near the area, so hotel expenses were not to worry about. The race was being held in an equestrian arena, but that held little effect. I was going riding.
At first, a whole crowd from the northern series had stated that they would be there. Things couldn’t be looking any better. Seeing old race buddies would be great, and there would be some catching up to be done, new rides to check out, and just the general track chat that one never realizes how badly they miss.
The week before race day, I did a little prodding, and the rest of my Christmas present was soon in hand. Friday night I went out to the little heated shop on my parents’ farm at about 10pm to get in a little bonding time with my new ride. The black plastics went on quite well, and to my surprise, there were no stripped or missing bolts. I realized that this was the most kickin’ little bike that I will probably ever own. Its condition is incomparable to the past two race bikes I have owned. My old 80 was loved and treated pretty well by me, but bolts were missing and stripped, and everything was very worn from over a decade of hard riding.
After sitting for so long, it did take three kicks to fire, but the still-new-to-me little guy seemed pretty happy to warm up for an oil change. In such a small shop, the sound of the engine was intensified, and I soon lost all awareness of the world outside. All that mattered was the perfectly crisp snapping of the engine, and that soon embedded itself in my mind. This familiarity was very soothing and welcome to me.
In a way, I develop a relationship with each bike I have. This relationship was most definitely off to a good start.
Shutting the engine off brought a pretty deafening silence, but getting my hands a little oily again was also therapeutic. After another warmup to distribute the oil and checking the level again, I fired it up again just to hear it run…again. The effect of both the racegas exhaust and a darnnear a purring two-stroke soon had me hypnotized again.
I was startled out of my trance by the shop door slamming.
The dad had shown up, and we chatted a bit about loading up, and how good it looked in black, even with the red seat and white numberplates. It was -20 without the windchill, so we decided to wait and load things up in the morning. I got home late, and stayed up even later prepping gear and loading up the car. The anticipation was eating at me to the point where I didn’t even sleep all that well. It was race day.
Day 1
The drive was fantastic despite the cold, and the arena was very easy to find. I quickly found a spot to park, and followed all the strings of people pushing their bikes and quads inside like a colony of ants. Registration was pain free, and I ventured the cold to fetch my bike and join the line. The pits were located in the horse stalls. Unlike the cramped conditions of the Sandbox, there was plenty of room to be had, and I even got my own little area.
I hopped the bike on the stand, and left to fetch the rest of my gear so it could warm up before I tried to put it on. Everything was frozen solid, and even my riding pants didn’t want to unfold. “Brr.”
It was a few hours until the rider’s meeting and practice, so I wandered around quite aimlessly, sadly realizing that only two or three people had shown up from the North circuit. The more I wandered, the colder I got, so I decided to throw on some gear before I froze up as solid as the parking lot outside.
Insert a little fast-forward here…
With the driver’s meeting over, I decided to practice with the little bikes instead of the C riders. I noticed two other women lining up with me, one on a pink and white (pretty awesome!!) KTM 105, and another on a familiar KTM 250. I appreciated that they split the 85 practice into three groups to keep the track fairly safe.
Finally we got to start up, and my heart started pounding in my ears. “Almost….allllllmost!!!!!!!!” They let us loose onto the track, and with a wild whoop, I dumped the clutch and shot forwards with the rest, a wicked grin spread from ear to ear. I struggled through the corner, but even feeling the tail of the mighty little F-18 whip out of control was a joy. Dirt was flung in my face and it was fantastic!
I was laughing the whole time. The dirt was perfect. The bike was perfect. I felt incredible. Life was perfect again.
The hotlaps didn’t last long enough, even though I was so out of shape that I was quivering when I got off the track. I was still grinning ear to ear, and couldn’t wait to get back out.
The wait was a long one however, and a cold one. The women’s class was moto 30 out of 31. When I finally came back down from the excitement of the hotlaps ride, the cold crept back in, and I soon found myself standing near a space heater along with a dozen other people.
When the first moto came around, I heard rumor that a couple of pro-women had showed up. It was made pretty obvious when we picked gates, and they had a couple people helping them prep. I picked the spot a couple places out from the starting box so I had a clear shot straight into the berm. There were six other bikes lined up to my left.
As I saw the class before us tick down their laps, my heart again started pounding in my ears. It seemed to drown out the sound of the other bikes, the announcer, and everything else. I focused on breathing and relaxing, but still felt the adrenaline hitting my system, slowly building into a rush as the 30 second board came out, and the starter checked us all off.
As he started running for the lever, I revved up and nearly dropped the clutch too soon. The little rocket did it’s thing and we blasted out of the gates and into the corner mid pack before I was even ready for it. “HOLY….”
I lost track of the big bikes in a very short moment as I started thinking about the little things; looking up through the corners, relaxing in the ruts, and holding on with my legs and not my arms. The second lap was a little better, with one bike behind me for sure, and a little room between her and I. I had no idea where the others even were.
I had planned on rolling everything, or doing the “chop and drop” so that I wasn’t in danger of shorting a double. The last thing I needed was to lawndart myself into the perfect dirt. I would be pretty hard pressed to explain “fractured clavicle times three” to my doctor. However, that worry dissipated the longer I was on the track. By lap three, I easily went over the smallest double.
At the end of lap three, the pro rider in first place blazed by at the finish line, and I was flagged off the track. The posted results: 5th out of 7 riders. I was stoked.
Then came more cold waiting; this till about 9:50pm, when we finally got to line up again. My body went through the same process, leaving me in a rush as the gate dropped. This time I whooped the whole way through the corner. “AIEYAAAH” Instead of the easier ride I had last time, the 250 that had gotten last place was now right on my tail, and stayed there.
I started riding harder, trying to let off just a little later into the corners. She was catching up on me until the beginning of lap three. I came into the straight section, hit third gear, and got throttle lock in WFO.
“ah…Not Good NOTGoodNOTGOODNOTGOODOH &*#@!!!”
I’m not sure why or how I didn’t go over the berm, I would have launched perfectly into the wall, but I somehow made it around the corner, and had gained quite a bit of room on the 250 behind me. The rest of the track was pretty uneventful after that exciting moment. I made it across the finishline before she did, so I was just as stoked. 5th place again!
Finally, about a half hour later, still grinning like a fool, I locked up the bike and headed out for a place to stay. As tired as I was, I still felt on top of the world.
Here, I start off with an apology to my doctor. You have put a LOT of time and effort into my twice busted up self, and I know I’m not supposed to do anything fun for another two months (April 09 cannot get here soon enough). However you did speak of the importance of physical therapy. So I invested in one of the most fantastic therapy weekends of my life (so far).
Having missed the two most recent Sandbox races due to lack of funds and white-out conditions, the usual hunger to get out and ride had morphed into very ravenous monster. Winter is a time that I really struggle with depression from sitting inside all the time. I find that others still don’t understand the fulfillment I get from a day at the track, or even out in the yard.
“I could load myself up with all the cocaine, methamphetamine, vicoden and alcohol in the world, and still not achieve the feeling that riding gives me. I’m going racing.”
And go racing I did.
Motokazie holds an indoor series near Fergus Falls MN, which is about two hours from where I live. I also have a couple friends near the area, so hotel expenses were not to worry about. The race was being held in an equestrian arena, but that held little effect. I was going riding.
At first, a whole crowd from the northern series had stated that they would be there. Things couldn’t be looking any better. Seeing old race buddies would be great, and there would be some catching up to be done, new rides to check out, and just the general track chat that one never realizes how badly they miss.
The week before race day, I did a little prodding, and the rest of my Christmas present was soon in hand. Friday night I went out to the little heated shop on my parents’ farm at about 10pm to get in a little bonding time with my new ride. The black plastics went on quite well, and to my surprise, there were no stripped or missing bolts. I realized that this was the most kickin’ little bike that I will probably ever own. Its condition is incomparable to the past two race bikes I have owned. My old 80 was loved and treated pretty well by me, but bolts were missing and stripped, and everything was very worn from over a decade of hard riding.
After sitting for so long, it did take three kicks to fire, but the still-new-to-me little guy seemed pretty happy to warm up for an oil change. In such a small shop, the sound of the engine was intensified, and I soon lost all awareness of the world outside. All that mattered was the perfectly crisp snapping of the engine, and that soon embedded itself in my mind. This familiarity was very soothing and welcome to me.
In a way, I develop a relationship with each bike I have. This relationship was most definitely off to a good start.
Shutting the engine off brought a pretty deafening silence, but getting my hands a little oily again was also therapeutic. After another warmup to distribute the oil and checking the level again, I fired it up again just to hear it run…again. The effect of both the racegas exhaust and a darnnear a purring two-stroke soon had me hypnotized again.
I was startled out of my trance by the shop door slamming.
The dad had shown up, and we chatted a bit about loading up, and how good it looked in black, even with the red seat and white numberplates. It was -20 without the windchill, so we decided to wait and load things up in the morning. I got home late, and stayed up even later prepping gear and loading up the car. The anticipation was eating at me to the point where I didn’t even sleep all that well. It was race day.
Day 1
The drive was fantastic despite the cold, and the arena was very easy to find. I quickly found a spot to park, and followed all the strings of people pushing their bikes and quads inside like a colony of ants. Registration was pain free, and I ventured the cold to fetch my bike and join the line. The pits were located in the horse stalls. Unlike the cramped conditions of the Sandbox, there was plenty of room to be had, and I even got my own little area.
I hopped the bike on the stand, and left to fetch the rest of my gear so it could warm up before I tried to put it on. Everything was frozen solid, and even my riding pants didn’t want to unfold. “Brr.”
It was a few hours until the rider’s meeting and practice, so I wandered around quite aimlessly, sadly realizing that only two or three people had shown up from the North circuit. The more I wandered, the colder I got, so I decided to throw on some gear before I froze up as solid as the parking lot outside.
Insert a little fast-forward here…
With the driver’s meeting over, I decided to practice with the little bikes instead of the C riders. I noticed two other women lining up with me, one on a pink and white (pretty awesome!!) KTM 105, and another on a familiar KTM 250. I appreciated that they split the 85 practice into three groups to keep the track fairly safe.
Finally we got to start up, and my heart started pounding in my ears. “Almost….allllllmost!!!!!!!!” They let us loose onto the track, and with a wild whoop, I dumped the clutch and shot forwards with the rest, a wicked grin spread from ear to ear. I struggled through the corner, but even feeling the tail of the mighty little F-18 whip out of control was a joy. Dirt was flung in my face and it was fantastic!
I was laughing the whole time. The dirt was perfect. The bike was perfect. I felt incredible. Life was perfect again.
The hotlaps didn’t last long enough, even though I was so out of shape that I was quivering when I got off the track. I was still grinning ear to ear, and couldn’t wait to get back out.
The wait was a long one however, and a cold one. The women’s class was moto 30 out of 31. When I finally came back down from the excitement of the hotlaps ride, the cold crept back in, and I soon found myself standing near a space heater along with a dozen other people.
When the first moto came around, I heard rumor that a couple of pro-women had showed up. It was made pretty obvious when we picked gates, and they had a couple people helping them prep. I picked the spot a couple places out from the starting box so I had a clear shot straight into the berm. There were six other bikes lined up to my left.
As I saw the class before us tick down their laps, my heart again started pounding in my ears. It seemed to drown out the sound of the other bikes, the announcer, and everything else. I focused on breathing and relaxing, but still felt the adrenaline hitting my system, slowly building into a rush as the 30 second board came out, and the starter checked us all off.
As he started running for the lever, I revved up and nearly dropped the clutch too soon. The little rocket did it’s thing and we blasted out of the gates and into the corner mid pack before I was even ready for it. “HOLY….”
I lost track of the big bikes in a very short moment as I started thinking about the little things; looking up through the corners, relaxing in the ruts, and holding on with my legs and not my arms. The second lap was a little better, with one bike behind me for sure, and a little room between her and I. I had no idea where the others even were.
I had planned on rolling everything, or doing the “chop and drop” so that I wasn’t in danger of shorting a double. The last thing I needed was to lawndart myself into the perfect dirt. I would be pretty hard pressed to explain “fractured clavicle times three” to my doctor. However, that worry dissipated the longer I was on the track. By lap three, I easily went over the smallest double.
At the end of lap three, the pro rider in first place blazed by at the finish line, and I was flagged off the track. The posted results: 5th out of 7 riders. I was stoked.
Then came more cold waiting; this till about 9:50pm, when we finally got to line up again. My body went through the same process, leaving me in a rush as the gate dropped. This time I whooped the whole way through the corner. “AIEYAAAH” Instead of the easier ride I had last time, the 250 that had gotten last place was now right on my tail, and stayed there.
I started riding harder, trying to let off just a little later into the corners. She was catching up on me until the beginning of lap three. I came into the straight section, hit third gear, and got throttle lock in WFO.
“ah…Not Good NOTGoodNOTGOODNOTGOODOH &*#@!!!”
I’m not sure why or how I didn’t go over the berm, I would have launched perfectly into the wall, but I somehow made it around the corner, and had gained quite a bit of room on the 250 behind me. The rest of the track was pretty uneventful after that exciting moment. I made it across the finishline before she did, so I was just as stoked. 5th place again!
Finally, about a half hour later, still grinning like a fool, I locked up the bike and headed out for a place to stay. As tired as I was, I still felt on top of the world.
