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After several days of riding at Lucerne Valley it was time to head towards Red Mountain. Don’t get me wrong Lucerne was great, but Red Mountain was even better. The hills were closer together and the valleys were more rolling, both of which are
characteristics I love. I felt like I was riding really well in the desert and was getting very excited about the race. Saturday morning I decided to put a new top end on my bike and get it broke in before bomb run practice that afternoon. Around lunchtime Pat, Cindy and I went up the pit road to get signed up for the next day. I signed up in the 125 Intermediate class since Expert is the same as Pro
there. The official (steward)
almost didn’t let me race the Intermediate class for fear that I wouldn’t be up to speed…thankfully Pat was there to vouch for me.
(It must be explained that one must earn their way into the higher classes in District 37’s system). While waiting in line on that warm and
sunny January afternoon I spotted a few possible victims running the sign up table. This made the Nate Dogg anxious for nightfall, the time when he strikes. But as they grew closer I noticed they were probably too young and I labeled them as ‘Jail Bait’ and moved on. Finished getting the bike all ready and went out for bomb run practice to get a good look at the first miles the course had in store for us. The bike felt good and more importantly I felt good about the race the next day. When I got back to camp I put on my black wheels, which had fresh rubber mounted on them, and was ready for the race. Pat’s brother Matt had planned on racing the Open Expert class the next day but had to sit it out after injuring his ankle. See this band of teenage ninja thieves rolled into our camp in their highly modified Honda Civics. They jumped out and let us know they were there to steal the bikes. Everyone ran like girls EXCEPT Matt, he stood in front of the bikes and told the Chinese Warriors they had picked the wrong set of bikes to steal. They attempted an attack but he kicked and punched them on their sorry way back into their car and out of our camp. So the bikes were saved and all that happened to Matt was that he hurt his ankle from kicking so much ass, not from
kick starting a Husqvarna FC 600.
Again, I must stress that said injury was sustained during the above-described heroic scuffle and most decidedly not from kick starting . . . uh, I should say, attempting to kick start a big-bore Husqvarna (previously pawned off on a co-worker) that was now plagued with a filthy air filter and a decided dearth of a certain petroleum product in what us motorcyclists so blithely term the “fuel cell”. Decidedly not.
With the help of the land's finest podiatrists Matt was able to recover in time to grab 1st 125 Pro at the following week's Best in the Desert Laughlin Hare Scrambles. I have not been, repeat not been compensated for adding this footnote. I mean, single-handedly fending off a vagrant band of ne'er-do-wells should be glory enough. At least one would think so.
Everyone warned me that the minute before the banner drops, signaling the racers to go, would be the longest minute of my life. I wasn’t nervous at the start, I had a lot of confidence that I would do well, but when the banner dropped it took three kicks to start the bike. So I was not off to the start I hoped for but didn’t count myself out. I rode hard and passed as many people as I could in the beginning, but kept reminding myself it was a long race (about 73 miles) and I would have time to make it up. After mile 35 we approached the pit area and I was informed that I was already in second place in my class and sixth place overall in the
Intermediate class. This got me even more excited and made me ride even harder than before. The section immediately after the pit was about 8 miles of pure hell; I loved it. It was full of uphills, downhills, tight sand washes, open sand washes, and flat land with scattered rocks and small ditches. I caught and passed the leader of my class and I believe the rest of the Intermediates in this section alone. I was focused on the track
(uh, in off-road, Nathan, it’s called a
course; a track is something on which the motorcycle competitions called “flat-track”, “speedway”, “road racing”, and “motocross” take place) and the track
(again, course) alone, which is necessary when traveling through the desert at speed. I was feeling good to say the least.
During the week Mr. Dogg had pelted me with chest-puffed braggadocio centering around the fact that he’d, and I quote, “never not gotten the holeshot on a dead-engine start”. His sissified three-kick start when faced with his first banner drop and bomb run was a massive disappointment. Massive.
