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Caution:
This race report contains graphic representations of wheels-off riding, mechanical instability, and general incompetence. Reader discretion is advised.
Place: 10th
Site: Olney, TX
Current Standing: 12th, 428 points
Wow, what a triumphant return.
Having finally recovered from my little practice imbroglio the week before the Jacksboro race (I can sneeze without agony again!), I was ready to return to the TCCRA 125 expert class wars to receive my bi-weekly hide-tanning. While practicing last week at Rocky Ridge, my bike developed ignition problems. Considering the fact that I'm a mechanical dunce, I enlisted the help of my chief mechanic, Over 30 Amateur champion Rob Cook. Since he's a factory guy and has not only a '99 125 as his race bike, but also a '98 125 as a practice bike ("damn piece of junk...it's dated"), he was able to swap out ignition system components until he diagnosed the problem. He returned my scooter to me during the week, proclaiming it healed.
We arrived at the race site about 1 PM Saturday and found a nice shady camping spot near the starting line. After discovering that I'm so damn fat and out of shape that my practice pants don't fit any more, I put on my racing pants along with the rest of my gear. Cindy and I headed out onto the race trail. About 4 miles or so into the course, the bike started cutting out again, the same thing it had done the previous week. I limped back to camp and waited for my mechanical consultant to arrive (remember the mechanical dummy part).
He rolled up about 4:30, and luckily his practice bike was in tow. I proceeded to tear into it to swap out the black box to see if that was the problem. I got it all back together and took off. Instant sputtering. @#$%&*%$#! It must be the stator, right? Well, that meant removing the flywheel weight and flywheel.
Children, cover your eyes for this next segment. While attempting to remove the flywheel weight, I managed to ruin my handy-dandy Steahly engine lock-up tool (a little piece of plastic that threads into the spark plug hole) by initially trying to tighten the flywheel weight (remember the mechanical dummy part?). Swell. I consulted several reputable sources and they confirmed my suspicion that the best way to remove the weight would be by threading some rope into the spark plug hole in order to lock up the motor. After several failed attempts, I finally got that method to work. Now for the flywheel. No problem, I bought a flywheel puller some time ago. "Now, where the heck did I put it?" Couldn't find it. I went and borrowed Skip Gove's flywheel puller and promptly proceeded to ruin it!! "Judas priest, I might as well load back up and go home. Wait a minute, I remember where I put mine!". I waited for my mechanical consultant to return from his practice lap before trying again. "I think I'll just let him take the flywheel off", I muttered to myself in my first intelligent thought in hours. He triumphantly returned and removed the flywheel and the stator! Yea team! I put it all back together, but by this time it was dark, so any testing would have to wait until morning.
Rob and I took off about 7:15, as soon as it was light enough, for a practice lap/testing session. Problem solved! Thanks to the entire electrical system from that "piece of junk" '98 practice bike of Rob's, mine was now running great! The course was OK, some really fun sections, but for my tastes there was a bit too much cutesy 90-degree mile-making turning involved. All in all not bad, though.
I proceeded to run through my pre-race ritual of hand-taping, fruit eating, Red-Bulling, and outhouse patronizing (not necessarily in that order -- I guess the hand-taping has to come after the outhouse patronizing). At 8:50 or so I putted over to the starting area and proclaimed, "Let the ass-whipping commence!". I was ready to receive my aforementioned bi-weekly beating.
The flag dropped and I managed to make it through the first turn upright for the first time in three races. I had even positioned myself sixth! Those first couple miles were tough, really dusty. One blind rut nearly yanked me down, but I managed to save it. Once we started to spread out, it got a little easier. The leaders checked out, but I was able to tail Chris Horton (J79) for a mile or two, trying to key off his movements in the dust. As it turned out, I should've stayed a little further behind him. He nearly blew a turn, and I...wasn't quite as lucky. I charged past the turn into some brush that turned out to be something less than forgiving. This "brush" knocked me off the bike, while at least two bikes zipped by. I knew the "brush" had hit me in the face, but didn't realize what had happened until I remounted and took off. My vision in the right eye was a little blurred, and sitting there innocently on my goggles was a drop of blood. I (attempted) to wipe the spot away, but it was (gulp) on the inside of my goggles. At this point, the checkpoint couldn't have come soon enough. I rode as hard as I could to get there, hoping they would be able to re-insert my eyeball. Thinking about it now, this was probably payback for me using my favorite phrase for doing some unpleasant task. "Well, I guess I'd rather do it than take a sharp stick in my eye, but..." Well, actually it's my 2nd-favorite phrase for that, but seeing as how this is a "family" race report....Anyway, it appeared I had indeed taken a "sharp stick in my eye".
I got there, pulled to the side where Mark Deal was, and had him check it out. He didn't completely panic, so I figured I was all right. He told me I was bleeding from just below the eyebrow, and that it didn't look too bad. Whew!! The remainder of my class pulled in and zipped out of the checkpoint. (Note: this will be the last mention of a rider in my class during this race. After this point, they were all in the adjoining zip code). I sat there a few minutes while Mark put my exploded goggles back together (thanks Mark!), then took of in a vain attempt to catch somebody.
A mile or so before the home check, I rode past a group of people and heard lots of cheering for me. "What the heck are they cheering for?", I thought, "I've got to be at least five minutes behind last place". Probably just sympathy cheering for my pathetic effort up to that point. It was the Wilbanks gang, so I spun around to get a fresh pair of goggles and a second opinion on the eye snafu. Of the five or so people that took a look at my eye, only one noticeably cringed, so I decided that counted as confirmation of the first diagnosis that it wasn't all that bad. They cleaned off my wound, gave me a fresh pair of goggles, and sent me on my way. Thanks a million, guys! As I rode off, I could've sworn I heard something to the effect of, "What a weenie..."
When I wheeled through the home check, I saw several puzzled faces, all seemingly thinking the same thing, "How the heck does one fall so far behind in only one lap?" Undaunted, I pressed on in search of glory.
I stopped where my pit crew was stationed, and noticed they had posted an inspirational message on the pit board: "Come on Pokey!" One can always count on family and friends for inspiration and/or encouragement in times of adversity. I told them I'd need fresh goggles next time around. I sped off, my psyche still crushed from the "Pokey" comment.
I pulled behind a 250 intermediate rider shortly thereafter and tailed him for most of the second lap until he fell about two miles before the home check. Almost immediately thereafter, adverse development number 467 of the weekend presented itself: my clutch was gone.
When I reached the point on the course where the Wilbanks clan was camped, I pulled over to seek the sanctity of my cheering fans. They all wore "now what does this loser want?" looks on their faces. I returned the pair of goggles they had so kindly loaned me the lap before, lest any more unfortunate karma rub off on them. I proudly announced that now my clutch was history. Being the kind souls they are, they adjusted it until I had at least a smidgen of a workable clutch. They returned the goggles I had left with them the previous lap, nicely cleaned and ready to go. Strangely, they were handling them as though they were a hot potato... I thanked them for their kindness and slunk off with tail firmly between legs.
When I got back around to the "pokey" brigade (AKA my pit crew), I decided that the overall leaders were probably about to catch me anyway and would be on their final lap, so I decided to wait until they passed, then set out on my final lap to see what additional misfortune I could uncover.
Approximately four miles into my final lap, I noticed a very familiar figure behind me. It was noted TCCRA Pit-Stop contributor and Wheels-Off Website columnist Pat Hall! I couldn't let him catch sight of me, surely he'd want to extract some form of grisly revenge for the perceived "humiliation" last week at Rocky Ridge. I rode like a one-eyed man who'd consumed four gallons of water with no bathroom in sight, hoping to stay safely out of sight of the revenge-minded Mr. Hall.
Mission accomplished, I navigated the remaining six miles without incident, grateful that my wheels didn't literally shoot off, seeing as how they'd long ago figuratively done just that.
Now for the good news! Part of the "Pokey" brigade was Rob Cook, who Sunday clinched the over 30 amateur class championship! Rob, who had been fed the bad luck of ten men over the previous three seasons, has had a nearly flawless and (most importantly) injury-free 1999 en route to the title. Congratulations Rob, no one is more deserving.
Well, only one more whipping left in the 1999 season for me. Maybe next year there will be more slow guys like me in the 125 expert class, and I'll have better luck. Not bloody likely...
