Mid Winter’s Day

Here’s the scene. It’s a Saturday in mid January and you want to go
for a woods ride. The expected hight for the day is 39 degrees where
you live at approximately 300 feet of elevation. It has been raining
for 17 days straight and if the skies were clear enough, the hills
would look like they were decimated by a giant flock of seagulls. You
can’t fight the urge anymore and you don’t want the gas in your tank
to get foul, so you collect your most waterproof gear and head for
the nearest riding area.

You arrive at the parking area you are surprised to see a dozen other
riggs. To your dismay they are all unloading quads. You change in
the open while it precipitates a rain/snow mix. You set out on your
loop with a warm bike and dry gloves.

One mile later….. You stop to remove your foggy dripping lenses.
You warm your wet hands near an exhaust header crusted with the color
of dark rust and steaming with the scent of fresh baked mud pie.
You’ve done well just to keep the bike upright with all the diagonally
downed limbs due to the wind storm that ripped limbs loose the week
earlier. You press on.

Now you’ve aclamated to the conditions. You are used to the way the back
of your bike would rather go left or right rather than push you
forward while accelerating. You’ve selected the wrong line through
deep puddles on more than one occasion. At least the quart of water
in each boot has warmed to match your body temperature. A few times
you have flashed back to when this route was dry, to a time when
applying the brakes would actually cause your bike to slow. Those
thoughts quickly dissappear as you descend down a hill like the Plinko
disk released from the hand of a Price is Right contestant.

You’ve gone nowhere slowly. On the north sides of high hills you
encounter picturesque scenes of drooping evergreen and white topping.
This bleached out beauty is overshadowed by the reality of the terrain
it blankets. Rocks, ruts, roots and more diagonal branches push your
front end around like a bully held back 4 grades at recess. At this
point you envy the quads you saw earlier. Four tires in contact with
the ground would have kept you from leaving that streaking snow angel
you created on the side of a logging road back when you got a cocky
and thought riding on snow wasn’t so difficult.

On your way back to the parking area you have a five mile stretch of
gravel to conquer. You are in a hurry to get out of the weather but
speed is your enemy. The faster you travel the more wind flows
through the new holes you have torn in you best “waterproof” gear.
You crouch over your tank chin near the bar pad. One lifeless claw
clutches the throttle, the other changes position from your crotch to
the rear of your seat savoring the windless locations. Your focus is
directed at dodging the pot holes and not thinking about your face
from the nose down (you can’t feel it anyway).

Back at your rig you get a sample of what life will be like when you
are old. Stiff and weak you load up and peel off your gear. As your
key turns the heat in your cab is set to the maximum and the cd begins
playing where it left off. Once your core temperature returns to
normal you know that even a day like that is better than fighting the crowds at the Home Depot trying to scratch one “to do” off the infinate “honey do” list.

1/09/08

Ben Baucum

Hangover Resolution

The clock strikes 12:00, celebrating neighbors let off unused
fireworks from the last 4th. Other neighbors’ dogs complain. I get
ready for bed and for the day ahead.

The clock strikes 7:00 and my alarm screams at me to get up. Three
seconds later the worn out snooze button is blindly depressed. This
step is repeated several times before my bare feet touch the shag of
my carpet. Despite my distaste for early rising I’m on time and
reasonable ready the start of the 2008 Hangover Scrambles held at
Washougal MX park. Prearations actually started for me at
Thanksgiving. That is when I started stepping up my intake. Consuming
hundreds and even thousands of calories more than I could burn in a
day. My already impressive love handles merged into a full blown
muffin top thanks to all the hommade treats, edible vendor gifts and
general office junk food. To preserve this new form of body shape I
made sure to be as inactive as possible. I haddn’t been on a serious
ride since the last week in October. I attempted to get the feel back
the Saturday before the race when I went to Hindsite’s indoor
facility. I got a late start and put in four 8 minute (yellow flag
filled) motos before a poor dude imitated a lawn dart, fracturing his
femur in the process.

10:30ish. Nearly 300 riders line up in rows for the 40+, 250Am and
OpenAm. I sit comfortably nestled in the middle. Warmed by the
exhaust of pistons pushed by a mix of pump, premix and race gas.
While listening to the instructions provided by the race organizer I
studied the competition. I half admired the bling of knobs adorned
with studs and wondering where they would have the edge.

40+ started the first wave. One participant gloated that this was one
of the perks of being old among a few other not so wise comments.
Once they left and the smell of Old Spice and beef jerkey cleared is
was our turn. A dead engine start with both hands held up in the air.
I got a great jump and was 5th into the first turn. A minute later I
picked off two more.

After clearing the first grass section we ran into a 40+ mess in the
wooded area. Bottlenecks that look and flowed like the DMV at lunch
time. I did my best to keep momentum and pick the most open lane, but
made a time consuming mistake trying to sweep around the outside of a
rider who fell into me. Fortunately I held the clutch in and helped
his bike off mine with my left foot.

With the first lap complete I had a good dose of arm pump with a touch
of frozen fingertips. The second lap went well. I was still wearing
my goggles and was enjoying every second. The course was muddy, but
it wasn’t hard to find traction. Bottlenecks still plagued the woods
and a few ruts started to develope. The MX section seemed to be the
most difficult. The wet loam made it feel like I was riding an XR100
in sand.

Third lap and still having a good time. That was until I chose the
wrong rut in the woods and encountered a stalled rider. He was on a
KTM four stroke and wearing blue gear. His pegs were stuck inside the
wall of the rut and he told me I better back out after his rear tire
spun mud over my goggs. I felt like riding his bike out for him, and
and probably should have for it would have saved me time and energy.
I literally placed my heavy, mud caked bike in neutral and pushed it
backwards up a small slope while several dozen riders passed us. I
was frustrated that I lost so many positions and my goggs but not
completely discouraged.

I did my best to make up positions on the fourth lap. Still enjoying
myself and concentrating on getting better through all of the flat
turns. The woods were a mess. Brown shallow
hills were sprinkled with red, yellow, orange, green and blue machines
and their flailing piolots. I witnessed riders headed the opposite
direction on the MX portion. Finding a flat spot to build momentum up
over what would normally be a fourth gear table top. Rear tires left
marks on the dirt surface like snaking fingertips through chocolate
icing. My front tire caught traction in an area I didn’t want it to
and I fell in front of the most spectators who have ever watched me
ride. There must have been 14. I’m sure they heard all the colorful
things I call myself when I do stupid things.

The final lap was more mud wrestling than dirt bike riding. Alternate
routes for bottlenecks opened up everywhere. Even though the course
was at it’s roughest I couldn’t believe how much traction their was to
be found. The final bottleneck was at the finishing point where I
observed strange things. Pooped racers covered in roost funneling
through the gate at a pace less than a slow walk. All smiles and
jokes until a spot opened up and a surge of competitive mud monsters
vying for the best possible position.

In all the race was great experience. It was my first Hangover event,
on the first day of the new year and the first day since Thanksgiving
where I burned more calories than I consumed. This year’s resolution is to stay in the same size gear as last year.

1/08/08

Ben Baucum

Endure

Endurocross is something that I had only see on poor quality Youtube
clips. Legendary riders from mixed disciplines battle over courses
littered with obstacles as inviting as Omaha Beach during D-Day. As
far as I knew that kind of action would never get closer to the NW
than Las Vegas. One random Tuesday I received an e-mail forward from
a friend containing a flyer for an Endurocross to be held in Salem the
day before Easter. It was two weeks away and I had no idea what to expect.

Todd and I headed down to Salem early Saturday morning carrying no
more anxiety than an average ride with friends. I had slept well the
night before. My bike was running and all of my limbs functioned
properly. In fact my only worry was that my pre registration money
had arrived before I would. Concern crept into my mind as I entered
the arena. A starting gate with slots for eight. My gaping eyes
caught sight of rocks, a kiddy pool, boulders, sand, tractor tires and
logs ranging in shapes from firewood, telephone poles to Spotted Owl
homes. I walked away with a strategy. Don’t wreck and don’t let the
bike die.

Practice was harsh. Carnage everywhere. Riders over the bars in the
boulder patch. Flailing legs countering for balance through the 4
foot forest of arbavida. Stalled pilots everywhere kicking confused
machines wanting to shift out of first. I don’t have any memory of
being more exhausted in such a short period of time. Spectators could
be heard cheering and cringing over the impressive spectacle. Two
laps complete and I killed my bike twice and wrecked once. So much for sticking
to my strategy.

The three lap qualifier left me with arm pump so severe I couldn’t
crush a taco shell. Thankfully I had plenty of time to recover.
Watching the pros run through the same course was impressive. Geoff
Aaron was strategically smooth picking the terrain apart with his two
wheel drive machine. In complete contrast Chris Johnson blasted and
blipped his RM with insane speed.

The main was tough. I raced the first lap after a dissapointing start, then did my best to survive
the rest. The pro main was awesome. They battled each other rather
than the heinous elements of the torture track. I truly appreciated
the skill displayed in front of me from the comfort of the arena
seats. My forearms still swollen the size of Oprah’s thighs barely able to grip my beverage.

Thanks to Gary Buyer for coordinating such an incredible event.

3/30/08

Ben Baucum

May 15th, 2006

May 15th, 2006

Monday, and the warmest forecasted day of the year. Temps were expected to
be in the mid 90’s. I cut out of work at noon and met Rick at my house for
a trip to the coast range. After loading up we headed to Jones Creek, a
place we had been to before, but never put in a decent loop. We arrived at
the staging area about an hour after departure Special thanks to the
termites and rust holding Rick’s trailer together. Our bikes wouldn’t have
made it without your help.

Rick was concerned about his lack in conditioning, being that he had only
ridden a few times since August. I was shocked by his comment because I
knew he had been fishing and golfing a lot during the winter (the secret
training regimen of many of the world’s top athletes). I broke a sweat
putting on my gear, which lead to my concern. Had I brought enough water?
I had ridden all winter, including the week before, where it was 65 and
raining, hydration was never an issue.

I don’t recall the name of the first trail we took, but I gave it my own
title, “Rock Vomit” a quad wide strip that mirrored a tributary of the
Wilson River. I consider the trail to be fast, but you have to pass over
what looks like a fresh battleground full of loose rock and stick
casualties. Near the top I took a right instead of a left, turned around
then followed Rick. It had been dry all week and a cloudy substance I hadn’t
seen for months had developed in place of mud. The name escapes me it has
been so long. Oh, yes. I remember now. Dust.

Once through Rock Vomit we headed down another trail I don’t know the name
of either (I guess you can tell who carries the map). I’ll call it “Brake
Check.” It was narrow, sometimes steep, sometimes rutted and had some of
the same rock and stick devastation as the first path we took. It was also
relatively long and all down hill. The most notable feature was an old
fence that ran over the top of a hog’s back on the left of the trail. The
rusted barbed wire leaned over the only bike worthy line at neck level and
made for an attention getting manmade obstacle. At the bottom we rested and
sucked down water by a creek. Rick messed with his trip computer and I was
coping with the sweat burning my eyes.

The next few trails didn’t have much elevation change and allowed for
greater speed/cooling. They allowed multiple line choices through a
sprinkling of shallow ruts and sweepers. I was caught off guard by a deeply
implanted rock that couldn’t be avoided. I saw, planned for and hit it, but
didn’t expect to do a Superman/Donkey Kick.

The trail after that was all about elevation change. It was a narrow
stretch that ran over a ridgeline that branched and regrouped several times.
Fun! I kept taking the worst line possible and Rick followed. I told him
later that I wasn’t doing it on purpose. My ears must have popped a dozen
times ascending and descending the varied terrain. We popped out near the
river, crossed the highway and into the Jordan Creek area.

We blazed up the first Jeep wide trail savoring all that tacky traction. At
the top we rested and talked about how bad the heat felt. I had finished
the contents of my hydration system and pulled out my supplemental water
container that I had so wisely packed. After a couple rationed sips I set
it on a level surface and was probably telling an exaggerated version of how
fast I was really going, when my flailing hand tipped the bottle and its
essential contents to the ground. Crap! If this incident wasn’t a factor
in determining the distance of our loop the next significant trail tipped
the scale.

Pumpkin Patch. Ahhh, Pumpkin Patch. Oregon’s version of Idaho’s Sawtooth
Mountains. No pumpkins, just rocks, side hill and tight spots. I knew it
was going to get physical so I tried to remain smooth. Things went well
until about half way when I didn’t duck low enough for an overhanging tree
(I swear it dropped 4 inches when I was a foot away). Smack! I stopped,
made a grunt and looked to see if I made the tree shake. Nothing, but I got
an instant headache and a sore neck. Rick was all over me shortly after
that and I am pretty sure I held him up in some spots. After a while I
heard nothing. Before we hit the next trail I examined my head for
fractures, again nothing. It turns out that Rick had hit his head on the
same tree, we compared bark marks left on our helmets and shot down Stick in
the Nose.

Back across the river we treaded through a long section of seat high ferns.
It was a posted trail, but not visible to the human eye. We ran the reverse
order of the “Elevation Changer” and swapped bikes for a while. When that
was through Rick bitched about my RM’s rear shock being too soft. I praised
the handling of his KX, and bitched about his grips being too big for my
feminine hands. Then we both bitched about how no one makes easy to install
hand guards.

Riders in the truck and bikes in the decomposing plywood box on wheels. The
sun set at our backs as we cruised home for dinner. A great ride complete.

Ben Baucum