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

Premature Spring

February 17, 2008

Several warm and dry consectutive days triggered thoughts in all
northwestern off road riders. The weekend’s forecast was something it
hadn’t been in months. High temps in the 60s and zero chance of the
wet stuff. E-mails were passed around by fellow riders about where
we’d be taking our trip. Goldendale was our intended destination, but
those plans were trashed because the track’s soil was ice at night and
melted into a mush the consistancy of wet concrete. Out of nowhere an
e-mail arrived at my inbox with a recent photo of two sport bikes
perched next to the Jordan Creek Trail sign. In the backgound of the
shot, perfect dirt. We were saved.

The group of seven met up for some quality dining at the Log Cabin
Restaurant on a bright and cold Saturday morning. After a fine meal
and intellectually stimulating conversation we rolled over the pass of
highway 6. From that elevation it was evident that we’d encounter one
of winter’s wicked weapons. The white mess that came from the sky was
at least two feet deep and taking cover from the suns rays under
evergreen arms.

Three of the seven were road racing guys who all strattled 250F
enduros. KTM had a strong presence as well with two 450 enduros and
one 300 with a push starter (lady button). All were ready for the
trail with the exception of one poor fellow on a WR 250F that wouldn’t
start. After attempting a bump start tow of over a mile he decided to
let the rest of us go and catch up with him on our return loop.

Finally riding. Ugh, it was tough. We hadn’t been in the woods for
the majority of the winter. I had been riding, but only indoor tracks
and leaving the comfort of 2nd gear and groomed soil made my front end
squeemish. It took a while to get things under control. I wasn’t
alone. I witnessed the crossover skills of road racers handling
gnarly water crossings. Not pretty. Diehard spirit with no loss of
temper even with when water flows over boots. Very impressive.

Like all trails in the Oregon coastal range we ended up climbing.
With the increase in altitude, a proportionate amount of snow covered
up the beautiful dirt. We rode until the drifts were too deep to
enjoy. Third gear, throttle wide open, feet paddling through the
frozen precip and moving forward slower than a drift boat in the
middle of Sand Lake. Disgusted, we headed back to the staging area.

We decided to cross the highway and hit the trails on the Diamond Mill
side with low expectations. Our group dropped in size from six to
five. The WR we had left behind got started and its energetic piolot
replaced the two road racers that called it a day. Just like we
feared, Diamond Mill had snow covering much of the trail system. We
hunted around for decent dirt like a broke smoker searching through
the sands of a public ash tray. I knew we had hit rock bottom when I
found myself using the lines left by a snowmobile and occasionally
lost my front fender under the crusty surface of white.

On our way back we gambled on a snow covered trail that seemed to head
south. To our disbelief it was incredible. It had a bit of
everything. Speed sections, tight woods, a hill climb, lots of log
crossing and a gigantic g out. On the verge of being lost and on
reserve we motored back to our trucks in good spirits. A great day to
be in the dirt.

2/17/08

Ben Baucum