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

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

Sticks, Stones and Daylight Savings

The hardest morning of the year to wake. I was prepped to ride the Eddieville 6 hour team event. The rest of the squad had conflicts. One man down from the plague. Two others had no interest. Iron man was the only other option. The thought of 6 hours of blasting through high speed desert chop made the skin on my hands cringe where blisters were destined to form. So I decided to pass.

Decision 2008 Diamond Mill. A ride that started as a last ditch backup plan. Our trio headed out of the parking area (Darwinism’s playground) to explore trails that had recently shed inches and feet of snow. Our reward for losing an hour of sleep was clear skies
and single track with decent grip. Conditions were so nice that I stopped to remove my jacket on a downhill that looked like a waterfall of loose rock and baseball bat size branches. One moment after resuming my decent I heard/felt a knock on my frame. A stick spun off my right foot. The next moment I could taste sweet sizzling steam boiling off my headpipe. Precious Prestone poured the color of Predator blood. My hopes of having a great ride vanished with the contents of my right radiator.

After verbally venting my frustration I coasted the rest of the wayback to the main road and was towed behind Aaron’s orange thumper. Riding pal Shawn “The Entertainer” privided human amusment with twospills, including one visor cracking Pete Rose slide over the bars and onto a rock patch.

On the road and in cell service range my first call was to the dealer to price a new radiator. $317 and at least five days out. Steep considering I have every bolt on protector for that area. The radiator was torn at the downtube where the hose connects from the water pump. I called a radiator repair shop that next Monday. Less than a mile away from home and repaired for less than $50 I was a happy rider. Three hard rides later and it still retains water like a pregnant woman’s feet.

3/27/08

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