The start was with engines running, appreciated for those of us with kick-start only. Hands on helmet, Reach-for-the-sky, rather like the baddies in Western movies. My future felt as uncertain as the baddies.
The flag went up, the hands went up.
The flag dropped, and I went from spectator to racer.
The start was slower than I expected. One or two riders were off quickly, the rest not so much. I was fairly convinced I was going to be the slowest rider, so I hang back a bit. Not that auspicious a start to my racing career, but Iannone I am not.
The track started on grass, then dropped into a single track through some trees. One of the riders ahead of me clipped a tree with his handlebars and went down, blocking the path. Not much choice other than to wait, but he was up quickly. Once he was up, three of us rode along single-file through the trees, through some quite deep ruts and over roots. I had no idea how technical the route was going to be, all I knew was that my technical ability is, well, limited. I was rather relieved to find the terrain within my ability, a bit challenging but mainly just lekker.
The oke in front was riding quite slowly, so to my surprise I found myself looking for a way to get past him. That was almost impossible until we were out of the trees, so I just enjoyed not making a fool of myself.
I should have known overconfidence precedes a fall....
Coming out of the trees, the track opened up a bit. Quite eroded, some loose-ish gravel in places, no sand to speak of but it was dry so loose dirt in places. The oke in front was nice enough to make space for us, and myself and the guy that fell in the trees rode past. I thought GREAT! I can open up a bit. I twisted the throttle, the XLR jumped forward, life was good.
Pretty quickly I came across a kid who has lost it around a corner. He looked OK, so I rode past. Lekker, gooi nog throttle. At the next corner the track went left, the lekker dry, loose sand was there waiting, my front wheel went right, and I went down. Cardboard box, in Afrikaans.
Jump up, clutch in, pick bike up, swing leg over, klap it. Stupid.
I was alone, everybody had passed me, so I could just enjoy the ride. It was a fun little track, nothing I couldn't handle. That overconfidence thing, I just don't learn....
I was actually catching some riders, rather surprising but gratifying. I was also surprised to be puffing a bit. I am moerse unfit, but this was harder work than I expected, and that after just a few minutes.
Coming to the end of the first lap, there was a detour to a section over some pipes. I had asked Gary how wise it was sending green novices over pipes, but he seemed unfazed, so up I went, around the corner with some rather slick cut grass, and my donder daar in die pad is a MOERSE concrete pipe lying across the road. No friendly big take-off ramp leading up to it, no way around it, and I had just demonstrated quite unambiguously that preloading the front and dropping the clutch to get the front up was, well, a bit challenging for me. Nothing to do other than gooi mieleies and hope for the best. The faithful XLR lurched forward, I tried to do the preload and lift thing, cocked it up completely and basically just moered into the pipe.
Momentum is a wonderful thing, it does its best to keep you going the way you were going. So I ended up flying up, but also forwards. My sphincter did its best to ingest my jocks, I landed with my weight too far forward but held it and kept upright. Bliksem, I'm alive!
Around the next corner, and I come across my WR250 friend. We waved me down, because a guy is stuck trying to cross
four pipes lined up across our path, FOUR of them! Gary is not going to crack an invite to my funeral. A marshal helps the stuck rider off the pipe while we wait, then guides him under the tape around the pipes. The WR250 guns it and bounces over the pipes. Jeez, that's impressive, I could
never do that. I tell the marshall that he can maar keep the tape lifted up, I'm coming around too, but he says "
Stand up, go for it, you'll be fine." He has an honest face, like most serial killers, and I figure WTF not.
Up on the pegs, hard on the throttle, look where I want to land, pre-load, **** that up again, impact, flight, where did that tree come from, bliksem now it's ground, I'm going to crash, BEEG, look up, land on the front wheel, the tree thankfully jumps out of the way, I'm off the track but I'm upright, back on the track, good heavens I made it!
The start of the second lap, and I'm starting to feel really tired. Adrenalin rushes exhaust me, and I just had a few. I need to get over that, don't know how yet.
Through the trees, over the roots, onto the single track, lekker, man, lekker. I catch another kid and just before I pass him he falls, hard. I stop and wait, that didn't look too good. I ask if he's OK, he says he hurt his arm so I wait for a few seconds. He's up and his arm looks fine, no white bits sticking out or red oil leaks, and the pointy bits are all pointing in the right directions. I wait until he's back on the bike, then I set off. That cost me some time, but he's a kid, and that fall was hard.
And I'm still puffing.
Somehow I passed my WR250 mate, because around the next corner he stops behind me when we come across a kif stuck in a donga with a bike that won't start. He's kicking, and kicking, and nothing is happening, except he is getting tired. He puts his bike down and asks if I can get past. I make it half way but then stall! :angry5:. WR250 jumps off and the two of us drag the kids bike out of the donga. Blerry heavy, that bike. Now I'm not puffing, I'm blowing good and proper. WR250 helps the kid kick his bike back to life, asks if I'll be OK, which I assure him I will, and off they go. By now a few riders are waiting for me to get out of the way, so I lay my bike down to make space for them to pass. I can do with the rest, I'm pooped.
Bike upright, kick, kick, kick. Fork. Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick. Fork. Check whats wrong. Fuel is on, switches are where they should be, nothing has knocked to the wrong setting. Kick, kick, kick, swear, kick, kick, swear, kick, swear, kick, swear, swear, kick, swear, swear, kick. Fork. What I would give for a happy button.
The XLR is typically easy to start. Dammit. Kick, kick, check, swear, kick, kick. This is tiring, and I'm getting nowhere. I'm going to be in the way, so I try to pull the bike out the donga. I almost get it out, but succeed in just wasting a whole lot of energy, energy that is getting in rather short supply.
Kick, kick, swear.
Time to think. Helmet off, gloves off, take a breath. What would cause this? Fuel, OK, kill switch OK, ignition switch OK, choke not pulled out, that should be it. Swear. I think this is the end of my race. Try to drag the bike out of the donga, but I'm forked. Bliksem.
After a while one of the sweepers catch up to me. Young kid, rides like a pro. He suggests I push the bike backwards to get out of the donga (why didn't I think of that?) while he fetches a tow-rope. I get the bike out of the donga and turn it around, but now I am properly buggered. Properly.
Two more sweepers arrive, nice okes that offer to help getting the bike going. Even they can't kick it to life, so they suggest a push start. I waft a tired hand at them and suggest they do whatever they think. Pitiful, embarrassing.
It takes a bit of pushing, but the bike starts! They suggest I ride back down the track to the start, no riders left on track. I'm so buggered I sukkel to swing my leg over the saddle and end up stalling the bike. Swear. Hard. Kick, kick, nothing. Off bike, poor marshalls push start again, bless their souls, I get on the bike and I'm off. I never even thanked them.
Not long and I get back to the start, feeling a bit stupid, and very tired.
And so ended my day of racing. There was another race, same groups but in the opposite direction, but I was too tired and I didn't want to waste more of the marshals time.
So was it worth it?
Hell yeah. I thought I would be too slow, the course would be too difficult, and I would make a fool of myself. Turns out my speed was not great, but not that terrible either, the course was within my ability, but I underestimated my fitness levels by a few orders of magnitude. I did make a bit of a fool of myself, and I did waste the time of a few really kind marshals, none of whom I ever thanked. But I got off my arse, I got to the start line, albeit of a novice green mini-enduro.
It didn't last much longer than a few minutes, but I am no longer a lifetime spectator. I rode a race. And I survived.
