T's trip to Stanton Alabama for the Hare Scramble -
It started like most adventures, ill hatched plan
lacking detail and open to maximum flexibility
augmented by poor reading of instructions rounded out
by very friendly patriotic folks in the heart of fire
ant land.
I left on Saturday morning to go see the hare scramble race. I
wanted to get there in time to see the kids race that
started at 0830 - hence the speeding ticket. "Where
are you going Mr. Bruce? Well ya see there's this
motorcycle race...doh!" So I got there at 0915 or so,
about 23 and a quarter hours early for the kids race.
Yup, the whole thing went on Sunday, not Saturday. So
I talked to the nice people there and asked if I could
walk the 9.5 mile course as I had nothing else to do
in their little town and it was a nice day. Sure I
could. The land owner, Mr. Landon Carter, even signed
a piece of paper for me to carry with me in case
anyone stopped me on the secret part of the course
across the creek. There the course switches back on
itself so if someone knew all the twists they could
take a short cut and cheat the course - not at all
uncommon as it turns out. So no one entered in the
race would be allowed to walk that side of the course.
With note in hand and a bottle of water, I headed out.
I covered the first three miles of the course and was
heading towards the creek when a kid on a four-wheeler
came up and told me that Mr. Carter wanted a word with
me. Sure, I said. "Yes Sir, You wanted to speak to
me?" Yeah, You want to ride tomorrow? I have a bike
and we can get you all the gear. You can wear my
helmet. [editorial note - that orange helmet would be
the one with the number 1 on the side; an earned
number that I would cover with the number 1314.]
Well, I might just do that. Let me think (about all
the many many downsides of the proposition - mostly
the bit about the broken bones and the cost of Alan's
plane ticket and yet another call to my wife from some
doctor with a southern accent) for a minute. "I can't
see why not!" said I, balancing self-preservation
against what would probably be a grave insult.
So started my adventure in Carter Country. The name
of the race was the Chicken House Hare Scramble 06.
Sponsored by the Perry Mountain Motorcycle club and
held on the property of various Carters and a couple
of their neighbors; a group, I might add, of the
nicest people on this planet.
Landon Carter told me that if I was going to race, I
would not be allowed to walk the other side of the
creek - that part of the course was a secret. Okay,
no problem. I spent the rest of the day hanging out
working on his motorcycle and meeting the rest of the
family. Turns out that Landon's dad, Larry, was quite
a rider. In turn, Landon racked up enough trophies to
line the girders of his 50x50 garage and accolades
enough to cover the walls of his small house. Landon
now dedicates his time to taking his son Tyler around
nearly every weekend to races around the East Coast.
Tyler was expected to finish in the top 10 in Sunday's
race. He ended up second in his class, but was out of
the top ten by a little. [Additional editorial note -
there were 14 classes based on previous experience and
prior standing]. I was told to enter the third to the
last class, open C. Why not the last class, aptly
described in its name "beginner?" They said it seemed as though a grown man who
looked the part and at least had "some" experience
riding a motorcycle, should at least be in C. There
was even talk that I might win my class, wouldn't that
be something winning the first race that you entered!
These are racing folks. They are from and foster
racing families. They really enjoy the camaraderie of
the gatherings.
In fact, they are so wholesome, that I did not see a
beer or hear a curse word all day. At the end of the
day, a van pulled in to the driveway and as it
approached, Landon's mom, Wanda, remarked that the guy
that just arrived says some crazy things sometimes but
that he don't mean anything by it. Which meant as it
turned out that Gary cusses a moderate amount, oh and
he was the only one that I saw drink a beer the whole
weekend.
Some time during the day Landon asked me where I was
going to stay the night, was I going to a hotel?
Yeah, I thought I would head back towards Clanton (the
location of the notorious ticket and not high on my
list of places to go). "Because, if you want you can
stay in the race trailer. Tyler and I take it to the
races. It has a shower and AC and everything."
Landon was already turning on the electricity and
getting the air conditioning going before I could say
a thing. Very nice folks. "Just don't use the toilet
in there. For that you have to go in the house." A
reasonable and understandable request. I had a place
to stay, far away from cell coverage and internet, but
in good hands.
Landon pointed me to his bike, a KTM 400EXC a lot like
mine and nothing like what he won all the races on.
Landon and his dad and his son are 2-stroke racers and
don't know much about 4-strokes. Except, I would
imagine how to ride them really fast. There were some
issues with the bike but nothing that would warrant
complaint in the face of such overwhelming
hospitality. I cleaned the filter, did an inspection
and took a test ride and that was enough. Once I had
all the gear I would ride it a little more. I did not
want to be too familiar with the bike otherwise I
might get the idea that I could go fast. I was much
happier with an unknown bike with some quirks that
would allow me to keep my instincts in check. That
all worked out well until the next morning when the
bike refused to start.
Saturday night Wanda and Larry bought pizza and we all
sat around eating slices and chatting. It was really
nice. I had met Tina, Landon's sister, earlier in the
day and various members of the club who stopped by and
had a slice or two. This was the inner circle of
Perry Mountain and the good friends of the Carters.
The sign on the gate announced the name of the race
followed by "Welcome to Carter Country" in bold
letters.
That afternoon it had rained, a well-needed addition
to what had been shaping up to be a dusty Sunday.
After the rain Landon told me to come with him on a
round of re-signing. The wind and rain had blown down
some of the all-important indicators that kept people
going I the right direction and warned of danger. I
think that Landon realized that I really had no idea
what I was doing in the race when I asked what the
different color arrows meant and what was the
difference between an X and a W. Black arrows tell to
the way to go. Red arrows indicate a mandatory
passage such as the whole in the barbed wire fence.
Ride in between the red arrows! W indicated wrong
way. X indicated an off limits area and sometimes an
obstacle and could be used in conjunction with or
replaced by a skull and cross bones. All important
tips! I later tried to get inside scoop from Tyler -
14 years old and vastly more experienced in racing
than I will ever likely be, but he thought that I was
pulling his leg. These are race folks.
Finally about 2130 after chatting with lots of folks
and being introduced as Landon's "secret weapon -
you'd better watch out!" I went to the trailer to get
some sleep. Turns out that this trailer which looks
like an overgrown Uhaul trailer, is nicely kitted out
for the weekend racer - very functional with a shower,
toilet, microwave refrigerator and sink along with two
fold up bunks that stow to the sides of the trailer
allowing two bikes to be strapped down in between for
transport. There were much more elaborate and more
expensive trailers there that weekend, but this one
was perfect and really reflected the Carters -
understated and perfectly ready to get the job done.
The next morning I headed in to town early to get some
breakfast, avoiding the possibility of being invited
to eat with someone. I was overwhelmed with the
hospitality and needed to have a little independence.
The diner did not open till 0700, but I could come in
and drink coffee while they got set up. By the time I
got back, things were moving along. I had been asked
the night before to help Frank with the kids’ race. I
would just have to trail behind and help any of then
that fell or needed a hand. No problem. Except that
the bike that I was to ride did not really want to
start - certainly not with the electric starter. I
would kick-start with great effort and unreliably. I
parked the beast and borrowed a little "pit bike," a
110cc mini bike like thing that nearly everyone had in
one version or another, and used that to chase the
kids. The kids’ race was a blast though I did feel a
little foolish riding a little clown bike in trail of
the slowest kid, particularly since the other sweeper
was a big South African guy on a KTM 450. Oh well, I
zipped around and tried not to be self-conscious.
When the Kids race was over I started to help break
down the ribbons and clean up. Some of the adult race
would cross the kids’ course so all the kids’ markers
had to me removed. Landon told me to go back to the
garage and "get your bike ready" - it was "my bike"
for the whole weekend. Landon even asked if he could
borrow my bike to scout the trails after the rain on
Saturday night. When he got back he asked me if I
wanted to put a new tire on my bike because it was
going to be really muddy in spots. We did and he
showed me how he double lines his tubes so that he
never gets pinch flats. It makes it harder to put the
tires on, but you shouldn't have to fix many flats
that way.
I headed back to the garage and took that carb apart a
bit and tried to see if I could make the bike reliably
start. With the help of some other guys around, there
were always some folks around to give a hand, I got it
to not only start, but start with the electric
starter; something that I knew I would be thankful for
once the race started.
The race itself was a lot tougher than I was
expecting. The course seemed to have been set by a
paranoid crazy woman running for her life through the
hardwood and pine thickets of central Alabama. Every
third step she would look over her shoulder and dodge
between the tightly growing trees trying to evade her
ever-present imaginary pursuers. She dashed about for
nearly ten miles ending exhausted and muddy with
bruised shoulders from where the trees were so close
together that, in her haste; she could barely pass
without hitting either side. We were to follow her
breadcrumb path for four circuits.
I became convinced part way through the second time
around that the only way to go as fast as some of
these guys were going - "and the fast guys didn't even
come to this race" says Landon - is to be one of those
kids riding uninhibited through the woods learning the
language of the roots and branches, adopting the
reflexes of the other wild things that roam the
forests. I did not commune appropriately with the
wild things and I should not have been in Open C
class. I should have been with the fat man, the kid
and the middle aged woman two rows back of me at the
start a "beginner" years too late to ever be
competitive. But I was not back there and I did not
grow up running blindly through these woods, so I
would just have to learn as I went, one painful lesson
at a time. I started out balancing self-preservation
against the desire to do well and the distinct dislike
of being passed, let alone lapped (!) on a ten mile
course. In the end, the balancing act was let go and I
stuck to self-preservation and through sheer
stubbornness - something I had grown up with - I
pressed on determined not to stop till the end. I
passed a few riders either taking a breather or flat
out toasted but I refused to stop unless I heard the
"Whoop whoop" southern yell which meant get out of my
way slow guy. The one bit of advice that Tyler HAD
shared with me was just that - "If you hear someone
yelling, they are not cheering for you!"
There were a couple of open technical areas on the
course that gave the wood rats some pause. Landon
had in one part of the open field portion, laid out
truck tires four across and about ten long held in
place by railroad ties. The idea was that going
across the tires was the short way, but tricky. "You
probably won't win just by going across the tires, but
you will certainly lose if you mess it up!" The same
was said of the eight (maybe ten) foot jump across the
creek that had a go around that had the riders go
through the dry creek bed. With no threat of winner
much less losing any sort of standing, I went over the
tires and jumped the creek every time. The little
victories...
At the end of my third lap somewhere around 30 miles
and two and a half hours after the start I finished.
The leaders had long since completed four laps and
Landon greeted me at the timing booth saying, "you
know you are the second to last person on the
course?!" Actually, they cut off the race when the
leaders finished. Those who were lapped by the
leaders but started their next lap before the leaders
finished were allowed to finish. I was the second to
last to finish 30 miles. The leaders had already
started packing their bikes for the trip home.
Later, after I took a shower in "my trailer" I proudly
checked the standings and found that I was 15th in my
class and that there was a fairly large number -
intentionally vague, on that as I am willing to allow
myself to be deluded - who did not even complete three
laps. Not bad for my first race and I am not broken -
sore and slightly dented but in pretty good shape!
I only wish that I could have been rooting the girls
on in the kids race and that I could have been
throwing a quick wave to my best friend as I rounded
the corner after the creek jump as she yelled and I
knew that unlike the others, she was cheering for me.
It started like most adventures, ill hatched plan
lacking detail and open to maximum flexibility
augmented by poor reading of instructions rounded out
by very friendly patriotic folks in the heart of fire
ant land.
I left on Saturday morning to go see the hare scramble race. I
wanted to get there in time to see the kids race that
started at 0830 - hence the speeding ticket. "Where
are you going Mr. Bruce? Well ya see there's this
motorcycle race...doh!" So I got there at 0915 or so,
about 23 and a quarter hours early for the kids race.
Yup, the whole thing went on Sunday, not Saturday. So
I talked to the nice people there and asked if I could
walk the 9.5 mile course as I had nothing else to do
in their little town and it was a nice day. Sure I
could. The land owner, Mr. Landon Carter, even signed
a piece of paper for me to carry with me in case
anyone stopped me on the secret part of the course
across the creek. There the course switches back on
itself so if someone knew all the twists they could
take a short cut and cheat the course - not at all
uncommon as it turns out. So no one entered in the
race would be allowed to walk that side of the course.
With note in hand and a bottle of water, I headed out.
I covered the first three miles of the course and was
heading towards the creek when a kid on a four-wheeler
came up and told me that Mr. Carter wanted a word with
me. Sure, I said. "Yes Sir, You wanted to speak to
me?" Yeah, You want to ride tomorrow? I have a bike
and we can get you all the gear. You can wear my
helmet. [editorial note - that orange helmet would be
the one with the number 1 on the side; an earned
number that I would cover with the number 1314.]
Well, I might just do that. Let me think (about all
the many many downsides of the proposition - mostly
the bit about the broken bones and the cost of Alan's
plane ticket and yet another call to my wife from some
doctor with a southern accent) for a minute. "I can't
see why not!" said I, balancing self-preservation
against what would probably be a grave insult.
So started my adventure in Carter Country. The name
of the race was the Chicken House Hare Scramble 06.
Sponsored by the Perry Mountain Motorcycle club and
held on the property of various Carters and a couple
of their neighbors; a group, I might add, of the
nicest people on this planet.
Landon Carter told me that if I was going to race, I
would not be allowed to walk the other side of the
creek - that part of the course was a secret. Okay,
no problem. I spent the rest of the day hanging out
working on his motorcycle and meeting the rest of the
family. Turns out that Landon's dad, Larry, was quite
a rider. In turn, Landon racked up enough trophies to
line the girders of his 50x50 garage and accolades
enough to cover the walls of his small house. Landon
now dedicates his time to taking his son Tyler around
nearly every weekend to races around the East Coast.
Tyler was expected to finish in the top 10 in Sunday's
race. He ended up second in his class, but was out of
the top ten by a little. [Additional editorial note -
there were 14 classes based on previous experience and
prior standing]. I was told to enter the third to the
last class, open C. Why not the last class, aptly
described in its name "beginner?" They said it seemed as though a grown man who
looked the part and at least had "some" experience
riding a motorcycle, should at least be in C. There
was even talk that I might win my class, wouldn't that
be something winning the first race that you entered!
These are racing folks. They are from and foster
racing families. They really enjoy the camaraderie of
the gatherings.
In fact, they are so wholesome, that I did not see a
beer or hear a curse word all day. At the end of the
day, a van pulled in to the driveway and as it
approached, Landon's mom, Wanda, remarked that the guy
that just arrived says some crazy things sometimes but
that he don't mean anything by it. Which meant as it
turned out that Gary cusses a moderate amount, oh and
he was the only one that I saw drink a beer the whole
weekend.
Some time during the day Landon asked me where I was
going to stay the night, was I going to a hotel?
Yeah, I thought I would head back towards Clanton (the
location of the notorious ticket and not high on my
list of places to go). "Because, if you want you can
stay in the race trailer. Tyler and I take it to the
races. It has a shower and AC and everything."
Landon was already turning on the electricity and
getting the air conditioning going before I could say
a thing. Very nice folks. "Just don't use the toilet
in there. For that you have to go in the house." A
reasonable and understandable request. I had a place
to stay, far away from cell coverage and internet, but
in good hands.
Landon pointed me to his bike, a KTM 400EXC a lot like
mine and nothing like what he won all the races on.
Landon and his dad and his son are 2-stroke racers and
don't know much about 4-strokes. Except, I would
imagine how to ride them really fast. There were some
issues with the bike but nothing that would warrant
complaint in the face of such overwhelming
hospitality. I cleaned the filter, did an inspection
and took a test ride and that was enough. Once I had
all the gear I would ride it a little more. I did not
want to be too familiar with the bike otherwise I
might get the idea that I could go fast. I was much
happier with an unknown bike with some quirks that
would allow me to keep my instincts in check. That
all worked out well until the next morning when the
bike refused to start.
Saturday night Wanda and Larry bought pizza and we all
sat around eating slices and chatting. It was really
nice. I had met Tina, Landon's sister, earlier in the
day and various members of the club who stopped by and
had a slice or two. This was the inner circle of
Perry Mountain and the good friends of the Carters.
The sign on the gate announced the name of the race
followed by "Welcome to Carter Country" in bold
letters.
That afternoon it had rained, a well-needed addition
to what had been shaping up to be a dusty Sunday.
After the rain Landon told me to come with him on a
round of re-signing. The wind and rain had blown down
some of the all-important indicators that kept people
going I the right direction and warned of danger. I
think that Landon realized that I really had no idea
what I was doing in the race when I asked what the
different color arrows meant and what was the
difference between an X and a W. Black arrows tell to
the way to go. Red arrows indicate a mandatory
passage such as the whole in the barbed wire fence.
Ride in between the red arrows! W indicated wrong
way. X indicated an off limits area and sometimes an
obstacle and could be used in conjunction with or
replaced by a skull and cross bones. All important
tips! I later tried to get inside scoop from Tyler -
14 years old and vastly more experienced in racing
than I will ever likely be, but he thought that I was
pulling his leg. These are race folks.
Finally about 2130 after chatting with lots of folks
and being introduced as Landon's "secret weapon -
you'd better watch out!" I went to the trailer to get
some sleep. Turns out that this trailer which looks
like an overgrown Uhaul trailer, is nicely kitted out
for the weekend racer - very functional with a shower,
toilet, microwave refrigerator and sink along with two
fold up bunks that stow to the sides of the trailer
allowing two bikes to be strapped down in between for
transport. There were much more elaborate and more
expensive trailers there that weekend, but this one
was perfect and really reflected the Carters -
understated and perfectly ready to get the job done.
The next morning I headed in to town early to get some
breakfast, avoiding the possibility of being invited
to eat with someone. I was overwhelmed with the
hospitality and needed to have a little independence.
The diner did not open till 0700, but I could come in
and drink coffee while they got set up. By the time I
got back, things were moving along. I had been asked
the night before to help Frank with the kids’ race. I
would just have to trail behind and help any of then
that fell or needed a hand. No problem. Except that
the bike that I was to ride did not really want to
start - certainly not with the electric starter. I
would kick-start with great effort and unreliably. I
parked the beast and borrowed a little "pit bike," a
110cc mini bike like thing that nearly everyone had in
one version or another, and used that to chase the
kids. The kids’ race was a blast though I did feel a
little foolish riding a little clown bike in trail of
the slowest kid, particularly since the other sweeper
was a big South African guy on a KTM 450. Oh well, I
zipped around and tried not to be self-conscious.
When the Kids race was over I started to help break
down the ribbons and clean up. Some of the adult race
would cross the kids’ course so all the kids’ markers
had to me removed. Landon told me to go back to the
garage and "get your bike ready" - it was "my bike"
for the whole weekend. Landon even asked if he could
borrow my bike to scout the trails after the rain on
Saturday night. When he got back he asked me if I
wanted to put a new tire on my bike because it was
going to be really muddy in spots. We did and he
showed me how he double lines his tubes so that he
never gets pinch flats. It makes it harder to put the
tires on, but you shouldn't have to fix many flats
that way.
I headed back to the garage and took that carb apart a
bit and tried to see if I could make the bike reliably
start. With the help of some other guys around, there
were always some folks around to give a hand, I got it
to not only start, but start with the electric
starter; something that I knew I would be thankful for
once the race started.
The race itself was a lot tougher than I was
expecting. The course seemed to have been set by a
paranoid crazy woman running for her life through the
hardwood and pine thickets of central Alabama. Every
third step she would look over her shoulder and dodge
between the tightly growing trees trying to evade her
ever-present imaginary pursuers. She dashed about for
nearly ten miles ending exhausted and muddy with
bruised shoulders from where the trees were so close
together that, in her haste; she could barely pass
without hitting either side. We were to follow her
breadcrumb path for four circuits.
I became convinced part way through the second time
around that the only way to go as fast as some of
these guys were going - "and the fast guys didn't even
come to this race" says Landon - is to be one of those
kids riding uninhibited through the woods learning the
language of the roots and branches, adopting the
reflexes of the other wild things that roam the
forests. I did not commune appropriately with the
wild things and I should not have been in Open C
class. I should have been with the fat man, the kid
and the middle aged woman two rows back of me at the
start a "beginner" years too late to ever be
competitive. But I was not back there and I did not
grow up running blindly through these woods, so I
would just have to learn as I went, one painful lesson
at a time. I started out balancing self-preservation
against the desire to do well and the distinct dislike
of being passed, let alone lapped (!) on a ten mile
course. In the end, the balancing act was let go and I
stuck to self-preservation and through sheer
stubbornness - something I had grown up with - I
pressed on determined not to stop till the end. I
passed a few riders either taking a breather or flat
out toasted but I refused to stop unless I heard the
"Whoop whoop" southern yell which meant get out of my
way slow guy. The one bit of advice that Tyler HAD
shared with me was just that - "If you hear someone
yelling, they are not cheering for you!"
There were a couple of open technical areas on the
course that gave the wood rats some pause. Landon
had in one part of the open field portion, laid out
truck tires four across and about ten long held in
place by railroad ties. The idea was that going
across the tires was the short way, but tricky. "You
probably won't win just by going across the tires, but
you will certainly lose if you mess it up!" The same
was said of the eight (maybe ten) foot jump across the
creek that had a go around that had the riders go
through the dry creek bed. With no threat of winner
much less losing any sort of standing, I went over the
tires and jumped the creek every time. The little
victories...
At the end of my third lap somewhere around 30 miles
and two and a half hours after the start I finished.
The leaders had long since completed four laps and
Landon greeted me at the timing booth saying, "you
know you are the second to last person on the
course?!" Actually, they cut off the race when the
leaders finished. Those who were lapped by the
leaders but started their next lap before the leaders
finished were allowed to finish. I was the second to
last to finish 30 miles. The leaders had already
started packing their bikes for the trip home.
Later, after I took a shower in "my trailer" I proudly
checked the standings and found that I was 15th in my
class and that there was a fairly large number -
intentionally vague, on that as I am willing to allow
myself to be deluded - who did not even complete three
laps. Not bad for my first race and I am not broken -
sore and slightly dented but in pretty good shape!
I only wish that I could have been rooting the girls
on in the kids race and that I could have been
throwing a quick wave to my best friend as I rounded
the corner after the creek jump as she yelled and I
knew that unlike the others, she was cheering for me.
posted by TKAdventures @ 3:35 AM
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