The National Chase
A Sound Beating
From Puget Sound to Chesapeake Sound, or Bay, or whatever you call it, in search of national points and higher enlightenment

By Charlie Williams

Trail Rider Magazine
Indianapolis IN, New Years Day

Now, as I look back through my meticulous notes, the scrawl, “Hell Trip” sums it up. You see, I got it in my head that if I went to the last two national enduros, I could win the Vet A class. Mathematically it was feasible, financially it was shoe string. Physically and emotionally it was “Hell Trip.” It started with a five hour hop to Lansing Cycle where Alan Randt had been working on my KTM engine. The shaft that holds on the front sprocket was ruined.

“Not common and not cheap,” Alan said.

According to my notes he asked several questions: “Do you ever change your oil? Why does it smell like scalded urine? You will be paying cash this time, won’t you Charlie? (twice) How much longer will you be here? (Nine times).”

Alan was totally professional in his work. This heavy duty motor job was completed in less than a week, then he was kind enough to let me put my bike back together in his shop before leaving for Washington state. Thinking back, it probably wasn’t compassion that he felt when he let me use his shop. Rather, it had to be entertaining for him to watch me reassemble my basket case. “Please remember to wipe up the blood, Charlie.” (three times) “Yeah, sure man, but like I was tellin ya, if I go to Washington and do okay, I can go to Delaware with a few points lead, then if I could do pretty good there, maybe, just maybe I could win the Vet A class.”

I used the cover of darkness to slip back out of Michigan. You see I’m wanted there. Wanted to leave. I went north across the big bridge and turned the Mooch van west towards Bellingham, Washington. Hour after hour, truck stop after truck stop, Monkey and I made our way west. Wisconsin, Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana. “They got big long roads out there…” Chris Rea sings on that excellent Road To Hell 8-track.

We hit Glacier National Park around noon, October 7. In the valleys trees were still green, but as elevation climbed to 10,000 feet old man winter was already freezing the green out of them. First orange and red, then higher yellow and brown, then higher up bare branches thinned out to where no trees at all grew, a good example of how thin our atmosphere really is. My premature balding bothers me less here. West out of the park, then north to Whitefish for a late lunch. Everything is going good, I’ve been pretty lucky in all my road trips, rarely ever had to be towed in and the only fire was on the way to Tulsa for the Six Day. Looking back, a fire was only appropriate, and yes, it too smelled like scalded urine.

Settling back in the milk crate and plywood custom seat I’d built for the Mooch van, Monkey and I moved on, and then, the noise. I recognized it, it went like: “Helltriphelltriphelltrip!!!

I nonchalantly pulled over and looked under the hood. First off the motor sat about four inches off center, the belts were all off their pulleys and had ripped all the wiring loose in their mad dance. Oil and anti-freeze drooled out of the bottom, and the key made a noise like you do when you wipe wet dog shit off new carpet. Since I look like a local everywhere I go, the first car by picked me up and gave me a ride back to the Ford dealer. Once the Mooch van is towed back we start negotiations. They want more money than I have to fix the old truck, they want more money than I have for a used truck, in fact they want more money than I have to rent a truck to haul all my stuff back home.

The cagey salesman hints at a new truck, with “financing”. Optionless, I nodded yes. Once my credit check was approved by the man upstairs, the salesman became very helpful; and soon I was back on the road in a brand-new 1997 Ford van. Only one hitch, now I have to get a job to pay for it. Before, I could scrape along on a writer’s salary. Matt Stavish offered the advice: “Couldn’t you get home, sell the truck and only loose a couple of thousand dollars? Then you only have to work for a little while!”

This sounded even better when I was laying down $1,700 for license plates.

We got to the starting area of the Mt. Baker Enduro, Saturday at noon, 10 miles down a muddy gravel road. Then, as soon as we got there, the dog (Monkey) rolled around in something dead and rotten and smelled like hell. Sign up didn’t open until 6a.m., so Monkey and I sat in the new truck, in the rain, both shedding hair and smelling bad. At 5:30 it got dark and a line of riders formed at the derelict camper door/club house, waiting for the magic hour of 6:00 when they would open up and pass out the route sheets so we could program our enduro computers. I gave them another handful of money, signed my name a couple of times and took a wet wad of papers, down the hill, back to the truck. No route sheet. Back up the muddy hill, back in line, and then the lady doesn’t know what a “free” route sheet is.

“You can buy a Jart Chart, sir.”

“Yea but they’re five bucks!”

“Which one do you want?”

“Hell I don’t know, how ’bout the one for tomorrow’s race!”

“Well sir, look on the bulletin board over there and pick one out.”

Slosh slosh slosh. “Hey lady! It’s pitch friggin’ dark over here in the rain, and the ink is running all over my shoes!” In an attempt to diffuse the situation Ty Davis politely mentioned he used number 13.

I walked back up to the lady and told her “I want 13.”

She said it would be $65 dollars. I gave her the money and she handed me 13 roll charts. I’ll be up all night trying to get 13 roll chart holders all on my handlebars. I was up late, trying to program those stupid enduro computers. Under ideal conditions I have a hard time, but in Washington they waited until after dark to pass out the needed information. By this time it had started pouring rain and the wind picked up. I programmed my computer by candle light, wax dripped all over the face of my Moose computer, two roll charts were partially burnt. I called my girlfriend to ask her the word describing this absurdity, programing a computer by candle light. “Stupid.” was her reply, then she listed off three alternative light sources. “No hon, I know it’s stupid. What I’m looking for in your Mensa-qualified brain membrane is the word describing this kind of paradox for my article.” Computer, candlelight.

“I’ll give you the word! The word is stupid! What kind of international journalist national enduro wannabe waits ’til the last minute to do such important work? Stupid! That’s who!” I start to explain but it goes downhill. I know she thinks I’ve got the same computers the tornado chasers use. I don’t dare tell her mine is red plastic with two buttons and its name is Moose.

Riders meeting! Riders meeting! I’m going, I need to find out if it’s true my class rides the short course.

“Yes Sir, just like your route sheet said, the Vet A rides the short 80 mile course.”

I start bitching again. “I drove 2500 miles to get here and now you tell me I only get to ride 80 miles?”

The same lady from sign up is in my face twisting her head back and forth telling me “You don’t want to ride the long course!” I roughly grabbed the woman by the face and threw her in the mud.

At first things were going fine. The trail was easy, sweeping through big trees with perfect traction. 80 miles of this and I would be ready for more, and I was doing well until we hit the 4 mph section. My girl scrutinizing my score card: “4 mph, and you dropped 37 minutes behind schedule?”

“Well the trail got really tough and there were a bunch of guys stuck, then my bike got hot and I had to pee on it.”

“You’re in a race where the speed limit is 4 mph, you can’t keep up at even 4 mph so you pee on your bike?”

“Yeah.” I know she thinks I’m racing in the Seattle King Dome. She can’t picture 25 bikes stuck on a quarter-mile long stretch of trail running up a ridge of stair-stepped leg-sized roots on the now very rugged Mt. Baker. All of the bikes are overheating, all of the riders are draped over their seats trying to catch their breath before pushing up over the next root. When I did crest the hill my bike steamed so bad I had to empty the contents of my water bottle and my bladder in to the powdery dry radiator. This is why all my stuff smells like pee.

Silver dollar-sized snow flakes are falling with the rain now, too. Just because I don’t mention it every line don’t think the rain has let up one bit. It has rained steady since yesterday and I am cold and soaking wet. If you really want to share this miserable experience with me, slip your hand down between your legs and let your hand rest in the cold muddy water of your toilet while you finish this article.

“Didn’t you have on that expensive Gore-tex jacket you just had to have!?”

“Yes dear.”

I rode up to a group of people all dressed in their yellow slickers. It was a checkpoint. I asked if this was the end of the race, since we are back at the pits.

No one knew for sure. I asked the mileage, but no one knew for sure. One of the more astute rubber-skinned men asked to see my route sheet. I’d been waiting for this to happen so I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out 6 or 8 roll charts just wadded up with the consistency of paper mache.

“Oh you’re that guy. Where are you from?”

“What difference does it make where I’m from? Is this the end of the race or not?”

“Well if you are a local, the race ends here, but if you’re a big-time national guy, the end is back at the top of the mountain.”

I look up at Mt. Baker and it is covered with a thick fog of rain and snow. Big time national guy, I mutters to myself as I pulled in the clutch and gave the bike 7 strong kicks before it finally vibrated back to life. I tickled my computer buttons, though neither one worked at the time, the ICO had its wires ripped off along with my headlight and the Moose had so much water in it it looked like the wave machine in the Sharper Image catalog.

Actually this last section was pretty easy and I shouldn’t have lost any points, except I was so cold I couldn’t go fast on the roads. Then at the top of the mountain was the promised checkpoint where the checker competently removed my score card and congratulated me for riding this event. I was on my knees next to the fire for a long time. Steam poured off me but I was still freezing. I would probably still be there except the check point closed. They stomped the fire out and left me alone in the woods. Last thing they said was I wouldn’t be cold when I rode down this part of the mountain. “A bunch of switchbacks.” They turned the corner and I was alone.

Everything I have ever experienced pales to this last few miles of trail. It was like riding through the digestive tract of a 4,000 foot tall monster. Back and forth across the side of the mountain, each switch back would make an observed trials section, and the side hill paths were narrow and treacherous. You could look down and see the next five straights. It might be 30 minutes before I could get there though. Hawkins must have been jumping his bike down these steep turns to drop as few points as he did in this section. The trees were huge old growth pines with roots bigger than any tree in New Jersey, they blocked out nearly all light and their dark brown color absorbed any light left. A wizened cattle baroness friend of mine described it as “Dark as the inside of a cow!”

These trees had chunks of bark as big as the motorcycle seat, really! Moss grew on everything. It was growing on me and made it challenging to get back up after falling down, and I fell plenty, each time a little more moss clung to me until I looked like that guy in the Stephen King movie. Completely covered by moss, legs just barely twitching.

Lucky for me another bike came along and we crutched our way along, he would help me then I would help him. Is this where they came up with team crutch? I remembered the M&Ms in my pocket and offered my new friend one. I reached in my coat pocket but I was so wet the bag had dissolved and all the color had washed off leaving clean peanuts and a chocolate sludge mess, I wiped equal amounts on each of our wet gloves and were thankful for it. He didn’t bat an eye at eating my pocket scrapings. We were going to be good friends.

For over an hour we worked our way back down the mountain, through horrendous trail, life threatening cold, truly brutal conditions, knowing full well this was all for nothing. They had kept my score card at the check at the top of the hill, that is where the race was officially over for me and many of the classes. Why did they tell us “not to ride the long course” but then make us ride the long course? If I have to work that hard I want to be dropping route points, I want a 300 point score card, not just an hour and a half ride back to the truck!?!

Finally we emerged from the woods and back at the pits. First thing I started the truck and turned the heat on high, then climbed in the back, stripped off layers of muddy pee-smelling clothes, climbed in my sleeping bag, begged the stinking dog to lie down next to me and started the rehumanizing process. After a long while I was able to get up and put on every stitch of clothing I had brought, 6 pairs of underpants, 2 teddies and a bee costume. Should have brought the Mastodon suit.

Needless to say, I didn’t win a trophy, wasn’t even close. Three local riders in my class had ridden the long course and dropped less points than I did on the short course, but I was going to Delaware with a 5 point lead.

The sign up lady appears in my face one last time. She had her yellow rubber hood pulled tight around her face and tape on her glasses where I had broken them earlier. She said “See why Washington puts together such good Six Day riders?!” She is right, too. John Neilson is from around here, and the two super girls that finished the Tulsa Six Day were from Team Washington.

Delaware, A World Away
The drive east was uneventful. Day after day of sleeping a few hours on the muddy pee-stained floor of the once-new truck, then hours of hanging off the steering wheel. I did make a side trip through Yellowstone National Park (get out your map), went in the northwest gate and came out the northeast gate. The east gate was already closed by snow, and by the time I got to the NE gate snow had closed my most direct route back to the highway. I took Wyoming 296. On the map it shows it is gravel but, the other roads were closed. A back track the way I had come would have been hundreds of miles. Funny how being forced on to this road would lead me to one of the prettiest places I’ve ever seen.

From the top of Dead Indian Pass, you could look west up a long valley; nearest me, some three or four thousand feet below, the valley floor was wide and smooth with a stream winding along. The pickup trucks parked at the bridge indicated at least enough fish to support three anglers. Further away, the valley became narrower and the banks steeper, until vision blurred its details and the snow capped Mt. Pilot at 11,200 feet closed off the head of this valley, some 30 miles away. Along with all the major geological features, there was green and golden grass, colorful fall leaves, red dirt, grey rocks and 10 shades of blue-gray sky. Then if I would shift my gaze to the northwest, another valley confluences at my feet. It was of completely different make up, desert mesa with a chasm jaggedly ripping through it’s soft soil. It looked like a model railroad set. Then, if I would turn around and look east I could see one more mountain range to cross, then flat lands all the way to Pennsylvania.

Delaware is a different kind of enduro. The terrain is not nearly as challenging as Washington, so the club has to make up for it in other ways. Miles and miles of trail with only a couple of resets all day, speed changes galore all the way down to 1 mph. Texas had a180 mph section, and now we are down to 1mph. I love the enduro game, the simplicity of racing against the clock and the impossibility of actually beating it.

Delaware was the season final, the overall winner would be decided here. The cards were stacked in Randy Hawkins’ favor, but Ty Davis is capable of winning anywhere, any time. Ty was really feeling the pressure and was a long way from home without a lot of friends to back him up. Randy on the other hand was on home turf, everyone there hoping he would win and bring the title back east where it belongs. Randy came prepared, too. He brought help: Steve Hatch, Rodney Smith, Mark Hyde; each capable of being a spoiler in the final results. As it turned out Hawkins needed help because he broke down. Hatch won, Smith took second and Davis took third and lost the championship by the narrowest margin. Davis said before the race, “I’ll be a hero or a zero.”

Now there was a lot of, say…controversy…during this race. See, Hawkins’ bike did break down, but was hurriedly exchanged with Mark Hyde’s bike on the trail. Yes, this is against the rules and way too many people were aware of the swap for it to be a wholehearted effort at winning by unethical means. How it played out is Hawkins, now on an illegal bike, led Rodney Smith through the rest of the race doing the time keeping for him. Smith had no instruments. Smith wound up second overall and Hawkins withdrew his score card from the event. Hatch won, and left Davis holding the bag, thinking, “Hell, the only guy I was racing broke down and I still can’t win!?” Poor Ty, he does deserve to win, he certainly rides fast enough. But man, you’re in enduro country now, these guys play rough.

Now many people are crying foul, saying Suzuki took advantage. Yes, I agree it was foul and crooked, but if this had happened in the early eighties with the Swedish Husqvarna team, no one would have thought twice about it. “That’s how the Euros do it” But in today’s politically correct atmosphere Suzuki is the bad guy. But really, do you think the men at upstairs Suzuki made this call? Do you think they had the foresight to send their top guys? I doubt it. These decisions would have been made by the riders, not some corporate pawn. Hawkins and Hyde both rode Huskys in the eighties and obviously learned from their predecessors.

But Charlie, aren’t you masquerading as the Prince of fair play? Yes, I want everyone to play fair and obey the rules, but there is a fine line in cheating. Was this bike swap preconceived? No, it was spontaneous, a heat of the moment decision that may have been against the rules, but when Randy withdrew from the race, as far as I’m concerned that was the end of it. If Hawkins had pre-walked the course, marked short cut trails, used radio communications, sabotaged Ty’s bike, my thoughts may be different. But this is how the big boys play this game and you had better have paid attention and learned something or you may be duped again. If Kawasaki wants to be upset with anyone it should be Ty for burning that check back in the Illinois National–that was the turning point of the season.

Like I’ve said before, Ty is the fastest rider but Randy is the wiser enduro rider. Long live the king! Proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that corporate Suzuki would be unable to mastermind such a scheme, they refused to renew Randy Hawkins contract for 1997! Well if you call the Suzuki Race team hot line, besides the corporate runaround you would get: “Budget cuts, re-focusing, re-structuring, would you like us to send you a brochure and a complementary issue of Dirt Rider magazine?”

How are we, the average enduro guy, how are we going to be affected by Suzuki’s decision? Well we could cave in under the economic vacuum, or we could stick it in their face, right now. This very issue could be the turning point of the future of enduros forever. What you do makes a difference and it’s not like fighting the government for land use or rights or something. Promoting enduros is easy. Everyone knows a rider who is younger, faster, stronger, more confidant and better financially equipped. Well, this is your mark. Casually mention you have been thinking about “Getting the old bike out and riding some enduros.”

Stuff about six of those little white donuts in your mouth now. If you have the right guy he will say something about his high dollar bike and how you could never be competitive on your five year old KTM. “Yea, but it’s just for fun, get out and see some of the old faces. Tartar still owes me $65, maybe you’d like to go with me.”

“You know I would, but hey, I don’t have a computer.”

Tell him that if he buys a sensor wire, new batteries and sends it in for repairs, he can borrow your computer, explain that you don’t need it as slow as your bike is any more. With any luck he will say okay. Oh are you in a magic place now, enduro mentor; you see, it is very hard for an outsider to crack open the enduro code book. That may be my next essay, but right now we are dealing with the other end of enduros. Without Suzuki’s presence at these major races a newcomer may get the feeling that if the factories are not interested why should he be. Lets go GNCC, that’s where the money goes. But in my mind GNCC should be a stepping stone to the more challenging enduro. See, an enduro is a game played on motorcycles, once you have mastered the 10 mile loops of a GNCC course maybe you are up to a bigger challenge: Time keeping. This is where the game comes in, the equalizer for all ages. It’s like if GNCC was a driving range, enduro would be the golf course. But I’m not trying to sell you on enduros now, I have to follow another story line which I think was about Randy Hawkins….

What will Randy do? I mean another factory will surely sign him, but then what? Does he continue with the enduros until he eclipses Bill Baird’s record? I would like to see this; seems like it adds tradition. Will he go GNCCing with hopes of keeping Suzuki out of the winner’s circle? I would like to see this too. Could he possibly do both? Yes he could, and that’s what confounds me the most about Suzuki firing Randy. If Randy signed with KTM, that would be the best. I feel the Austrians are more like-minded with us Enduroans than the Japanese or Californians. Kawasaki could sign him and he and Ty could dominate the world. Yamaha, already supporting a formidable GNCC team, could broaden their off road team, and Honda could offer him some XR600s.

“Hey wait! Mr. Hawkins come back!”

By the time you read this, that decision should have been made so I won’t dwell on Randy any longer. I’ll write about me.

I came to Delaware with a five point lead in my class. It was fun just being in the chase at the last race of the year, but the guy I was racing, Rick Ingold from Illinois, just plain out-rides me. He got second place to my sixth or seventh and won the championship. Since I failed to win my class this year, my sponsor, Tom Godby, has pulled his support for Team Mooch on the national level. No, this won’t affect the final results much, but I won’t be there to write these little stories. No big deal you think, you can still get the facts from Cycle News, but you won’t get my added value. Sure it’s just writing, but when I try to address bigger issues, like the future of our strange and obscure sport, the treatment one of our fellow riders, I hope you understand that this meandering means a hell of a lot more than a simple race report. A race report is history. I’m trying to get my weight forward and see further down the trail, anticipate what is next and make decisions now that will make a difference tomorrow.

What do you think tomorrow holds for enduros? Can you think of anything you could do that would help keep your interest flowing? I find writing these stories is my fuel. I have lot’s of hare-brained ideas, and writing lets me bounce them around without actually implementing them. I’m not out to start a rift between Mike Webb and I or other magazines, or states, motorcycle clubs, countries, or types of racing. Mike and Tom Webb dictate a enormous amount of power in the motorcycling industry. I’m not trying to piss them off when I call them names, it’s just my attempt at over-exaggeration to simplify a situation to get my point across. I would like to see the Webb brothers get behind enduros and push instead of being led around by the wallet. The bike companies have plenty of liaison in the magazine industry, those jobs are all sewed up by much smoother characters than myself.

The enduro life style needs a voice, and we here at Trail Rider are volunteering. Trail Rider is now the official enduro rider’s magazine, and we want to see changes. But if I keep quiet and go with the flow, not step on anyone’s toes, then I’m just cruising round and around, kinda GNCCing. But if I stick my neck out, point fingers, burn a few bridges, cause a ripple, maybe that ripple will become a wave, a wave big enough for all of us to catch and ride away in the sunset. Maybe I hope for too much. Maybe I overestimate the influence of our magazine, maybe enduros are doomed. Damn! Just when I finally found my niche.