Saturday, September 24, 2011

Tennessee! Land of Hypothermia!

I can't comment too much on this one for one simple reason...I wasn't there! Not that I didn't want to be, but I was home with a Frankenleg,
And though I was tempted to go along and spectate for a whole 0.5 seconds or so, oddly I decided to stay home and watch TV instead. That left George and Max to go rampage all over Tennesse as a duo, undaunted by crummy sounding weather reports and the good likelihood of getting soaked in the woods. This was for another Ahrma ISDT, meaning it was another fancy two day jobby with all the fun timed sections and controls. Luckily, they were able to find a substitute fat, hairy guy, so the social dynamic was preserved.
That's Larry in the middle. He lives kinda down the road from Westpoint in Memphis, and brought the boys some BBQ and got to play on George's bike after he tagged his foot on a tree and bowed out (at this point if you looked crosseyed at his foot it swelled up and the doc had to cut chunks off...no, really). From here, I'll let Max's old race report tell the tale.
"The event was a lot of fun, it was tight and sloppy and somewhat reminiscent of South Carolina.  Day one started off with a bit of rain for the riders meeting then cleared up for the race.
We started on the 21st minute again...
...so by the time we got into the woods there had already been about 60 bikes through there rutting it up.
We had two special tests before lunch then two tests after lunch and a single lap around the grass track. All the connecting trails were nice and the town of Westpoint welcomed us with open arms.
George had a great ride the first day and after completing 3 special tests he decided that he had had enough fun for one day and passed on the responsibility of representing the big twins to me.
I didn't do much better than merely finishing the first day and ended up placing third with a silver medal. The second day I talked Larry into riding with me and we had three special tests (the same three from the day before except even slimier and more shitted up) before a 10 lap grass motocross track (where Larry kicked my ass) Larry took to the woods like a champ and despite never having run George's bike before did great and I think he had a fun ride on some of the trails. It took everything I had (and a little of what I didn't have) to keep going on the second day. I finally reached a point where I decided that it was not within the realm of possibility for my ass to hurt any more than it already did so I decided I might as well keep going. (there was also a really cute girl checking times in the woods that kept my morale up) After we finished the three special tests in the woods we rested for a minute then lined up for the ten lap grass track.
 The grass track was a live engine start and we all flung plenty of sod on the take off. I took the first corner a bit too fast and just about lost it and Larry passed me. In an effort to catch him I believe I pushed my poor little motor scooter too far. I heard a bit of a click and smoke started pouring out of my left exhaust pipe and primary breather, so I pushed it harder of course and then my throttle cable broke and Chicago Jerry helped me push my bike across the finish line. BY THE WAY VOTE FOR CHICAGO JERRY FOR BOARD OF TRUSTEES. On the second day I managed a second place due to drop outs and got a silver medal. It was all in all a great weekend. Thanks to George for all of the team support (and for lettin me eat the rest of the ribs)"

Friday, September 9, 2011

When Hardrock Bites Your Ass, You Tend To Remember The Experience

Most plans that end up going completely wrong tend to start out simply. This is a fact of life. Perhaps it is better to never make plans, thereby ensuring they can never turn turtle on you. This story starts simple enough: an old man needs a pile of bike to sink his money into. My Dad was the old man. A few years back, with retirement looming, I got him a pile of C-15 to waste his time. He learned too well that as soon as a bike begins looking like a vaguely finished-ish thing you are required to begin looking for the next project. This ended up being a rather tasty pile of longstroke BSA A-7 sourced from our friendly friends in North Carolina. Here's where the plan got clever. Jay would bring the pile down and we'd meet up with my Pops at a location halfway between St. Augustine and his home in Tampa: Hardrock! It would be awesome all around!
But oddly enough, things almost immediately started going cattywhumpus. First lap of the harescramble course I broke my rear brake rod. No prob, I just stole the one off the A-7, Dad didn't need it yet anyway. Max had brought the Rickman, and it was acting up
It was oddly down on power and was even having trouble getting up the climb to get into the Roller Coaster. Which was odd, because the Stomper was also down on power, being able to get in the Roller Coaster, but really struggling on some of the climbs. On one it blubbered to a halt just shy of the top, sending me tumbling all the way back to the bottom. That's bad when you're a meaty dude, because at a certain gravity induced tumble speed the world becomes your cheese grater
The writing was getting clearer on the wall, so we planned to do one more lap of the harescramble course and head to some beer serving place. As a bright spot, when we got back we were greeted by my Dad who had brought us back food to cheer our spirits. As a not bright spot, Jay was nowhere to be seen. I headed off to find him and let him know there was tasty vittles back at the truck. He was just a few hundred yards on the course where he'd hit a puddle that completely killed the bike and was finishing putting the carb back together when I pulled up. We shoulda just turned around and headed back to fountain drinks, but we decided to finish the loop instead. I came over a small rise I'd already been over 4 times that day, dozens in the past few months, and the bike washed out in a teeny little patch of mud. At one point I was on the bike, the next I felt like I was standing, then bike and rider collapsed. It was immediately apparent my leg was broken, flopping about in a rather sickening way, but the only thing on my mind was the sound of Jay getting closer. I guess the mind prioritizes things pretty quick at a time like that, because all I could think about was that he wouldn't be able to see me on the other side of the drop and I needed to move, quick. Some spirited elbow work and I was safe from adding the insult of being run over to the injury. Which left me with nothing to do but freak out a bit trying to hold my leg steady. Luckily, with Jay's help we splinted up the leg with a belt, some zip ties and two sticks, which allowed me to calm down until he and Max could get some help. Also luckily, I was right near the edge of the woods, so the poor EMT's that had to pall-bear my fat ass outta there only had to go a short distance, though I think they billed me for the costs of a couple hernias. Worth every penny.
Why do I look so happy here? Because I'd just been informed surgery was scheduled for the next day, which meant I could Eat! Priorities, people. The ER was fun. I was so scraped up from the earlier tumbles they thought all the damage was from the one wreck, so they thought it had been worse than it was, and insisted on X-raying everything. Moral: try for only one wreck a day, kiddies. I was apparently infested with spiders from laying on the forest floor, which led to me being whacked in the crotch by Jay and a nurse to "kill" the "spider"...allegedly. And finally, I needed to be transferred to a different hospital for the surgery, so a fancier splint needed putting on than the comfy blue EMT one seen here. Jay somehow drew a short straw and got to hold up the...erm...disconnected leg part as the new splint was slid on and wrapped. The next morning I was under the knife for some expensive screws and pieces
And I got to spend a quiet weekend at the hospital with the wife in sunny Ocala.
And that was the end of my riding year, leaving Max and George to get rained on at races without me till Gatorback in the Spring. Good times.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Mr. George Goes to Hardrock

"But you just did a post about Hardrock, and George was there" I hear you say. Well, that's why time travel would never work...its just too damned confusing. Well, for me anyway. This is about a different time George went to Hardrock...his first, acksherly. Decent-ish pics on this one, so I'll keep the words short. So without further adieu, George meets the Bottom.
Fun, eh? I love me some swampy hell, which earned us a nice break.
It also earned us a trip through the Rock Garden, Max pulling a "hey man, watch this" that sadly went undocumented involving a large throttle opening and some roots, and then an escape to the Roller Coaster for some zippy higher speed fun. Like here, with George gittin' it
Or me, zipping about like a zipping thing
Though I do tend to cheat a bit by lubricating the air around me to make myself go faster,
And Max, as usual completely unable to lay up at any time
As mentioned in a previous post, the Roller Coaster has recently been taken away from us low rent bike peasants and has been deeded to the fancy pants Baja Buggy folks (whose pants are truly fancier than our double front Dickies). This was sad news, because it really is a lot of fun. Booooo. But it was there for George when we went, so it was a good day.