AmSnow.com is now SnoWest.com
It's 5:30 a.m. and, as my father says, I'm "up and Adam." Although I'm not sure about "up" and I don't know who Adam is and why he decided it is a good idea to awaken from a deep sleep at this hour. My plan was to be in bed and sleeping last night by 10:30 p.m., but that, inevitably turned into12:30 a.m. and I, unfortunately, am a 7 hours of sleep guy, so this isn't working so well.
Was it a hockey game with beer and munchies supported by a great easy chair that kept me awake? A romantic evening alone with my wife? No, it was pouring over every inch of my snowmobile, checking things for the sixth time. Making mental lists of things I would forget anyway. Running movies through my head of scenes and scenarios like a 99 cent theatre. And all for what my 37-year-old, overweight, out-of-shape body decided was a good idea; I decided to start cross-country racing on the USCC circuit.
Pushing 40, not many folks seem to like trail riding as aggressively as I do anymore. Most of the riding nowadays seems to fall under the category of "live to ride, ride to eat (or drink)," which I'm not really into. Then my wife got sick with cancer and I figured life had become exceedingly too short. What the heck, right?
Equipment? Well, I had a decent helmet, FXR race clothes and I still had my Tek Vest from my feeble attempt at snocross (should have been changed to slocross for me). My sled, well this would be a true test of my machine. My 2005 Yamaha Vector ER had over 7,000 miles on the clock when I made the fateful decision to go for the checkered flag. Not to mention, it's a 600+ lb. trail sled with reverse! No problem, I'm nothing if not adaptable (and nuts). A few mods and a lot of elbow grease, plus a bunch of helpful tips from friends, and the 'ol Vector appeared ready to rock.
Now, it's 8:00 a.m., and I'm in the pits in Grafton, N.D. Generators are humming and a whole bunch of serious activity is going on inside a whole bunch of serious looking "haulers." I am as nervous as Michael Moore at an NRA convention. I have to pee. Next, the pit meeting, and I find out all of the really important stuff like "there are lots of deer out there, be careful." Thanks. They mention in the meeting that if a driver is too slow they will be black flagged when crossing the start/finish line to begin their second lap. I am certain this will be me, the only guy that day to get a black flag. I have to pee.
Then comes the, so called, "parade lap," which should really be called what it is; a recon mission. This is the one opportunity a racer gets to see the course at 30 mph, versus 80 mph. The rider's job is to make a mental video of the course and replay that video later as life blurs by and your goggles fog from nervous breathing. I spend the majority of the parade lap daydreaming about things I might have forgotten on the sled and therefore can't remember most of the course when the green flag drops.
Even though, based on the schedule of events, there should be like an hour or so before my race, it seems like it takes 2 minutes before veteran PA announcer "Dangerous" Don Jorstad calls out to the pits for all Amateur 600 class drivers. I am already in the staging area pacing. I am cold from nerves. I don't know how to dress and I'm sure I will either freeze or sweat to death.
All at once the previous race comes to a close and all of the 2-stroke guys are warming up their pipes. What am I supposed to do? Suffocate on blue smoke I guess. All I can think about is not crashing off the start line. It's my turn to go and I come to the line. I have to pee.
I pull the trigger and fly down onto a river. There is already a groove cut on the thin snow cover and here comes the first corner… My stomach sinks into my Sorels. Clearly not enough ski pressure and I nearly launch myself up the bank. Then it's like a dream. One lap down as I approach the start/finish line and the inevitable black flag. I prepare to pull off the track in shame, but it never happens and I'm off and running again.
Then it's all over; two laps and over 25 miles gone all too soon. Seventh place, not too shabby (later changed to 10th because I "blew a marker" on a corner, oops). My first race in the books and I feel tired but full of adrenaline. The bologna sandwich and my son's Snack Pack pudding I packed this morning at 5:40 a.m. tastes like a Ruth's Chris Steakhouse feast. They say racing is addicting. Sitting in this truck with the windows down, chomping on a sandwich, steam rolling off my sweaty head, basking in the smug glory of taking a risk and surviving, I say addiction, indeed!
Pink Ribbon Rider's website