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- Jan 22, 2008
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- 2,585
The trailrider by Bob Hicks
The first day was a bastard, there’s no other word for it. Not only was it hot, dry and very dusty, but the terrain was the rockiest I'd ever seen, and the schedule very tight. The "A" schedule had been opted for on the very first day, instead of the usual, easier "B" schedule. The route was only about 90 miles around ' but we had to do two laps. That second lap was the real bummer. Maybe we knew what was coming up, but the schedule was tighter by two or three minutes per check, and the loose, rocky Spanish terrain was badly mauled from the first lap.
No time was wasted in getting off the road. We were soon riding miles of rocky dirt gully and narrow hillside donkey paths. But it was manageable the first half around. The latter portion of the loop climbed up into the Sierra Guadarama Mountains by more of those never ending donkey paths with their incessant rock ledge outcrops and thick coating of dust. Up over one pass, down the far side, then U-turn back over a parallel pass and this one the real baddy of the day.
Practice explorations the days before the trial began had unearthed this climb. Perhaps a mile in all, it wound up a narrow gully between two peaks of the Sierra Guadarama, and whenever it had rained here the water had used the gully to get down quickly. The jumbled boulders were unending. The trees scattered among them restricted travel pretty well to the, marked way, and the gully was cluttered with stalled bikes. It was one of those climbs resembling a giant broken staircase. If you could keep going you'd be OK, but gauging which way to take among the boulders and trees and other stalled riders was chancy a wrong guess and you were soon balked yourself.
Despite the obvious toughness of the route, I somehow managed to stay on time, just barely. With only a minute or two in hand from check to check, trying desperately not to fall off on all those rocks, I began to worry about that second lap I knew the times were tighter, and it began to look as if I'd be dropping some marks on the very first day of the six this year. Last year it was the third day at least before I ran late.
By noon I arrived at Cruz Verde, the pass above El Escorial where the first lap finished, the second began, and the final motocross test after lap two would take place on the mountainside opposite. The run into this point had been a bit easier over the vast, empty plateau and down the twisting mountain road, but still I had 6nly five minutes in hand, perhaps. Another fast drink of orange juice, a quick check of the bike, and it was off on lap two, still clean, but too close.
As I had feared, it was harder this time. The trail was looser, the rocks tumbled about under the wheels more readily, the dust churned more, the heat was higher as the full, early afternoon sun beat down. Nevertheless, I made the check near Robledo de Chevala OK and the next one down near Cebreros. Then the pace began to tell. An awfully rocky steep pitch after Cebreros required great care in order to avoid being stopped, the worst thing you could do on this loose Spanish land. The winding switchback road did not permit enough speed to make up much time. The last run into the check at Navas del Marques was over several miles of dirt paths, and despite the heavy dust, I arrived just on my minute. The tension, concentration and heat were telling on my 40 year old carcass, and the worst was now before me. It was well I did not realize just how bad it was going to be.
Away I went at full tilt, to take advantage of what easy going there was outside of Navas del Marques before hitting that long, long climb over a bouldery path up into the Sierra Guadarama, and then to the next check on the cobblestone streets of a tiny hill village prior to the final double pass ordeal,
The long, hard path seemed to be more trouble this time, and the Pioneer was wobbling about a bit more. I stopped momentarily at a rock step to look at my rear tire. Was I getting a flat? It sort of felt that way.
No, the tire was OK, but the wheel seemed at an odd angle. My God, had an axle nut come loose, was that wheel adrift? No, the axle was tight, but then I noticed the worn spot in the right side of the fiberglass fender, where my number was painted. A wide slot had been worn into the 'glass by my rear tire, and my horrified eyes saw that the swinging arm bolt was missing.
That bolt was gone from the right side, though the left hand bolt was still in place. The Ossa swinging arm pivots on an axle held in by a bolt from each end through frame brackets. Now one was gone. No wonder the bike was wobbling. And I still had 30 miles to go, including the two up and over passes, and the motocross test. It was a bad moment as I looked around me. Mo-mentarily, I was alone high on the side of the ridge above the valley I had just come from. The dry countryside lay before me in all its barren brown. Dust plumes marked the approach of the coming riders and the departure of those ahead up and over the ridge.
I had no spare bolt, so I poked a screwdriver blade into the gaping hole to somewhat align things, wired the handle to the frame, and carried on. It seemed to work OK, and I arrived at the next check without further trouble, but was into my three minutes of grace. It looked like my journey of 3000 miles to ride here might wind up on the first day.
Before I got to the next pass, the wobbling got real bad, and I figured the screwdriver blade had let go. But no, it was still there. It was the opposite bolt that was now gone. How had it come out? I'd checked it for tightness after losing the other. Well, it hadn't come out, it had broken off from the flexing of the overhung swinging arm pivot. Now the only thing saving the day at all was the frame design. The swinging arm pivot end is trapped inside the frame tubes by the engine mount and side frame tubes, so it couldn't drop to the ground. It could move around within about an inch circle, though, and this would soon make short work of the screwdriver blade. I had nothing else!to use to support the pivot (I tried a stick of wood briefly, but that was wishful thinking).
There was nothing left to do but try to nurse it home. I had no more than 20 miles to go, and nearly a full hour of late time in hand. Perhaps I could get in at least for a bronze, and hope to repair things the next day. Weirdly enough,
The bike seemed to be manageable when I got moving. At very slow speeds the wheel would flop from side to side, but when I got up to 30 or so, the flopping became more of a weave. Depending on my body lean, the wheel would lay against one side or the other of the fender and rub away, the chain some¬how staying on through it all.
The awful bouldery climb was an agony of suspense for me. I decided to tackle it as if the bike were OK. To go slower would mean a sure stop and all the hassle of trying to get underway again would surely finish off the chain or wheel. Fortunately, no one was stuck in the gully when I arrived, and we trundled steadily up the boulders with¬out any delay, the rough going blending in with the built in wobble so that it seemed quite normal.
Then over the open plateau. It was easier going, but tricky because of the way the bike would flop from side to side as my weight or the cornering angle would shift. Down onto the paved road for the twisting two miles into Cruz Verde and the dreaded motocross test. The hairpin turns on the road were really hairy, even at my moderate speed, but finally I arrived at the checkpoint, 12 minutes late. My relief was enor¬mous. I had only six miles to go now, three over that motocross circuit, the rest on road to the parc ferme. It looked like I'd get away with it.
The motocross circuit climbed straight up a steep hill, traveled along the ridgetop, then plunged straight down a hell of a steep hill into the valley below Cruz Verde pass, then climbed a longish gully back to the top of the pass and the finish. It was bad enough later on in the week with a strong bike, and some experience, but today it was a horror. The steep pitch and my wobbly machine threatened to gang up on me and send me straight down to crash at the bottom. Somehow I hung on, rather grimly wrestling the bike at what amounted to a snail's pace.
To hell with special test scores now, this was a matter of survival. Finally, I reached the end of the three miles, and then made a wobbly. ride into El Escorial. I'd forgotten the acceleration test. Here I was now nearly 20 minutes late and only a mile from the finish of this awful day, and I had to wait my turn as three other bikes each took their run through the acceleration test. I was getting frantic, it was so close to being over for me, and the deliberate¬ness of the officials running the test was infuriating. Couldn't they see I was in trouble? Didn't they care?
The test, at last, was a joke for me. How do you accelerate with a free form rear suspension? Into the parc ferme, waving off my Spanish refueling crew, no time for that. Up to the clock, and turn in my card. How late was I? Twenty big minutes on the button. It was over for today, anyway. Somehow the crippled bike had held together, and the morning would bring a new chance. Although replacing the missing bolts would not be simple, what with that broken off end still in there, it could be done in the 15 min. allowed in the work paddock before starting.
So there went 17 marks. Twenty minutes late, less the 3 min. time allow¬ance. And there were five more days of this tough Spanish countryside to cover. Another day like Monday and I'd be joining the 85 riders who didn't get through this first day.
The following Saturday, it all seemed like a vaguely bad dream. After that first day the schedule had been eased, the route became easier. There was some rain, snow, sleet, a herd of wild bulls, and a few wrong guesses on steep, rocky climbs, but still we'd made it to the finish, the Pioneer and 1, and the 25 marks gone were just on the outer edge of that silver medal. I wouldn't have thought it possible on that hot, dusty, Monday afternoon high on the side of the Sierra Guadarama, 3000 miles from home on a crippled motorcycle.
The first day was a bastard, there’s no other word for it. Not only was it hot, dry and very dusty, but the terrain was the rockiest I'd ever seen, and the schedule very tight. The "A" schedule had been opted for on the very first day, instead of the usual, easier "B" schedule. The route was only about 90 miles around ' but we had to do two laps. That second lap was the real bummer. Maybe we knew what was coming up, but the schedule was tighter by two or three minutes per check, and the loose, rocky Spanish terrain was badly mauled from the first lap.
No time was wasted in getting off the road. We were soon riding miles of rocky dirt gully and narrow hillside donkey paths. But it was manageable the first half around. The latter portion of the loop climbed up into the Sierra Guadarama Mountains by more of those never ending donkey paths with their incessant rock ledge outcrops and thick coating of dust. Up over one pass, down the far side, then U-turn back over a parallel pass and this one the real baddy of the day.
Practice explorations the days before the trial began had unearthed this climb. Perhaps a mile in all, it wound up a narrow gully between two peaks of the Sierra Guadarama, and whenever it had rained here the water had used the gully to get down quickly. The jumbled boulders were unending. The trees scattered among them restricted travel pretty well to the, marked way, and the gully was cluttered with stalled bikes. It was one of those climbs resembling a giant broken staircase. If you could keep going you'd be OK, but gauging which way to take among the boulders and trees and other stalled riders was chancy a wrong guess and you were soon balked yourself.
Despite the obvious toughness of the route, I somehow managed to stay on time, just barely. With only a minute or two in hand from check to check, trying desperately not to fall off on all those rocks, I began to worry about that second lap I knew the times were tighter, and it began to look as if I'd be dropping some marks on the very first day of the six this year. Last year it was the third day at least before I ran late.
By noon I arrived at Cruz Verde, the pass above El Escorial where the first lap finished, the second began, and the final motocross test after lap two would take place on the mountainside opposite. The run into this point had been a bit easier over the vast, empty plateau and down the twisting mountain road, but still I had 6nly five minutes in hand, perhaps. Another fast drink of orange juice, a quick check of the bike, and it was off on lap two, still clean, but too close.
As I had feared, it was harder this time. The trail was looser, the rocks tumbled about under the wheels more readily, the dust churned more, the heat was higher as the full, early afternoon sun beat down. Nevertheless, I made the check near Robledo de Chevala OK and the next one down near Cebreros. Then the pace began to tell. An awfully rocky steep pitch after Cebreros required great care in order to avoid being stopped, the worst thing you could do on this loose Spanish land. The winding switchback road did not permit enough speed to make up much time. The last run into the check at Navas del Marques was over several miles of dirt paths, and despite the heavy dust, I arrived just on my minute. The tension, concentration and heat were telling on my 40 year old carcass, and the worst was now before me. It was well I did not realize just how bad it was going to be.
Away I went at full tilt, to take advantage of what easy going there was outside of Navas del Marques before hitting that long, long climb over a bouldery path up into the Sierra Guadarama, and then to the next check on the cobblestone streets of a tiny hill village prior to the final double pass ordeal,
The long, hard path seemed to be more trouble this time, and the Pioneer was wobbling about a bit more. I stopped momentarily at a rock step to look at my rear tire. Was I getting a flat? It sort of felt that way.
No, the tire was OK, but the wheel seemed at an odd angle. My God, had an axle nut come loose, was that wheel adrift? No, the axle was tight, but then I noticed the worn spot in the right side of the fiberglass fender, where my number was painted. A wide slot had been worn into the 'glass by my rear tire, and my horrified eyes saw that the swinging arm bolt was missing.
That bolt was gone from the right side, though the left hand bolt was still in place. The Ossa swinging arm pivots on an axle held in by a bolt from each end through frame brackets. Now one was gone. No wonder the bike was wobbling. And I still had 30 miles to go, including the two up and over passes, and the motocross test. It was a bad moment as I looked around me. Mo-mentarily, I was alone high on the side of the ridge above the valley I had just come from. The dry countryside lay before me in all its barren brown. Dust plumes marked the approach of the coming riders and the departure of those ahead up and over the ridge.
I had no spare bolt, so I poked a screwdriver blade into the gaping hole to somewhat align things, wired the handle to the frame, and carried on. It seemed to work OK, and I arrived at the next check without further trouble, but was into my three minutes of grace. It looked like my journey of 3000 miles to ride here might wind up on the first day.
Before I got to the next pass, the wobbling got real bad, and I figured the screwdriver blade had let go. But no, it was still there. It was the opposite bolt that was now gone. How had it come out? I'd checked it for tightness after losing the other. Well, it hadn't come out, it had broken off from the flexing of the overhung swinging arm pivot. Now the only thing saving the day at all was the frame design. The swinging arm pivot end is trapped inside the frame tubes by the engine mount and side frame tubes, so it couldn't drop to the ground. It could move around within about an inch circle, though, and this would soon make short work of the screwdriver blade. I had nothing else!to use to support the pivot (I tried a stick of wood briefly, but that was wishful thinking).
There was nothing left to do but try to nurse it home. I had no more than 20 miles to go, and nearly a full hour of late time in hand. Perhaps I could get in at least for a bronze, and hope to repair things the next day. Weirdly enough,
The bike seemed to be manageable when I got moving. At very slow speeds the wheel would flop from side to side, but when I got up to 30 or so, the flopping became more of a weave. Depending on my body lean, the wheel would lay against one side or the other of the fender and rub away, the chain some¬how staying on through it all.
The awful bouldery climb was an agony of suspense for me. I decided to tackle it as if the bike were OK. To go slower would mean a sure stop and all the hassle of trying to get underway again would surely finish off the chain or wheel. Fortunately, no one was stuck in the gully when I arrived, and we trundled steadily up the boulders with¬out any delay, the rough going blending in with the built in wobble so that it seemed quite normal.
Then over the open plateau. It was easier going, but tricky because of the way the bike would flop from side to side as my weight or the cornering angle would shift. Down onto the paved road for the twisting two miles into Cruz Verde and the dreaded motocross test. The hairpin turns on the road were really hairy, even at my moderate speed, but finally I arrived at the checkpoint, 12 minutes late. My relief was enor¬mous. I had only six miles to go now, three over that motocross circuit, the rest on road to the parc ferme. It looked like I'd get away with it.
The motocross circuit climbed straight up a steep hill, traveled along the ridgetop, then plunged straight down a hell of a steep hill into the valley below Cruz Verde pass, then climbed a longish gully back to the top of the pass and the finish. It was bad enough later on in the week with a strong bike, and some experience, but today it was a horror. The steep pitch and my wobbly machine threatened to gang up on me and send me straight down to crash at the bottom. Somehow I hung on, rather grimly wrestling the bike at what amounted to a snail's pace.
To hell with special test scores now, this was a matter of survival. Finally, I reached the end of the three miles, and then made a wobbly. ride into El Escorial. I'd forgotten the acceleration test. Here I was now nearly 20 minutes late and only a mile from the finish of this awful day, and I had to wait my turn as three other bikes each took their run through the acceleration test. I was getting frantic, it was so close to being over for me, and the deliberate¬ness of the officials running the test was infuriating. Couldn't they see I was in trouble? Didn't they care?
The test, at last, was a joke for me. How do you accelerate with a free form rear suspension? Into the parc ferme, waving off my Spanish refueling crew, no time for that. Up to the clock, and turn in my card. How late was I? Twenty big minutes on the button. It was over for today, anyway. Somehow the crippled bike had held together, and the morning would bring a new chance. Although replacing the missing bolts would not be simple, what with that broken off end still in there, it could be done in the 15 min. allowed in the work paddock before starting.
So there went 17 marks. Twenty minutes late, less the 3 min. time allow¬ance. And there were five more days of this tough Spanish countryside to cover. Another day like Monday and I'd be joining the 85 riders who didn't get through this first day.
The following Saturday, it all seemed like a vaguely bad dream. After that first day the schedule had been eased, the route became easier. There was some rain, snow, sleet, a herd of wild bulls, and a few wrong guesses on steep, rocky climbs, but still we'd made it to the finish, the Pioneer and 1, and the 25 marks gone were just on the outer edge of that silver medal. I wouldn't have thought it possible on that hot, dusty, Monday afternoon high on the side of the Sierra Guadarama, 3000 miles from home on a crippled motorcycle.