NETRA Little Rhody Enduro 2018

Of all the NETRA enduros on the 2018 calendar, my hopes were highest for Rhody. The first and only time I had raced the event was in 2015, when I contested the NETRA enduro series in the women’s class with routinely disastrous results. It was only my second enduro, and my first in summer heat. I ran out of water before gas, never arrived at resets with enough time to choke down any food, had a 4th gear crash in the infamous sand pit, and crossed the finish line exhausted and in tears after a complete physical and emotional breakdown. That said, I had a ton of fun.

You see, unlike the typical NETRA enduro, Rhody is FAST. There are no rocks, few roots, just mile after mile of sandy, singletrack flow. Going into this weekend, I was 20 promotion points shy of moving from the C (novice) class to B (amateur)--and if there was ever an enduro I could score 20+ points at, this is it. The pressure was on.

My boyfriend Greg and I start on minute 12. Not two miles into the singletrack, I miss a turn and stuff the bike into a pile of fallen logs. Minutes pass while I deadlift it out, then another as I wait for a break in the traffic so I can get back on the trail. Half the riders in the race must have passed me! “So much for the overall,” my inner defeatist groans. “Guess the pressure is off. Have a nice trail ride, kid.”

Enduro racing is a lonely, cerebral sport. My inner monologue typically unravels into a dialogue after about half an hour of hard riding, with the inner defeatist advocating retirement from the race and possibly the sport, while another voice advocates “FASTER.” I call the latter voice the Sociopathic Racing Autopilot (SRA, henceforth). “JUST RIDE FOUR MINUTES FASTER THAN USUAL AND IT WILL BE LIKE THIS NEVER HAPPENED!” it insists. I pin it. The rest of the section is slick and rooty (at least by Rhody standards) and I emerge at the secret check knowing that things are grim. I have not ridden four minutes faster--thanks to sliding off a wet wooden bridge and getting stuck in the mud, I’ve ridden maybe two minutes slower.

The key now, I reason, following my route sheet onto a twisting rural highway, is to not panic and burn a bunch of checks. I started on minute 12, my new minute is 29:52, so I’ll want to arrive at 42 minutes (12 + 30) after the time on my route sheet. I do this religiously until I am directed “R TR”--right onto a trail--and almost immediately come upon another secret check. I am dead on time, I think proudly--and am crestfallen when they mark me a minute late. 29:52 is still minute 29, not 30, I remind myself. Another short woods section follows, then a secret check, then I’m back on the road. I go down it for maybe a quarter mile, one eye on my speedometer, and then the route sheet directs me onto another trail. They wouldn’t dare, I think. CAN they even put secret checks this close together? They can and they do. Despite my speedometer, I arrive a minute early. Three points lost to timekeeping errors in the last five miles, I think--this is going very badly indeed.

As usual, though, the trails are so fun I can’t really be annoyed with my spotty performance. Half a hare scramble’s distance into a dense, dusty pine forest, I push the front in a loose corner and low-side. Starting the bike, I realize my shifter is dangling by its bolt’s last thread--I slow-roll onwards, looking for a long enough straightaway to make my repairs without getting run over. Another three minutes lost, I estimate. When the section finally ends, the route sheet directs me to the start for gas. Greg is there waiting. We choke down some granola bars, re-up our gas and water and hit the road.

Leaving the known control, I immediately lose sight of Greg as we enter a tight, rocky section--but then catch him again minutes later. He is going mysteriously slowly. He doesn’t seem injured, so I pass him and carry on. Only after the race will I learn that a rock snapped the chain guide off his swingarm, which got stuck in his front sprocket, which launched him over the bars, which didn’t do him any serious bodily harm but abruptly ended his race.

Soon, I find the dirt of the trail getting looser and the dust getting thicker. The trees open up and the trail dissolves into a line of landscaping stakes connecting the dots across a blinding expanse of powdered-sugar dunes. I’ve made it to the sand pit. Unlike in years past, the uneven rollers and giant hills hold little terror for me: Greg and I have been riding in Florida every March, so I am old hat at this sort of thing. The section passes without incident--save nearly dumping it in front of the photographer, of course.


Sand pit squid riding. Photo: Cole Beach

Back in the woods, the course doesn’t slow down a bit… and parts of it look oddly--recently--familiar. This was last year’s Woodchopper Hare Scramble, I realize, but we’re riding it the opposite direction. Initially, I am chagrined: Woodchopper involved fighting 100 other C-riders for every line, banging bars and dodging trees inside a dust cloud that you’d need sonar to safely navigate. However, at Rhody I have the whole place to myself, and it’s a riot.

Well, at least I have the first, wide-open half of it to myself. As soon as I enter the tight, twisting pine section, I hear rear brake squeal behind me--the natural siren of an A rider. Not discounting the small possibility that this sound is coming from a C rider whose pads are worn down to the metal, I redouble my efforts. The squeaking draws closer. Damn! I think. The trees are so tight here that making passing room will mean coming to a dead stop--the only alternative, the SRA reasons, is to GO FASTER!

Tossing my bike from corner to corner in the one-line maze of pine trees, I enter a hypnotic, tunnel-visioned flow that I have never before experienced. Somehow, I am setting the bike up for the next corner before I hit the apex of the corner that I am in. I feel sure I am dragging my handlebars in the dust. I start thinking about inertia and control loops and differential equations. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug... And still, the squeaking grows louder.

This is getting a bit rude, I think, emerging from my trance. At the next straightaway, I squeeze the bike into the foliage and wave the A rider by. Within a quarter mile, he’s out of sight.


Flowin'. Photo: Cole Beach

Still, I keep up the flow for the almost the rest the race. I don’t burn any more checks, and I keep the rubber side down until, not more than 10 miles from the finish, I lose the front end at the top of an extremely steep, sandy u-turn. Out of control, I see my handlebars heading straight for a tree, so I let go--then am baffled and horrified when the tree falls down the bank, stone dead, and the bike and I somersault after it. At the bottom, I drag the bike out of the bushes to find its rear fender is snapped and the airbox cover has come off. I spend 30 seconds trying to fit it all back together and then give up, leaving the airbox cover in the trail. A couple miles of road and a few tenths of field track later, my race is over.

I ride back to the start, fighting back a dehydration headache with the remaining contents of my CamelBak. The results, when they come in, are exactly what I think they will be: I made too many unforced errors to get my 20 promotion points, but on my best sections I dropped the same number of minutes as the fastest riders in the C race. On the way home, I try to hold onto that feeling from the Woodchopper course, riding two corners ahead of my bike. I may not have showed the world what I could do out there, but I showed myself, which in a sport as mental as enduro is more than half the battle.