Enduro Pain
I recently accompanied my younger brother Mark to his first Enduro. I’m sure that everyone can recall with fond memories (or not so found memories) what their first enduro was like. This all started a few months ago when I asked my brother to come help with the sign up at our club’s Hare Scramble. In typical fashion, our sign up was mass chaos and Mark jumped in with both feet and helped out a lot. After the even got going, Mark remarked that there seemed to be a lot of people signing up who had no idea what they were doing.
About a month later, Mark came out to Maplesville to pit for me at the next Hare Scramble. Once again, he saw that there were plenty of riders there who were just like him. One small problem prohibited Mark from going racing, he needed a bike. Needless to say, we secured a bike and got it prepared.
Fast forward to last Saturday, the bike was ready, all the equipment needed had been acquired and we were headed for Forest Hill, Louisiana. After asking a number of questions, Mark made his way to the starting line. We had requested a late row for less traffic and were assigned row 45. After getting through the start, we were moving along at a pretty good pace in the first few sections considering that Mark had no time on the bike and had ridden maybe 15 total miles in the last 5 years.
We had accumulated a couple of dozen points through the first 4 checks and things were going relatively smoothly until we checked into the first real tight section of the day. This is where we started dropping minutes by the truckload. This also happens to be the point were Mark had his first experience with "enduro pain." I looked down at my computer and noticed that we were 45 minutes behind and still dropping minutes. Time for Mark and I to have a conference. I pull over and wait on Mark to catch up. A few minutes later, Mark rides around the corner and into my view. I can tell that physically, he has "hit the wall" hard.
This is when "Enduro Pain" consumed his body. If you’ve ever raced an enduro, then you’ve been there before. It usually starts in the tight woods sections. You’ve got the bike locked in first gear and are battling to get through the trees. You go around a turn so slow that you stall the bike, it’s out of balance and you stretch your leg out in desperation trying to stop your downward fall. A strange sensation occurs to you now, the ground is gone. The leg you stuck out doesn’t stop your fall and you end up face down in the dirt. The bike is leaned way over wedged between two trees and is blocking the trail. Off in the distance you can hear bikes approaching. You summon up the last bit of strength that you have to pick the heavy bike up off the ground. You find neutral and push the bike off into the woods.
You sit there huffing and puffing and you wouldn’t be surprised if your heart came thumping out of your chest. Your arms are pumped up so bad that they feel like wet spaghetti noodles. After you finish swilling water out of your camel back, you pause briefly to ponder the situation. Let’s see, I’ve got my fun meter pegged on zero. In fact, I can’t believe that I parted with my hard earned money for this. These other guys who are flying by me aren’t human, they can’t be.
Now as "enduro pain" moves into its second stage, you start to hallucinate and loose control of rational thought. You’re convinced that the whole enduro experience has been created by the devil as some sort of masochistic torture and the fact that other racers continue fly by at unheard of speed, well, this is how the devil adds to your pain. You begin to hope that the course workers at the next check will give you a beer and tell you that the rest of the event has been cancelled. They would even volunteer to ride your bike back to camp while you relax in their motorhome.
Then you vow to yourself that you will never go to another enduro again. You won’t subject yourself to this kind of pain again. In fact, even going trail riding again is questionable. Finally, you make your way back to the pits. At this point, the enduro pain starts to dissipate. In fact, it wasn’t all that bad. By the time you’re driving home, you laugh at the thought of pain, and you’re looking forward to the next event.
However, on Monday morning when you go to wash your hair in the shower and you can’t raise your arms up to your head, you learn a very important lesson. "Enduro Pain" always gets the last laugh.
