Pushing a DRZ400 to the Finish

“The trees are becoming blurry. I black out, then come to, not knowing if I had just pushed my motorcycle 10 minutes on auto pilot or only took a few steps.”

August 20, 2006

I was sixteen years old racing a DRZ400e in the Expert (A) class of the PNWMA series in Western Canada, and this weekend I travelled to the town of Castlegar with my family to race the annual Tree Hugger Hare Scramble. Arriving a day early, it was apparent as we pulled in that rain had not visited the area in some time as the dry conditions, dust and heat were showing themselves to be additional obstacles for Sunday's race. We set up camp and checked out the area before settling around the campfire until it was time to rest our heads in the camper.

The three hour long race was set to start at 11am. I had a good season going so far, winning previous races and leading my class in the series. As I positioned my DRZ on the start line I was calm, collected and ready to go. At the drop of the flag my bike fired to life immediately and took me to the first corner in the lead, with an aggressive group of riders hot on my tail. We entered the motocross track right off the bat, after which we sped into the single track that entered the woods at the surrounding tree line, taking us off on to lap one. A race like this has lap times in the range of 40-60 minutes, and you complete as many laps as you can before the three hour cut off. I kept a fast but steady pace throughout the first lap, battling through the heavy dust, tight single track and open terrain, logs, hills and rocks. Oh the rocks, those would prove to be a significant feature in the closing lap of the race, and not in a good way.

I came through the pit area each lap, getting gas as required and changing goggles. As I took off for the final lap I held the lead and was confident that I could keep it to the checkered flag. About ten minutes after starting off on this lap I came in contact with a large boulder laying just off the edge of the single track. I was in third gear, carrying momentum, and drifted a few inches too far right, then... WHAM. I slammed the rock with my aluminium skid plate, bending it into my water pump and cracking the metal housing. My right foot was ripped off the peg as my clutch cover made contact, bouncing the bike and I slightly but not enough that I couldn’t recover. That’s the thing about racing a DRZ, you can slam big inanimate objects with it and it will just bull dozer straight, as long as you stay connected to the machine. I did, and without even a glance down I got back on the gas, focused and looking ahead preparing for the next obstacle to come my way while oil and coolant started to leak from my motor.

I motored on, staying on the gas and racing as if nothing had happened. My bike started to run a little rough, a lack of power was apparent, but I assumed the heavy dust I’d been in all afternoon had put a layer so thick over my air filter that the motor was simply starving for air, so I ignored it. Coming into a sweeper left hand corner with a lot of room to each side I opted out of the main line that was at this point heavily rutted and in rough shape. This left hander entered the tree line and climbed up a rock strewn hill that required you to stay on the gas to have a chance at making it up. As luck would have it, before I even reached the base of the hill I came in contact with a smaller but much sharper rock than earlier, with worse consequences. The rock ripped into the ignition cover on the left hand side of my motor, letting what oil was left inside to pour out immediately. I got off my bike to assess the damage, and that is when I noticed the oil soaked crack in the clutch cover and the broken water pump that let all of my coolant drain out from the earlier hit. I knew it wasn’t good, but being out in unfamiliar territory during an off road race you can’t just pull off and sulk, so I made the decision to try and limp the bike the rest of the lap, hoping the lead I had built would help keep me in the running. The first thing I had to do was, of course, fire the motor back up so I could make it up the hill staring directly at me. I did this and got up relatively easily, but now that I knew exactly what that lack of power was being caused by, I knew I had to carefully choose the moments I would run the bike to get to the finish line. I kept my thumb on the kill switch, ready to shut down the motor on any slight downhill, but even with this it didn’t take much longer for the already damaged motor to worsen, and soon I was shutting the bike off on anything that wasn’t an uphill, pushing the bike on level ground and slight inclines.

“I knew I had to carefully choose the moments I would run the bike to get to the finish line.”

A DRZ400 is not a light bike, and getting the wheels to turn over the rough terrain was not an easy task. I was convinced I had no other choice, there was no way of knowing if the next time I started my bike would be it's last, so I needed to save that for the real uphills that may come. Head to toe motocross gear, the blazing summer sun beating down, an empty drink system, drained on the previous lap, and a stubborn 16 year old that refused to not finish a race. I had other racers stop as they caught and passed me, and I simply waved them by and kept on pushing. There wouldn’t be many of them coming by on this final lap, I knew others wouldn’t make the time cut off. More uphills required me to fire the 400 to life, and then it became apparent that I was on my last bit of run time. I was on a hill, pushing my running bike with the clutch fully out and using all my strength to move forward. The overheated and now broken clutch plates slipped and the dry motor only gave me minimal assistance, and then, no assistance. At this point I didn’t need the kill switch to stop the motor, simply letting the throttle snap back to its resting position was enough. As the motor died, I did the only thing that made sense to me, I kept pushing. With about 40 feet to the top of this hill, I was forced to lay my bike down on it's side and lift the wheels one at a time to shimmy the bike up. I would grab the front wheel and heave it up 12 inches, then switch to the rear and do the same. Fifteen minutes later I was at the top, and from previous laps, I knew I only had a few more kilometers to go.

At this point I am seeing things. Not the classic hallucination of a bar and pool in a desert, but rather, seeing things differently. The trees are becoming blurry. I black out, then come to, not knowing if I had just pushed my motorcycle 10 minutes on auto pilot or only took a few steps. I hear a bike coming, and as he approaches I stand there, waiting for him to pass by. He stops to ask if I’m ok, and all I can do is nod up and down then say, “water?”. The response is “Sorry, ran out last lap”, and I give him the go ahead that I’ll be alright.

“ I can’t remember where I am, what town, province, and why is everything black?”

I’ve dragged my bike up more hills now, pushed a couple more kilometers and recognize the area I am in. The finish is not to far ahead, at least for a running bike. The heat stroke is mixing nicely with the dehydration, and I can’t come up with enough saliva to wet my burnt and crusted lips. I get to the base of a short but steep climb. About forty feet long, but a nasty grade and not much fun to do the front wheel, rear wheel technique on. But I know what lays the other side. A steep downhill that leads onto a wide two track, and that two tracks goes up about 400 feet before turning left into a cut block. That cut block is visible from the finish line. I’m close. I take a moment to compose myself before tackling the next seemingly impossible section, and a moment of confusion comes on. I can’t remember where I am, what town, province, and why is everything black? I shake my head to break the loss of focus and go forward with the task. I’ve been out for around three and a half hours now. If I’m the last rider out on the course, then the sweep riders will be making their way around soon, and I would like to get to the finish before they find me. I get about half way up and am struggling to move from one wheel to the next, let alone lift it a few inches up the climb. That is when I hear a beautiful sound, a 250 two stroke with it's unmistakable tone bouncing off the timber, and getting closer. There is no way around me, my bike is blocking the entire path and if you want to get up, you have to help get me out of the way (or use me for traction). Assuming it is a sweep rider looking for me, I am happily surprised to see Steve Bigham come into sight. Steve is a legend in this series and one of the nicest people to swing a leg over a motorcycle. He doesn’t enter these races to be competitive, he does it for the fun and love of the sport, and right now, I’m going to take advantage of that. He comes up, yells my name with a “What are you doing!”. My energy is slightly sparked, and I accept his offer to help get my bike up what remains. We work together, and within five minutes are on the top with my bike upright, pointing the right direction. He asks if I need any help beyond this, there is one long by not extremely steep hill leading to the finish remaining. I tell him he has done enough, or at least mumble something familiar, and let him pass by once he remounts his Honda.

I coast down the hill, being sure to stay off my brakes at all times and roll as far as I can, which carries me about halfway to the cut block trail that leads to the finish. Getting to that trail is easy pushing, but once I hit the final stretch, about a thousand foot uphill with roots and varying terrain, I feel another black out coming on. I am moving the wheels about a foot at a time, driving my helmet into the handlebars, taking a step, and moving forward twelve inches. A quick glance up and I can see vehicles, bikes and people in the close distance. I look back down at my feet with the top of my head pressing into my handlebars and again push with everything I have to get another twelve inches. I’m possessed, or perhaps obsessed, at this point, and there’s no way I’m going down this close to the finish. A few more minutes of suffering and two men in their late twenties have made their way down to me on foot and are here to help. I keep my hands on the bars while they push from behind, and the final part of this uphill is conquered.

Fifty feet, that’s all that stands between me and the finish line. The two guys are still with me, so I stop, thank them and ask them to leave me, I want to cross under my own power. They give me a slap on the back and join the people lining the edge of pit lane, watching me as I start to move forward yet again. I make it to the finish, have my race tag pulled from my bike and hear cheering, but before I can make sense of it all I collapse onto the ground in exhaustion. This part is blurry. I remember the tracks water truck being there, and the hose was aimed towards me to soak me in the warm but refreshing water while I let my open mouth take in whatever found its way. The medics are here now check me over with both my parents beside me now as well. I have to assume I was smiling, and saying, “It was worth it.”