The Reluctant Spartan: a ride of passage at Sixes
When coming of age in my family, there were additional trials one had to endure other than those traditionally found within the Agoge...
Location: Oregon
My parents increasingly rocky marriage had come to resemble a Class V rapid as the 1970’s drew to a close, hastened along in no small part by my father’s struggle with alcoholism. Now, “adult me” can look back on the experiences of “child me” and explain what some of the underlying causes might have been: unresolved issues from his own childhood was likely the catalyst, combined with the driving influence of a decidedly “machismo” personality, reinforced by increasingly desperate attempts at self medication to help dull the pain of countless injuries he had suffered and yet continued -in spite of the odds- to stubbornly labor through. Lifelong contemplation regarding my own repetition of these now-familiar patterns has granted me a perspective that the naive, self-absorbed middle-schooler simply couldn’t attain (nor should one expect such: it took my adult persona decades to sort it all out). Mom, married to the man, and trapped in her own relative struggles with his (as well as her own) demons, simply couldn’t take it anymore, grabbed what few items she figured were “rightfully hers” and moved into town with a female coworker. Around this time dad finally declared bankruptcy on the auto shop after he was offered significantly more gainful employment at a millright business owned by a High School friend. After a short respite, my parents started dating again, dad trying repair his long neglected relationship by proving that he could be a dutiful partner once again. However, this rather noble attempt to “keep the family together” only managed to extend the general suffering further. In reality the only things that had fundamentally changed were the residence of one person, an increase in household income, and the end of any remaining restrictions upon my father’s tendency towards self-indulgence.
In 1979, after Dad purchased a Mazda RX7 in one last vain attempt to “woo Mom back for good” (he still failed to realize what the real problem was: that revelation would have to await 2 more decades of living by example), he finally accepted his marital defeat. His aggrieved attention then turned towards reforming our remaining family unit into something more akin to a “Boys Club.” In the fall/winter of that same year he purchased 3 Kawasaki dirt bikes, one for each of us: a KX80, a KX125, and a KDX400 (the former 2 are motocross bikes, while the latter is actually an enduro bike -but more on dad’s peculiar moto-mania some other time, perhaps). After a short period of ‘training’ on a track my brother and I hastily (and rather laboriously) cut into pretty much the entirety of our 5 acre wood, we started attending local motocross races that very summer. Having ‘cut our teeth’ years prior (I already had a Honda “Trail” 50, my brother a CT175 “Scrambler”) our basic skills were already well established; but riding on a closed track with up to 30 other bikes, all of whom funneled into a 20’ wide corner after a wide-open sprint start? This was something else entirely. But as heirs to the same athlete-prone lineage we all caught on pretty quickly and managed a decent enough rookie season for dad to justify continuing the rather expensive “hobby.” My normally laid-back older brother quickly developed into an aggressive style of rider more akin to that of my father: if you were unfortunate enough to be in front of him, he was seemingly hell-bent to pass you (this was not only true of those actually ‘leading,’ but any hapless rider being ‘lapped’ as well). There was nothing subtle or nuanced about this strategy, it was simply survival of the fittest: “kill or be killed.” I however, didn’t relate as well to such overt tactics (being the youngest and generally more unsure of myself), and so still struggled to find my own style.
As if to exacerbate the problem, dad always had volumes of semi-sage advice when it came to athletic pursuits, and it was hard to resist being influenced by it: not only had he naturally excelled at such (All-State in numerous disciplines, and an exemplary physical specimen) but we had all been raised philosophically predisposed toward the Way of the Spartan. “Kirk, you just have to want it more than they do…” he would offer while seeing me struggle each week to earn a spot on the podium, to get that much coveted trophy which proved one’s worth on (and off) the track…to make him proud… but what, exactly, did it all mean? So lacking such insight I just pushed myself rather blindly and relentlessly harder, hoping something would eventually ‘click.’ Regardless, soon my brother and I were hopelessly addicted to the smell of premix, logging every spare moment we could manage on our bikes (often at the expense of school and -gasp- even chores), tuning them to perfection, and ever-improving/expanding our practice track by making it increasingly more challenging; bigger jumps, longer whoops sections, off-camber corners, et cetera. Steadily our collective lap times came down, our weekend finishes improved, and we settled into our new life, now all identifying as members of an exclusive “Boys Club:”
a motocross “Racing Family."
Our “local track” (and favorite choice) was the formidable Clarks Branch, a Glen Helen inspired, technically challenging, professionally managed bi-weekly event dug into the rolling hills just south of Roseburg OR (run by the Huffman family who would later purchase the Washougal facility and elevate it to international fame). Second on our list of preference required a drive all the way up to McMinnville OR (approx. 60 miles SW of Portland) to race at Mulkey ORV aka “the big leagues.” Participation there was surreal, ever akin to being at a Midwest Amateur National like Lorretta Lynn’s: it was a sprawling, loamy track set within the margins of a vast walnut orchard on the outskirts of town. It had grandstands, bathrooms, administration and maintenance buildings, RV hookups, a well-stocked concessions stand, merchandise for purchase, and the night before a race the pit area would be abuzz with those camped and preparing for the next days event. Often there were so many riders racing the next morning, that some of the more popular classes had to be split into A and B groups: realize that the start-gate accommodated over 30 bikes. But participation there was an all-weekend investment of time due to the distance traveled, and so we only did so if a special event warranted it (like a National Qualifier, or the State Championships). There was also a track near Eugene, and although it was about the same distance away as the next example, we rarely rode there for some reason. That left only one other active off-weekend option in our portion of the state: Sixes Motocross.
Sixes is a small town along HWY 101 on the Southern Oregon coast. It is roughly 60 miles South of Coos Bay, and can most easily be reached by taking Hwy 42 out of Winston from Interstate 5. It was a modest track well outside of town, cut into the ancient compressed loamy dunes that comprised the lowlands of the coast range thereabouts. It wasn’t very glamorous, having no greater infrastructure there than a sign up shack, a scoring tower and the required cluster of porta-potties, but it was fairly close to home, drew a decent regional crowd, and scheduled alternately with Clarks Branch by design (it had to for its own survival: CB was a superior track in a more convenient location which had a growing national reputation). A secondary (perhaps optimistic) benefit Sixes had going for it came from its very composition: it was rare to find a real “sand track” on the left coast outside of Southern California (the destination for any aspiring West Coast Amateur back then) so it afforded a good opportunity to hone one’s sand-riding skills for such a hypothetical future. I had always struggled there, as riding sand also requires one to ride with utmost confidence. It is not for the timid, as the front end needs to be kept “light” (even in corners) and so one must ride pretty aggressively: near always “on throttle.”
Truth be told, I had come to kind of loathe the place.
Fast forward a couple years: I had been steadily improving, moving up through the classes, and slowly gaining confidence. By then I was able to place pretty consistently near the top 5 overall (only the first 3 usually trophy), but just couldn’t seem to make that final “competitive break-through” and it felt like I was in a rut. My brother was his usual “all in” self: frighteningly fast while on two wheels, but then there’s the rut: one had to consistently keep it together to win overall, and one couldn’t depend on always being able to pick one’s way up through the pack after a tangle. On the previous weekend before the one in question, we had completed the by then routine round trip to Roseburg, and I had logged yet another solid but unremarkable performance -I don’t remember Mark’s overall finish (but it is likely he held the lead at some point, regardless). I do remember on the post-race trip down to Pollock’s Marina (the Honda/Kawasaki dealer we had our Team Green support sponsorship through) along with the usual play by play of expected race results, the requisite gear oil, premix, and expendable parts purchases (at cost +10% “Let the Good Times Roll”), I was also able to convince dad to replace my then threadbare jersey for one of the new Factory Kawasaki offerings “…just like the one Jeff Ward wears.” We then spent the rest of the week engaged in the usual training, cleaning and servicing of the bikes. As our next race was to be at the “old beach” of Sixes, we made sure all the critical seals were in ‘good order’ and that there was an extra-protective layer of grease added to keep the sand out of the wheel and suspension bearings. On Saturday we loaded up the bikes, packed up our gear and stocked the cooler for our early morning departure as per-usual.
But there was one thing happening that Sunday that wasn’t per-usual: my birthday.
Now, to be fair, we all knew dad was never very good at remembering dates (or names for that matter-I tend to suffer from the same affliction). But on this occasion in particular, I remember ample reason for it to have been a “noteworthy event:” I am pretty sure I had used the very point to leverage for the new jersey, and mention might even have been made at the parts counter…and likely again later in the week…but it really doesn’t matter much now. Suffice it to say, upon arising at predawn, piling into the Toyota Landcruiser, and setting out on the road with bike trailer in tow, absolutely no mention was made of my special day…nor when we stopped for a quick bite to eat en route. In fact, I seem to remember being treated considerably less than special that particular morning, and my teenage hormones began to simmer with discontent. Relegated to the rather uncomfortable back jumper seats of the FJ60 for the 2+ hour duration of the trip, I folded them up, and lay rather awkwardly between the wheel-wells instead, with headphones on playing a tape in my Walkman (likely “the Cars/Candy-O,” a favorite at the time) in a futile effort to just shut out the world. But annoyances continually poked at me, irritated me, my perception at that point becoming increasingly conditioned to expect nothing less.
By the time we arrived at the track I was a hormonal pressure cooker on an open burner. While Mark and I unloaded the bikes, fueled them up and started putting on our gear (donning for the first time my crisp, new jersey), dad went to sign us in. When he came back he announced rather bluntly; “Mark, you are good to go. Kirk…there aren’t enough riders in the Mini’s and Pee-Wee’s, so they are running the Novices with the Pee-Wee’s and you guys are going to run with the Experts…so you’d better step it up a notch…” Just great. More good news. Its as if the events of the day were conspiring to break me. I finished my pre-race prep and then tried to get “my race-face on.” I went out for my practice, struggled on the track as usual, my building frustration seeming at times like more than I would be able to bear. But, like a good Spartan, I motored on. Returning to the pits, I watched Mark practice, and made some mental notes on some potentially faster lines I saw the bigger bikes using. Then everyone returned back to the pits, and after a short break for the requisite rider’s meeting, the call went out for start of the first moto. An hour or so later the loudspeaker blared out for my race, and that all-too familiar jolt of nervousness hit me. The butterflies accompanied me all the way to the start line as I prepped my gate pick. They increased their intensity as the starter did the “good to go?” finger sweep down the line and then gave the motion to “rev the bikes.” I glanced down the line seeing not only my usual “classmates,” but also “upper-classmen” on the line. I felt the now familiar flood of near-crippling anxiety rush over me as the starter approached “…surely most of them were better than me…had done it longer…had better bikes…” how could I expect to compete with the likes of them? Then a little voice in my head whispered: “…don’t worry about any of that, don’t worry about them, all you have control over is your own self.”
And then the gate dropped.
I managed to make it through the first turn at a respectable mid-pack position, and then set myself to picking my way up through the ranks. After a couple laps of steady progress I began seeing the congestion thin, and found myself in a pocket relatively devoid of close competitors. After 20 minutes of this routine, I pretty much “coasted” across the finish line, safely within my security bubble. I had done pretty well, considering: another top 5 position riding in a race seeded with “upper-class ringers.” When I rolled into the pits, however, dad let me have it: “What are you doing out there? You were just coasting! You are faster than that! You gotta learn to be more aggressive! You should watch your brother more-you can tell he at least wants it!” I instantly felt something that had been slowly ratcheting tighter all morning finally snap inside: “Oh, yeah? Well screw it, screw this place and screw you!” I yelled to myself inside my own head (I might have been a teenager, but I wasn’t that stupid -yet). After this barely contained release of blinding rage, I then felt myself becoming very calm. In fact I became devoid of nearly all emotion: I truly didn’t seem to care about anything anymore. Like an automata I finished my next round of pre-race-prep. I then climbed into the Landcruiser and just listened to my Walkman…I didn’t even watch any of the other races. When they called the start of my moto again, I lined up calmly, eyeing my so-called “competitors” like a sociopath: they simply didn’t matter anymore…nothing did. It was now truly just me, the bike and the track: all these other riders were just mere track obstacles…hardly worth my concern. When the gate dropped I nailed it off the line and rounding the first turn found myself in the lead group of the combined pack!
The little voice inside my head responded with an observation of “…see, that’s the trick: its just you, the bike, and the track…none of the rest matters.” By the end of the first lap, I was running well within the experts group, my newly found disconnection to reality noting dad’s increasingly ecstatic reaction with a distant fascination, finding wry amusement in the messages I received from his pit-board every lap such as: “5th GO GO GO…4th +10sec…3rd CHARGE!” Soon enough I was in 2nd place and had my sights set on 1st: better yet, the current leader was a rider who wasn’t much liked by us lowly privateers, as he had a factory-support sponsorship from Honda (this generally meant an unfair technical advantage -especially for one such as myself still racing on a 2 year old bike). I steadily closed the gap with him through the tighter portion of the course, readying myself for a setup and pass down the long back-straight. Coming into the banked sweeper just before, I used one of the lines I’d noted during practice: trail braking into the turn, I hit the apex early (“squaring” the corner) and came down inside of him off the bank. We came off that first and biggest jump of the straight side by side, but I had more drive (and even more horsepower on tap) and had little doubt that by the next corner I would be in the lead…
Then something ahead caught my eye…
About 30’ downtrack there was a Pee-Wee in the middle of the raceway. He appeared to be stalled mid-crossing, his head down as he tried kick start his PW50 to life again. My perception smoothly shifted into the familiar “adrenal-vision” as we sailed towards him…as his head slowly turned towards us I recognized the face whose eyeballs now appeared to fill their protective goggles: this was no mere track obstacle, it was little Ryan Huffman. Seeing that he was occupying the very patch of real estate we were about to land on, I “tail-whipped” my bike, clipping my opponent’s, which changed our trajectories mid-flight. With this new course set, I kicked free, hoping to clear the likely ensuing carnage. In slow motion I saw my bike land first, tumbling past my younger racing sibling, and from the corner of my eye I saw a red Honda and its rider go down in a heap to his other flank. Meanwhile, as if deliberately directed down to earth by a greater power on high, I watched with a sense of incredulousness as my angle of descent seemed to be taking me straight toward my still-spinning rear tire. My chest landed squarely upon it as if by design, and I remember an odd smell mixed with that of burning rubber. I immediately rolled aside, and time suddenly reverted back to normal.
Leaping up, I pulled in the clutch, righted the still running bike and climbed back aboard. With a sideways glance I saw Ryan successfully exit the track, untouched, and saw the Honda-sponsored track obstacle struggling to get out from under his bike (which had landed throttle side down), all the while hearing its RPM’s steadily rising towards a peak crescendo. Tweaking my now bent bars back as best as I was able, I then saw the former 3rd place rider pass by amid the chaos. Concerned about losing any other places, I shifted into first and took off down the straight, speed shifting with the throttle pinned, just before 4th place was able to overtake the scene. As I accelerated through the next turn I heard the banshee wail of the doomed Honda resolve itself with a “WRRRREEEEEEEEEP-BOOM!” As my adrenaline surge was at its peak, I actually managed to regain ground on the rider now in 1st place (while creating a nice cushion between myself and the rider now in 3rd); but my bars had become so bent that tight right turns actually pinned my hand into the tank, locking the throttle in position and thus created a “whiskey throttle” kind of effect while turning that direction. So I backed off a bit and decided to get just close enough to strike, hold my ground, and hope he made a mistake.
He didn’t.
Soon we saw the white flag come out: I put in one more crippled charge, but in the end had to settle for 2nd. As I pulled off the track I saw dad literally leaping for joy, my brother giving me a “thumbs up”…and then became aware of a grave discomfort upon my chest. Coming into the pits, my dad ran up and enthusiastically patted me on the helmet “NOW THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ABOUT!” and then ran off to sing my praises to the other dads. I dismounted, set the bike on its crate, and pulled my helmet off, and…man my chest HURT! Able to actually look down now, I saw what the problem was: my brand new jersey was shredded into tatters, and my chest had a rubber burn in a broad 16” diameter arc from my navel, across my L nipple and ending at my R collarbone. “…well, so much for my new jersey…ouch.” I mumbled to myself. My brother then came over; “Man! That was AWESOME! Why’d you wreck?” and I filled him in on the gritty details until he had to go out on the track for his next moto. In the meantime (and with the help of a cheater pipe), I managed to get my bars bent back into a semblance of ‘acceptable.’ I then hosed myself off, cleaned out the wound, and slathered it with Neosporin. As my chest had really begun to hurt at this point from both the wrecks violent impact and the resulting 2nd degree burn, I gingerly stripped off the rest of my sweaty gear, wrapped myself in a windbreaker, and changed into the relative comfort of my sweatpants and sneakers.
As the race-day concluded in late afternoon, the final results were posted in the scoring shack, and my 4/2 finish was good enough for a 2nd overall in the combined result. On this special day I was one of the worthy: I had made the podium and received that much-coveted trophy! We loaded up the bikes and gear distracted by a host of well-wishers, and the accolades continued as the usual post-race cast of characters showed up down at our local restaurant. Dad was in a fine mood, uncharacteristically overflowing with praise, and it seemed little could deter his joyful state. Even when the much aggrieved Honda-sponsored family sauntered in the door of the dining establishment, began complaining loudly about my “overly-aggressive” riding and how I should have been disqualified, he just let the comments slide, replying instead with a shrug; “Hey, that’s racing.” We stayed there celebrating and indulging a little longer than was usual before heading back out upon the now-darken highway for home. Once again at my place in the back, with the post-race topic of conversation now exhausted, we drove most the route home in silence. However, as we turned off the Interstate for home, while gazing again upon my prize as the streetlights of downtown afforded sporadic illumination, I was prompted to finally express the snarky comment I had held back all day: “Not too bad of a birthday gift, eh?" Dad’s head snapped around at this and he said “…wait -today is your birthday?” Grinning now, I nodded my head affirmatively. He laughed loudly then added “…yeah, not bad, not bad at all, bub.”
And he never forgot that moment, to the end of his days.
This race marked a significant turning point in both my athletic pursuits, and my life as a whole. The realization that the ultimate focus of any form of competition (including but certainly not limited to athletics) was actually not one of “competing” per se, but rather a call to achieve excellence for its own sake, was indeed a game changer (especially for one raised with an expectation for excellence). While it can be a compulsion which seems at times inescapable, if one can manage to view any pursuit requiring such discipline as a means of self-attainment rather than one of overt comparison, one can eliminate much of the “pressure to perform” that becomes so crippling for those acutely sensitive to such pressure. Even when forced to engage in direct contest with another, if one can always try to remember: “…one can truly only do one’s best…” then one might also become freed from the degenerative spiral of unworthiness that often follows perceived failure. That said, while it is perhaps a far easier thing to consider when isolated from direct rivalry with others (as in my more solitary pursuits), it still continues to be a challenge for me when I am placed into scenarios that encourage direct confrontation: that old Spartan training once again takes hold, and I can easily become hamstrung by imprinting from the “all or nothing” days…perhaps such times are best seen as a mere relic of my inheritance, and during such moments I just need to heed dad’s semi-sage advice at long last:
“…you just gotta want it.”
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