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◄Casualty count turned up a
bruised shoulder and a bent thumb on the rider and a bent throttle mechanism on
the Montesa. Before the meet all the trials riders 000hed and ahhhhed over the
straight-pull throttle with the easy disconnect throttle cable. So smooth and
direct, everyone said. Thorough testing revealed that when the Montesa's
throttle was brought into contact with a downhill landing the plastic top bent
open and 3 oz. of dirt and gravel filled the throttle, sharing the space with
the nylon gears and grease. Just like a Harley, I said, noting that the throttle
required effort from the rider to both open and close. A lot of effort. Some
heavy breathing and a little gas splashed on the mechanism knocked out most of
the trespassing dirt and the throttle would turn, but the return spring still
couldn't cope with the demands and the rider had to help.
By now we had learned to put
the Cota in line for the next section even before we were ready, so as to cut
down on the mind numbing wait. The throttle had been worked on as we waited in
line for sections Five and Six, both of them being run together.
Like the Phoenix, the best
performance of the day came immediately after the crash. Section Five had a
short-but-steep downhill followed by an uphill off-camber slippery turn and then
a gully. Section Six followed the gully and turned sharply out of the gully.
Both the downhill and the turn
took care of themselves, really, the Cota having more knowledge about this stuff
than I. Before I knew it, Section Five was cleaned, my first perfect score of
the day, and I was in the next section, putting my foot down once more before
leaping out of the ditch. Maybe hope does rise from despair.
More uphills, downhills, tight
off-camber turns on grassy slopes and, mostly, rocks made up the last four
sections. One was cleaned, another fived due to an excursion on the expert
section by mistake and the others added a couple of points.
One loop down and the day was
half over. Should be just enough time for another loop, I thought. By this time
the lines were shorter as more riders spread out over the 10 sections. The wait
was only a few minutes and there was less time to lose concentration. Beginning
at Section Two, my score went from a three to a one and I was in control again.
The following section was even better as the Cota and I made all the right moves
on the right line and we leaped up the cliff at the end and stopped by the
marker so he could punch the zero on the score card. Wrong. After going up the
cliff the course went five more feet and I had stopped just before the trampled
end markers, losing another five points in the process.
Thoroughly deflated, I was
ready for…
Lesson Three: Not everybody is
a trials rider. Strange that this never occurred to me before. Here trials meets
keep getting less common and the trials riders I talked to were telling me how
much fun they had riding an enduro last week.
When people discovered trials
in this country about a decade ago, it was a new fun game. Absent experience and
experts, all sorts of dirt riders brought out all sorts of dirt bikes and rode
around and had fun. An average guy could take out his DT-1 and go home feeling
good, if tired.
Then the bikes and riders got
good. Really good. All the big motorcycle manufacturers made trials bikes,
though very few of them sold trials bikes. What we got was specialization. A
trials bike is every bit as specialized as a motocross bike, in its own peculiar
way. It isn't any good for anything but trials and some of them aren't all that
good for that. Then too, there are guys like Bernie Schreiber, well not quite
like him, but they are good. Good enough the courses have to be made tough
enough so Bernie can lose a few points, maybe even fall down every now and then.
Back at my old
nemesis, Section Four, I thought about that. Afterwards. I didn't even
get to the end, this time, before crashing. The front end of the bike
just washed out going down the grassy slope and the Cota, like a playful
kitten, jumped on top of me as I closely studied the soil sample.
Exhausted, I slithered
out from under the kitten and did another casualty count. This time the
left arm felt worse than the right shoulder and the bent thumb was bent-er.
Using a perverted logic, I wished that the Montesa was in worse shape.
Then it would be its fault if we couldn't continue.
Actually, none of the
Cota's ills appeared caused by the latest tumble. The shocks had puked
their entire contents of shock oil. But then who needs shocks for
trials? The throttle was in no worse, if no better, condition and still
needed a push in both directions. There was also an odd rattle when the
handlebars were turned. Even moving the bike caused the rattle. This
was, strange. The steering head seemed fine, the clamps were straight
and so were the bars—sort of. Then Pete and I saw it: the spokes were so
loose they were rattling in their holes.
This was almost the
excuse I needed. The wheel really was too loose to steer properly, and
neither Pete nor adopted partner and fellow beginner Kenny Norton nor I
had a spoke wrench with us. If only the next two sections hadn't been so
easy, it would have been easy to quit now.
Nothing works better to
clear the brain than a pleasant little trail ride. So Pete and I wound
our way back towards the truck, ostensibly to tighten the spokes and
return. We picked gentle trails, the kind that give a rider confidence
and time to look around and enjoy himself. We stopped at difficult
obstacles and noted how a trials rider could clean them.
Back at the truck I had
a very clear head. Without comment, I found the spoke wrench and began.
Took four times around the wheel to get the spokes tightened up and not
too off-balance. Then it was done. I was ready.
The Cota went back into
the truck, its score card returned to the scoring ladies, my tail tucked
gently between my legs and we drove slowly home, lessons learned.■ | 
Competition 
