On The Pegs December 2019 - Volume 4 - Issue 12 | Page 114

On The Pegs
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cases on the cooler and angling them just so against the front seat, we can create
a barricade that limits how far my hammock swings. This makes it feel less like I’m
sleeping inside the teacup ride at the county fair, while also making it less likely
Erin is going to get taken out again. It sure would have been nice to have figured
this out around, oh, I don’t know, 9:45 though.
Sunday, 8:15 AM: Daylight is starting to shine through the windshield of the
van, and I give up on getting any more sleep. I struggle out of my hammock and
pour myself a bowl of cereal and milk. By some miracle I get down two bowls and
a banana without spilling any of it on myself. As soon as I finish eating, poor long-
suffering Erin climbs over the wall to get my gearbag from the cargo area. It looks
like we’re going to make it on time, but you never know. So, I start gearing up.
Sunday, 8:40 AM: We arrive at Zink Ranch. I jump out of the van fully geared
up, superhero-out-of-a-phone-booth style. I pick up my rider packet and put my
number plate stickers on. It’s a little chilly this morning, so I take my time warming
my bike up, grateful that we did end up having more time than I anticipated.
Sunday, 9:20 AM: My row takes off into the first test. It’s an ISDE-style
grasstrack, about three miles long. Which is pretty cool just for the historical as-
pect, although the grasstrack itself was really fun too! I rode well and felt pretty
good. As I pull past the transponder, I think to myself that maybe today isn’t going
to be that bad after all.
Sunday, 10:20 AM: Never mind.
Sunday, 10:25 AM: Physically I feel okay, but mentally I feel horrible. It’s like
I’m riding through a dream – it sometimes feels like trees are coming at me re-
ally fast, other times everything seems as slow as molasses. Adding to that surreal
feeling is the fact that this is the strangest NEPG I’ve ever been at. So far, I had yet
to see a patch of woods bigger than the strip back behind Walmart back home.
We are mostly racing though these big rolling hills covered in tall yellow grasses.
The course doesn’t even need arrows. It’s a clear path mowed through the waist-
high grass so that you can see the rocks. Well, some of the rocks, anyway. In my
head, I start to refer to this Enduro as “The Little Race On the Prairie”. In my sleep-
deprived mind, this is hilarious, and I can’t understand why nobody else laughs
when I tell them about it at the pit stop.