Seat Time: Sometimes the Bear Eats You

My Entry Into Enduro Racing

Have you ever sipped beer through a straw? To be so mentally and physically exhausted that you couldn’t be bothered to bring the bottle to your lips. Yet so entitled to a reward that you insisted on treating yourself to a celebratory Corona which you hardly wanted and barely drank. With every swig, I melted deeper into the vinyl bench, so tired it felt like my very essence was radiating out of my body. It was perplexing to feel both so drained and so accomplished at the same time. While I didn’t know what to expect from my first enduro, I never thought the racing would feel quite like that. I still quite can’t explain it in words; it was like fulfillment became tangible and I could hold it in my hands.

We’d been eyeing this event, the Black Bear Enduro, for months before we were even sure we’d visit the Pacific Northwest this summer. Videos on YouTube made the ride look smooth, just a little technical, and (dare I say) fun, which was ultimately false and true at the same time. But it’s a competition that dates back to the early 2000s, and has been celebrated at the center of an enduro series sanctioned by the Northwest Motorcycle Association (NMA), so it must be good, right? A few last-minute schedule changes at the end of June was the only reason we’d had the chance to find out.

To my surprise, it would be held in the very same town where I had bought my first house over 20 years ago. The house had long been sold, and I hadn’t had much reason to visit McCleary since. But this coincidence had piqued my interest. At that time, I didn’t ride dirt bikes. Actually, I only obtained my motorcycle endorsement the year before I moved out of the state. But picturing the heavily wooded area, just outside of the capitol, Olympia, I could easily imagine some epic trails just waiting to be churned.

The race wound through a private playground of dirt, accessible only to club members for the rest of the year, but by the time I hit the 42-mile “short” course, the pristine singletrack was a far cry from untouched. What had once been meticulously cleared was now a battlefield of loose gravel, steep climbs, and sudden drops that tested every ounce of my confidence. It was hardly ever flat; that would be too easy. A sandy, brutal hill loomed like a final boss in the transfer section (and it was far from the finish), demanding respect before allowing me to continue.

The ground shifted beneath me – soft and slippery in some spots, hard-packed in others. While the course may have flowed like a dream for the seasoned riders up front, for me, it was a series of unpredictable obstacles, especially the roots that jutted up like nature’s roadblocks, smoothed down by countless tires, which made grip impossible at times. As the last rider in line, the challenges only grew – each test a new layer of difficulty, but one that added to the adventure, the race’s raw beauty, and the thrill of discovering just how much I could push through.

The final test of the 2024 Black Bear Enduro closed at 2:30; I pulled up at 2:20, exhausted, aching, and nearly out of water. All eyes were fixed on me, waiting: “So, what do you want to do?” I only had a couple of minutes to decide – no one was behind me but the sweep rider, Joe, thankfully, but the way I was riding, any time I spent thinking was wasting time I might have on the trail. So, I popped a hydration pill, fired up my Beta Xtrainer, and pulled up to the clock. Just four more miles. Or so I thought…

Clouds hung low in McCleary, Washington that day, a bit ominous if you’re superstitious. That, I am not. But it’s not to say I was safe from a bit of anxiety. A few familiar faces greeted us at the entrance – like our new friend Dan who owns True North Motos in Olympia, WA (more on them later). He endured an injury only a few weeks back and subsequently offered to volunteer for this race, which is put on by the Cascade Family Motorcycle Club. The MC has heritage, forming around 1973 in Thurston County, currently capping its memberships to 75 families. And it felt much like that when we arrived: warm, welcoming, and a bit chaotic, like a reunion or family outing. Justin and I were more like distant cousins being introduced for the first time.

When we turned into the event compound, I was reminded that I had absolutely no idea what to expect. It was a single lane road lined with trucks and vans hauling various forms of dirt bikes. It was a tight fit, inconvenient enough to feel like an authentic local event. Their focus wasn’t on your comfort – it was just the opposite. Organizers worked for months to design the perfect course, trimmed and cleared to challenge the competition and punish the fast, the furious and the foolish. I was a member of that last group. Up until this enduro, I had managed only about five hours in the saddle on tight, Northwest single-track fighting root balls, ruts, and a little mud.

When I think back to that morning, one thing I recall is that I wasn’t scared. Not like I probably should’ve been. Sure, there were nerves. I did everything to empty my stomach and replenish it with hydration pills and an energy waffle before it was our turn to pull up to the start of lap one. But I’m still surprised at how not terrified I was. I’d always imagined my composure differently – hoping to be calm and poised and ready to charge, but realistically, I presumed I’d be shitting myself.

While that was almost true (my gut is very sensitive to my emotions even when my mind is none the wiser), I didn’t feel like I was about to take on a brand-new challenge. One that could batter me, run me to the ground, leave me exhausted and defeated. My ignorance of what lay ahead saved me from myself. As someone who overthinks everything, scrutinizes every part of themselves, and instinctively imagines the worst before finding the best…I was my biggest hurdle.

When they say “ignorance is bliss,” it can also – in this case – be your superpower. And I’m not saying you should enter a race, especially for the first time, wholly unprepared. But if you know you have the capacity, even if you’d be the worst out of the whole group, and the only thing that stands in the way is your ego, maybe you should know…less. Just until you roll up to the starting line. Because once you’re on that trail, you’ll find out quickly just how under qualified you are for that competition, but, shit, you’re already across the line. You might as well keep going. And maybe you just might finish.

My goals evolved several times that day. Less changing from one thing to another, and into tacking on micro goals as new issues presented themselves. It went from “don’t break your bike” and “finish without injuring yourself” to “just finish” and “try not to run into a tree.” There were many, many small targets I tried to hit just to get me through the next obstacle or take me to the next test. And it went on like that for six or seven punishing hours.

It took everything in me, the inner coach telling me not to quit and just focus on the path in front of me. Every time I thought my arms would give out, that hundredth time my bike would die halfway up a hill, straddling a shiny, worn-out root system, I’d stop, put my head on the handlebars to catch my breath, then remind myself that the only thing I needed to do was keep going. I didn’t need to be better. In fact, I was more likely going to become sloppier every minute I was out there. I wouldn’t arrive at the time checks with enough cushion to take a break. But if I could just do one thing, just keep going, then the only logical outcome would be that I reach the finish. Right?

Focusing on what that would take helped me go into autopilot. When I would drop my bike, I just picked it back up – no matter what. I’d drink my water when I could take a break. Eat energy gummies at checkpoints. Look ahead and ride cautiously, especially since I was already too tired to make big mistakes. On their website, the NMA states that generally the long course is 60+ miles and the short version is 30+, so it’s possible my memory is skewed. It was going to be a long, hard day, whichever of the segments I raced, the further of which equated to roughly 55 miles, I thought, with who knows how many transfers and tests.

What’s more clear on the site is that seven classes use the longer route, while nine stick to the shorter. In the Women’s Class where I competed, the short course was our arena. In those intended 42-ish miles, we were to circumnavigate the route – only slightly altered for the second round – twice. Within them were, three or four transfers and two or three tests each circuit. Admittedly, by the time I finished that day, it was all a blur.

Both laps, the organization was worried I wouldn’t make the cut-off to close the coming transfer or test, so they’d leave one unwitting sweep behind to make sure I didn’t end up down a cliff or die of exhaustion. In the first round, it was Steve – I think, he did his best to let me ride and tried to be my shadow. He watched as I struggled through obstacles but showed enough respect to give me space to overcome them – but when I needed his opinion, he gave it. He was the perfect company for that part of my race. Joe filled that role, for the more destroyed version of me, in the second go around.

Joe was patient and encouraging. He kept an eye on me but didn’t intervene until it was clear that I just couldn’t hang anymore. The number of times I dropped my bike grew exponentially. They were over stupid things, like being too tired to feather my clutch, or when I’d target fixate on a tree because my eyes were becoming lazy. We put in a little extra credit as well when we found out that some simple miscommunication meant the course markers were torn down a little too soon, and Joe and I rode an extra few (did I say punishing already?) miles through the woods.

I had thought to myself more than once that I clearly had no idea what four miles felt like, because we had been riding for what felt like forever. Every turn we expected to see a checkpoint that would never arrive. So, like Dory, we kept on swimming. We just chugged along, oblivious that a search party was sent to scour 45-plus miles of possible single track and the added umpteen miles of two-track which we might have wandered to. They found us. Tired. But unstoppable.

When we were found and subsequently “rescued” by the thoroughly worried scout team, I took in the breeze as we rode with some speed back to home base. Not going over 8 miles an hour most of the day meant I didn’t experience much wind, and therefore held in all the heat my body tried to expel. If it hadn’t been surreal yet, it was surely in those moments winding across forest service roads wondering what sort of scene awaited us. Or, if anyone even noticed we’d been gone.

Although most of the attendees had cleared out, a small group of thoughtful volunteers hung back to ensure we were safe and welcome us to the finish line with smiles and high fives. Pity, and perhaps a little pride, was given to me in the form of a Finisher pin. It was a gesture which restored my hope for humanity. I don’t know if I deserved it; I technically DNF’d after all. I was told we rode up to another 12 miles, and had the checkpoint been in place, it’s likely I would have finished before the deadline. My inept calculations equated to more like 5 or 6 miles, so it’s anyone’s guess. But they likely would have been kind to me all the same.  

That’s not entirely the point for any of it: winning or even finishing. Communities like these put together events such as the Black Bear Enduro for anything but glory. It’s the camaraderie, the joy you share when you and a hundred or so other like minded riders push themselves to their limits – succeed or not. In just three-quarters of a day, I went from the complete ignorance of an outsider looking in all these years to an awareness of someone accepted into a place where they have no business being.

The drive back from the race was filled with animated conversation recapping our minor victories and many missteps mixed with reverent silence. To my surprise, my heart swelled. Or maybe it was self-worth, but whatever the source, I felt bigger than I ever had before. This is the feeling I want to live for, if not in a competitive setting specifically, but in achieving. In wanting to sacrifice and grind and break myself down beyond the point of recognition only to emerge as something…else. If that’s not enough reason to celebrate, I don’t know what is. So, as I slumped deeper into my booth-shaped cocoon preparing for my reemergence, defiantly drinking my straw laden lager, I became, for better or worse, ready for the next version of me.

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In Gear

By Kyra Sacdalan