"Rock!" I heard the noise before Alexander screamed the word, and I instinctively ducked as another basketball-size boulder went flying past me. We'd been bulldogging-half skidding, half walking-our bikes down this hill for so long, my pipe was almost cool to the touch, and I literally had monkey butt in my armpit from where the seat was rubbing me raw. For all but one or two of the best trials riders in the Pro class, this hill would be impossible to ride down. We'd already been using our hand guards and pegs as makeshift brakes when we started to lose control, and the bikes looked as though they'd been dragged behind a truck. Still, we joked that we should have brought skis to Romania and laughed at the fact that the trees were always there to break our fall. After the race, Malcolm told Alexander and me that he thought we'd wasted half of our energy laughing at each other in the deep forest. It seemed that the worse our surrounding condition became, the funnier it appeared to us. Suffering alone is difficult, while doing so with a buddy is considerably easier and, oddly enough, fun. Alexander is tough as nails, but beyond that he is a class act, and the humility and enthusiasm he displays is easily on par with that of his father. He's also one heck of a rider, and while roosting alongside Alexander through one of Romania's wide-open grass fields, I couldn't help sing the theme song from On Any Sunday in my head. However, the music stopped when we reached the last section on day five, the final day of the race.
The name says it all: Crazy Bike House. This six-story cement structure had loomed ominously above the prolog course just four days earlier, and now we were going to ride into, through and on top of it. With Alexander in tow, I started up the first flight of cement stairs and pivoted around a rusty piece of rebar on the landing. Heading up the second set, I grabbed too much traction and launched the bike, landing on the hard concrete with an audible pop of my wrist, much to the horror of the Romanian locals that lined the stairwell. I heaved my bike up once more and continued upward, stopping to realign along the narrow staircase and to give Alexander a shove or a tug up to where I was. Finally, we reached the top of the stairs and clocked into the final checkpoint before the finish line. Only one final obstacle remained... Going into Romaniacs, we'd set what we felt were three attainable goals for the trip: First, bring everyone home safely. Second, come home with a good story and photos. And finally, we set out to bring home a trophy. I'm thrilled and relieved to say that we accomplished all three. Pete, Malcolm, Alexander and I all made it back to the U.S. safe and sound, and all four of us are overflowing with stories from the trip. But the greatest sense of accomplishment that I get from the race comes when I look at the small metal statue sitting on top of my bookshelf at home. Alexander has an identical one sitting in his office right now, and I'm sure that each time he looks at it he remembers that our trophies were anything but free-we paid for those cheap metal figurines with our sweat, blood and all the heart we could muster. The five little words stamped into the base say it all: "Third Place, Expert Class/Team."
My Dirt Rider compadres...
My Dirt Rider compadres find it hard to believe that a photo of me sitting this still exists.