Cycle News - Archive Issues - 1990's

hopelessly lost. Before most of the checks, the lay-out crew liked to throw in a confusing little section of trail, and I fell for it every time. On one occasion, I led a group of three riders - including my unfortunate WR200-mounted friend - about two miles down the wrong dirt road. Not exactly shocked at the tum of events by this point, I turned around and prepared to make my way back to the correct • course. The other lost riders were stopped together discussing their options, eyeing me .warily, and when they saw me take a split to the right, they etation-lined singletrack through the Amazon rain forest would have any self-respecting woods-riding fan salivating like one of Pavlov's dogs. And speaking of salivating, Acerbis USA's Bill Berroth had hinted that Brazilian females were exotic, beautiful and friendly. Mark's data couldn't confirm this, but the presence of four dark, mysterious flight hostesses on the plane did lend some credence. he u.s. National Enduro Champion had a headache, and I felt like I was on add - not exactly the ideal way to tart off a long motOl;cycle race.. It was Thursday morning and Steve Hatch and I were making our way out of Rio de Janeiro - along with 458 of our closest Brazilian friends. We had arrived from Belo Horizonte via a private Lear jet the day before, thanks to event promotor Cristiano de Mello Paz. The interim had been spent registering for the race, setting up our bikes, eating and spendin a few jetlag-interupted hours of sleep in a beautiful hotel overlooking the famous Ipanema Beach and the majestic Christ the Redeemer statue. At 6:30 a.m. that very morning, Cristiano had tossed us and our bikes in to a diesel-powered Nissan pickup, and taken us on a high-speed adventure from the hotel to the start area, where we barely avoided a penalty for impounding late. During my brief stay in Rio - the dty generally regarded as the party capital of the world - I hadn't so much as set foot in a club or on a beach, and here I was leaving by motorcycle at the very beginning of a four-day national holiday. It just didn't seem right. After pulling out of the start area en masse to the accompaniment of a cheering crowd and a deafening pyrotechnic display, our group followed the route along picturesque beaches where flocks of tanga-adorned baihing beauties had my head gyrating like Linda Blair's, and through long, dark tunnels where the fog of two-stroke fumes accounted for Steve's and my ailments. To make matters worse, Steve was battling with an uncooperative ICO odometer. He had switched odos the night before when his original unit refused to switch into kilometer mode, but now the calibration on the replacement was off. We stopped along the road for periodic adjustments, and by the end of the 40-mile parade route, we were entrenched firmly in the back of the smoke-filled pack. The result? An accurate odometer and a pretty good high. T espite the information from Mark's computer, I had still been fairly bewildered when I arrived in Brazil. All I knew for sure was that I was going to cover a four-day motorcycle race from Rio de Janeiro to Belo Horizonte; I wasn't certain of the format, where those cities were, or whether I was expected to merely cover the race or actually compete! Fortunately, Cristiano explained everything thoroughly on our short Lear.jet trip, even going SO far as to have the pilot fly over parts of the course. Unfortunately, his explanation left me more confused than ever - despite his good English. Now I'll do you the same favor: With a name like Enduro Internacional de Independencia, you'd expect this event to either be extremely momentous or severely over-hyped. I assure you that the former explanation is true in this case. The race has been held on Brazil's Independence Holiday (hence th.e title) for the past 13 years, more or less following the historic route of the bande rantes (flag bearers). Hundreds of years ago, these explorers from Rio penetrated inland for the first time, making discoveries and paving the way for future settlement. Riders from all over Brazil (a country larger than the United States) jump at the chance to take part in the unique event, and res-idents along the route enthusiastically congratulate the passing riders. The historical background is only part of the reason for the competition's popularity in Brazil, however. Cristiano's support is also largely responsible. He's the president of SMP&B Publicity, a large Brazilian advertising agency with such notable clients as McDonald's, Coca-Cola, Lubrax Petroleum and B.H. Shopping. The latter is a network of large shopping malls, two of which the enduro used as its starting and finishing points. Not your typical, slimy race promotor, Cristiano is himself a hard-core riding fan who competes in his own events, and each year he rounds up his clients and convinces them to help him cough up over $400,000 - an amount that he doesn't come close to recovering. This guy loves motorcycles. The money goes towards both this race and a Europeanrules two-day enduro that takes place two weeks earlier. That event is an international affair which will no doubt soon be a World Round, and Cristiano brings D (Above) Gullhermede Oliveira campos (how'd you like to write that name altha bottom of your checka?) wows thaspectators on his way to the overall win. over top riders from all over the world (Italian Giovanni Sala was this year's winner). Though much larger in scope, the race I was contesting i primarily a national happening, and Steve and I were the only nonBrazilians taking part. Our competitors made us feel welcome, however, joking and offering pointers in broken English. The event is a unique blend of several different gen res, offering the pomp and pageantry of a European-style enduro, the navigation of a dual sport ride, the time-keeping of an American enduro and the distance of a short rally (see sidebar for a more thorough explanation). I had past experience in all of these fields, and was none the worse for wear, but combining them would prove to be another matter altogether. hose organizers may think they're smart, but by Day Two, I had actually figured out a secret way to tell when a checkpoint was nearby. The tip-off? I would invariably become T chose the left option. Apparently they were less than confident in my abilities by this point. But what they didn't realize was that while I had a knack for losing the correct route, r was actually quite good at refinding it - after all, r got a lot of practice. r soon found myself back on track, and discovered that a check had been waiting no less than 30 yards from where I'd made the wrong tum. As for the distrustful trio which r had misguided, I didn't see them for the rest of the day. While I must confess that r felt a little vindicated by that fact, it actually proved harmful a little later on. My odometer sensor broke off just after the final gas stop, leaving me with no idea as to where or how fast to go. The riders immediately in front of and behind me had both been in the now-missing group, so I couldn't key off of them to find my way. I tried making it on my own for a while, which proved futile, so I ended up moving back 40 seconds and following a rider on a KDX200 - who r later thanked with a reward of a sweatshirt from the Tulsa Six Days. No big loss. Though I was at least 40 secpnds late to every check in the final section, things could have been worse. Steve's odometer had thrown in the towel early that morning, so he followed the rider ahead of him all day long. He burned nearly every check of the day, so despite what -. ....-l ....-l lo.; OJ .g ..... U o 31

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