Timekeeping Enduros
Since 1972
A Special Thanks to Our Sponsors:
41st Keg Run Enduro
Moore Bros. Racing
April 12 & 13
Charlie’s Place - Spangler OHV
Saturday Events
Sign ups: 11:00-1:00
Easter Bunny: 11:00ish
Easter Egg Hunt: 11:30ish
Juniors: 1:00
Beginners/Sport: 2:00
Potluck: 5:30
Potluck Theme: Appetizers and Keg
Sunday Events
Sign-ups: 7:30-8:30
Rider’s Meeting: 8:30
Keg Run Enduro Key Time: 9:00
Burgers and Dogs after the Event!
Wheelie Good Stories
By Dieter Dirtflinger
March 2025
The Great Kid Bike Debate: How to Spend a Fortune While Trying to Save Money
If you sit around a campfire long enough, you’ll hear a lot of deep, philosophical discussions. Things like how to properly set sag, how far into the ICO pacer to run, and of course, the never-ending debate among dads about what bike to get their growing kid next.
This is serious business. Every dad is convinced that with the right bike, the right amount of practice, and just a little push (or a lot), his kid will be the next Davis or Abbott. No—scratch that—his kid is already the next factory-backed, helmet-signing, championship-dominating, dirt-slinging phenom. All that’s standing between this bright future and reality? The Right Bike.
But let’s face it, most of us don’t have the cash to keep little Jimmy on a fresh factory ride every season. So, we have to be strategic. That bike is going to have to last a while, and it has to be just right.
Now, the logical choice is the trusty four-stroke trail bike. Reliable. Tractable. Practically indestructible. And best of all, slow. The kid will have to actually work to go fast enough to do serious damage. But here’s the problem—Dad knows his kid is the next Brabec, and there’s no way the future Dakar champ is going to putt around on a glorified lawnmower. No, we need something fast. Something exciting. Something that will light a fire in the young racer’s heart.
Enter the two-stroke screamer. A race bike. Now we’re talking! But, of course, this comes with its own set of problems. It’s more expensive. It needs constant maintenance. And, oh yeah, it will allow Junior to achieve escape velocity and launch himself into orbit the first time he twists the throttle too hard.
See? This isn’t easy.
I had the blessing—or the curse—of going through this exact nightmare three times. Three kids, three bikes, three sets of arguments. In the early years, I played it safe. Trail bikes all around. Slow, reliable, safe. And then, in what felt like the blink of an eye, my kids had the audacity to grow. My two oldest daughters shot up overnight, requiring full-sized bikes. My son graduated from the tiniest trail bike we had to the biggest—a Honda 150. Perfect, I thought. That’ll last him a while.
I was a fool.
Shortly after the bike shuffle, we had the Sleigh Ride Enduro. A brutal, rocky mess of a course. My kids were pumped to test out their new rides, and I was eager to see how they handled the challenge. Usually, I made sure they were a few minutes ahead of me so I could be there if something went wrong. My son, being the youngest, was always a good three or four minutes ahead, meaning I rarely saw him on the trail.
But this year, thanks to some clerical mix-up, he was slotted just one minute ahead of me.
For the first two loops, I barely saw him. But the third loop was fast—too fast for him to keep up. Or so I thought. As the course got rougher, I expected to finally catch up to him. Instead, I heard him before I saw him. The low-pitched scream of a 150 tapped out, rev limiter begging for mercy. I twisted the throttle to close the gap, and there he was—feet on the pegs, clutch slipping, absolutely wringing the neck of that poor bike.
I swelled with pride. That’s my boy!
Then we hit a rock field.
CLANK! BANG! CLANK!
He didn’t shut off. He didn’t slow down. The wimpy suspension was bottoming out so hard I could practically hear the frame crying for relief. Every hit sent shockwaves through the poor machine. He was riding it like he stole it.
BANG!
I winced.
That 150 wasn’t going to survive this.
I could already hear my wallet crying.
As I watched my son plow through rocks like a bulldozer with a death wish, it hit me—this was inevitable. No matter how carefully you pick a bike, no matter how much thought goes into the “perfect” machine, kids are going to ride the way they ride. They’ll push whatever you give them to its absolute limits, and just when you think you’ve made the right choice, they’ll either outgrow it, destroy it, or scare the living daylights out of you on it.
I knew right then and there: that Honda 150 had maybe two more rides left in it before it was a parts bike.
And I also knew what would happen next.
A bigger bike. A faster bike. A more expensive bike.
Because deep down, despite all the logic, all the careful planning, and all the painful financial reality, there’s one universal truth about dads and dirt bikes:
We all secretly want our kid to be the next Brabec.
Even if it bankrupts us.
The Eberzberg Rodeo Results are
HERE
Thanks to everyone who came out and participated.
See you all next month at the Keg Run!
Eberzberg Rodeo 2025: Rocks, Waterfalls, and a Chili-Induced Grumble
The third stop on the Training Wheels calendar, the 2025 Eberzberg Rodeo, rolled into North Spangler last weekend, managing to sneak in two prime riding days between Mother Nature’s scheduled windstorms and downpours. With dusty conditions that could best be described as "why couldn’t the rain have come last week," riders lined up ready to take on 14 miles of prime single-track.
Saturday was less about racing and more about socializing—because let’s be honest, half of off-road racing is just an excuse to sit around a fire and talk about racing. The now-legendary Chili Cookoff saw over 15 families unleash their secret recipes, turning the potluck into an all-you-can-eat endurance event. Reports from the front lines say there were simply too many chilis to sample, and that’s not even counting the delicious side dishes lurking on the table. The real test, though, was in eating all that chili and not needing to take an unscheduled pit stop mid second loop. By nightfall, the air was filled with laughter, tall tales, and the distant rumble of somebody’s generator firing up way past an acceptable hour, at least we hope it was a generator.
Race Day: Into the Rocks we Go
With the Eberhardt crew and Micah W. working their magic, Sunday’s 14-mile loop was a work of art. The mostly virgin and fresh single-track terrain broke in to, what most riders said, was a very rideable and flowy course mixed with lots of technical washes and rocks.
Fast guy Thomas looked to have the overall win in the bag—right up until the final special test. That’s where he wedged himself into a waterfall section with all the grace of a beached whale. According to his post-race analysis, he spent four agonizing minutes wrestling his four-stroke up the cascade. Later riders jammed up the same spot, boiling coolant onto the rocks and turning the whole thing into an impromptu ice-skating rink.
Cue Robbie—who either possesses a sixth sense for sketchy terrain or just doesn’t believe in conventional race lines. While others were locked in waterfall gridlock, he sniffed out a creative route and kept it pinned, securing the overall win in the process.
Class Battles: The Survival of the Least Delayed
The Amateur class turned into a two-man war, with Brian and Alex M. being the only ones remotely on time. Brian, however, must have had a side deal with old Cronos because he racked up less than half the penalty seconds of Alex, taking home the win.
Over in Senior Expert, Tim M. and Dean B. slugged it out all day, keeping their scores tight—until Tim decided seconds were for other people and collected half of the seconds Dean did to snag the class victory. Meanwhile, club newcomer Ulrich S. stormed the Super Senior ranks in his first outing, proving that fresh blood can shake things up.
Danielle B. grabbed the Novice one-loop trophy, but the day’s most dominant performance came from Logan R. in the Novice class. Logan wasn’t just on time—he was on another level, winning his class by a staggering 20 minutes. Either he is a secret pro or he’s been training in some sort of underground moto dojo.
Final Thoughts
When the dust (and chili) settled, the Eberzberg Rodeo delivered everything a proper enduro should—killer terrain, sneaky checks, and the kind of stories that will only get better with time. Whether you walked away with a trophy or just a jammed thumb, one thing’s for sure: the Eberzberg Rodeo once again proved that dirt bike racing is 90% skill, 10% luck, and 100% about having a good time. Until next month, keep it pinned and stay out of the waterfalls.
Roll Charts and Route Sheets are Here:
Route Sheet
Roll Chart
Roll Chart W/O Speed
TWMC Eberzberg Rodeo
Timekeeping Enduro
March 8 & 9
35.638053, -117.479742
The Potluck has changed time to 5:00!!!
Potluck is CHILI COOKOFF
Bring your best chili to compete in the cookoff
OR bring a chili themed side
OR any of your favorite dishes or deserts!
Macho Man Results are
HERE
Email us at TWMCsecretary@gmail.com
if you have any questions or concerns
Thanks to Tim for getting these out so soon!
Macho Man 2025
We said it last year, and we’ll say it again, “The Enduro Gods love the Macho Man.” With a proper deluge on Thursday, the dirt was so perfect that even the most hardened sandbagger was grinning like a kid who just found a five-dollar bill in his riding pants. Conditions were so prime on Friday and Saturday that riders ran the very real risk of riding themselves stupid before the first rider left Sunday morning.
While the Enduro Gods favored the riders with the rain, the crew putting on the event probably felt like a dispossessed people. That same rain, along with the wind, wreaked havoc on the course markings, tearing arrows from the stakes and knocking the ribbon off the bushes. Starting from near scratch, the Macho Man crew was able to cobble a course back into riding shape in just a few short days. Hats off to you guys and gals!
And what a course it was! With enough sand hills to make the crustiest old hands smile and rocky, loose cracks to please the young bloods, everyone came away smiling - at the riding at least. The checks were another story. Brett really had everyone guessing in Ringo’s crack. On one loop, riders were late, and on the next, Brett caught ‘em trying to cheat up and get early. Jeff, of Sleigh Ride fame, showed why we call him ‘evil elf’ Jeff with his creative checks. Barely legal, barely visible, Jeff’s checks were so sneaky, even the rule book was giving him the side eye.
In the end, Thomas took the overall win, dragging amateur hotshot Bennie along for the Amateur class victory. Robbie snagged the Expert win, Farshid locked down Senior Expert, and Dick made up for a rough last round by clinching the Super Senior win. Meanwhile, Logan is riding like he’s got a personal vendetta against the Novice class, and the one-loop warriors, Danielle and Rod, claimed victory in Novice-X and Legends. Special shoutout to the next generation of throttle twisters—Madison and Luke—who both brought home wins Saturday and surely made their parents proud.
And then, the grand finale: the sausage party courtesy of Brett and Tony, proving once again that the true spirit of enduro isn’t just about riding—it’s about hanging out with friends, bench racing, and eating questionable amounts of grilled sausages and chili afterward.
Big thanks to everyone who rode, worked, spectated, or just stood around being helpful. See you all next month at the Eberzberg Enduro.
Roll Charts and Route Sheets are in!
Route Sheet
Roll Chart
Roll Chart Without Speed
TWMC Enduro Series
Round 2
Macho Man Enduro
February 15-16
Location: Teagle Wash Road
35.514263, -117.556101
Saturday Events
Signups: 10:00-12:00
Junior: 12:00
Beginner/Sport: 2:00
Enduro Bike Slow Race: 4:00
Potluck: 6:00 Theme is Comfort Food.
General Meeting: 6:30 - 7:00
Sunday Events
Signups: 7:00-8:30
Rider’s Meeting: 8:30
Key Time: 9:00
Questions, concerns, comments, or want to join us?
Drop us a line at twmcsecretary@gmail.com
Wheelie Good Stories
By Dieter Dirtflinger
February 2025
YOSHI'S BIG RACE: A LOVE STORY ON KNOBBIES
Yoshi Yamaha could smell it in the air. The crisp bite of February. The Macho Man Enduro. His favorite enduro, even though he never liked that name. Something like the Brokeback Mountain Enduro seemed more fitting for that particular enduro, but nobody asked his opinion—not that they ever asked the bike’s opinion on anything.
His “owner”—because bikes, much like cats, have no real attachment to their humans and therefore no need for names—had washed him, changed his filter, and topped him off with fresh gas. Yoshi felt fresh and ready to scoot his owner up and down some sandhills!
Then came the dreaded truck ride. Yoshi endured the icy haul, strapped down tighter than a factory budget. By the time they reached camp, the place was already jammed with riders. His rider, too tired (or too lazy) to unload him that night, left him in the back of the truck to dream of wide-open throttle and perfectly timed shifts.
Morning came, and with it, the usual pre-race chaos. Yoshi’s owner finally wrestled him out of the truck, and the bike took stock of the competition. Two rigs over sat a cluster of Kawasakis, all smug and green. Yoshi gave them a respectful nod. A group of Husky girls waved flirtatiously. A couple of Hondas rolled by, looking self-important. And then…he caught a snippet of gossip. Something about a new girl.
Yoshi had no time to ponder this mystery before his owner threw a leg over and fired him up. A few warm-up laps around camp, and then—it happened. He turned a corner and saw her.
She was orange.
Bright. Sparkling. A factory-fresh vision of Austrian engineering perfection. No scratches, no scuffs, no duct tape hastily applied after a bad line choice. Surrounded by a pack of drooling humans, she stood tall, knowing full well she was a sight to behold. Yoshi’s carburetor nearly flooded on the spot.
Love at first rev.
The rest of the day was a blur. Yoshi’s owner kept tweaking clickers and muttering about “something feeling off.” Something was off—Yoshi couldn’t focus. He was tripping over his own knobs, over-revving, braking too late. He swore she had looked at him. Maybe even smiled at him. Oh, she definitely smiled at him. Tomorrow, he would prove himself. Tomorrow, he would be worthy of that smile.
Race day dawned, and Yoshi was wide awake. He didn’t know where she would be, but he knew she would be watching. He rode harder than he ever had. His owner felt the extra power. “Must be the cold air,” the rider thought. No, buddy. It was love.
First loop, he saw her at a check. His owner floundered, but Yoshi stepped in, keeping him on time. He wasn’t about to let his guy look like a squid in front of her.
Second loop, same deal. Yoshi carried them through, keeping his rider upright when he had no business staying that way. He dodged rocks, slipped clutch when needed, and made split-second decisions his rider wasn’t even aware of. Every time they passed her, he imagined she was impressed.
Then came the fourth loop. The special test. The final chance to impress. Yoshi gave it everything. Twice, his rider nearly wadded up. Twice, Yoshi saved him. They crested a final hill, the check just below. And there she was. Watching.
This was it. Yoshi was going to fly into that check, make her see him in all his glory. He lined up his approach—
And then his rider grabbed a fistful of brake.
“Whoa! What’s this? Who made it down this? How many people have gotten hurt on this?”
A one-foot drop.
Yoshi’s gears nearly locked in embarrassment. Are you serious, dude? He tried to resist the rage boiling inside his cylinder. But then he saw her. Laughing.
That was it. That was the last straw.
Yoshi twisted the throttle himself. Wide. Open.
The rider wasn’t ready. Didn’t matter. Yoshi launched down the hill, flinging his rider off the back like yesterday’s roost. The bike—who even needs a rider?—blasted down the hill and through the check, throttled into history, and cemented himself as a legend.
Did he get the girl?
Did it even matter?
Yoshi had made his mark. A bike who needed no rider to finish.
Broken Resolutions Results are HERE
BROKEN RESOLUTIONS ENDURO: THE TRADITION CONTINUES
Ah, the start of the season—a time of renewed hope, fresh gear, and shattered delusions. Seven whole weeks to train, dial in the bike, and chip away at the holiday insulation that mysteriously appeared around your midsection. You had big plans: cutting back on junk food, hitting the gym, maybe even—gasp—practicing! But let’s be real, most of us just slapped some shiny new Christmas parts on the bike, changed the oil (or at least thought about it), and called it good.
And then came round one: the Broken Resolutions Enduro—aptly named, since it took about five minutes for most riders to completely abandon their grand pre-season plans. Veteran sandbaggers aimed to maintain dominance, rookies came in wide-eyed and full of optimism, and everyone on the start line secretly believed this was the year they’d become an enduro legend.
THE COURSE: A TRUE ENDURANCE TEST
Enduro mastermind Asher put together a layout that was equal parts timekeeping challenge and “I really should have gone to the gym” reality check. Hills, rocky sections, and enough technical nastiness to keep riders from getting too comfortable. Then, just to make things interesting, Mother Nature decided to dump some rain, snow, and sleet—perfect conditions for those who enjoy suffering.
THE RESULTS: WHO SURVIVED THE STORM?
In the Master class, Matt Eberhardt was on track for the win heading into the final special test. All he had to do was keep his New Year’s resolution to stop riding like a retired librarian. Naturally, he failed. One minute lost, one top spot down. Brett Ribenenck, proving that consistency (and possibly witchcraft) wins races, snagged the overall victory like the seasoned pro he is.
Meanwhile, in the Expert class, Robbie Butze kicked off his Expert debut with a win, while his dad proved that speed runs in the family by taking the Super Senior class. After Tim Moore uncharacteristically burned a check on the first loop and got a flat causing a DNF, super-stud Rick Samuelson won the Senior Expert Class. Hannah Ribeneck fought through a stacked field to dominate the Amateur class, while Logan Roe crushed the Novices to cap off a full-course showdown.
For the one-loop warriors, Legend Rod McInnis and Novice-X Brice M. took top honors, while Saturday’s younger racers saw Reign W., Jackson R., and fresh-faced newcomer Ashley C. grabbing trophies in the Junior, Beginner, and Sport classes.
A TIP OF THE HELMET
A massive thanks to everyone who came out, and an even bigger one to the poor souls who stood in the freezing rain working the checks. You’re the real MVPs.
See you all at the Macho Man Enduro, where the terrain will be brutal, the competition fierce, and the excuses plentiful.
Club Dues are also Due!
See Mary at Signups to Pay
Questions, Comments, Concerns?
Email us at TWMCSecretary@gmail.com
Broken Resolutions Roll Charts and Route Sheets are Here!
Roll Chart
Route Sheet
Route Sheets and Roll Charts were updated 1/23 at 12:30. The old ones work just fine, especially if you are zapping your computer. You only need the updated Route Sheet if you are actually programming yourself. The change is at the end of the 3rd loop where the mileage at the Free Time should be 14.5 instead of 14.2.
Club Dues are also Due!
See Mary at Signups to Pay
Questions, Comments, Concerns?
Email us at TWMCSecretary@gmail.com
The 2025 Training Wheels MC Enduro Season kicks off
January 25-26
Broken Resolutions Enduro
Location: Hannah's Hole, Spangler OHV
35.457200,-117.641963
Saturday Events
Signups: 10:00 -12:00
Beginner/Sport: 2:00
Juniors: 1:00
Potluck: 5:30
General Meeting: 6:00
Potluck Theme:
Asher is providing PIZZA!
You Bring Sides, Salads, Deserts
Sunday Events
Signups: 7:30-8:30
Rider’s Meeting: 8:30
Key Time: 9:00
Want to join us or just have questions?
Email us at TWMCSecretary@gmail.com
Wheelie Good Stories
By Dieter Dirtflinger
January 2025
The New Bike (a.k.a. The Shiny Mistake)
So, I bought a new bike. Not because I needed it—oh no, far from it. My old bike? Perfect. A masterpiece. It was the kind of bike you’d write poetry about. It fit me like a well-worn pair of jeans that still had a couple of good years left. I’d spent countless hours and untold dollars bolting on every after-market gadget and doodad known to mankind. That bike wasn’t just mine—it was me. If you dropped me blindfolded onto that seat, I could still race through the desert like I had sonar.
But then I saw it: the new bike. Shiny, sleek, modern—a technological siren calling me to financial disaster. Now, I could tell you I bought it because I got a killer deal. My daughter works at the dealership, so yeah, there was a deal… but even with her discount, I spent more on this bike than I did on my first new car. That’s not hyperbole, folks—that’s math.
Let’s face it: I bought this bike for one reason and one reason only—I wanted it. Pure, uncut greed. I’m like a toddler in a toy store with the wallet of an adult. And here’s the kicker: nobody stopped me. No one said, “Hey, maybe think this through.” Nope. They just handed me the paperwork and sent me on my merry way. Honestly, there should be laws against this sort of thing. A pop quiz or a sobriety test before signing the paperwork. But no. Instead, I drove home with a bike that gleamed so brightly I had to wear sunglasses just to unload it.
Now, as any idiot who’s ever bought a new bike knows, the real spending starts once you park it in your garage. Turns out, I’m not shaped like the guy this bike was built for. I’m too tall, too heavy, and possibly the wrong species. So, the mods began. New springs to keep the fender from smacking the tire every time I sat down. Higher handlebars. A steering stabilizer (because why stop at handlebars when you can spend triple?). Lowered foot pegs so I could actually sit without my knees kissing my chin. And, of course, every guard and protector known to mankind—because this pristine machine must not be scratched, dinged, or sneezed on.
Finally, it was ready. I loaded it into the truck and drove out to the desert all the while staring at it in the rear-view mirror like a proud new dad. The maiden voyage was upon me. My riding buddies, seasoned hecklers, stood back and smirked as I fired it up. And then…
Disaster.
This beautiful, expensive marvel of modern engineering rode like a three-legged donkey on roller skates. It wouldn’t turn. It either knifed into the sand and flung me off, or bulldozed straight ahead like it had a mind of its own. The fancy suspension felt like it was filled with cement and rubber bands. The motor? About as responsive as a toaster with a clogged vent. The handlebars, which I’d agonized over, were somehow too high, too low, too forward, and too back—all at the same time.
By the end of the day, I was ready to push it off a cliff and call my old bike to apologize.
Then, on the drive home, it hit me: this is exactly how my old bike was when I first bought it. It was awkward, clunky, and borderline dangerous. I even tried to pawn it off on my kid before the suspension broke in and the motor finally woke up. It took hours of riding, tweaking, and cursing before that bike became the trusty steed I loved.
So now I’ve got hope—tempered by a healthy dose of buyer’s remorse—that this new bike will someday be worthy of the pedestal I’ve already put it on. Until then, I’ll keep riding, keep wrenching, and keep wondering why in the hell I didn’t just stick with what I had.
Sleigh Ride Results!
Rocks, Raffles, and Christmas Cheer: A Training Wheels Sleigh Ride Special
They say Santa Claus has a system: make a list, check it twice, then dole out the goods based on your deeds. Be nice, and you get a shiny toy. Be naughty, and it's coal—kind of useful if you're freezing your boots off but not exactly festive. For us at Training Wheels, though? Santa didn't play by the book this year. Instead of coal, toys, or even socks, he sent the Schulte crew. And what did they bring us? Rocks. Piles of 'em. Enough to make a geologist weep with joy or a dirt biker question every life decision.
Were we naughty? Nice? Or is this some kind of twisted Santa logic where rocks are considered "trail gold"? For us crusty old dirt bikers, it was like finding a fresh set of knobbies under the tree—a gift so perfect it almost made us tear up. Almost.
A Magical Saturday: Hot Cocoa, Raffle Prizes, and Maurice on the Mic
The weekend kicked off with a Saturday that can only be described as… well, a Christmas miracle. No wind. No rain. Just bright sunshine and temperatures that just begged you to twist the throttle. Once they pitched the big top, the Training Wheels crew turned the place into a scene straight out of a Hallmark movie—only with more two-stroke exhaust. The TWMC kids made homemade decorations, Santa himself made a cameo, and there was enough hot cocoa to make even the grumpiest rider crack a smile.
The potluck was a feast for the ages, with "roast beasts" of every variety and enough hearty salads to balance out the carb-loading. But the real showstopper was the raffle. With Maurice at the mic, over 130 prizes found new homes faster than a KX450 can eat a straightaway. Young Jack was the big winner, walking away with an eclectic haul that included everything from toys to skincare products—because apparently, even an 8-year-old needs to maintain that youthful glow.
As the raffle wrapped, the Training Wheels family gathered around the fire, swapping tall tales, poking fun, and soaking in the last perfect Saturday of the year.
Sunday: The Schulte Sleigh Ride of Doom
Sunday morning dawned, and with it came the real reason we were all there: the Sleigh Ride. This wasn’t your average holiday parade with waving Santas and candy canes. Nope. The Schultes had other plans. They carved out a course that would make a mountain goat reconsider its career choices.
The trails were a masterclass in suffering: rocks everywhere, gnarly climbs that laughed at many of us, and enough off-camber nastiness to send you into an existential crisis. And those “creative” checks? Let’s just say they were the dirt-biking equivalent of a pop quiz with trick questions.
But that’s what we’re here for, right? By the end of the day, bikes were bruised, bodies were battered, and grins stretched from ear to ear. Some riders clinched their season points, others learned valuable lessons about hydration and tire pressure, and all of us left knowing we’d just survived something truly epic.
Wrapping It Up
So, were we naughty or nice this year? Who cares? The Schulte crew and Santa brought us exactly what we wanted—even if it was disguised as punishment. Rocks or no rocks, it’s weekends like this that remind us why we saddle up every chance we get.
Here’s to another year of twisted trails, tough courses, and the Training Wheels family that makes it all worthwhile. And maybe next year, Santa will toss in a few extra ibuprofen with the rocks.
Wheelie Good Stories
By Dieter Dirtflinger
December 2024
The Squidfilter: Welcome to the Brotherhood of Bruised Ego and Mangled Clutch Levers
Ah, the joys of rekindling your love for dirt bikes after a "brief" hiatus—10 years spent raising kids, building a career, and softening your once ironclad posterior into something resembling oatmeal. But eventually, the call of two-stroke smoke and bruised ribs lures you back. That’s how I found myself saddled with a group of riders from the club. Good guys, but weird. Not in a "secret handshake and decoder ring" kind of way, but in an unspoken, slightly cultish manner.
The first ride with them? Let’s just say it was a baptism by roost.
We met at their regular stomping grounds, a patch of desert that could double as a lunar training base. I had my fair share of race credentials—hare and hounds, enduros, the usual—but these guys had home-field advantage. Still, I was confident. Then they fired up their bikes and disappeared into a cloud of dust.
I was left scrambling, lungs full of dirt, wondering if I had stumbled into some unspoken initiation ritual. They didn’t slow down; they didn’t check if I was still alive. They blasted through valleys, clawed up hills that might as well have had "Abandon Hope Ye Who Enter" signs, and tiptoed along goat trails that flirted with 500-foot death drops.
About three hours in, we arrived at a valley straight out of a sci-fi movie. Volcanoes loomed like judges, lava trails twisted in chaotic spaghetti patterns, and smack dab in the middle was The Hill. It was white, steep as your last tax bill, and topped with black basalt teeth.
The lead guy pointed his bike at the hill and twisted the throttle like a man possessed. I expected him to either die or ascend into heaven, but somehow he made it to the top. Then the next guy went. Same story. They looked like they’d been doing this since birth.
Finally, it was my turn. Before taking off, one guy casually mentioned there was an easier trail around the back. I could practically feel the neon “CHICKEN” sign hovering over the alternative route. I had come this far, so I figured if I was going to die, it might as well be in the name of proving a point.
Second gear, throttle open, eyes wide shut. I charged that hill like an idiot with a death wish. Up the incline, over the ledge—front wheel sky-high and heart somewhere in my throat—I landed it. Not gracefully, but I survived.
The reaction? Crickets. No high-fives, no "Attaboy!" Just a few nods between them like they’d confirmed I wasn’t completely useless. Then they fired up their bikes and tore off down the next trail like nothing had happened.
Back at camp, I felt... different. Like a slightly bent lever—nothing obvious, but noticeable. The guys were a little friendlier, a touch less cold. Later, I learned the truth.
They called it the Squidfilter. Every new guy had to pass through the same gauntlet of brutal terrain, soul-crushing hills, and mild humiliation. Some cracked halfway through. Some took the chicken route. A few passed the test. Apparently, I was one of the lucky ones.
As time went on, I became part of the inner circle. When new guys joined, we’d bring them to the same hill. It was a rite of passage, a litmus test for grit. Watching the fresh meat face The Hill became our entertainment.
Some called it sadistic. We called it tradition.
So here’s to the Squidfilter—a time-honored, dust-choked reminder that the only way into the club is over that ledge, through the pain, and straight into a lifetime of bent levers and bruised egos. Welcome to the brotherhood.
TWMC Sleigh Ride 2024
December 7-8
Hodge Road, Barstow
The First Present from Santa Schulte has arrived!
Get your Roll Charts and Route Sheets Below:
Route Sheet
Roll Chart
Roll Chart W/O Speeds
Hosted by the Schultes
Location Coordinates: 34.734737, -117.131738
Saturday: Christmas Tent!!!
Kid’s Crafts: 11:00 AM
Santa: 4:30 PM - If your child has been good this year, put a wrapped gift under the tree!
Table Decorating Contest: 20 Tables available. Decorate a table and enter the contest
TWMC Raffle: Bring a Raffle Item to the tent. Tickets are $1 Per ticket; $5 for 6 Tickets; or $20 for 25 Tickets.
Club Meeting
Saturday Rides
Junior Event: 1:00 PM
Beginner Event: 2:00 PM
Sunday Enduro
Rider’s Meeting: 8:30 AM
Key Time: 9:00 AM
The Lazy Turkey Results are in!
Click Here
Questions about results?
Email us at twmcsecratary@gmail.com
The 2024 Lazy Turkey Enduro is in the books, and let me tell you, the Lazy Turkey crew is about as “lazy” as a caffeinated jackrabbit with its tail on fire. Turkeys? Well, that might depend on whether you nailed your times or got stuck on one of them hills, but one thing’s for sure—they outdid themselves this weekend.
Saturday evening’s potluck wasn’t just dinner; it was a Thanksgiving-themed gorge-a-thon. The Turkey crew brought the meats and gravy, kept it piping hot, and saved the day for us stragglers who rolled in late after wrenching on bikes or telling tales in camp. The rest of the club stepped up with side dishes that would make a food critic weep with joy (or shame for eating their body weight in mashed potatoes).
Now, Saturday’s riding was a glorious throwback to old-school timekeeping for the Beginners and Sport classes. None of this “ride your own pace” fluff—nope, riders had to start watching their minutes. The learning curve was steep, but most riders got the hang of it pretty quickly. Jackson R made it look like he’d been born with a roll chart in his hand, staying tight on his minute and snagging 48 seconds, just a hair—7 seconds, to be exact—ahead of the fast-moving Parker R. Over in the Sport class, Steph Surmon handled the clock like a seasoned pro, gliding through the course like it was marked just for her.
Sunday, though, is where the Turkey crew really flexed their creative muscles. The first loop hit like a haunted house on wheels, with a blistering 21 mph average speed on the roll chart that made the Novices wish they’d stayed in bed. Thankfully, a couple of well-placed mileage resets gave everyone a chance to catch their breath (and get that second helping of mashed potatoes from Saturday night digested).
Then came the curveballs. The crew kept a couple of course sections completely under wraps until race day, and boy, did they deliver. First up: a nasty series of rocky step climbs and downhills so gnarly they could’ve been extras in an enduro horror movie. Just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, the Masters and Experts got treated to a special test that redefined the word “brutal.”
The Masters and Experts got to tackle this hidden beast, and it didn’t disappoint. Thomas Moore and Brett Ribeneck were the first through, riding like men possessed. Thomas edged out Brett for the overall win by a nail-biting 4 seconds. After that, it was carnage. Riders started bottlenecking at the first set of volcanic outcroppings, a climb that looked more suited to a mountain goat than a dirt bike. For the Experts, Bob Surmon was the fastest through the final section, but Jake Hoskins played the long game, riding the rest of the course cleaner to snag the Expert class win.
Meanwhile, the rest of the riders got to enjoy the show from the finish line, watching Masters and Experts crawl through the boulders and silently thanking their lucky stars they didn’t have to ride that last section. Robbie Butze was the only Amateur to stay on his minute all day for the win. Rick Samuelson cleaned up in Senior Expert, Brian Ribeneck snagged the Novice class win, and Super Senior bragging rights went to Stephan Butze.
In the end, the Lazy Turkey Enduro wasn’t just a race—it was a throwback, a feast, a test of skill, and a reminder that this sport is as much about grit as it is about glory. Hats off to the Bishop family for a job well done. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a nap—and maybe a second helping of gravy.
Lazy Turkey Enduro!
Roll Charts and Route Sheets are in!
Route Sheet
Roll Chart
Roll Chart Without Speeds
Hosted by the Bishop Family
Date: November 16th & 17th
Location: Searles Station Road
35.4856937, -117.6229173
Potluck Theme: Gobble Gobble
The Bishops are providing the meat and gravy,
You bring a side or dessert!
Want to help with the Christmas events?
Christmas Planning Committee meeting at the Eberhardt’s trailer with Jeanne Saturday at 10 AM.
Email us at TWMCSecretary@gmail.com with any questions about this or other events.
Wheelie Good Stories
By Dieter Dirtflinger
November 2024
The Training Wheels Potluck
The origin of the potluck supposedly goes all the way back to the Native American tribes of the Pacific Northwest. For them, it was a way to bring the community together, share a meal, and keep everyone connected. And honestly, our Training Wheels potluck is pretty much the same thing—except swap the ancient wisdom for meatballs on toothpicks and someone’s mystery casserole. Sure, we get together at the starting line, but the potluck is the only time all weekend we’re not covered in dust or wrenching on busted bikes. It’s where everyone—novices, wives, and crusty old racers—comes together around the tables, each dish proudly lugged out of someone’s cooler or crockpot.
Now, when I first joined the club, I thought the potluck was a slice of heaven on a paper plate. I’d saunter over, grab a plate, and start the buffet tour. A little of this, a little of that, then back for seconds. "Ooh, sausage bites! Yeah, gotta have some of those. And look, quesadilla-looking things? On the plate they go. Ah, pizza slices—perfect! Let’s just wedge those between the quiche and the deviled eggs. Need to stay healthy, so let’s dump a scoop of leafy greens right here...and some potato salad on top of that." And just when I thought I’d hit the limit, there was the dessert table, gleaming like the gates of paradise. No pie? No cake? Just get another plate. Before I knew it, I was standing there, two plates stacked high, looking like I’d won the potluck championship, all while folks side-eyed me like I’d shown up to rob the buffet.
Of course, I paid for my culinary excess, not only in soul but in suffering. That night, I’d lie there in bed with the worst indigestion known to man, like a pack of gremlins dancing a jig in my gut. I'd twist and turn all night, groaning in agony. The morning wasn’t much better. I'd stumble over to get ready, struggling to button my race pants, which now felt like trying to stuff a beach ball into a tube sock. By the time the race rolled around, I’d be a bloated mess, each mile of the course reminding me that my lack of self-control was punishing me far more than the terrain ever could.
Eventually, I got serious about riding enduros, which meant it was time to get serious about the potluck, too. I vowed to approach it like a cautious man planning for race day. I’d try to be disciplined. First, I thought, “Just eat before you go!” But that only led to disaster—showing up with a full stomach didn’t keep me from piling on “just a little bit” more food.
So, after a few seasons of wrestling with my inner glutton, I finally hit on the golden rule of the potluck: Taste, don’t tackle. Now, I limit myself to a single plate and treat it like a test ride, just sampling a few things here and there. I pass on the potato salad mountain, leave a respectable gap between items on the plate, and keep an eye on dessert. One slice of pie, maybe a cookie—no more hauling two plates like I’m trying to bulk up for a strongman competition.
I won’t lie; it takes some iron will. But these days, I wake up Sunday feeling like a lean, mean racing machine—not a bloated manatee. My race pants button without a struggle, and I actually hit the starting line thinking about the race instead of reliving my late-night battle with baked beans. Sure, I might miss out on sampling a few odd dishes, but at least I’m not wobbling down the course like a gut-stuffed turkey.
And hey, if I learned anything from those Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest, it’s that a potluck is supposed to bring folks together, not turn me into a food-hoarding monster. So next time you see me at the table, I’ll be the guy with a respectable portion, a smile, and maybe—just maybe—a second helping of those sausage bites... if I’m feeling dangerous.
Outlaw Results HERE
If you have any questions, feel free to email us at
TWMCSecretary@gmail.com
“Them Outlaws stole my day!!”
Outlaw. The word alone can stir up images of dusty saloons, horse chases, and bandanas pulled tight across sunburned faces. Maybe you picture Billy the Kid grinning over his ill-gotten gains or Robin Hood divvying up loot for the poor. But no matter which way you slice it, when it comes to outlaws, someone’s losing something.
Enter the Training Wheels Outlaws. A peculiar breed of scoundrel. These guys? They don’t take your wallet at high noon. Oh no, they fire up the grill and hand you a burger and a hot dog on Saturday with a friendly grin, then come Sunday, they snatch seconds off your race time like a bandit in the night. What kind of twisted outlaw is that?
Take poor old Hayden Bishop. This guy was having the ride of his life. A career day, folks! Something he could tell his grandkids about while sitting on a quad. By the third check of the fourth loop (yeah, the fourth loop!), he was perfect. Not a single second off. He was the only Expert to get a perfect score at the bottom of that long, gnarly, sliding downhill rut without a hitch. While everyone else had to listen to Trail Boss Maurice Dorris off to the side, cackling like some wild-eyed villain in a spaghetti western, watching riders lose precious time left and right, not so with Hayden. Oh no, he was sailing through, seemingly destined for greatness.
And then, as if scripted by some cruel joke, Trail Boss Rick Samuelson poached a precious 9 seconds off Hayden in the wash after the rocky hills. Nine! Still, Hayden had to be feeling pretty good. What’s 9 seconds when you’re that close to glory? The win was still surely in his grasp, but then came the final check—up the hill, no trail, straight into a jagged mess of granite boulders that looked like the place motorcycles go to die. Hayden dropped his bike twice, sparks flying, and you could see his beautiful day vaporizing into thin air. The dream was gone. Just like that.
A couple of old enduro guys who kept the Outlaw hands out of their pockets were the Moore boys. The GOAT Tim Moore kept the thieving to a minimum and took the Senior Expert class and Thomas Moore only let the Outlaws take 15 seconds from him. Meanwhile, in the Amateur class, Jake Hoskins was out there with his shiny new birthday present, riding it straight to a win. In the Novice class, Brian R showed up his dad by taking the top spot, and Dick Cressy? Well, he cruised off into the sunset in the Super Senior class, probably tipping his hat to the Outlaws as he rode past.
Sunday was a wild ride, with seconds, minutes, and dignity stolen left and right, but you almost forgot about the carnage when you remembered the spread these Outlaws put out on Saturday. The smell of burgers and hot dogs still lingered in the air as we were reminded, through all the banditry, that these guys love their club. They just have a funny way of showing it—usually by making us cry.
And to top it all off, we raised a glass to the club’s patriarch, Ned Jones, as he hit the big 9-0. Happy Birthday, Ned! Here’s to many more years of outrunning the Outlaws.
Route Sheets and Roll Charts for the Outlaw are below!
The 12th Annual Outlaw Enduro is here!
Date: October 19-20
Location: Randsburg Wash / Navy Road
35.6017898, -117.4679979
Turn east off Trona road at Randsburg Wash Road, about 3 miles and camp will be on the left.
Potluck: 6:00 PM Outlaw Crew is grilling Burgers and Dogs. You bring the “SPOOKY” sides!
After the 6:30 General Meeting, TRICK OR TREATING!
Bring a costume and lots of candy!
Wheelie Good Stories
By Dieter Dirtflinger
October 2024
Why I Stink at Riding Enduros
So, I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time wondering why I stink at riding enduros. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m not bad at riding. In fact, after putting in countless hours of seat time and chasing faster riders who practically live on two wheels, I’m better than most of the knuckleheads I ride with. Lots of practice, lots of sweat, and the occasional blood—makes you better, or so they say.
And timekeeping? Not a problem. I hit most of the checks dead-on, scrubbing through stakes like I’m Dick Burleson, balancing on my pegs like I’m walking a tightrope over a pit of rabid gators. And as for bike maintenance? Obsessive doesn’t even cover it—my bike’s so tuned up, I should be winning trophies just for how well it runs.
But, when the scores roll in, I'm somewhere between last place and “maybe you should try knitting.” How? I have no idea, but I’ve got a permanent reservation near the bottom of the results sheet. It’s like a curse, or maybe the universe is telling me to stick to riding in circles. However, at the last Keg Run Enduro, I gained a little insight into why I sometimes suck, at least one of the many reasons I find myself at the bottom of the results.
Now, the Keg Run Enduro is my Superbowl, the one I look forward to all year. There’s something about bouncing over and between those moon rocks that makes me feel like a superhero.
I roll up to the start line, I’m pumped; I have butterflies in my stomach. The bike is running sweet, I’m feeling strong and I’m thinking, “Today’s the day, baby.” The countdown to zero, and I’m off! First section? Tight, rocky boulders. I’m zipping through them like a madman, threading the needle between jagged chunks of granite with a crazed smile. Hit a tricky step-up where a few riders are flopping around like fish on the beach. Not me—I pop right up and over like I do this for a living.
Down a wash, right turn, up a hill—fast and smooth. I hit the 2.9-mile mark, the end of the free time, with four minutes to spare. I’m thinking, "Man, I’m fast today." Take a breather, glance at the roll chart, and see the next section looks like a walk in the park. Gotta slow it down.
Off I go again, right on target. First check, nail it like a pro. After the check is the free section, two miles of open terrain, no checks, and I let ‘er rip! Flying up a rocky hill, passing stuck riders like they are standing still. Wheelie all the way down the other side—front wheel barely kissing the dirt. I’m railing corners like Eli Tomac, thinking, "Man, someone should be snapping pictures of this for a magazine!"
I’m feeling like a bonafide dirt bike superstar, right up until I rip around a big rock, and nearly stuff myself right into the next check. I hit the front brake so hard I almost face-plant but, I yank it out and think: “What the hell are they doing here?” Then I glance at the computer and realize I’m an entire minute early! On the first, easy loop, no less. I was having so much fun, I blew through my free time like it was going out of style and burned right into the next check.
After that little reality check (pun intended), I give myself a stern talking-to. “Slow it down, man. Take it easy. Focus.” But it was another free section - two miles to go before another possible check. So, I twist the throttle again!
I would say I paid better attention this time, that the talk with myself helped, that I aced every check after that, but dammit, I was just having too much fun. I burned the next check by about the same amount of time. After burning two checks on the first loop, I laughed my way through the event, not worrying about the results.
When I finished the enduro and rolled into camp, the guys were already roasting me. “What happened? You riding with your eyes closed?” How could I explain to anyone that the reason I tanked was because I was having way too much fun?
Double Dog Dare Results Here
So, there I was, sitting on top of a tall, gnarly, rocky mountain. No trail in sight, just pure desert enduro heaven. As I sat there admiring the view and wondering how the heck I was gonna get down, this crusty old enduro racer appeared out of nowhere. Seriously, like a mirage of dust and two-stroke smoke.
Without me even asking, the old coot looks at me and grumbles, "You wanna know how to spell ‘ENDURO’? Simple: Sand, whoops, single track, and rocks. Lots of rocks." I figured he had more to say, but when he offered no more, I asked his name. He scratched his grizzled chin and said, "Rick. And you spell that: Grit, Dust, Crust, and Beer." Then, like a ghost from Enduros Past, he kicked his bike to life, gave me a nod, and rode off down the hill, bouncing through the rocks like they weren’t even there.
Now, I’ll be honest—he wasn’t exactly a Rhodes Scholar. I mean, spelling like that? Come on. But the old guy had a point. After battling through the Double Dog Dare Enduro, I’m starting to think the Beckers might’ve had a run-in with this same sage of the single track. 'Cause if that enduro wasn’t sand, whoops, rocks, and more than a dash of dust, I don’t know what is!
Within the first five miles, the Beckers put in two pitiless hills, designed by the devil himself, which caused carnage all day. The first loop had the compound problem of the sun, making it nearly impossible to see the rocks before bouncing off them and into the soft side of the trail where you had no hope of getting going again. The unrelenting single track and rocks meant little time to relax or makeup lost time. No breaks, no mercy. Add in the heat and it was survival mode. The results pretty much told the story—only a handful of riders outside the Master Class managed to hit all the checks within their minutes. The rest? Well, let’s just say they had a long day.
One rider not having a long day was the overall winner, Thomas Moore. Dropping only a single second, he had a brush with a perfect day. In the Expert Class, Alexis Eberhardt rode like she was channeling that old enduro wizard from the mountaintop. She dropped a measly three seconds in the first two loops, and even the punishing downhill at the end only tacked on a few more seconds. Talk about a Master Class performance! Jake Hoskins likewise was the only Amateur to stay within his minute. Hats off to you both—stellar rides!
Now, the Novice Class? That was a showdown. Brian Ribeneck had a fantastic run, dropping only six seconds, while Logan Roe couldn’t quite hang on, losing 39 seconds in the same stretch. And then, we’ve got Tim Moore. What can I say? The guy’s the GOAT in the Senior-Expert Class for a reason. He was cooking all day but hit a wall—literally and figuratively—dropping a minute on his final check. Still, even a slowed-down Tim is faster than most of us on a good day. Dick Cressy snagged the win in the Senior Expert class, and newcomer Scott Dewindt nailed his first Novice-X victory. Well done, Scott—first of many, I’d bet!
Saturday saw its own version of Battle Royale in the brutal heat. Jack R muscled his way to the Beginner Class win, while Mikayla Reiter tore it up in the highly competitive Sport Class.
In all, I’m not sure what’s tougher—facing those hills and rocks or racing in a furnace, but all our riders did both and came out grinning... or maybe grimacing. Either way, solid rides all around.
See you all at the Outlaw Enduro, October 19-20!
Next Event
Double Dog Dare Enduro
Hosted by the Becker Family
Roll Charts and Route Sheets Below:
Route Sheet
Roll Chart
Roll Chart W/O Speed
Date: September 28 and 29
Key Time: Note the Key Time change to 8:00 AM to beat the heat!
Location: Stephen’s Mine Road and Pipeline Road, Spangler Hills OHV
Potluck Theme: Just in from the Trail Boss! Potluck theme is “regular ol’ potluck”
Location: Stephen’s Mine Road and Pipeline Road
35.534369, -117.559715
