Racing the Dick Jagow GP with Honda

The Mt. Scott Motorcycle Club in Portland, Oregon hosts the Dick Jagow Memorial GP at the esteemed Washougal Motocross Park once a year. My first experience with this event was two years ago when riding buddy, MotoUSA’s Graphic Guru, Brian Chamberlain, and I headed up Interstate 5 on a whim, wanting to get some time on the National-caliber track. We’re both off-road riders at heart, so 90 minutes of racing around the woods and grasstrack surrounding the motocross course was a tempting lure we couldn’t resist.

After thoroughly trouncing Chamberlain and the rest of our field thanks to a scoring error, I’ve reigned heavy-handed around the office as the defending Jagow champ. Never mind the fact that it was completely bogus. Last year we missed out on a rematch due to scheduling conflicts, and so I held it over his head unashamedly for another year. On September 19 we finally got a chance to hash it out on the racetrack for one of our JC/BC battle royales.

Dick Jagow was an avid off-road motorcyclist in the Northwest. His legacy left a lasting impression on the Mt. Scott Motorcycle Club which holds the event in his honor. Rich Jagow is one of the primary organizers of the event who also participated along with another Jagow, Kyle – so it’s a ride that’s close to the heart. It’s part of the Oregon Motorcycle Riders Association (OMRA) championship GP schedule and uses the Emerald Trail Riders Association (ETRA) scoring system to tally the event. Since we only race this, and perhaps a couple other OMRA races, we made sure to designate that we weren’t racing for points so as not to screw up the guys and gals scrapping for a championship.

Last time I was riding a Yamaha YZ250F with aftermarket off-road components, but this year it was the MotoUSA long-term Honda CRF250R. After winning our 2010 250 Motocross Shootout, the CRF has racked up almost 30 hours of moto time, so we installed a set of Cycra Probend CRM handguards and a fresh pair of knobbies and went racing. I’ve found that 250F machines are my preferred steed for longer races (realistically anything over about 10 minutes) for their forgiving nature and lighter weight. With mud in the forecast and Washougal’s notorious wet-weather reputation, I knew wrestling an open-class bike was not a good option. One of the reasons we love the Jagow GP so much is that it offers a lot of riding. Most GPs we see are in the neighborhood of an hour, and even the WORCS races only offer 70 minutes of fun (or hell depending on your fitness).

Another reason the Jagow is a favorite is the layout. This year’s course wound through slippery grasstrack before knifing through the woods, back onto the open hills, up a stretch of pavement that saw the CRF in fifth gear and then back into the woods before popping out on Washougal’s notorious whoop section. We only used about a quarter of the motocross track, but there was no way they would run us up Horsepower Hill in those conditions.

I had made a post on the MotorcycleUSA.com Facebook page about heading for a mud race, and Washougal operator, Brian Barnes, responded that it wouldn’t be as bad as I expected. After driving through pounding rain from one end of the state to the next, and then listening to it drum down on our Portland hotel all night, I was pretty sure the only thing going to be deeper than Washougal’s mud was Barnes’ pile of BS.

Lo and behold, we awoke to a silent roof. Overcast weather threatened as we drove the short distance down Highway 14 in the predawn gloom, but our windshield wipers stayed calm. We rolled into the track at 6:15 a.m. which gave us 15 minutes before signups opened at the announcing tower. Standing in line, the grey light increasing by the minute, it started to sprinkle just as we reached the front window.

Fortunately, it quit after just a few minutes, which was about how long it took to get registered. Getting signed up was the simplest process I’ve ever experienced at a two-wheeled event. I filled out one paper that had a few lines of personal info, marked which class I wanted to race and paid the measly 40 dollars. There was no AMA license required, no transponder rental fee and no club memberships. The organizers provided a simple tag for the front number plate to designate your class on the starting line (we lined up in waves), and a temporary number/barcode that went on the helmet chinbar for digital scoring. BC was pretty excited about this since the last time we raced the scoring was done with a punch card – which we suspect were erroneously shuffled and led to my demoralizing victory.

From there it was a matter of getting the final touches put on our bikes and gear, drop a fuel can and spare goggles in the pit area and head to the starting line in the south field. The first race left at 8 a.m. with each class separated by 30 seconds. We were in the third wave so we were able to watch the opening riders slip and slide through the first few turns. The starting procedure changed a little this year and riders no longer have to straddle their front fender. Instead, we lined up on our bikes, dead engine, with our right hands on our helmet. Once the flag dropped we kicked/thumbed and hammered away into a right-hander.

I had been practicing the start and had the CRF dialed, consistently lighting on the first or second kick despite the EFI system requiring a charge. It wasn’t so successful when in gear, so I opted to leave it in neutral and grab a quick shift. Of course, that didn’t play out when it actually mattered. Once the bikes around me roared to life, the sound of my little 250’s stock engine/exhaust was drowned out. After three kicks I figured it had to be running and gave it a twist of throttle to feel the vibes. It didn’t rev and it took another kick or two to get going. Fortunately, BC had an even worse start on his CRF450R, and I was already putting riders between us.

Everyone was going really slow through the first grasstrack section, timidly feeling things out. I realized the opportunity and put faith in the sharp edges of my new Pirelli tires. It was important not to get sucked into their pace and to make as much time as possible on the leaders in the early going. The corners were smooth, but they were all off-camber. I held it on a little longer than my competitors going into each and tried to counterbalance and pick up the gas early. I’ve ridden with BC enough to know that he’s a wizard at backing it in and drifting out, so I knew he was eating that stuff up behind me on his 450.

I managed to pass four or five guys before entering the woods for the first time which put me in roughly the top third out of 13 riders. The wave in front of us was the 200 class and I immediately started catching the buzzing two-strokes. Cool, damp conditions and quad-width trails seemed to keep the blue smoke hanging around more than usual, and I took a few good lungfuls by the time I worked through the largest bunch of them.

Despite the fact that the rear tire was a hard-terrain tread (the only option I had on hand to replace the bald one), I was happy with the level of traction and placed more and more trust in the tires. The 250 was agile and I could go much faster than most, though passing was always an interesting ordeal with riders constantly swapping left and right. Over the course of the race I locked handlebars and shoved someone off the trail, ran over a crashed bike and nearly took myself out trying to run up inside someone.

BC caught me at the check point to end Lap 1, which came much quicker than I expected. The laps were short, only about 15 minutes apiece which made it easier to learn the course and remember certain passing options, good/bad lines and bottleneck areas. Ignoring check-point etiquette, we blasted out and roosted the workers (sorry guys, but this was important) and he made the pass before we left the motocross section. I followed him, keeping pace much better than expected through the grasstrack. We quickly closed on three riders and he worked through them all with a masterful three-for-one move in a slippery left-hander, and I knew I had to get them before we hit the trees. I snaked up the middle of two just before the course funneled down and zapped the other immediately with a clean pass.

In the tighter stuff I seemed to have an even better chance of hanging as his high-horsepower beast spun at the mere thought of acceleration. BC is a revver by nature where I prefer to lug the motor. This too played into my favor, but he quickly adapted his style to carry a gear higher for better traction – though this would cost him down the road. We popped back out into the grasstrack and he yarded the piss out of my little 250 on the paved section, power-sliding onto the tarmac and blasting away. From there I slowly let him off the hook and lost touch through the end of the second loop.

Nearing the halfway mark, some sloppy clutch work and the taller gears led to a pair of stalls that allowed me to slip back around – yelling as though I’d terminated him in a roost of hell. He was immediately back on my rear wheel and I gave him as much nasty goop as I could find. My lines weebled, traction wobbled and I slung mud like it was going out of style. The method worked, forcing him to back it down, regroup and make another charge. I made the slender CRF as wide as possible, taking up the entire track in the wooded sections and drifting generously in the grasstrack. I didn’t dare look back, race ahead they always say, but determined my corner approach based on the sound of his approaching 450. Eventually I made a mistake and lost drive out of a slick corner. He returned the mud bath, linked a few turns smoothly and was gone.

The next two loops were pretty uneventful and I started to get caught up in my own thoughts as the minutes clicked by. Fortunately, so did BC who couldn’t help but show off for the spectators along the whoop section. Track workers had made it more of a rhythm section and Brian decided to try to double through. Seat bounce – mud – swap – eject. The crash wound up tweaking his right arm a bit and took some wind out of his sails. But that wasn’t his last poor decision of the day.

I had told him that I wasn’t going to pit for gas, and in preparation had strapped a Gatorade bottle filled with fuel to my handlebars. This was an emergency reserve, only to be used if stranded. BC had also taken the same precaution, but decided anyway to stop on the last lap. He actually wasn’t aware that it was the final circuit. I wouldn’t have been either except for blind luck that had me passing the PA system just as it was announced for the benefit of the spectators. Due to the mud, I couldn’t really tell if BC was in the pit area, but he saw me cruise by just as he raised the five-gallon jug for a quick splash. In a bit of panic and “what the hell” mentality, he tossed down the can (without taking any) and resumed the chase.

Now, he’s no fool. Having already seen my willingness to ride dirty (pun intended), he decided to hang back a bit and pounce in a swift move rather than get close right away and eat roost. The plan worked. Not knowing I had passed him at the check, I didn’t even expect to see the #52 Honda come blasting past. So off he went, for a third time, and I grabbed the throttle with renewed energy. I have a habit of riding below the ragged edge, knowing that a crash typically takes more time away than I would gain by pushing the boundaries. However, it also pays off to take chances at times, so I decided there would never be a better opportunity than a last-lap showdown. Literally one second after I shouted in my helmet, “Come on, JC, push,” I flopped over the outside of a rut and landed directly in about four inches of standing water. So much for taking chances… My left hand was soaked and the grips muddy, but my Cycra handguards had kept the clutch lever from suffering damage, so I picked up my bike, kicked it to life and set off with the hopes that BC would return the favor.

The miles wound down and I lost a bit of focus when another rider started hounding me. Typically, off-road racers move over for others if they catch them quickly and it’s obvious they are holding up the show. I do it for others and expect them to do it for me. But anyone with two ounces of brain knows that doesn’t hold true on the last lap. The most I could offer, and I think it was pretty generous considering he could have been in my class, was to hold a line around three consecutive corners and straights (that’s an eternity). He didn’t take the opportunity so I didn’t offer again. By the time he made it around at the base of a downhill he had some nasty things to say, but that’s what you get for being an idiot. It’s the last lap!

Once that distraction was over I just tried to get my pace back and reach the finish so I could get out of my soggy MSR gear. Not more than a minute from the checkered flag I rounded a corner and saw my nemesis sideways, stalled and half-off the trail. What fortune! A small uphill littered with slimy roots had derailed his momentum. Roost partially dried on my face crumbled into my mouth as I smiled my way past. Certain that he was storming back and knowing I couldn't hold him off if he caught me before the few segments of motocross track, I stretched the throttle cable with every ounce. I snuck a quick glance back before the whoops and had nobody in sight, making it pressure-free as I slid into the final check.

By the time he got back on track and across the line, I was resting comfortably at the MotoUSA van. We cleaned up, grabbed a bite to eat and watched some of the remaining races. With the exception of a quick sprinkle on Lap 2, the weather had held for our entire race and the sun came out in full force. By the time the AA riders headed out the course had really started to shape up, and the quads had a heyday to close things out.

We rehashed the day, bench racing every corner and near-death bobble on the ride home, and I snuck in a jab at every opportunity. With scoring provided instantly and then in further detail online, we can argue lap times, average speed and “what-ifs” all we want. BC might have had the outright speed, but I credit my dogged determination, focus that makes Ryan Dungey look scatterbrained and superior mental strength for the win. He calls it a classic example of the tortoise and the hare. So be it. A violent slash of my gleaming, plastic trophy cuts right through his belittling words, and the rest bounce harmlessly against my shell.

Over the course of 90 minutes of racing, I missed winning our class by 37 seconds. Third place in an amateur division is nothing to write home about, there’s a bazillion handed out every week. Sure, a victory would have been nice, but in the end it was about a good-natured rivalry - a successful road trip and epic duel with your riding pal is about as good as it gets regardless of what type of motorcycle racing you’re into.

Mt. Scott MC, I tip my hat. This is how GP racing should be done. And, since I walloped BC once again, I’m sure we’ll be back next year.