I Raced ATVs At Watkins Glen. Then I DNF'd Due To a Big Crash
My weekend in upstate New York made me realize that ATV racing is alive and well, and absolutely wild.
The rain came suddenly, although ominous slate-colored clouds had loomed in the distance since we had arrived. Standing beneath an easy-up tent in an effort to stay dry, a thunderous sound could be heard in the distance. But it did not come from the sky above. It was the start of the youth ATV race, which kicked off shortly before I was scheduled to race myself.
A dead engine start (key on, motor off) meant that the kids scattered across the starting line had fired their engines in unison when the green flag waved. An eruption of sound followed as they tore off across the field, battling for position, heading into the first of two hairpin turns. Holeshot secured, the first rider disappeared into the dense forest that would make up most of the 12-mile GNCC racecourse surrounding Watkins Glen International.
I could see the finish line from where I was standing beneath the BLU CRU tent. Parked next to me were three Grizzly 700 ATVs that had been outfitted with FOX suspension, a taller steering stem, Flex-Bars, an insanely loud exhaust system, and custom-made beadlock wheels wrapped in GBC tires that had been stuffed with mouse balls to prevent the possibility of a flat. The machines sat two inches lower than stock thanks to the FOX suspension, and looked about as cool as a Yamaha Grizzly can look. They were race-ready. Built by BNR Motorsports out of Ohio to compete in the 4x4 Sport class at Grand National Cross-Country races around the U.S.
As the frontrunners in the youth class began to pass beneath the inflatable finish line arch, Scott Newby, Yamaha Communications Commander, along with myself and fellow journalist, Steven Elmer, boarded our race-prepped Grizzlys and departed for the starting line.
The rain had stopped almost as suddenly as it had arrived. Humidity lingered in the air, and the smell of wet grass and mud and race fuel filled our olfactory system. We crossed the dirt road that separated the racecourse from the tents and trailers that we’d been sequestered beneath and made our way to the starting grid.
Created in collaboration with Racer Productions, the 4x4 Sport class was designed to provide a competitive outlet for performance-oriented utility ATV riders. The class offers a competitive avenue for riders seeking an ATV racing experience, utilizing production-based machines that are readily available to enthusiasts and often already in their garages. The requirements for the 4x4 Sport class are quite simple, honestly. The machine can be powered by any 201cc to 750cc single-cylinder motor and must be a utility ATV with a production-based engine. Remove any steel racks, upgrade the suspension and tires if you care to, and that’s it.
You’re ready to go racing.
More than 800 ATVs had signed up for the inaugural AMSOIL Watkins Glen International GNCC race that took place on Saturday. The first of three races was made up predominantly of ATV Youth class riders, while the second, my race, featured 34 different classes, with riders ranging in age from 13 to 60-plus. The third and final race was for the XC1 Pro class, and nine others – XC2 Pro-Am, College, Junior, Vet, Senior, et al. The fast classes.
Well, faster.
Founded in 1975, the GNCC’s 13-round motorcycle and ATV championship is one of the most physically demanding motorsports in the world. The grueling two-plus-hour GNCC contests take racers across varied terrain, up massive hill climbs, through tight woods and muddy two-track, all while dealing with an endless barrage of dirt and rocks. Racetracks range in length from eight to twelve miles and are a test of both survival and speed.
I don’t get nervous. Not in the traditional sense. There are no butterflies or heavy breathing. No fluster, just focus. I do get anxious, though. Waiting is the worst part. So as the rows of racers set off in front of us, the green flag waving in the distance, I was eager to get this thing going.
I was tethered to my Grizzly by a stretchy cord attached to the kill switch. In the event of an ‘off-machine experience,’ this would shut the engine down and prevent the 900-lb Grizzly from dancing its way through the woods on its own. That tether would prove an interesting obstacle to navigate about halfway into the first lap.
The row in front of us threw rocks and dirt as they departed the start line, making haste of the first two hairpin corners before heading into the woods.
It was time.
There were seven of us racing in the 4x4 Sport ATV class, and somehow I ended up at the end of the line, furthest from the apex of the first corner. Next to me was Elmer, followed by Newby. My only goal was to not crash in that first corner, and maybe, just maybe, keep up with Newby as we entered the woods.
“Ten seconds!”
With my thumb hanging over the start button, and the other waiting impatiently atop the throttle, the green flag waved. My Grizzly came to life. The sound of the aftermarket exhaust exited like buckshot. I was off, and so were Elmer and Newby and the four other racers in our class.
That first corner came on quick. I swung my ass off the Grizzly, opposite of the apex, stabbed at the throttle with my thumb, and let inertia do some work. Sliding the machine, I aimed the handlebar at the next corner. Newby was next to me, then in front of me. Two others in front of him. Not bad, I thought. At least I didn’t crash!
Ignorance often leads to overconfidence.
In this case, I had no idea what the racecourse would consist of, or how to handle a 900-lb utility ATV at speed. I’ve ridden a few, the real big ones, but only for an afternoon, and always on a guided ride through some scenic countryside. In anger, though, is a different story, and an entirely different animal.
The woods were tight. The course had been cut with only inches to spare on either side of the machine. Roots and loose rocks meant the Grizzly danced around beneath my butt, uncontrollably at times. I kept pace with Newby, sticking as close to the backside of his BLU CRU machine as I possibly could. At one point, the racer in front of him got stuck, jamming Newby and me up as well. Scott threw his Grizzly into reverse, bounced off the front crash bar of my machine, and took off around the stranded racer.
I followed suit.
Those first thirty minutes felt like four hours. I had done all that I could to pre-hydrate, but by the time we’d cleared the first section of woods, my mouth was dry, tacky almost, like I’d ripped a joint on my high-school lunch break and needed to hit the water fountain before class. My pace was brisk by my standards and seemed enough to keep Newby within a stone’s throw of me. But the higher you fly, the further you fall.
When I saw it on the second lap, it all made sense. A massive root system cutting across the trail, right between two trees, with just enough room to squeeze a Grizzly through. I’d hit that root hard, and in the process, must have snapped the handlebar opposite lock, and likely with my thumb stuffed into the throttle.
The following moments are a bit of a blur, but what I do know is that the front left wheel lifted, the machine turned suddenly to the right, hit the adjacent tree, and ejected me into the ground. Hard.
Elmer, who had been running a few racers behind me, stopped when he saw my Grizzly lying on its side, and me on the ground next to it, still tethered by that bungy-style red cord. He ran over, “Dude, are you okay?!” I couldn’t breathe. The wind exhausted from my lungs. “Let’s get this thing back on its wheels,” Elmer suggested. I fumbled with the kill switch cord, trying to cut it loose to both stop the Grizzly from running and also give myself some distance from the downed bear.
With Elmer doing most of the work, the Grizzly landed right side up, listed a little, and then settled in the middle of the racecourse. Again, with Elmer exerting most of the effort, we pushed the machine out of the way and let the line of racers that had stacked up behind me get through.
Then defeat set in.
The Grizzly wouldn’t start. Key on, switch engaged, the starter motor just spun with no effect. “You should go, I’ll sort this out,” I proposed to Elmer. He was concerned, though. I had hit the ground on my right side, directly on my rib cage, and couldn’t breathe worth a shit. “I’m all right,” I assured him. And with a little more reassurance and encouragement, he set off again.
The thing about crashing is, it’s like eggs. If you think about it too long or too often, you’d likely never throw a leg over a racing machine. Or eat an omelette. It’s not inevitable, though, but it’s an understood reality, the weighing of risk versus reward. And it always happens when you least expect it.
I’d spent five to maybe fifteen minutes poking at the start button, thumbing the throttle, shifting from H to L to R to N, and the Grizzly still wouldn’t start. Then I killed the power, clicked the key back on, and hit the button again. Bark! Well, shit. The Grizzly fired to life as if nothing had happened. I was still struggling to catch my breath, though, and my ribcage felt like a Triple-A baseball player had taken a swing at it with his Louisville Slugger. But adrenaline is a hell of a drug, and with enough wind in my sails, er, lungs, I spun the Grizzly around and rejoined the race, albeit somewhere at the back, with the front runners surely closing the gap, quickly.
I managed to finish that first lap and another. Every big hit, every root and rock and downed tree limb that I rode over at speed spat the air from my lungs and slowed me down, often forcing me off the track so as to let the leaders pass without a problem. The course was chaos on that second lap. There was a big, muddy hill climb that had to be conquered at speed.
Sport Quads were strewn about at the bottom, a few even lying upside down in the trees to either side. I lined up along with everyone else and watched as 450cc-powered, straight-axle ATVs attempted the oil-slick hillside. Then it hit me. This thing is a 4x4, I can just go around and avoid the carnage. Turns out, when two extra wheels are turning, the terrain is quite easy to conquer, even when it’s wet and muddy and riddled with tree limbs and slippery rocks.
Newby eventually passed me, somewhere toward the end of my second lap. I’d pulled over to catch my breath when I saw his BLU CRU livery slip past, hot on the tail of the second-place 4x4 Sport ATV racer in front of him. The pain in my ribs was getting worse, and I couldn’t ride for more than a mile without having to stop and rest. At one point, a spectator ran over to me, slumped over on my Grizzly, trying to regain my composure.
“You got this! Let me wipe your goggles," he exclaimed, as he cleared the mud that was pancaked on my lens, smacking me on the ass, and then wandered off back into the woods.
Closing in on the finish line, the racecourse cut through the campground, edged on either side by toy haulers and tents and fifth-wheel trailers. The crowd erupted anytime someone rode through, no matter their speed or position in the pack. And dotted throughout the woods on your way back toward the finish, you’d find race fans, filming with their phones, shouting encouraging words like “Let's f**cking go!” and offering their hands for high-fives through the slower sections. It was surreal, to say the least. The excitement was palpable. The enthusiasm unmatched.
When I hit the finish line on that second lap, nearly two hours after I’d seen the green flag wave across the field, I thought surely there’d be a checkered one waving for me. But it was white, and I was finished. I kept on for another section, but when I saw my friend Casey standing on the side of the track, I took the opportunity to pull off. I couldn’t make it around again. That second lap tested my pain tolerance and my willingness to put a last-place finish before a DNF. But the adrenaline had worn off, and I was struggling to keep my speed up, pulling over to let racers pass more than I myself was racing. So, I called it quits.
There’s shame in not finishing, whether anyone wants to admit it or not. But there’s even more in never trying. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
More than 800 ATV racers lined up in Watkins Glen, New York, to test themselves against time, terrain, chaos, and competitors. There were kids and grandparents, college students and working professionals, hired guns and weekend warriors. A full suite of enthusiasts who, though the media might make you think otherwise, are all in on ATVs. And while racing quads might not be my thing, their enthusiasm is infectious, and the racing I saw that weekend—the difficultly of the course, the chaos and the fierce competition—reminded me that to truly test yourself, you’ve got to take chances.
So, go on, eat the eggs.
Grand National Cross-Country Racing
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