Fourteen races, 66 engine hours and $1,500 in repairs. The numbers guy I am, this was how I measured the 1999 season ahead of the Festus round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC). At home, I tracked every race and practice ride on an Excel spreadsheet, determined to account for everything which affected my motorcycle and my bank account. I had come to St. Louis in 1998 for a better job and quickly poured the extra cash into my escalating racing habit. I was the only human I knew who embraced the folly of actually wanting to know the cost of racing. And now I knew why.
The Festus site, the shortest drive of the season, was alive with racing as I turned over more cash for what would be my final MHSC race of the season. While waiting in line to register, Jonesboro ATV race still fresh in my mind, I witnessed yet another reason why ATVs scare the bejesus out of me. The course was routed next to the registration line and crossed a shallow gully at the edge of the woods. The fast guys were hammering through it and some of the slower guys were emulating. Their results were mixed. Suddenly a scream pierced the dusty air and all eyes shifted to the gully. An ATV had crossed it and was continuing down the trail without its rider. Technically, the rider was still with his ATV, if it counts to be dragged along the trail while pinned underneath it. More shrieks from the crowd alerted a group of onlookers to stop the ATV and lift the machine off its rider. He lay on the trail, stunned in the moment, but then rose to his feet and strolled towards the staging area.
After a practice lap, a turkey sandwich and a Gatorade, I found my place on the Open B row, where once again the bike would leave me stranded at the starting line. Several layers of embarrassment are present in these failed launches. Most of the racers manage to start their engines with a single kick and leave the line immediately. A few take a second kick and are on their way shortly afterward. A bit embarrassing, but no reason to visit a therapist. The next layer is panic embarrassment, which is what I experienced on the Festus starting line. After the third or fourth failed kick, I feared the bike wouldn't start before the next row was set to take off. How many more times do I kick this thing, I would fret, before I must push the bike off the starting line? The flagman's nervousness flares up, as he stares down the rider, knowing the next row has to be released exactly one minute after, or the adjusted time for overall scoring won't adjust properly. Will this guy exit the starting line, he surely deliberated, or will I have to yell at him to move out of the way?
Thankfully, my engine fired up before I had to suffer the final layer of embarrassment: The dejected exit. Also referred to as the Push of Shame, this maneuver involves a rider forcing his bike offline, head down, often followed by animated arm and leg gestures expressing his maximum frustration. But worry not, I may have avoided the dejected exit but my troubles were far from over.
After I was on my way into the woods, I found myself in a state of strangulation. My chest protector was on a breathing prevention mission, thanks to its straps flapping in the wind. None were latched, causing the chest protector to force its way against the front of my neck. Of course this was not the first boneheaded oversight of my racing career, nor would it be the last. A quick stop to latch the straps put me further back in last place.
By the time I yanked my head from my butt and began racing, I was so far behind my competitors that I had already resolved myself to a lousy finish. To put my position in proper perspective, the winner of the youth class, who started several rows behind my class, passed me as if I were trail riding. There is the feeling of slow, and then there's the reality: A 13-year-old blew by my 300cc motorcycle on an 85cc minibike. Let that sink in for a moment. This little man had to pick his way through the beginner class, the C class, and a handful of B classes in order to reach me. In all, he had probably passed 30 or 40 adults and was on his way for more.
Despite my troubles, the course was exceptionally fun. As much as I eschew motocross, the promoters had laid out a great little track in a pasture, and a nearly mile-long section of flat trail inside the woods where the bravest would tap out throttles in their highest gears. The course flowed so well and my fitness level had improved so much that time was far from my mind. I could simply ride the course, not fight it or dislike it or wish the race to end.
This late in the season, my lap times were beginning to stay consistent throughout entire races. I'd hoped Festus would produce better results, as I still wanted improvement in rocky terrain, but this would not be my year. I continued to learn and gradually gain confidence riding in the Missouri rocks. I looked forward to the new millennium, determined to race more events in this series and improve upon my 12th place in the Open B class for 1999. From now on, I would not just be an MHSC racer, I'd be an MHSC regular.
