Sometimes the drive to a race can be a good indication of how it's all going to turn out. My buddy Rob Rogers came along to watch the race and take some pictures, and we quickly found ourselves lost while searching for the town of Fosterburg. We pulled into a gas station near Alton and asked the teenager behind the counter for directions. His reply was less than helpful, if not completely worthless. Long before GPS in every car and Google Maps on every phone, we relied upon a DeLorme detailed topographic map stashed away in my pickup truck. Such were the times in 1999. Those maps could be the difference between arriving on time or arriving at all.
We finally located the Splinter Creek club grounds and pulled in 30 minutes before the start. This was a short window to sign up, get dressed and warm up the bike, but I made it to the Open B starting line with a few minutes to spare. A motocross track hosted the various rows of riders lined up for the start. The course would take us a few turns around the track before retreating into the woods. Most hare scramble promoters are in tune with the differences between woods racers and motocrossers, particularly how those skills cross over between genres. As a group, we hare scramblers (the average ones, anyway) are simply not good on moto tracks. We try, really. But when rubber hits dirt, moto is not our thing. For all practical purposes, a motocross track in a hare scramble course is mostly symbolic. The actual racing happens well within the woods. The track is where we try to survive without breaking things.
Only three racers entered the Open B class, which would seem to improve my odds of a good finish but guaranteed nothing of course. When the flag dropped, I worked my way into the lead position on the first lap and checked into the main scoring area in first place. I was shocked, surprised, and nervous. Never before had this happened. I began the second lap with confidence, slicing through the tight woods and ruts with ease. My head was full of good thoughts, my body was strong, I was in a groove, and then...a mud hole. The obstacle was a small stream crossing with a very soft bottom. The rear wheel became buried in the kind of slop that would make a pig squeal with joy.
Needless to say, the other two riders in my class passed by quickly and I became a cautionary tale for everyone else. Minutes passed while I evaluated my options and planned a strategy for extricating the rear wheel from this swampy, slimy muck. Pushing the bike while the wheel spun only dug a deeper hole. I didn't have the strength to lift the wheel out of the slop, with the suction of black mud preventing release. Bike after bike passed by on both sides, all with ease. I was alone in the mud hole.
An hour later, somehow the wheel magically unstuck itself and I was back on the trail. Near the main checkpoint I saw Rob, wondering where in the world I'd been. The third lap wasn't much better than the second, thanks to the radiator spewing most of its coolant. I paused to fill it with water from my drinking bottle, then cut out of the race just before it was over.
Afterwards I began to question whether motorcycle racing was my thing. I didn't feel I was improving but didn't realize how much I was learning. Those thoughts lasted all of 3 or 4 hours and then I was ready for the next one, hopeful for better luck.
