Beware the words of a club member who says there's been no rain in 7 weeks, and it's August in Missouri. In the lower half of the state, this makes trail surfaces divide into two distinct parts. The first is a rock pile, created by spinning rubber which clears the stones away from the main lines of the trail. The second part is a drywall-like dust, left behind after the rocks are displaced. Under normal circumstances the fine particles attach to surfaces. In the middle of an August drought, those particles float through the air like a fog. Without a breeze, the dust hovers between the trees, blinding riders and filling lungs.
Such was the Lebanon round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC). In the midst of a dry spell, the course would leave its racers dealing with poor vision, and in some cases difficulty breathing. What began as a wet racing season had morphed into what we had here: All-out, hard-core drought. When this type of weather pattern sets in, Missouri trails harden like concrete. ATVs from the morning race had started this process, clearing rocks and churning the surface into powder. Their fat tires had set up an ashy dust around every corner. A simple footstep in the powder would kick up a soft, gray cloud.
Over the weekend I'd decided to combine pleasure with more pleasure by visiting Lake of the Ozarks with friends. After the boating and the drinking and the Party Coving, I was working with limited sleep and memory. I'd forgotten to pack a jersey. On the way to the race site Sunday morning, I made a pit stop at Walmart and could only find a black long-sleeved t-shirt. Black...why did it have to be black? I would roast in that sun-absorbing shirt, and it was made from 100% cotton. I hadn't worn cotton since my very first race in 1994, when I didn't know any better. Today I had no excuses. This was a rookie mistake.
With my late start and Sunday morning tour of Walmart, I arrived without time for a practice lap. With a shrug, I pulled on my black shirt, located the Open B row in a shade-free pasture and began to bake. I glanced down at my racing couture, an ensemble organized around a single concept: Bargains. On the clearance rack, good deals tended to concentrate in basic colors. Black and white were common in bargain bins thus, my black boots and black helmet were now cooking me like a whole hog on a rotisserie.
The green flag eventually released the various classes into a great cloud of dust which also served as the race course. We started from an open field so thick with filth that the flagman had to make an effort to pause long enough between rows to clear the air. My class was eventually discharged into this fog, where I had to hold back about 50 feet from the riders in front of me. This was an exercise in riding blind and, quickly and predictably, I crashed. A chain of dry ruts, invisible under the cloud, took me down in an instant. The rider behind me couldn't see I'd fallen and ran over my rear fender with a thump and a crackle. Who needs fenders anyway, racing in a dust bowl? In lieu of hearing and feeling an annoying, flapping fender the next two hours, I grabbed what was left, gave the orange plastic a firm tug and ripped off the remnants.
Lebanon was by far the rockiest terrain I had ever ridden. I marveled how any plant life could survive in this environment, let alone be suitable for cattle grazing. Much of the course followed the ATV route from the morning race, up and down hills and in and out of ravines. Any time I approached a slower rider, his dust trail concealed what I needed to know most: Where will the next rock or root or log try to buck me off the bike?
Two laps in, riders had spread out and the dust became slightly more manageable. Even so, passing remained difficult. One of the better spots to get around slower riders was the ubiquitous MHSC creek bed, a staple of the Missouri races. Water was absent, but the creek bed had retained enough moisture to keep dust in check. But try as I might, the B class riders were strong here, and I could rarely make a pass stick.
Over the two hour race, I'd earned back two places lost during the fender incident. This was as far as my efforts would take me as I languished in the bottom half of my class. It wasn't for lack of trying. Near the end of the final lap I charged through a hilly pasture, cracked open the throttle and upshifted to third gear. In a heartbeat, with no warning, I was off the bike and on the ground. Hidden in the grass was a rock just large enough to rip the handlebars from my hands. My head spun as I sat up and comprehended the instant between cruising joyfully through an open field and flying off the bike like a bull rider who didn't get his 8 seconds. The KTM was fine and so was I, but right there I made an immediate and critical decision: I must have a steering damper. I'd seen and read about these contraptions and even witnessed the owner of the local KTM dealership demonstrate the damping effect on his race bike. In that moment, as I climbed back on my 300EXC and finished the race, I wasn't completely sure how a steering damper would help me, but I needed to try something or these Missouri rocks might the death of me.
My finish at Lebanon had put me into a top-10 points position for the Open B class. Despite sitting out more than half the races, I'd gained valuable experience in rocky terrain. Finally, the Missouri courses were gradually losing some of their mystery. I was far from competent in the woods west of the Mississippi, but on this day I'd felt a small inspiration that maybe...possibly...I could be average in the rocks. Small steps these were, indeed.
