The Park Hills round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship was also the March of Dimes benefit race, held annually at St. Joe State Park. The event is always well attended, and this year the KTM factory team truck was present with their paid professional racer Guy Cooper. I briefly considered pulling aside his mechanic and asking how the off-road world fell so in love with their motorcycles. Did I miss the memo where KTM owners were advised to hire their own personal mechanics to keep the orange machines running properly? Or the one about taking out a second mortgage to afford the broken parts? I will admit, my frustration tended to breed a bit of sarcasm and exaggeration. I really only needed to know about the second mortgage.
When I arrived at the non-public Missouri Mines side of the park, the staging area was alive with bikes and RVs and a mobile soundstage for the riders meeting. This was a serious event. The course wound its way through the sand flats and took a serpentine route through the pits. The Pro class had already staked out spots along the lone straight section of the flats, where the riders could stop for fuel, their pit crews ready in an instant with dry-break fuel jugs that emptied gallons within seconds. I had no worries about fuel capacity, with my enduro-ready 300EXC. But many of the fastest racers were riding converted motocross bikes outfitted with small, slim fuel tanks. Given their propensity to hold throttles wide open for ridiculous lengths, most of these riders would refuel at least once.
On the starting line, my not-so-new KTM continued its sketchy behavior when the engine refused to fire after the green flag dropped. In the staging area the engine had run just fine. After about 30 seconds kicking over the engine in PRT (panicked racer time), I was forced to pull off to the side of the starting line and move out of the way of the rows behind me. I continued kicking as row after row left the starting line. At last, the engine finally came to life just before the women's class departed.
About 300 yards later, the throttle stuck open in a set of sand whoops and I crashed hard. The sand cushioned the fall, but pain shot through my thigh as the women passed by. I remounted in discomfort and rushed to get back on the trail. A few minutes later I gradually began reeling in the ladies, not as quickly as I expected. Their speed was surprising. Some would surely pass most of the C classes and work through some B riders. These women were serious racers.
The course followed some of the May enduro trails in the non-public part of St. Joe State Park. Unlike the enduro, we would not cross over to the public riding area, where the trails were beat down from years of ATV use. The non-public side included a long earthen dam, a remnant of past lead mining activities, and odd structures in the woods, also leftovers from long-abandoned mining infrastructure. The warm summer weather created a few dusty areas, but within the trees the trails were easy to follow.
Speeds were relatively fast, especially in the open areas of the sand flats. Even with limited riding in these sections throughout each year, the sand became whooped out quickly. As the Pro class began lapping me about halfway through the race, these riders were simply amazing to watch in the whoops. They just refused to slow down, skimming over the tops and slamming their bikes into the corners. In sand, momentum pays, and these guys had built up a lot of credit. The KX250 2-stroke of Chris Thiele was revved to the moon when he passed me like I was a ghost. I was a mortal, in a world of riders not of this earth.
While the trees and rocks and ravines flew by, my engine began running poorly, as if the spark plug had fouled. I completed the lap and rode back to my pickup truck, replaced the spark plug, and found the engine running just as poorly. The throttle stuck open a few more times, but now I was prepared for the possibility and quickly pulled in the clutch lever any time I felt the engine lurch forward without any input from me. It's a scary feeling, fearing the motorcycle. Whenever this happened, I could give the throttle a couple of quick twists and the engine would usually go back to normal.
On the final lap a nasty storm blew in and the St. Joe sand flats turned into a reincarnation of the Dust Bowl. Rain came down hard, just in time for me to load up the bike and change out of dirty clothes. I was tired, bruised, and looking for answers. Soon enough, I'd find some.
