My first spring in St. Louis left me wondering how I ever endured the cold Illinois early season races. The first round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC) was like a summer day compared to what Matt Sellers and I had experienced at the District 17 opener at Cuba, Illinois in March. We both traveled to Steelville and entered the Open B class. This would be my best opportunity to size up my riding skills against a rock specialist. Together Matt and I had ridden at St. Joe State Park in Park Hills, where we were close in speed, but he seemed to have an edge where the trails became rock gardens.
The turnout for the first round of the MHSC series was well attended, with more entrants than I'd ever seen at a District 17 hare scramble. And unlike Illinois races, the Missouri series allowed for practice laps. During this time I noticed play in the steering head, apparently because I didn't tighten it down enough when I replaced the triple clamps after the Belleville debacle. A quick adjustment at my truck and I was ready to go.
When the flag dropped to start the race, disaster nearly struck again when a rider's handlebars became entangled in mine. With so many Open B racers sprinting across an open field toward a much narrower trail, the bikes were spaced tightly. I felt my KTM pulling to the right, and before I understood the situation, our two bikes unlocked and I caught a glimpse of the other rider's motorcycle cartwheeling across the field. I hoped he was not injured.
Matt sped ahead while I rounded the first turn. I caught up to him a few minutes later and then passed by while he pulled off the trail. Several of his front fender bolts had fallen out and the white plastic of his KTM 300EXC flapped in the breeze. I pushed forward, searching for the next rider ahead. All I saw were motorcycles from behind, piloted by racers in the other B classes who started in rows behind me, now working their way through my class. Of those able to so quickly catch and pass me from behind, many were in early stages of racing, fast learners destined to move into higher classes. Things didn't work that way for me. There would be no rapid progression from beginner class to the A class. I would have to put in the work over many years. At this point in my racing, I'd have been happy just to be an average B rider.
The Steelville trails were typical of most Missouri events in the lower half of the state. With mature woods filled with large trees, the trails were fairly open and the course flowed well. Here, the rocks were flat-edged, sharp, and hard on tires. I'd chosen a new Dunlop soft terrain rear tire, thinking it would last a few races. Little did I know, the knobs would be slashed and ground, as if spun across a cheese grater for two hours. My tried and true trick, remounting the old tire flipped around in reverse, would be useless. This one would be sent to knobby heaven.
True to a classic Missouri race, the course length kept the number of laps to a minimum. At 12 miles long, this was a difficult one for memory retention. I remembered the creek beds, the near-vertical drops into ravines, the boulders colored like the Statue of Liberty, and of course the manure pile, arrowed and caution-taped straight down the center. Most everything else was new to me every lap.
The MHSC series itself was also new to me, having only raced the Flat River Grand Prix last year. I may as well have been riding on the moon. I'd never seen rocks like that and spent much of the next year learning how to ride terrain that reminded me of rock quarries. Steelville was more of the same. I marveled at the fast guys, especially the ones who lapped me near the end.
The promoters were kind enough to put out a white flag at the main checkpoint, when one lap remained. The problem for me was my lap times slightly over 40 minutes. When I began my third lap, it wasn't yet clear if it would be my last. As it were, I finished lap 3 about 90 seconds after my two hours were up. I wouldn't say I was disappointed. Had I been granted a 4th lap, I probably would have run out of fuel.
The MHSC electronic scoring system was a step up from the fender cards I'd become used to at Illinois races. A bar code sticker was stuck to my helmet and scanned each time I passed through the main checkpoint. After the race, the results were uploaded to the Internet and I could obsess over my lap times and second guess my bad decisions and think about all the things I could have done to finish higher. I was hooked on the MHSC.
