Festus, Missouri

When the 2000 racing season began, I had my sights set on the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship. I was determined to figure out how to ride in the rocks, and the only way to do that is, well, ride in the rocks. During the off-season St. Joe State Park had become my go-to spot for practice, with its fast and rough trails and hills. Three races into the season, my results were average. Discouraged, I answered the call of Illinois and Indiana, my happy places. Now and then I'd venture again to the MHSC, finish with similar results, head to St. Joe for more practice, then retreat back to my comfort zone.

I gave it another go with the Festus, Missouri hare scramble, hoping to somehow crack the code for success in rock country. I'd have no excuses for dust or heat on this pleasant day. The race site was a 40 minute drive from my apartment, by far the closest MHSC venue on the schedule, so the time was now. I would prove myself at Festus.

And I did.

I proved that I was capable of a good start, entering the woods in second place. From there I proved I was still, at best, average in rocky terrain, although not for lack of trying. In the early minutes of the race, I kept pace with the lead pack of riders, then lost several spots when the trail turned into a limestone quarry. These were the flat-edged rocks of Eastern Missouri, with layer upon layer of horizontal ledges. The course was filled with sidehills where a single miscalculation could place a rider on the wrong ledge. Most often this was a rock layer slightly lower than the established trail, and to continue on the same plane could send the rider into an abyss of trees, undergrowth and more rocks.

The Festus course was also filled with gullies, many of which had to be crossed at perpendicular angles. On a dirt bike, racing full-speed through the woods, the gullies would appear with little warning and leave only two options for the rider. The first was to reduce speed and ride through the gully, with both wheels dropping down to the bottom. The second choice was twisting the throttle and jumping the gully. This required more skill and courage, both of which I was lacking, but eventually I decided to try option #2.

The fun part about launching a motorcycle across a 3-foot-deep gully is the rush of adrenaline when the front wheel takes flight. I would imagine this is mildly similar to the initial feeling of jumping out of an airplane. Once the mind moves past the euphoria, it then contemplates the landing. That's where it gets scary. On a motorcycle, the landing is a crush of g-force when the bike meets the opposite side of the gully. Good riders wheelie through the gully and gravity impacts the rear suspension. Average riders, like me, use the full range of front and rear suspension when the entire motorcycle slams onto the far side of the gully. The first (and only) time I attempted a gully jump, I kissed my steering damper and the fork tubes were pushed so far up the triple clamps that they came to rest against the handlebars.

From there, I quit the gully jumping business and set my mind on cruise control. My good start and rapid fade were distant memories. I was frustrated again by the rocks and ready to be done with the MHSC for 2000. With those thoughts flowing through my brain, suddenly my ears picked up the distinctive screams of engines running at high RPMs. Closing in from behind, the Pro class leaders had gained an entire lap on me. This happened at every MHSC event I'd entered, usually in the late stages of the race. But Festus was different. I had yet to finish my next-to-last lap, and the Pros were already on my rear fender.

What I didn't realize was these Pros were Steve Leivan and Chris Thiele. The entire season the two had battled for the overall MHSC title, trading wins and racing wheel-to-wheel. Steve came into Festus leading the series by just four points with two rounds remaining. Should Chris win the final two races, he would finish the season tied in points with Steve, who simply wasn't going to allow it. At 29 years of age, Steve had already won 7 overall titles in the previous 8 years. An eighth championship could be clinched here, if only he could put his bike ahead of Chris at the finish line. Chris, on the other hand, was looking to dethrone the man who would be known as the Greatest of All Time in the Missouri off-road scene. The two riders had left the rest of the field in their dust, pushing themselves to absolute limits. With just over a lap to go, they were separated by a bike length.

That's when Steve and Chris encountered me.

Near the staging area, In a blur of flying rocks and dirt, I lost track of who passed me first. I could hear the screaming Kawasaki KX250 two-stroke of Chris and the throaty roar of Steve's Yamaha YZ four-stroke. Onlookers yelled and cheered. The first bike passed by on a wide section of trail, with a rooster tail of debris aimed at my helmet. The trail narrowed and I realized the second bike was inches from my rear tire. Suddenly the scoring trailer appeared ahead. Before I could pull over, I found myself in the narrow zig-zagging chute leading to a canopy beside the trailer, a no-pass zone outlined by yellow caution tape. The chute was designed to herd riders into a single-file line, where a scorekeeper would scan the helmet-mounted bar code stickers. I was stuck in this chute with an impatient racer vying for the overall MHSC title. Nobody was happy.

The delay was especially offensive to a member of the rider's pit crew, who expressed a not-so-joyful message. Right then it felt like an overreaction, but over time I realized this is part of the commitment men like Steve Leivan and Chris Thiele give to the sport they love. They surround themselves with a team dedicated to a singular result: Winning the championship.

Today that man would be Steve Leivan, now the 8-time overall winner of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship. I settled for 6th place, where I would also finish in the Open B standings for the season. Like an eternal Cubs fan, maybe 2001 would be my year.