In June of 1994, I entered my first hare scramble at the Dirt Riders, Inc. club grounds near Oakley, Illinois. That race set me on a decades-long pursuit of off-road motorcycle competition and would profoundly change my reason for being. I chose a miserable day for my first attempt at racing, with punishing heat and humidity. Surviving Oakley in 1994 was a larger accomplishment than I realized at the time. Two years later I returned for another hare scramble in muddy spring conditions, and was rewarded with my first-ever trophy. The Oakley venue held a special place in my racing heart, and despite my move out of state, I decided to return in 2000.
The hit-or-miss Midwestern weather of April was a hit on this day. Mild temperatures and dry conditions brought out racers in large numbers, with more than 30 riders entered the C class alone. My "Big B" class was full, and along with the rest of the B classes, we formed a single row nearly 30 bikes wide. All of us aimed for one corner and a tiny little entrance into the woods.
The Oakley region, near the world's soy capital of Decatur, is just far enough south to produce green shoots by late-April. A few weeks earlier, the woods would have been gray and brown and see-through for a fair distance, but the recent warming had filled in the gaps with a green haze. Some of the developing underbrush would otherwise have made for a challenging first lap, as the riders burned in a defined path around the course, but these were the well worn trails of a motorcycle club. Most of the course was simply a connection of an almost infinite network of existing paths crisscrossing the property.
Situated adjacent to Sangamon Creek, the club grounds shared the high ground of the surrounding area with the lowlands near the water. This was a tributary on the larger end of the creek category, and shortly downstream, after filling the manmade Lake Decatur, was promoted to the Sangamon River. The creek was fairly deep and wide before entering the Oakley area and was the only reason for any elevation changes within this grain farming region of Illinois. These were not the rolling hills of Missouri, but the short, steep cuts left over from a a large creek performing its work for a few thousand years. The rough terrain was an ideal spot for a dirt bike club.
Just after the noon hour, on the starting line, the green flag dropped and I charged toward the first corner in a mid-pack position. For most of the race I would remain there, trading spots with other B riders and falling victim to a handful of mistakes. A rider or two in the C class would eventually find their way ahead of me. I found myself in one of those rides where nothing grooved and that "zone" where things feel fast and easy would not come. This was a common theme for me in smallish club properties like this one, where the trails move through the woods in random patterns and endlessly link up with other trails. It's difficult for the club to lay out a course which flows evenly, and dry conditions weren't helping. Normally the jet-black soil of Central Illinois benefits when warm air bakes out some of the moisture, but on this day the dirt had been overcooked. In a few spots, some of the trails resembled the blue groove of an oval dirt track. At times the rear wheel spun sideways even with the handlebars pointed in straight line.
I settled into the course gradually, trying my best to catch at least a rider or two while I weaved through the trees. As with most club properties, this one included a small motocross track which was included in the marked trail. Along the edge of track was a higher-speed jump with a moderate face, on which I launched myself nearly 6 inches vertically and sailed approximately 3 feet down the trail. On subsequent laps I realized this jump was made for frightened motocrossers like me, so I gradually worked my way up to a 4th gear launch and was able to sail 30 or 40 feet across the cultivated dirt. The landing was soft and I could then pull hard on the throttle, creating the appearance of someone who knew how to moto.
Away from the motocross track, Sangamon Creek had carved out a low area below most of the rest of the property. Getting there was a matter of dropping down a tremendously steep 40-foot hill with a hard righthand turn at the bottom. Anyone missing the turn would have taken a cool swim and then be compelled to engage a diving team to retrieve the motorcycle. Rising out of the creek bottom involved a series of nearly endless ravines, all steep and rutted. I remembered some of the climbs from my race here in 1994, before which I'd never had the opportunity to ride up a hill more than 15 feet vertically. I'd gained some experience since then, and the hills weren't so intimidating this time around.
An hour into the race the engine began to cut out, and once again the bike ran out of gas. My KTM 300EXC came with a reserve fuel supply, but I lost about 5 minutes returning to the truck to refuel. Back on the course, I finished the race uneventfully. Had I not paused for gas, I might have placed high enough to bring home a trophy. As it were, I finished 10th out of 16 in the "Big B" class and was determined to track down the source of my fuel issue. A few weeks later I finally found it in a tiny hole in the fuel line. Problem solved.
