Park Hills, Missouri

For many years the Flat River Grand Prix was an exclusive and well-known event across the Midwest and beyond. Its name came from the old town of Flat River, which joined three other communities in 1994 and was renamed Park Hills. Most of the dirt biking community still refers to the area as Flat River, which has been known for years as the home of St. Joe State Park. This former lead mine property was donated to the State of Missouri after its closure in 1974 and has since been used as an off-road vehicle playground. The Flat River Grand Prix was developed in conjunction with the state park, where most of the motorcycle racing takes place, along with a great deal of cooperation from the town of Flat River (and now Park Hills). The race started in the downtown area of the old Flat River, where riders traveled down pavement for a short distance before crossing over into the park property.

The old format of the Grand Prix was revived this year, with the fastest riders completing 6 laps around a 16-mile course. The race started in town, where onlookers could witness dirt bikes racing sketchily across a hard surface before disappearing in a cloud of dust. I had my sights set on 4 laps, which I thought would be about as much as I could do before the Pro class finished a half-dozen laps, they with their insane speeds in the rocky woods.

But two days before the race I came down with a cold and didn't feel 100% recovered on race day. I decided to ride anyway. How often does one have the chance to start an off-road race within the confines of a town? For me, this would be a once-in-a-life opportunity, so I loaded up my KTM and pointed my truck toward Park Hills.

As usual for a Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship race at St. Joe, the staging area was set up in the non-public area of the park. This treeless, sandy area left over from lead mining activities was arranged like most other hare scrambles here, with the course winding along a wide, graded path through a congregation of trucks and trailers and motor homes, all set up as close to the trail as possible so riders could make easy pit stops. But one key element was missing: The starting area. Racers would line up not in the sand flats, but in the town of Park Hills, which meant we had to get there somehow. After the riders meeting, a lone ATV led a parade of motorcycles out of the park property and through the backwoods along the edge of the town. This brief two-mile trip, once inside city limits, was made more interesting by our slow pace and the gaggle of onlookers encouraging us to do entertaining things. Engines were revved, wheelies were popped, and fun was had by all but a few unsuspecting Karens who didn't get the memo about a grand prix in their town.

The logistics of herding 150 or so motorcycles into a town caused delays, and the race began late. The afternoon sun baked the rows of classes and riders spaced apart along the street. The course marshal at the riders meeting had described the starting procedure, but I hadn't quite understood the process. Instead of dead engines, a green flag and a sprint to the woods, an ATV "paced" each class a short distance down the street before veering to the right. This was the signal that the race was on. The bikes were to sprint straight ahead, leave the paved street and dash into the woods.

My Open B class witnessed several rows of riders navigate this odd start format. It became clear very quickly that any rider on the left side of his row would have an advantage when the ATV veering to the right. I peered across my row, where I'd positioned myself on the right side. Just my luck.

When my turn came to follow the ATV, we had been instructed that no passing was allowed until the four-wheeler veered to the right. Not everyone received that message or chose to follow it, as mayhem ensued while the ATV escorted us down the street. As riders jockeyed for positions, the ATV did its hard turn and we sprinted into the woods. From there, we crossed a small creek and began our short trip to St. Joe State Park.

After a brief pass through the woods near Park Hills, we climbed up a road ditch and onto the Highway 32 overpass. Another set of instructions had us riding slowly, in single file across the overpass, as close to the edge of the road as possible. Orange barrels had been placed at the edge of the roadway to keep us away from automobile traffic. Apparently the person(s) responsible for barrel placement misjudged the width of the motorcycles. A handful of the barrels had already been knocked over, and I hit at least four more of them.

Now in the friendly confines of the park, I found wet, slippery trails. The Park Hills area had received a fair amount of rain during the week, which is not normally an issue in the rocky public area of the park. In the non-public area, where we spent most of our time, the trails were more of a clay consistency. Normally I ride a little better in this terrain, but the remnants of my illness sucked away my energy. After two long laps I stopped for gas and a lengthy rest. I really wanted four laps, and pausing for the pitstop made me think this was possible.

With a full tank of gas, I returned to the trail and forced my way into a third lap. Five minutes later, I was only hoping to make it back to my truck without leaving the course. The trails were deteriorating quickly and I had to work harder with fading physical stamina. Finding traction was tricky as multiple ruts developed through the low-lying areas. Certain sections developed a single rut, where I tried to keep the front tire planted within the center. A layperson might believe the ruts, especially the straight-ish ones, would do all the steering for the motorcycle. This is, unfortunately, not the case. The front tire tends to bounce from one side of the rut to the other, always requiring constant corrections and balance. Some ruts actually multiplied by three: a deep one down the center (for the motorcycle) and two shallow ones on each side (for dragging boots).

I quickly reached the "bonk" phase in this third lap, where all I could do was try to survive at a trailrider pace. My body has a way of allowing itself to function in this condition for quite some time, but I always pay later. When the lap finally ended, I spent the next couple of hours feeling horrible. At this point in my life I was not exactly a student of nutrition and hydration, or the ill effects from leaving them unaddressed. I was seriously depleted of food and water and sodium, but the thought of ingesting any of that made me feel sick. Instead, I sat perfectly still on my tailgate, hunched over in fatigue, and suffered until I could make myself move again.

One thing I did know about food was that a McDonalds fish sandwich and fries always made me feel better after races like this one. I packed up my bike and gear and drove my little red GMC Sonoma to the golden arches. Early the next week, when the race results were posted online, I could see that if I had just done that 4th lap I probably would have placed high in my class. Apparently I wasn't the only one suffering through the Flat River Grand Prix. The Pro class required around 6 hours to complete six laps. This was one tough race.