Columbia, Missouri

For consecutive weeks, my KTM 300EXC toured strip mines on both sides of the Mississippi River. These properties, unrestored from past coal mining, make what otherwise would be farmland into recreational fun. Finger Lakes State Park is one of those places where the jagged terrain is effectively repurposed into an off-road playground. For one Sunday each year, the Missouri state park system allows the Missouri Hare Scrambles Series to host an event here, and today was that day.

Finger Lakes is one of the few glorious places in Missouri where rocks are not a rider's primary concern. The upper half of the state is home to soil, black and fertile and good for growing things other than trees. But today the former coal mine had been subjected to the kind of rain which almost made me wish for more rocks. Almost. A few sections of the course, where drag lines met bedrock, took us through flat, slippery limestone ledges, but for the most part we were set to spend a couple hours riding an Illinois-like track.

As with last year's race here, the motocross area hosted the starting lines. The Pro and A classes demonstrated the fastest way through a portion of the track before disappearing into the woods. I copied their techniques, poorly at best, and found myself in a familiar mid-pack position among the Open B class. The motocross track was positioned a short distance from the scoring trailer, which we passed by without recording a lap time. The brief section of woods between the motocross track and the trailer was a continuous rut, soon to be repeated throughout much of the course.

After the scoring trailer, the trail fanned out into the woods into the familiar terrain of an old strip mine, up and over ridge after ridge, trees spaced tightly on slippery clay. The ATVs had cleared out an inch or two of muck from the ground surface, leaving a polished layer with traction similar to winter socks on a wood floor freshly coated with polyurethane. Occasionally the arrows would point us into singletrack, then back into the wide, two-track parts of the course. All the while, the trail wandered aimlessly, giving into the limits of a strip mine property. We were certainly outside the boundaries of the lower half of Missouri and its old-growth forests, where a trail could follow the natural path of wildlife, weaving easily through a canopy of mature trees. Within those properties a rider barely needed to focus on the arrows. The motorcycle felt as if it was always pointed in the right direction, self-guided through the contours of the terrain and the spaces between the trees. The rider simply focused on throttle and clutch and brakes. This is flow.

Finger Lakes was the opposite of flow. The trails changed course randomly, leaving riders without a sense of direction. Beyond the face of a ridge might be a steep descent down the other side, or a sharp left or right turn to follow a contour. Around a corner might be a gully or a small hill to climb with little space to gather momentum. To be fair, it's a rare course that can have both mud and flow. But Finger Lakes was without hope. Flow was beyond its realm.

Beyond my own realm was any ability to steer clear of harm's way. On the second lap, I blitzed by own path through a swamp, heading straight through a patch of small willows. Many attached themselves to various places on my motorcycle. A few miles later, after the willows mostly detached along the trail, another common strip mine feature left me stuck up to my axles: Water-filled ruts, deceiving in their depth. This one seemed innocent enough, until my front wheel nearly disappeared into a sewage-like blackness. I was stranded among a throng of onlookers, all eyes on me and my predicament. This oughta be good was practically pasted in all-caps across their faces. A course martial eventually came to my rescue. Loaded with an extra 30 pounds of mud, this bike extrication was a job for two.

Trouble found me again near the park boundary along U.S. Highway 63. The ATVs had badly torn up this section in the morning, and I soon found myself stuck again. A fellow racer, a few yards away, suffered the same fate. With our bikes stalled, we collectively shrugged as others plowed their way through.

These encounters usually begin by trading frustrations about a poor line choice, a badly placed tree root, a bottomless rut. Other riders come and go, using the stuck motorcycles as cautionary tales. In between is a quietness as the two riders assess their situations, pull and tug on front wheels and rear tires. From there, when the riders suddenly realize neither will leave without the help of the other, a certain bargaining begins, of the I'll-help-you-you-help-me variety. Hare scramble races are subject to a robust rulebook, but course assistance is not part of it. Riders are free to help each other or receive aid from pretty much anyone or anything. The bargaining, once sealed with a nod or an "OK", becomes an honor-clad contract. A racer who receives help first and then leaves the other rider stranded will quickly be identified and ostracized. Nobody wants to be that person, but there are occasional exceptions for racers whose primary profession is racing. All others almost honor their obligations.

As for me and my stuck co-racer, we sealed our bargain, took turns lifting our bikes out of their respective ruts, and returned to the trail within minutes. Those minutes, however, were costly. It's a rare occasion that a rider needs third party assistance twice in a race and still finishes well. Even though I steered clear of deep ruts for the next two laps, my mud-caked motorcycle was no match for most of the Open B class. This rarest of Missouri races, capable of adding 30 pounds of girth to an otherwise healthy dirt bike, could only be won with speed and continuous momentum. Neither were in my favor today.

I settled for a 6th place finish in Open B, one spot outside trophy contention. My tendency to overthink the woulda-coulda-shoulda took over as I pushed my overweight KTM up the loading ramp into the bed of my little red pickup truck, using every remaining ounce of energy in my weary body. If only I hadn't become stuck, or slid out around that corner, or taken that bad line through the rock ledge. I stood back among the other riders studying the printed pages of electronic results taped to the side of the scoring trailer, eyes narrowed, squeezing in among a crowd of onlookers while scanning lap times and finishing positions. All but the class winners surely pondered the same thought as I: If only.

The driver of the truck parked beside me might have said those same words, but for a different reason. Before the race began, his large beverage cooler had been placed under the truck's frame, smartly positioned away from direct sunlight to keep the beer frosty for the duration of the race. Afterwards, while sipping a beverage or three, he loaded his equipment and that of a friend, then discovered the cooler was suddenly supporting the weight of two motorcycles and a collection of wet riding gear. Here it was, another human making a mistake so well suited to me that I could not believe I hadn't beaten him to it. With my help and that of his riding partner, we lifted the truck frame just enough to extract the cooler. A good laugh, as well as good beer, was had by all.