Columbia, Missouri

Ten years ago the contrarians of society gained a new mouthpiece called the World Wide Web, where they could offer the universe their objections to nearly everything. Today these folks are some of mankind’s greatest grievance ambassadors, covering every corner of modern culture. In the Missouri off-road world, the grumble messenger is a new discussion forum on ChatRats, the unofficial website of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC). After two consecutive soggy races at Finger Lakes State Park, the Columbia venue has gathered internet scorn for its muddy disposition. Leading up to round 2 of the MHSC series, naysayers came out in force, condemning the park and its absurd ability to make riders suffer.

This is why I love Finger Lakes.

When riders talk themselves out of a race before it begins, I like my chances for a good finish. Unfortunately, the rains came too early in the week, and by Sunday the course had dried enough that my slightly above-average mud skills wouldn’t be needed. Central Missouri woke up to sunny skies and the Finger Lakes course revealed little of the deep sludge from past races.

The state park is centered around a motocross track, which offers side benefits of motocross parking and motocross starting lines. Transportation rigs could enter and exit the property without assistance in even the rainiest of conditions, and the semi-groomed track offered a clear view for spectators. For a hare scrambler, these were first class accommodations.

The MHSC also went classy in 2003 by supplying all riders with RFID cards for electronic scoring. Roughly the size of a credit card, the plastic RFID transponder was taped to the inside of my helmet visor, where it would interact with the scoring trailer at each pass through the main checkpoint. Gone were the days of bar code scanners, and the race signup lines now filled with riders carrying helmets. While waiting my turn in line, Kurt “PizzaMan” Mirtsching stopped by to ask what class I was racing this year and expressed disbelief that I could be old enough to compete as a Veteran. I’d finally reached the point in life where ordering a beer didn’t come with an automatic demand for identification, but now Kurt had me thinking I’d get carded at the signup table.

But no questions were asked as the signup crew scanned my RFID card. I handed over my registration sheet and my money, which as always was the best entertainment dollars I’d spend on anything short of a Doobie Brothers reunion tour. I took a practice lap and found little of the muddy blackwater from years past or wheel-swallowing ruts. For the contrarians who actually showed up to race, today was not their day to moan.

On the 21-strong Vet class starting line, I’d have a grievance or two of my own on a familiar topic: Lousy starts. Three kicks on the starter lever put me in last place near the first turn of the motocross track, at which point I shifted into overcompensation gear and grabbed the throttle like I was milking a Holstein (the cow, not my neighbors across the street). A few turns later, I could make out arrows at the edge of the track, pointing us into the woods. A lone rider was visible ahead and I accelerated hard. Perhaps I wouldn’t be the last rider into the trees.

Oh, but I was…and was I ever.

As I gained speed, a rough spot on the track violently kicked my rear wheel from side to side. The motorcycle took on qualities of an angry 2,000 pound bull with no intention of allowing an 8-second ride. For a brief instant I felt the situation could be saved, but a nanosecond later the KTM ejected me headfirst into the surprisingly firm Finger Lakes dirt. Fortunately for humanity, the HammerDown video crew recorded the carnage and included my crash in the 2003 MHSC season highlight video. On the way to the ground, I can be seen pounding my fist into the soil in frustration. That’s how other DVD viewers would later describe the clip, and it seemed more appealing than the random flailing of someone who’d had the bejusus knocked from his senses, which the camera just happened to glorify as a guy mad at the dirt.

Back on the motorcross track, a spectator perched along the sidelines ran out to assist, and in a slight haze I hopped back on the bike and darted into the woods. For those wondering why anyone would continue racing a dirt bike with a foggy mind, knowing full well the mental fitness and hand-eye coordination needed to safely navigate through rocks and trees and hills, at speeds far beyond what the human body was designed to withstand if things go wrong, I give you this: It’s racing. It’s what racers do. We get back up. We finish what we started. It’s who we are. Logic may well scream at us to go home and spend the rest of the afternoon updating our NCAA basketball brackets, but we are not entirely logical creatures.

We race.

And so I continued, making up time by launching my KTM off a rock ledge halfway through the course. Both ends of the suspension bottomed out firmly and the skid plate smacked against the solid rock landing zone. I dialed down my overcompensation a bit and focused on catching up to at least one Veteran in my class. Eventually the stragglers appeared ahead, although with nearly two dozen Vet riders, identifying any of them wouldn’t be easy. But then I found perennial fast guy Rick Kinkelaar and passed by, only to fall over in a section of fresh new singletrack.

Rick and others repassed while I uprighted the bike and fell behind again. Just ahead, a soggy pasture-like field had already developed nasty tire-sucking whoops and the creek crossings showed signs of trouble. Ruts had pushed riders left or right of center as they searched for better paths up the banks, causing new ruts and more choices. So early in the race, all lines sent me up and out of the creeks with ease, but this would not last. Ruts would deepen, bikes would stall, and riders would explore other ways to power through it all.

Without any other malfunctions on the first lap, I checked into the scoring trailer at about the 25-minute mark. I should have seen my rider number pop up on the overhead display, like previous races with the RFID card, but today was only a blank, unlit screen. The RFID card failed my crash test. MHSC organizers had planned for such events by manually entering every rider number into a laptop as motorcycles passed by the trailer. This backup system would keep me properly scored and timed. The RFID card, however, was history.

And for the most part, my chance for a strong result was also history. Big crashes and dead-last starts have a way of working against the mind, and I’d really hoped the course would be a mud bath. That burning competitive fire, where all senses and muscles and thoughts are dedicated toward a single, urgent mission, just wasn’t happening today. I was still racing, yes, but the seven-mile course became more of an aggressive trail ride.

Even so, I slowly worked my way into the upper half of the Vet class on the second and third laps, gradually picking off riders mostly the hard way. An hour into the race, if I approached any other Vet class racers from behind, reeling them in was like a NASCAR driver lining up for a pass. The gaps narrowed very slowly. Meanwhile, the course actually improved a bit, which lifted my spirits and apparently those of all the other riders blocking my progress. But not all was paradise at Finger Lakes, as deteriorating creek crossings forced a few bold maneuvers. Creative lines and plenty of momentum kept me trouble-free.

Near the midpoint of the race, I encountered a small hill on a well-traveled two-track trail with a stalled motorcycle halfway up the crest. Years of ATV use had carved the trail into a narrow ravine wide enough for one dirt bike. The rider ahead had lost traction, killed the engine and failed the balancing act needed to throw a leg down on the kick starter and remain upright on the side of a hill. Thus began a futile attempt to frantically push the 250-pound bike up the hill. The helpful gentleman I am, I slammed my front tire against his rear tire, again and again, and essentially pushed him up the hill and out of my way.

Near the end of the 4th lap, I could make out the KTM of Matt Sellers, who started the race several rows in front of the Vet class. He’d run out of fuel and been forced back to the pit area otherwise I’d probably not have seen him on the course. About this time overall leader Doug Stone flew by at an untouchable pace, followed by Steve Leivan. Like me, Doug thrived in the mud but was blazingly fast pretty much anywhere, and today he would best the multi-time defending champ.

More AA-class riders would lap me on my 5th and final turn on the Finger Lakes circuit, while I navigated downright nasty creek crossings. Again I avoided the dreaded feeling of a bike going nowhere, knowing the next step is either self-extrication from a wheel-deep rut or begging for assistance. Of this I am sure, an adult sized dirt bike weighs approximately three times more when set like a concrete pier in 16 inches of muck.

My poor start kept me well out of contention, with Robbie Jo Reed grabbing his second consecutive victory in the Vet class. The electronic scoring, posted later on the internet, showed he’d gapped me by about 3 minutes, which began my usual Monday morning woulda-coulda-shoulda routine in front of a computer screen. Perhaps the internet scorn for Finger Lakes would return next year with another mud bath. For now, I needed a new RFID card, and something stronger than duct tape to protect it.