The thumping of oncoming propellers caught my ear from half a mile distant. That reverberation we've all heard from an aircraft we've all seen, descended into the Crab Orchard staging area just as I emerged from a walk in the woods. Emergency helicopters are a different breed from those in Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. This one swooped in low and slow, gradually and cautiously taking its sweet time to join the earth. In the center of 200 parked cars and trucks, the chopper hovered just long enough to launch a dozen pop-up canopies into another township.
An unfortunate racer took an unplanned flight to a local hospital, reminding us once again of the risk which comes with our sport. And yet, the number of registered racers requesting refunds ("R4" in competition lingo) was approximately zero. We are risk-takers by nature. We observed the helicopter, stood solemnly while its passenger was loaded, and lined up to race.
Before all of this I had walked a small portion of the 12-mile course, one of the longest I'd seen in Illinois. Former strip mine properties have a knack for squeezing out miles, with their unnatural ridges providing the kind of separation which allows a trail to run tight and close without tempting riders to take shortcuts. I liked the course length and loved the dirt. This was June in Southern Illinois, warm and mild and dry enough to excite even the most particular of racers.
Only three riders felt excited enough to sign up for the Open B class, present company included, and the overall participation rate seemed a bit thin. The Little Egypt property lies in a nether region outside the boundaries of more active local hare scramble series. Its location is within AMA District 18, which includes Missouri, but the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship stays with state borders. Illinois, with its six hours driving distance from north to south, also has District 17 covering the upper 2/3s of the state. The Mid-South winter series occasionally made stops at Little Egypt in the later part of the year, but in June, the club didn't attract many riders chasing series points. Around 130 attended, all in various states of adrenaline and contentment and happiness on the starting line, anticipating a mid-day motorcycle race at an excellent riding area in a part of the lower third of Illinois most would probably never visit, if not for a love of dirt bikes.
With a quick wave of a green flag, the woods invited us inside, where the two other gentlemen in my class left me like a country breakup song. These guys were fast, so much that the Open B winner would eventually place 9th overall. I'd spent enough time at Missouri races this year to lose my edge a bit in this classic of Illinois hare scrambles. For six consecutive races I'd kept my wheels on the west side of the Mississippi, racing faster and wider courses, and now the tightly spaced trees had me befuddled. The endless strip mine ridges kept me guessing, as did the sheer length of the course. Would I ever make it back to the main checkpoint? Yes I would, 40 minutes later.
These were seriously long laps.
Mental math pegged my laps at a maximum of three, before the two hour countdown ended. If I could pick up the pace and break 40 minutes on my next two turns around the course, I might squeeze in a fourth lap, but that would put me on the bike for more than 2.5 hours. No pit stops, no timeouts, no TV commercial breaks. I wasn't sure my body could handle such a long, uninterrupted gallop through the tight woods, nor was I confident my KTM's fuel tank could take me so far without running dry. The odds of my lap times improving as my stamina declined? Unlikely at best. All of this kept my mind comfortably focused on three laps.
After the scoring checkpoint, I cracked open the throttle and hammered into my second lap. Like most off-road venues, Crab Orchard was filled with dry-ish gullies, a couple feet deep, carrying volumes of water only when the skies let loose with generous precipitation. The fastest riders tended to meet the gullies standing on the foot pegs and raising the front wheel before it had a chance to drop down into the bottom. Slower riders like myself made sure both wheels touched the full contour of both sides of each gully. These slow-guy maneuvers had limitations, however. Halfway through the second lap, I met a gully at an angle and allowed the front tire to explore its depths. The wheel came to a full stop at the bottom of the gully, sending the motorcycle into an Olympic-style somersault while I pushed the proverbial "eject" button. While I lay on my back in the bottom of the gully, the rear of the KTM began its death flip, much like the one which sent me to the emergency room in 1999. I had learned enough from that incident to swiftly kick the back side of the motorcycle away from my precious ribcage, deflecting its approach before it could test the effectiveness of my chest protector.
Crisis averted...mostly.
I lifted the bike off its side and began to fire up the engine, then noticed the brake lever assembly had rotated down and around the handlebars. No worries, I thought. The assembly revolves instead of snapping off from the impact. Like many a motocross rider after a crash, I smacked the assembly back into place. Oddly enough, it rotated with little effort, and for good reason. The clamp holding the brake assembly to the handlebars was missing entirely. The lever was mostly useless.
Without a front brake, I finished my lap at a casual pace. The white flag appeared at the main checkpoint and I actually considered one more lap to finish the race, but then realized the pointlessness of risking trouble on the steep downhills. Back at the truck, I discovered the throttle housing had also broken during my gully crash. I called it a day, drove home and began searching for replacement parts on the internet. The 2-mph mishap left me disappointed, but the Crab Orchard trails did not.
