Eugene, Missouri

When 130 or so motorcycles assemble for a hare scramble, one thing is certain: About one million dollars worth of fun will convene on the starting line. An average investment north of $7,500 per race bike would seem entirely reasonable, but the value of my worn and torn KTM 300EXC was dropping faster than the approval rating of our nation’s President. I’d spent a small fortune during the offseason rebuilding the engine, only to discover at the Eugene round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (“MHSC”) that my aftermarket piston rings had shrunk in similar proportion to a man’s personal parts at a Polar Plunge.

This helped explain, after the fact, my three attempts to fire up the engine when the green flag waived us onto this new venue. For motorcycles only, the Eugene course was a model of what a Missouri hare scramble can be when ATVs take the weekend off: Rocky, yes, but narrow and unblemished by fat tires and weighty machines. Even the dust seemed to settle more quickly. Today would be a dry affair, and my slow start had me choking on Missouri’s finest powder. The frontrunners blazed ahead through clean air, while I creeped along in first gear.

I’d already crashed twice on the practice lap and would repeat one of those falls in the same deep rut, this time unseen in the dust. Kurt “PizzaMan” Mirtsching flew by while I struggled to right the bike in time to prevent other riders from using my KTM300EXC as traction. A minute earlier, I had executed a hard pass on Kurt, only to witness him and another rider zoom past. My Open B winning streak seemed unlikely to continue.

But strange stuff can happen in woods racing. Most peculiar was a bit of anger emerging on that first lap, then a devil-may-care attitude. Risk aversion, albeit a relative thing when one throws a leg over a 45-horsepower dirt bike, went out the window like pineapples on pizza. Suddenly I didn’t care how hard I charged into loose-rock corners or down steep hills. Longtime MHSC rider Wayne Hatfield led our class, and I would chase him down no matter the consequences.

First, though, I’d have to repass Kurt on his bored-out Honda XR250, an unusual choice for today’s race but perfectly suited to his personality. A photo once surfaced of Kurt deadlifting a portly XR as if the motorcycle were a haybale, so the physical strength needed to maneuver the red and white machine through a highly technical course wouldn’t be an issue. His main concern should have been a mad idiot from behind, determined to vault his KTM ahead of all competitors.

That opportunity came in the long creek section common to just about every Missouri hare scramble. After following in Kurt’s dust for a mile or so, I welcomed the wet rocks with an aggressive pass. The Open B pack remained in tight formation through here, collectively avoiding boulders and gingerly sidestepping pools of black water. In full-on race mode, nobody could predict the depths of these pools, but I decided to find out. In the process, I passed several riders while splashing enough creek water to clean my bike to a sparkly shine.

The creek section stretched along the staging area, followed by the main scoring checkpoint. The starting line had been placed near the end of the course, so this early pass through the electronic scanner gave me a chance to be scored roughly 10 minutes into the race. Nearby spectators could monitor their favorite riders while enjoying the entertainment of motorcycles seeming plodding through water and rocks and algae at a snail’s pace. I wasn’t aware we appeared so slow to the casual observer until the advent of helmet cams and internet videos. Hills seemed to flatten, A-class riders rode like novices and riders like me, well, uninteresting would be fairly descriptive. The creek solved the problem of spectator apathy, for even slow guys are fun to watch when sliding to and fro and plunging into pools of water.

From the back of our 13-rider class, I’d managed to pass my way to 7th place at the scoring trailer. I didn’t know this, of course, nor did I realize the leader had checked in only a minute prior. In these early years of electronic scoring, race position displays were a thing of the future, and for all I knew the fast guys could have been miles ahead. I had no time to waste. Thus began a full lap of eating dust, stalling the engine and pondering why the kickstarter required so little effort turning over the motor. The 300cc two-stroke, with its tractor-like power, normally stalled only when the rider worked to make it stall, but my KTM had suddenly lost its ability to run at low RPMs.

The engine would be sorted out later, but now came a new challenge: Moving rocks, the size of basketballs. Ahead of the slippery creek, the trail dropped from a high ridge into a boulder field, where large rocks traveled in motion as bike after bike knocked them loose. With nowhere to go but down, the boulders slowly rolled along the trail. I swerved to outrun one of them just in time for the dreadful creek, where class leaders Ray Osia and Matt Coffman were visible ahead.

For whatever reason, the four Open B riders I’d passed on this lap came and went without any recollection, possibly because of the stalling and the dust and wandering rocks. I did recall a boatload of slower riders and a variety of passing techniques. Despite the crashes and engine restarts, I’d caught the class leaders. Ray and Matt both chose lines wisely through the creek, and this early in the race I didn’t feel like a kamikaze move was worth the risk. We checked through the scoring lane within the same 15 seconds.

Following fast guys is an exercise in keeping up, which is to say I was riding a bit beyond my comfort zone. This worked perfectly, right up to the point I crashed. About a half-mile into the second lap, my knee surged with pain as I remounted along the base of a railroad grade. Two miles later, Matt’s bad luck continued with a broken clutch line. Freshly recovered from a fractured finger at Florence, his race ended in a tangle of willows. Only Ray remained in front.

Another mile or two of clean air gave way to Ray’s cloud of dust. Passing with limited vision in such tight quarters simply wasn’t an option, but that disagreeable creek had a way of opening up the course. All I needed, as a good banker might agree, was to increase my risk appetite. On the practice lap I’d seen a rider cut around an especially unpleasant array of boulders by diving into a deep water hole, so perhaps the same approach would work to shortcut my way around Ray. And why not? To this point I’d ridden wild enough to hurl caution into the warm breezes of Central Missouri. My risk appetite was so high, I might as well have invested my life savings in that dinky online bookseller named after a river in South America.

With a twist of throttle, I veered from Ray’s flawless creek lines and sent the front wheel into the depths of the pool. Water parted like a Dollywood log ride and blasted my goggles, sending me on a blind path towards Ray. The shortcut launched me just ahead of him, and I checked into the scoring lane in first place.

Beyond the scoring trailer, the course curved through the pit area and turned back toward an open pasture. Across a 200-yard dash to the woods, Ray lurked behind on his big KTM 4-stroke. His motorcycle was made for this kind of drag race, and sure enough, he cut to the inside of a sharp right-hand turn just before the trees. Ray edged ahead, but his momentum took him wide. I tapped the brakes, cut back inside his path and snuck ahead as we entered the woods.

This kind of hare scramble racing – pass, get passed, and pass again, all within the same quarter mile – is rare at the midway point of a 2-hour event, and I enjoyed my battle with Ray. Not as fun was an unfortunately placed sapling, snapped off just above handlebar level from continuous smacking by countless hand guards. The poor little tree was now a 4-foot stub with a serious attitude. Hell bent on revenge, the sapling bent forward as my hand guard made contact, then rebounded sharply as its top nub passed under my handlebar. The angry young sprig recoiled into my left nipple, leaving what the off-road community knows well as a “titty-shiner”. The bruise would greet me every morning in the bathroom for the next two weeks.

Ray fell behind on the third lap, while I charged ahead and built a 2-minute lead. The fourth and final lap brought dust trails from lapped riders, along with a nagging sense of Ray prowling behind, ready to capitalize on a mistake. I didn’t know I was well clear of him, nor that he had suffered a flat front tire on the final lap. When the long creek section appeared near the end, I continued my charge and made a mistake which could have put Ray back in front. My front wheel slid sideways, sending me crashing into the rocks only a quarter-mile from the finish. As I grabbed the handlebars and jerked the bike upright, a stinging pain burst through my right hand. Again, the engine had stalled. I restarted quickly and limped to the finish line, victorious again.

Come-from-behind wins can be immensely satisfying, but I’d paid a price for this one. The bruised right palm, the swollen left knee and the aforementioned nipple bruise left me feeling like I’d lost a barroom brawl. In the coming days I would pull thorns from my forearms and try my best to hide a minor limp from my office coworkers. Some already suspected the dirt bike racing was a cover for a Fight Club membership, and they needed no more evidence to feed the theory. I, on the other hand, needed Advil by the dozen.

In other news, Brandon Forrester solidified his top spot in the overall point standings with another overall victory, putting multi-time defending champ Steve Leivan at risk of giving up his title. During the second half of the MHSC season, these two racers have raised the bar for all title contenders, and we all look forward to the series championship decided at the final race of the year.