I had a choice.
I could have driven one hour to White City, Illinois and raced in what surely must have been a mud bath rivaling last year's June hare scramble. Instead, I chose Florence, a Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship event 180 miles from my home. In a contest between Missouri and Illinois, rocks won out over bottomless muck. I was becoming an MHSC racer.
On the other hand, I was not becoming a forward thinker. The weather prognosticators predicted rain, but that didn't stop me from leaving my rain gear at home, nor did it convince me to bring so much as a jacket or any warm attire. Morning temperatures rarely dip into the 50's during June in St. Louis, so in my usual logic, a long sleeve shirt should have been enough.
It wasn't.
At 6:30 a.m. I left my detached apartment garage and headed for Wentzville to pick up Matt Sellers, whose shiny new Dodge full-size truck lined his driveway like a monument to urban overstatement. My little Sonoma disappeared in its shadow. Matt was now a 3-automobile family, sufficiently prepared for 8 years later when son Michael could drive himself to the motocross track.
The unwritten rule of shared rides plainly stated the person furthest from the race location would handle the driving. I'd have to wait for a ride in Matt's new truck. We began our usual trek across the state on I-70, where at Boonville the sprinkles turned to a moderate but steady rain. At the race site, 45 miles later, we waited out the unprotected sign-up line under the concession stand awning. Once the line thinned, we shivered our way to the registration area and handed over our cash, our liability waivers, and our common sense.
From there, we searched for PizzaMan. His mystery had gradually diminished over the past year, as I pieced together bits of his diverse background from riders with much more time on the MHSC circuit. "He runs Shakespeare's pizza," one said, "in Columbia." Never heard of it. I was no Mizzou alum and had spent approximately zero time in Columbia proper. But his nickname now made complete sense. "He likes classic Rolls Royce cars," another said, "and owns a couple." Well, that was certainly interesting. "I think he does community theater," suggested yet another, "and flies model airplanes." Adding even more to his what-can't-he-do mystique, a photo had recently appeared on a local MHSC-related website showing PizzaMan dead-lifting his Honda XR dirt bike in a loving embrace. This was the real deal - the man was a beast, and I had the pleasure of hanging out with him under the cover of his canopy.
Even better, PizzaMan produced a cooler full of sandwiches, individually cellophane-wrapped the night before by college kids on the Shakespeare's payroll. He offered Matt and I our choice while we prayed for an end to the rain, now measuring in inches over the past three hours. We'd already ruled out a practice lap. This race would be one of survival, and I had no desire to waste energy on a free ride around the course.
At 12:00 I warmed up my KTM with a few short sprints around the starting area. Within seconds, every square inch of my gear and bike soaked up water from the sky and the ground. Each low spot lay covered with water, the grass completely saturated. Several riders joined in optimistically, their hopes as mine that the rain might end and we could line up for the start without wishing for a personal umbrella assistant. I marveled at the watertight motorcycles dancing across the spray, unconcerned with the elements. These machines took abuse with pleasure and asked for more.
Today, though, the bikes would not receive their abuse. Around 12:30 the race was called off. The ATVs, starting at 8:00 a.m., saw the checkered flag just before the main creek and its swift current began to carry away unsuspecting vehicles. Rumors circulated through the staging area with tales of the creek sweeping the motorcycles of practice lappers into next year. True or otherwise, this did not bode well for trails on the other side, which could now only be safely accessed by boat. Most of the trails lay across the banks, and a rideable course on our side of the creek couldn't be pieced together on such short notice. Matt and I lined up in the rain to retrieve our $20 entry fees and decided we might as well hop on our bikes and ride as much of the course as we could.
A mile later, course officials pointed us back to the parking lot, ending our day at Florence. Ten minutes of riding left us colder, wetter, muddier and grumpier. We loaded up in the rain and left the property just as the skies cleared. White City racers enjoyed their mud bath as we began our long drive home. For a brief instant, I wished I was there. Then I glanced into my rearview mirror: Two dirty bikes and two sets of filthy gear and ten minutes of riding. I could only imagine the scene after White City.
Florence was a good choice.
