Florence, Missouri

In Missouri, the trails turn a bit weird when the dry season arrives. Not the kind of weird where Ben Affleck bests 3 billion human males to win People Magazine’s 2002 Sexiest Man Alive, but odd nonetheless. Fully engulfed in drought, the Florence site of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship illustrated the concept of dust bath. Normally known as a hygienic activity of poultry, where hens and roosters scratch dirt into the finest of powder and bathe in it, four-wheeled ATVs do the same to the soil which fills the gaps between Missouri rocks. During the morning race, the fat-tired machines scratched out a chicken-like powder, now layered on the outer apex of every curve in the trail. Each passing rider stirred up the dusty particles, bursting through hazy air and settling low to the earth, all the while illuminated by narrow rays of sunlight.

For me, this was not ideal. With temperatures in the 90s and a rough, rocky bike course sharing nearly all of the ATV trails, my racing euphoria morphed into something more like the anticipation of a colonoscopy. Florence had shaped up as pure kryptonite: All my weaknesses in one place.

I saw it coming the moment I entered the property. The entire staging area resembled a 1960s suburban neighborhood after a visit from the DDT truck. The only thing missing was the DDT and the truck and the kids gleefully chasing its fog. Today’s haze came from ATVs drag racing across a long straight next to the pits. From my vantage point in the registration line, I could see, hear and feel the vehicles speeding past a long row of trucks and trailers and colorful pop-up awnings. After an hour of racing, all objects within 30 feet of the trail had turned a light shade of gray.

Though I’d been here before, the Florence race course was mostly a new experience. Last year’s rainout had been rescheduled for later in the season, but I couldn’t attend the makeup date. Rushing floodwaters were now dry rivers and gullies, and the main creek offered only an easy-flowing stream. With riding buddy Matt Sellers in tow, I led our practice lap across the creek, which only a year ago would have swept us into Class III rapids. A fifteen-foot climb up the opposite bank, slick and muddy and difficult to ascend, would be the only damp dirt we’d see in the next 8 miles.

Two hours later, racers reluctantly gathered across the grassy starting field. The well-supported riders straddled their motorcycles, shaded from an intense sun by large umbrellas hoisted by dedicated helpers. Others parked their bikes on the starting line and bolted to the nearest shade tree. Common folk like me baked our gear-laden bodies in the 94-degree heat. Noonday sun lit up my jet-black boots like an acetylene torch, and my matching helmet became an Easy Bake oven. I’d purchased this unfortunate combo during the offseason, lured seductively by the most desirable quality: Price. Solid black or white gear was more affordable, so that is what I bought. Today I could admit this decision, without a shred of doubt, was one of my worst ever.

Finally, after a 15 minute broiling, the first row of racers launched forward in a massive cloud. The lead riders broke toward a narrow gap in the trees, leaving the rest of the pack in a blind search for the woods. This scene repeated several times before the Open B class was released into the dust. I started quickly and dashed toward a sharp turn in the grassy area, taking a wide line and sliding dangerously. The rock-hard soil offered little traction, but I recovered in time to claim the 3rd position as we crossed over from pasture to trees. Matt followed closely in 4th place, while a Yamaha rider led the pack.

The first mile took us through wide trails carved by ATVs, where I followed KTM rider Matt Coffman. His dust cloud left most of my decisions to chance. Navigating the rocks and tree roots and curves in the trail was a series of educated guesses, comparable to riding pre-LASIK without corrective eyewear. I couldn’t tell if the blurry round objects ahead were rocks or turtles.

As the trail opened into a pasture, the air cleared enough to make out arrows pointing straight ahead and back into the woods. Matt Coffman suddenly veered to the left, while I grabbed a handful of throttle and sprinted past. I thought he surely misread the arrows, but later learned the end of his handlebar clipped a tree and he broke a finger. With only the Yamaha rider in front, I dashed back into the woods and closed the gap.

The dusty haze kept me distant and cautious, but I could distinguish just enough of the lead rider’s fuzzy image to recognize a style known in our sport as Riding over one’s head. He had earned his holeshot and with it, a right to clean air, and was willing to move the volume dial to 11 and stay in front of the pack. His rear wheel kicked violently from side to side while his body contorted wildly in a desperate effort to maintain control of the machine. I’d seen this before, and it never ended well. The impending crash nearly came at the first creek crossing, where the blue motorcycle struggled up the slippery bank and recovered just in time to maintain the lead. A minute later, the Yamaha rider wrestled with tree roots on a rocky climb and handed me the lead.

Clean air was mine.

I’d never led a Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship event, not for a solitary second, and I couldn’t have picked a better race to cross this off my list of firsts. The unlucky souls behind me suffered the intense dust of two knobby tires kicking up chicken scratch for miles on end, inhaling fine particulate and coating their faces with a sweaty black powder. I, on the other hand, enjoyed perfect vision and a tremendous advantage: All challengers would be forced into an uphill battle against my massive cloud of dust.

Maintaining a lead, of course, requires a motorcycle remaining on two wheels, and the gravelly terrain had me sliding every which way through the curvy trails. The Florence course earned the distinction of feeling both wide and tight, a hare scramble oxymoron I’d encountered perhaps once or twice before, whereby the wide paths cleared by ATVs are combined with constant directional changes. Unlike most ATV trails, alternate passing lines were rare at Florence and, for anyone not leading the pack, mostly obscured by dust. This would be my greatest challenge as stragglers from other B classes appeared from the cloudy haze.

For now, I enjoyed my clear view and upshifted to third gear. The punishingly rough trail, along with heat and dust, made this event a survival race for many. I’d already sipped a good deal of water from my Camelbak while baking on the starting line and rationed my hydration on the first lap. I quite literally could have gulped the entire 70 ounces of cold water before I made it back to the scoring trailer, yet I wasn’t even battling dust. In fact, within a couple of miles after taking over the lead, I could only make out the sound of my own engine and the slap of tires and suspension against jagged rocks. I simply could not grasp the magnitude of my good fortune, nor could I stop sucking on the plastic tube filled with cool water.

Clean air ended halfway through the first lap, with a gradual fog emerging from slower riders in the B classes ahead. I couldn’t see or even hear their engines when dust trails began to overwhelm the woods. At the point my vision dwindled to 30 feet, they could be seen struggling through the loose rocks. At first the riders moved over willingly, well aware I was a faster racer from a different starting group. Their body language exemplified an unmistakable dread, as if the next two hours were a dentist’s office waiting room, with only a collection of People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive issues to pass the time until “Mr. Bumpy Wheel” made an appearance. After I moved through the bottom third of the class, the remaining riders raced me straight up. They had no way of knowing I wasn’t in the same group and forced me to earn every pass.

And earn I did. Even short sprints through pastures, normally places where a good drag race might put me ahead of another rider, I backed off to let the dust clear. This place resembled a firefighter mission into a fully engulfed structure, and I sure could have used an oxygen mask.

Just shy of the 30-minute mark, I checked into the scoring trailer in first place, another milestone for my Missouri racing career. For one lap, at least, I would be recorded as race leader. Now came the pressure to maintain the lead under some of the worst conditions known to off-road racing. The physical exertion of a typical hare scramble increases exponentially when the heat index reaches 105, but that’s only part of the equation. Extreme dust forces the mind into a game of “What Is That Blurry Object and Will It Kill Me?” If one were to run a Florida marathon in July, which of course would be as silly as racing a Missouri hare scramble when the temperature is 94 in the shade, this was surely the same feeling.

Today most riders would hope to last long enough to cross the finish line. A select few, no doubt freaks of nature, would thrive and challenge for a win. I wasn’t exactly thriving on the second lap, but I was winning. Close calls came and went and the bike remained upright enough for another complete lap as race leader. I reached the scoring trailer just before the one-hour mark, which suggested I was on pace to complete 5 laps…if I finished. Right then, an educated gambler wouldn’t have taken those odds.

Lap three came and went with no major mistakes other than banging my knuckles against a tree. Without a pit crew tracking lap times, I had no idea how far I’d gapped the second place rider, whoever that might be. For all I knew, I was one tip-over from second place. This fear of pursuit kept me charging through the woods and pleading with any slower riders to move aside.

On my fourth lap, I approached a KTM rider from behind and followed his dusty fog. He set a fast pace, but at this point I wasn’t wasting time passing anyone. My throat felt like I’d eaten a bowl of sawdust and I couldn’t see more than 20 feet of the trail, so I found a tight corner to execute a block pass.

It didn’t work.

As I swept to the inside, we exited the corner with handlebars nearly locked together. The hazy image of “30” appeared on the side plate of the KTM. This was Adam Ashcroft, a strong rider in the highly competitive 250B class, and I knew he’d make me earn the pass. Our sprint to the next corner was a dead heat until I late-braked and forced my way around. Adam stuck to me like super glue on a flesh wound, passed me a short while later and disappeared.

Throughout these laps, all I knew of my lead was it was still mine, for no other bikes had passed me. I’d overtaken many slower riders from the starting rows ahead, but the extent of my advantage remained a mystery. I charged into my fifth and final lap like a new dad in the delivery room. I was a bit tired, scared as hell, and ready to get home. A few minutes beyond the scoring trailer, I sucked the last drops of liquid from my Camelbak and hammered down for one last run at the choppy course.

A high attrition rate slowed the dust trails to a trickle, and the few riders still competing moved aside willingly. Mile by mile, I endured crusty lips and sweat and stinging eyes, all for one final push to the finish line. Rocks and hills and tree roots came and went, while my KTM 300EXC dutifully chugged through course as if I were cruising over fire roads. You’ve got this, I thought, and then the unthinkable question flashed through my mind: Nothing can possibly go wrong, ten minutes from the scoring trailer…right?

There is such a rule in hare scramble racing, and it lives in my imagination. Suddenly, from within a dark haze appeared course marshals bounding along the trail on ATVs. The pair pulled over quickly but kicked up enough dust to obscure the main rut through an opening in a fence. My front wheel bounced across the rut, sending the bike into a gentle slide-out. I’ll fallen over like this more times than I could remember, but this one was different. In a rush of panic, I jerked the stalled bike upright and kicked the starter lever with all the force my tired leg could muster.

The engine remained silent.

My mind rushed with visions of losing the race in the final two miles. All the work of leading every lap of this course from hell was about to be squandered by a simple tip-over. If only my engine had an electric starter motor.

Panic subsided when the engine fired on the second kick, at which point I dumped the clutch and rode to the finish like a man possessed. Little did I know my lead was about 6 minutes, and I could have almost pushed my bike to the finish and still won. But the scoring lane brought on a satisfying sense of relief. I collapsed at the truck and shed my gear as quickly as I could tear it from my exhausted self. With several huge gulps of cool Gatorade, I remembered my first Missouri hare scramble four years earlier in conditions much like today. A class win, no matter which one, seemed about as likely as Mr. Affleck’s triumph in the sexy man contest. Yet here we were, both victorious in 2002.

In the days following the race, I emailed Adam Ashcroft to apologize for my aggression in the woods. He responded with no hard feelings and mentioned how, unlike so many other racing disciplines, those interactions happen deep in the woods without witnesses. All we have are stories to tell others in our own words. In the years to come, technology would bring deep woods encounters to the masses, but on this day, only Adam and I could reflect on our bar-banging battle in the trees. After reading his email, one thought etched itself into my mind: God bless these hare scrambles, the best kind of racing.