Kahoka, Missouri

The blunt force of a mule kicking a human could be represented by the Kahoka round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship, in the sense that it always has the potential for the same kind of hurt on a dirt bike. Hence the name of the race, "Mule Kicker". Only special races are given special names, and this one was made even more unique with its dual sanctioning as an AMA National Hare Scrambles event. The Burkhart farm, host of the race, is logistically suited for such races, with a backyard motocross track set into the face of a large hill and plenty of room to park the oversized rigs preferred by professional racers and their entourages. These events attract the men who are paid to compete, and I would soon find myself face-to-face with one of them in the sign-up line.

My two previous trips here, in 1996 and 1999, gut-punched me much like the race's namesake. The former was intensely cold, and the latter ridiculously hot. Inconsistent as Kahoka may be, this place always had the potential for a wonderful race, and we'd won the weather lottery today. With the Burkhart site a stone's throw from both Illinois and Iowa, the dirt was a smooth, rock-free loam of my dreams.

Yes, this was Missouri.

And with the AMA's stamp of approval, Kahoka was stop #4 on its 2001 national hare scramble series. The Burkhart's were no strangers to high-end racing, hosting previous national hare scrambles, as well as the upcoming AMA National 4-stroke motocross championship (editor's note: these were the days when 4-strokes were an oddity which required separate classes and championships). To be here was to mingle with men who, outside of off-road motorcycling, could lead completely anonymous lives, but we knew better. They ruled the sport. These guys were special.

The most special of all stood two feet ahead of me in the signup line. The legendary Shane Watts not only put on pants the same as I every morning, but he entered events like the common folk. He would race the same course, at the same time, as 275 others. The Australian native had won just about everything worth winning across the globe, including the Grand National Cross Country series in 2000, the International Six Days Enduro in 1998 and a World Enduro Championship in 1997. He had nothing to prove in Kahoka, except possibly the fact he could beat Americans at their own game, riding just about any motorcycle he chose after sleeping the night under the stars on bare ground. Shane Watts didn't need a $500,000 motorhome. He was Crocodile Dundee on a dirt bike, and I loved him for it.

Within such close proximity, I simply had to say something...anything...to this legend, so I channeled my inner extroversion and spoke with him a few words I can no longer remember. Pat and Brian Garrahan, the national-caliber California brothers, cut ahead in line with Mr. Watts, and the trio talked shop while I soaked in every word. My ultimate fantasy life was standing within arm's reach.

Reality returned around the time I lined up in a row of approximately 30 racers who represented the combined Open B and 250B classes. From past experience, I suspected many of these riders competed locally in various A classes, only to drop down into B classes for the national race. To put it simply, this was guaranteed mayhem.

And it was. Even with a mid-pack start, the concept of 30 racers flying through open fields, toward a motocross track where dirt bikes would soon fly through the air, gave me an adrenaline rush like no other. The rush nearly came to a complete stop at the landing of a jump, where a mud bog sucked in my tires. Other riders blasted through the bog, sending chunks of black goop onto my goggles. These were the days when I was especially stingy with roll-off tape, always using what was left over from the roll used previously. My goggle view was now an inch-thick rectangle across the lens, with little tape to spare.

The motocross track came and went in brief stages over the 9.5-mile course. This first stage took us through the most spectator-friendly section of the track, just behind the machinery shed doubling as race headquarters. At some point in the distant past, I imagined Mike Burkhart planting corn, gazing at the big hill behind his farmhouse and hearing those fateful words: Build it and they will come. Maybe his next glance was at the shed, perfectly positioned with sliding doors opening to reveal a view of the hill and its future. With an early-1900s farmhouse as the centerpiece, the Burkhart's had created their own Field of Dreams.

The course quickly exited the motocross track and sent us into the hills and gullies which would separate the fast from the faster. Typical of a Midwestern hare scramble, sections of woods gave way to farm fields and pastures, then the course wandered back into the trees. The layout worked well for a national race, as the Pro class would waste no time lapping a good deal of the slower riders. Inside the woods, passing was tricky. Open areas reduced the risk of unfortunate encounters with "lappers", as they are known to all the fastest racers.

I would soon become a lapper, but not before realizing I'd made a classic beginning racer mistake: Untested new equipment. A new "gripper" style seat cover was the equipment, and my sit-down riding style put it to the test. The cover certainly gripped, to the point where the resulting butt-chafe would prevent me from sitting comfortably for a solid week. And, as a side note, the world has no toilet paper soft enough.

My lapper status came at the halfway point of the race, when Shane Watts blew by as if I were riding a tricycle. It wasn't just the speed at which he passed. His style seemed unworldly. The pass came in an open field, just ahead of an entry into the woods. I heard him coming...you always hear them, those professionals whose motorcycles sound unlike even the fastest of local riders. It's the tone of the engine, screaming as if the rider is attempting to outrun a tornado. The pass happens in an instant, then they're out of sight in a matter of seconds.

Such was the case with Shane Watts, but I was able to observe him just long enough to wonder how he kept from crashing dozens of times during a race. The field in which he passed me was farmed up to the edge of rough terrain near a creek. The trees began where the land dropped down to the creek in a series of mounds, somewhat resembling oversized whoop-dee-dos of a motocross track. Like most average riders, I rode with the terrain, gingerly stair-stepping down to the creek. Mr. Watts had no time for that. With only a small tap of his brakes, he launched his motorcycle into the gap between trees, sailing completely over one of the mounds and glancing off another, which pitched the entire rear end of his bike violently sideways. He landed hard at the bottom, kept the engine fully revved, dumped the clutch and blitzed across the trail. A few seconds later, he disappeared out of sight.

Such is the difference between a good rider and a world-class racer. The Shane Watts of the earth ride in a controlled state of uncontrol, extracting every ounce of output from the machine and exploring every possible means of attacking the racecourse. Their minds simply operate at a higher level. Mr. Watts would go on to win the race by more than three minutes over the best in the U.S. Within the landscape of a 3-hour hare scramble, this is an eternity. For our native professionals, just knowing it was possible for a competitor to lay down such a beating had to be a bit self-defeating. But, in my brief encounter with Shane Watts, he was amazing to watch.

My own race, on the other hand, played out like most others. I stopped for gas after the fourth lap and replenished my energy after 60 seconds of rest. Two more uneventful laps followed, and I finished around three minutes past the 3-hour mark. The Pro class nearly lapped me a second time, most finishing with 8 laps in about 3 hours and 15 minutes. I marveled at the physical and mental conditioning of those riders, to focus that long with only a handful of 20-second pitstops for refueling. At their speed, one minor lapse in concentration could be a season-ender, or even a career-ender. Yet here they were, in the middle of flyover land of the United States, racing motorcycles as a profession.

My fantasy. Their reality.