Knob Noster, Missouri

Sometimes the best racing stories are not my own, and today’s final Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship race of 2002 was one for the ages. After eight months and 15 races, Knob Noster would determine the overall championship, set to be won by either Steve Leivan or Brandon Forrester. For Leivan, the season nearly ended before it began, with an injury sidelining the 9-time champ during the first few races. Forrester made quick work of the Pro class and built a large points lead, while Leivan recovered in time to chip away at the young challenger’s efforts. With Forrester seeking his first overall championship and leading by two points, Knob Noster was winner-take-all.

In the lower end of the amateur ranks, my class title race had already ended. Four consecutive wins may have wrapped up the Open B championship, but Knob Noster came calling in the name of loamy dirt. I could have skipped the event, sat on my couch and collected my title trophy at the annual MHSC banquet, or ridden the most Illinois-like course in all of Missouri. The choice was obvious. I did what a racer does: I raced.

At the staging area, the typically monotonous signup process took on intrigue as official MHSC scorekeeper Tom Eidam introduced a new RFID system. Each racer received a thin plastic rectangle, with instructions to duct tape the credit-card-sized device to the underside of his or her helmet visor. The cards would be read automatically by a scanning system at the main checkpoint. I’d noticed an overhead PVC pipe contraption at earlier races, under which all bikes passed near the electronic scoring lane. Turns out the scanning system was already in use, now beta-tested by a handful of riders and ready for the masses. Instead of the grocery style laser bar code scanner, all lap times would be recorded hands free. The MHSC’s goal was to eliminate the scoring lane bottlenecks of prior races, where muddy bar code stickers sometimes interfered with the handheld scanner.

Tom introduced this new concept at the rider’s meeting, where inevitable skepticism arrived quickly: “What if a low hanging tree branch comes out of nowhere and rips off my helmet visor? What say you, Mr. Tom Technology?”

(Cue the pitchforks)

“Better go find that visor,” he replied with a grin, followed under his breath by what some would later describe as “…and shove it up your [rectal region].” Perhaps the PG-13 language was not Mr. Eidam’s, but rather my own internal dialogue. I’m generally a fan of progress and an opponent of complainers and certainly would not have imparted Tom’s patience with the doubters. Still, I can relate to the anxiety which comes with disruptive technology. First they make you strap an RFID card to your helmet. Then they take away your kick start lever and add a second tank for the two stroke oil. What next, electric dirt bikes?

Aside from today’s technological scorekeeping revolution, my only other angst concerned the outside temperature. In 45-degree air, a decision had to be made: Jacket or no? Doubling up on jerseys might keep me warm an hour into the race, but what about the starting line, or that first splash through the main creek? After a bearable practice lap wearing two jerseys, the verdict came in like a Phil Collins solo album: No jacket required.

Back at the staging area, the familiar aroma of radiator coolant emanated from the engine area of my 1999 KTM 300EXC. The aging machine refused to retire quietly. In fairness to the motorcycle, a loose radiator bleed bolt was yet another product of my own forgetfulness and oversight. Amazingly, I’d kept the orange machine running through four long seasons, but much like any general manager of the Chicago Cubs since 1908, every outing came with a new discovery of what must be fixed. Our working relationship would end at Knob Noster.

Out on the starting line, I pulled in between a pair of KTM riders, Dwayne Parrish on a 300MXC and Pat Welch on his big 520SX. The three of us weren’t hurting for engine displacement, but our position on row 7 didn’t help with the chill. Long minutes passed while we observed the Pro class, then the A class, and finally a quartet of B classes depart in one-minute gaps. After nearly freezing off my fingertips on the practice lap, I’d pulled winter gloves from the depths of my gear bag and enjoyed warm hands while analyzing the various holeshot techniques. As usual, I squandered this intel with a two-kick start and entered the woods near the back of our 8-man pack.

The fast guys led the rest of us into a quick run through and around the pit area, before crossing the largest creek on the property. In typical kamikaze fashion I charged through the water and splashed ahead of Pat, then watched him put my little 300cc engine to shame. With a handful of throttle, Pat lurched forward with the thrust of the B-2 bombers parked nearby at Whiteman Air Force Base. But stealthy he was not, and I stuck to his rear tire like 50-year-old gum under the Stockland (Illinois) high school gymnasium bleachers. Further inside the woods, Pat finally gave into my harassment and allowed a mostly unchallenged pass.

In the lead pack, Dwayne Parish and Marty Smith set a strong pace through the first lap. On a two-line hill, I foolishly followed Marty and paused while he spun out on the rocky crest. A few feet away, the visibly vacant second line seemed to sneer, as if to silently remind me of an ancient racing proverb: If one is to pass, one mustn’t follow. With both feet on the ground, Marty dabbed his way over the hill, then disappeared while I took my own turn spinning my rear tire to the top.

Miles ahead, a different battle brewed in the Pro class. As the legendary Frank Leivan would write for Cycle News magazine, holeshot artist Doug Stone jumped out to his customary first-lap lead, with Chris Nesbitt, Brandon Forrester and Steve Leivan close behind. All eyes focused on the Forrester/Leivan skirmish, which seemingly ended near the last part of the lap with a mistake by Forrester. Leivan flew by and then caught Nesbitt in a grass track shortly into the second lap. Now in second place behind Stone, a string of bad luck sent him back to 3rd place. After pausing to remove a small log jammed into his rear brake pedal, Leivan found himself stuck behind a lapped racer, fallen inside a run through a steeply banked creek bed barely wide enough for riders to navigate in single file. Forrester had already passed while Leivan removed the offending log and then checked out when the lapped rider caused his own log jam in the creek. The champ’s title defense appeared tenuous at best.

Far behind in the Open B class, I still hadn’t finished the first lap. My own bad luck put Pat Welch ahead again, after I clashed with a nasty tree root in a long stretch of narrow creek bed. The root sent me into the ground and flipped the bike upside down. As I dragged my antiquated machine out of Pat’s path, he dumped the massive clutch of his huge four-stroke and blasted back into the woods.

I managed to pass Pat at some point before the scoring lane, maintaining third position behind Dwayne and Marty. Pat and Wayne Hatfield trailed another 30 seconds back. At this point I could have simply enjoyed the perfect dirt and nearly rock-free trails. I might have cruised through the woods with no particular sense of urgency. But that’s just not me. Even a casual trail ride among friends has me setting some silly personal goal, or using the ride to fine tune a racing technique. Knob Noster was no different. Lap two began with the same determination as the first.

The 9-mile course, a case study in my definition of perfection, put everyone into overdrive. Dry and loamy soil made for aggressive riding, with second and third gear the norm for the B classes, while the fastest men in the Pro class rode a gear higher. Frank Leivan estimated the overall winner’s average speed at 21.2 miles per hour, which may seem rather pedestrian for motorcycles capable of speeds well exceeding one mile per minute, until one considers the tiny margins for error (namely, handlebars meeting trees) and the ever curving path of a marked trail which evolves every lap. Like reverse human evolution, the first lap might start out smooth and totally homo sapien, but an hour into the race you’re looking at homo erectus at best, and the last lap will definitely turn into full-on Neanderthal. That’s just racing in the woods. Doing so at 21 mph is simply physics-defying for an average guy like me.

By the end of the second lap, I finally spotted Marty Smith just ahead of the big creek crossing. On the opposite bank, two lines had developed, and this time I heeded the old racing proverb. As Marty plowed into the water, I vowed to take whichever line he didn’t. Marty went left. I veered right, with just enough momentum to carry my bike ahead of him and make the pass stick. Only Dwayne Parish remained in front.

Much further into the course, Steve Leivan had already passed his way into second place, shaking off his bad luck and witnessing Doug Stone suffer his own misfortune. The Pro class leaders, given their multi-minute head start over the various C classes, began encountering lapped riders barely halfway into the second lap. By the third lap, Stone’s pace dropped off a bit as he dealt with the 100 or so riders who he would eventually gap by a full 9 miles. The log jam Leivan suffered on the first lap caught up to Stone on the third, in the same narrow creek. Leivan was now in position to take over the lead.

My lead came, finally, late in the second lap with a pass on Dwayne Parish. Just ahead of the scoring trailer, I squeaked by and checked through the RFID scanner in first place. It wouldn’t last long. Lurking behind was crafty veteran Wayne Hatfield, who had worked his way into second place. Near the halfway point of the second lap, he edged his KTM around mine. By now, lapped traffic became an issue for both of us, and I lost sight of Wayne as I struggled with slower riders.

Eventually Wayne reappeared on the fourth lap, and I set my sights on his rear tire. Thus began the most demanding task of woods racing: Passing an experienced veteran. Anyone who’s survived and thrived in hare scrambles as long as Wayne Hatfield has done so with a knack for avoiding mistakes. The only way to pass this kind of rider is through straight-up racing: Apply the brakes a bit later, turn inside when he goes outside, make a new line through the underbrush. Wayne was not the rider to pursue in hopes that he could be flustered into a poor decision. Using that approach, I would have followed him until the end of the race.

Instead, I scanned the trail ahead while trying to avoid trees and slippery roots and ruts, all while analyzing Wayne’s every movement and eying an opportunity to pass. Processing such a mass of information is like listening to three different conversations at the same time and knowing any missed word will cause mayhem. The eyes wear out quickly and the mind can go haywire. Fortunately, I kept all my faculties intact and found a quicker way through a narrow group of trees. The lead was mine again.

By that time the 21 mph speed racers had already lapped me. Steve Leivan caught and passed Doug Stone on what was their fifth lap, while Brandon Forrester trailed behind. In that order the three racers zoomed by, with Leivan and Stone about to set the two fastest laps of the day.

Wayne Hatfield remained close behind as we checked into the scoring trailer to finish lap four. On our fifth and final lap, I put a small distance between us, only to give it up in the long, narrow creek section, waiting for a slower rider to navigate the tricky gulch. I could see Wayne in my peripherals each time the trail curved. He never gave up, all the way to the checkered flag. In the final section of grass track near the pits, I held him off and took home another Open B class win.

Steve Leivan maintained his lead and won the day. Brandon Forrester encountered a mechanical issue late in the race and settled for 2nd overall in the final point standings. As described later by his father in Cycle News, Steve’s 2002 title defense was a dangerously close one, and a testament to persistence.

My season ended with a sense of euphoria I’d never experienced in racing. Three years prior, new to Missouri and its many rocks, I felt as if I were relearning to ride a dirt bike in the woods. Through much frustration and learning, I persisted and adapted. It might have only been an Open B season title in a regional hare scrambles series, but this was special.