Knob Noster, Missouri

Every so often we make a choice which shifts the trajectory of our plans in interesting and challenging ways. My decision to buy a 2002 KTM 300MXC drove a change which would push me away from European race bikes for quite some time, and the Knob Noster round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC) laid the groundwork.

Allow me to explain.

I love Knob Noster, not only for its proximity to the Whiteman air base and common sighting ground for airborne B-2 stealth bombers, but also for a venue remarkably similar to the best hare scramble properties in Illinois. These are my woods, I reminded myself on the practice lap. Last year I won my class here, and I liked my chances to notch my first Vet class victory today. All I needed was a good start and a mistake-free ride.

Not gonna happen, declared the hare scramble gods.

The day began well enough, though. In the morning I picked up regular driving partner Matt Sellers in Wentzville and cruised to the race site about halfway between the towns of Warrensburg and Knob Noster. The official MHSC schedule listed the venue as Warrensburg this year, after identifying the site as Knob Noster in the past. I can only imagine the race promoter grew weary of calls from riders in these pre-Google Maps days asking for directions to Cob Loster or Bald Costas and pleaded with the MHSC brass to change the site name to Warrensburg. Those tiresome conversations, not unlike the one I am currently overhearing as I write this between two coworkers discussing a golf ball shanked into a sand trap, surely must have prompted the request for Warrensburg. I prefer Knob Noster and this is my story, so it shall be named thus. And yes, I do sometimes write portions of these race reports while at work, for nothing produces creativity like analyzing how many dead cows it takes to make a truckload of dog food. But I digress.

At the race site, the motorcycle-only singletrack covered 8 or 9 miles of the least rocky terrain in Missouri’s southern half. Matt and I suited up for a morning practice lap and found a drier, choppier course than last October’s hare scramble here. We also found Mr. Holeshot himself, Pro class fast guy Doug Stone, on a lazy scouting mission for passing lanes. With Doug, his lethargic velocity equaled my own race pace at about 110% capacity, so I tucked in and followed his lines. While he scanned carefully ahead, helmet on a swivel, I could only make out a blur of trees and hills and gullies.

Back at the staging area, Open B rider Mike Goforth arrived with my good buddy Jeff Smith, both making the long drive from Mississippi River border towns on the Illinois side. I’d just acquired a fancy digital camera for a princely sum of over $400, which in a couple of years the equivalent would be sold at Walmart for about $50, and handed over the device to Jeff with simple instructions: Make me look good. Jeff had left his bike at home and planned to observe from inside the woods, snap some photos and enjoy a relaxing day. He positioned himself at the far end of a relatively small starting area and came back with excellent shots of Mr. Holeshot beating the rest of the Pro class to the first corner.

When the board dropped for the Vet class start, I jumped off the line with surprising ease and found myself in 4th place at the first turn. A quarter-mile into the course, as we passed by the pit area, the engine bogged and began a slow death. In classic Stichnoth fashion, I forgot to turn on the gas. The entire class passed by as I flipped the petcock to its correct position and attempted to kick the engine back to life. After ten attempts the engine fired and I rejoined the race, charging towards the pack about 30 seconds behind.

This silly mistake, now repeated several times throughout my racing misadventures, wrung out a bit of anger and a lot of aggression. In an instant, I concentrated every ounce of energy and focus to moving forward as quickly as humanly possible to catch up. It’s a rousing feeling, moving beyond the safe zone of 90% maximum speed and edging toward a full 100%. With laser focus, my eyes scanned ahead for every curve and corner, my right hand and foot worked the brakes, and the throttle and clutch performed a high-RPM duet.

Margins for error thin out rapidly with this style of riding, where a mistake normally puts me on the ground and negates all my efforts. But there were no errors, and for a time, no other competitors nearby. Freed to use every means in my racing toolbox, I accelerated hard, braked late and railed through corners to close the gap. I likened this to an experience with go-kart time trials at an indoor track, when I drove the track mostly by myself with one simple goal: Go fast. Use every square inch of the track. Avoid the brakes. Stay on the gas. Inside the Knob Noster woods, this worked very, very well.

Over the next two miles I caught and passed a few Vet class riders and then drag-raced a Kawasaki through a pasture straightaway. Back among the trees, I made quick work of the green dragster and then found Kevin Ruckdeschell about 15 seconds ahead. From a distance, I made out his familiar #94 side plates while he dropped down into a narrow, winding creek bed filled with an assortment of odd-shaped rocks. I followed him into the same channel which challenged me on the practice lap, where one lousy tree root got me again. I lost time stepping off the bike and shoving it past the obstacle.

Kevin left my sight and continued his own battle with #383 Neal Soenksen in the heat of a 90 degree day. At this point in June, I should have been better acclimated, but a cool spring offered few chances to build stamina for the summer season. Thrusting my KTM over the tree root let my body know work was yet to be done. Even so, I attacked the course, passed more riders and clawed my way up to 4th place at the scoring trailer.

Neal and Kevin remained out front but trailed race leader Gary Mittleberg, freshly returned to racing after a nasty injury last year. Gary hadn’t lost much speed and wouldn’t be challenged by anyone else in the Vet class while the rest of us fought for 2nd place.

At the first creek crossing on the second lap, the course had been rerouted slightly and I read the arrows wrong, sending me off track. More precious seconds slipped by while I found my way back to the main route. Several miles later, I spotted an orange motorcycle ahead and slowly closed in. Once again the #94 of Kevin Ruckdeschell came into view and I cranked up the pace. Like most experienced racing veterans, Kevin was a difficult pass. His clean style would never send another rider into a tree, but taking his spot would have to be earned. Patiently, I explored my options, positioning my bike behind his with just enough distance to see ahead, yet close enough to pounce on a suitable opportunity. Minutes passed, and then the most beautifully illuminated vision appeared 20 yards ahead: Tree apex. Also known by me alone as a treepex, this feature includes a healthy maple or locust or oak positioned at the inside of a corner. Trail arrows point riders around the outside of the tree and most take this line. Occasionally, a less visible inside path among the brush and fallen branches and undergrowth offers a shorter turning radius, where the tree becomes the apex of the turn. On the practice lap, Doug Stone searched for and memorized treepexes while I clung to my handlebars trying to keep up. But suddenly I discovered my very own, and all I had to do was hope Kevin didn’t see it.

He did not. The treepex was mine.

I sneaked around Kevin, who had separated a bit from Neal on the second lap. While I fought toward the scoring trailer, Neal’s grey KTM appeared and an extra burst of throttle sent me past him before we checked through the RFID reader.

After a dead-last start, I was now in 2nd place to begin the third lap. I charged through a small field where the race began an hour prior, upshifting from second to third gear. Oddly, my left foot pulled the shifter lever, but the transmission remained in 2nd gear. The missed shift left the engine racing while I grabbed the clutch and used a little more effort to tug on the lever again. Still no shift. One more try, this time with a firm jerk from my boot, gave me third gear as the transmission clanked out its objections. After that, I could barely shift. I located 2nd gear and passed through the rerouted creek section, but further shifting became futile. Rather than pilot a one-gear motorcycle and abuse the clutch for another hour, I called it a day.

I found Jeff Smith wandering the woods with my digital camera and shot a few images of my own while the race wound down, then packed up with Matt Sellers and left for home. That night in my garage, I discovered a small bolt had backed its way out of the shift drum. The official KTM transmission diagram included a thread locking icon next to this bolt, suggesting a bit of Loctite should have coated the threads, but the bolt lay on my workbench as clean as the day it was machined. The KTM factory had failed me. After unsuccessfully re-indexing the shifting mechanism, I pulled the entire engine and delivered it to a nearby KTM dealership for repair. Warranties don’t mean much on race bikes, so this would cost me a fair amount of cash. I had the money, but not the time. In two weeks an MHSC race would be held at St. Joe State Park, and the dealership couldn’t fix the transmission before then.

A four-week downtime offered many hours to scour the internet universe for answers and virtual shoulders on which to weep. Similar stories came from many places, and I felt bamboozled once again by KTM culture. I just didn’t get it. The day-one jetting issues were eventually solved by mailing the cylinder head to a Texas shop who machined it to the correct manufacturing specs. Somehow KTM couldn’t get this right inside its own factory. The ridiculously harsh forks would later be remedied by a do-it-yourself re-valve kit. Sure, these mechanical adventures added to my motorcycle knowledge, but I didn’t want to see the inside of a transmission or change valve stacks in my garage. I just wanted to ride, which I could do quite well on Japanese dirt bikes. With my KTM euphoria long gone, a change would soon be in order. Little did I know it would involve a Canadian importer of Kawasaki dirt bikes, a motorcycle delivered in a crate, and the conversion of a motocross bike into a woods racer. The 2003 season would be my last on a KTM for years to come.

On a more pleasant note, Jeff Smith performed his duties admirably. Indeed, I looked good.