There’s a reason I rarely spend six hours straight on a motorcycle: It hurts, especially at St. Joe State Park, where a special breed of jagged rocks is no match for motorcycle suspension. To enjoy riding within the boundaries of these several thousand acres, one must come to terms with the sad fact that dirt bikes mostly bounce over the terrain, no matter which version of suspension guru thinks he can make compliant forks and shocks. The result is burning legs and a sore lower back, usually suffered for days afterward.
Today’s race intensified the aching, as the Missouri Mudders upped the ante for distance. Their annual Leadbelt Enduro was awarded Round #5 on the National Enduro Series schedule, where professionals compete for paychecks. The Mudders obliged with a 50-mile loop covering just about every rolling hill, holler, field and stream within the park. Run twice, the loop would beat the bejesus out of bikes and riders alike, not to mention a deer on the trail (more on that later).
Our host, the State of Missouri park system, gave us the entirety of St. Joe State Park to spin our wheels and kick up dust. This gem of a public riding area bore its beginnings from lead mining and, once the mining ended, a generous donation of land to the State. Most riders never know the vast network of caverns carved out of a subterranean underworld, some cavities more than 200 feet from top to bottom. In fact, had personal liability lawsuits not become a thing, several miles of the enduro course probably could have been routed completely underground (I mean, c’mon…what are the odds of rock pillars collapsing during the race?). Today’s Leadbelt remained on top of the earth, where a few hundred riders would enjoy the public and non-public areas of the St. Joe property.
On the flat, sandy low area near the Missouri Mines State Historic Site, I picked up my preregistration packet and suited up for an early departure. I’d reserved row 5 with Jeff Neathery and Donnie Dannar, who gained a bit of fame this year after a particularly acrobatic pose at the White Rock Enduro in Arkansas. Captured on jpeg, Donnie blew a gentle kiss toward his front fender while scaling the aptly named Work Hill. Unfortunately he wasn’t able to attend the Leadbelt Enduro, leaving many a trailside photographer searching elsewhere for photo ops.
Thus far, the paparazzi focused on factory riders milling about their oversized tractor-trailers and motorhomes. Unlike professional motocross or most other high-end motorsports, spectators and amateur racers wandered freely wherever and whenever, casually broaching conversations with the professionals and inspecting their rides. The limits on these interactions seemed unclear. If I asked politely, would seven-time AMA National Enduro champ Randy Hawkins allow me to sit on his motorcycle? A nicer man could not be found anywhere else in these ranks, and I suspected he might at least let me pat the seat or lube his chain. But somehow it seemed a bit forward to initiate dialog with someone working his job, and a stressful one at that. I simply gazed at his accommodations and kept walking, wondering why I still hadn’t found a way to make a paying career out of my passion.
Soon after, my KTM 300MXC passed (barely) the required sound check and I spotted Jeff Neathery across the staging area, setting up for the race. We gathered with other racers as the Missouri Mudders began the usual task of informing on stuff we all needed to know before entering the course. The most important tidbit came first: Racing is dangerous! A well-amplified master of ceremonies proclaimed that any entrant could retrieve his registration fee if he suddenly decided on this day, in this moment, after spending $8,000 on a dirt bike, securing a spot on the Leadbelt Enduro starting grid, suiting up for the race and standing amongst a crowd of likeminded individuals, now was the time to forgo the risk of injury and call it quits. I spotted no one heading to the registration tent for a refund, but this warning pleased the attorneys.
From there the trail boss announced the infamous waterfall section was again included in the course, now located near the end of the 50-mile loop. Last year this series of rock ledge drop-offs appeared much earlier, drawing rave reviews from some and much angst from others. Tackling the ledges first thing seemed a better alternative than suffering through them near the end of the loop, but I shrugged it off and prepared for a long day in the saddle.
Pre-race preparations, for a change, did not include marking up a generic roll chart and attempting to match it to the route sheet. The kind folks running the Blackjack Enduro Circuit, a regional club offering an 11-race series, had already provided the Leadbelt route sheet online. All I needed was a roll chart to match, and thanks to Microsoft Excel and my trusty Epson inkjet, the chart was already printed and loaded. Even without this most time consuming of chores, I still managed to fumble around long enough to kill all but three minutes of spare time.
On his yellow and black Gas Gas enduro bike, Jeff Neathery idled in the starting area, surely wondering what took me so long. Joined by Senior B rider Paul Pendry and Shannon Worthen in Senior C, our foursome departed as course officials flipped over “5” on the number board. By now the wind had picked up, kicking up sand, and skies turned overcast. Jeff and I jumped out first, leading our group through the sand flats near the staging area. The route sheet indicated a leisurely 15 mph pace, more or less a warmup for higher speed averages to come. My KTM, now a designated enduro machine, welcomed me back into its saddle by locking in on a mound of grass clinging to the sand. Rounding a sweeping curve, the front wheel seemed laser-guided toward the mound. I jerked the handlebars too late and caught the tire in the edge of the grass, where loose sand sucked it in and left me on the ground. Jeff passed as I gathered myself, probably doubting his choice to spend a day riding alongside a guy who crashed within the first 200 yards of a 100-mile enduro in a 15 mph section of open sand.
Trailside photographers did not record my fall, and I remounted quickly. Certain other riding buddies would have reminded me of the incident for years to come, but Jeff never again brought it up. I rejoined him just before the 3-mile marker and paused for a quick break. Our pace put us a minute ahead of schedule, which normally is a no-no during timekeeper enduros, but this only matters when a timed checkpoint shows up. The rules allow no such thing within three miles of the start, so Jeff eyed his Watchdog enduro computer screen while we paused and offered a thumbs up when the little gadget indicated go-time.
Back on schedule, we took off into twisty, second gear trails at race pace. Jeff led for a short distance, then moved aside to let me by. We quickly caught up to a pair of riders on row 4, one who yielded immediately and another less accommodating. After requesting (or yelling) three times to move over, I lost patience and brought out the block pass from my arsenal of hare scrambles techniques. Commonly used in motocross and sometimes in the woods, the block pass happens near the apex of a turn, where an inside line which forces another rider to the outside and effectively blocks his path out of the turn. Some would say it’s a form of forcibly running a rider off the course, and perhaps karma will clap back at some point. I say the block pass simply reminds another rider of trail etiquette. Either way, perfect execution requires a tight following distance, a firm commitment to holding the inside line, and a yielding rider unwilling to risk crashing us both. Fortunately, the other rider did this while I exited the corner and sped ahead.
Near the 8-mile marker the speed average increased to 24 mph. Still in the non-public area of St. Joe State Park, the course fanned out through trails used frequently in hare scramble races and past enduros. A relatively dry week leading up to the event left dry dirt (mostly) and fairly easy navigation, which isn’t always the case with an early row at an enduro. Club members do pre-run the course, but with such a long distance to cover, their tracks were thin.
At a gas stop 4 miles later, I paused and compared notes with Jeff. We both agreed the course couldn’t be much better. My rear brake, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more noisy. With each tap of the rear brake pedal a loud squeal, much like that of a sow in heat, announced to the world I was riding a KTM. Its Brembo brakes, a much lesser version of the Nissin’s preferred by the Japanese, overheated more often than my Aunt Dorothy during menopause. Magically, though, and for the first time in my five year history with KTMs, the problem solved itself, thanks to another common trait of KTM two-strokes: Exhaust spooge. Dripping black ooze from the end of the spark arrestor landed directly onto the rear caliper and the squealing disappeared.
The first mileage reset came 20.6 miles into the course, which also served as another chance to fuel up. I topped off the tank while Jeff caught up a couple minutes later. The reset put me back on schedule, just as the sky spit out raindrops.
Jeff and I set out into a meandering section of trails adjacent to a long stretch of high voltage power lines. Nearly two miles across the park, a 50-yard-wide clearing separated the woods and allowed the Missouri Mudders to run the course on both sides. Here, the best singletrack of the day turned tricky as skies darkened and my rose-tinted goggle lens dimmed the terrain. Suddenly the rocks and tree roots melded with the dirt, visibly difficult to distinguish in the densely canopied woods. Somewhere in this section, as if the trail boss had anticipated my new challenge, the speed average dropped from 24 mph to 18 mph…not that it helped much. Bouncing across the course in dimly lit woods, I couldn’t possibly get a read on my mechanical odometer, compare the mileage to time on my handlebar-mounted clock, and then reconcile that to where the roll chart said I should be. I either had to slow to a crawl or come to a complete stop, neither of which seemed productive. Based on past experience, I knew for sure I couldn’t possibly keep pace with a 24 mph average and wouldn’t do much better in an 18 mph section unless I kicked the gear shifter up to 3rd. Right now, the trails continued their tightly meandering ways and the shifter seemed locked in 2nd.
Eventually the course sent us into the public area of the park, onto familiar trails I’d spent so many days riding for fun. Fast and wide, these trails should have helped me get back on time, but the roll chart (what I could read of it) said otherwise. I pushed onward toward a small manmade lake, using a path of jagged rocks and ledges I usually avoided when riding here for fun. Running so close to the water, a poorly placed bobble could send bike and rider into a dark abyss. In old mining country, the lake could have been three feet deep or three hundred and I had no desire to find out. I breezed through this tricky section and quickly arrived at the next checkpoint, quite late as expected.
A mileage reset in the middle of the sand flats put me a couple minutes ahead of schedule. Now 37 miles into the first loop, I caught my breath and paused for Jeff. When riding here for fun, more often than not I avoided this part of the park. Sand flats were a retreat for ATVs, growing larger in number and carving out berms and drag racing across areas uninterrupted by vegetation. Over the years, a near miss or two had me fleeing to the safety of trees, where I belonged. Park rangers had closed the public area for today’s enduro, so ATV risk was low and for the first time in years, I parked my bike and relaxed in the sand flats.
Jeff arrived as I fired up the KTM and readied for the final piece of the 50-mile loop. He pointed to his Watchdog computer and noted the blank screen. “Now we’re both old-school timekeepers,” I replied. In these final miles before the halfway point of the race, it wouldn’t matter, for the 24 mph average had everyone riding at a full race pace. The remaining course took us to the west end of the park, outside the public area, where the waterfall section lurked. We had been advised at the riders meeting to expect the infamous creek around 5 miles from the end of the loop. Every so often white cardboard signs indicated mileages, helping me anticipate the exact point my sphincter would tighten enough to turn coal into diamonds.
Nearing the 45-mile mark, around every corner I scanned for rock ledges. Is this it? I asked, again and again. Finally, split arrows appeared, one set marked “Easy” and the other “Hard”. Nowhere did these signs describe why the “Hard” trail would be more difficult, but a genius-level IQ wasn’t necessary to figure it out. Presumably the easier trail was longer, although post-race discussions suggested otherwise. Regardless, I wasn’t here for easy. A club member directed traffic into the two routes, where I correctly guessed the “Hard” arrows would send me into the waterfalls.
I dropped down a few feet into a creek, 20 feet wide and lined with a flat limestone base. A small trickle of clear water flowed through the center, filling portions of the tan rock layers with murky puddles. I pointed my KTM toward the driest part of flat rock and cautiously shifted into second gear. A few yards later, the outline of the waterfalls came into view and about 90% of my 650 muscles tightened. I’d never seen such an obstacle in a dirt bike race. The creek descended about 40 feet over the next 100 yards in a series of rock ledge drop-offs, some a couple feet from top to bottom and others more difficult to estimate from my vantage point. The whole section was something straight out of Turkey Run State Park in Indiana, where I’d hiked as a kid. Never did I imagine dirt bikes could even be capable of conquering such a geologic feature, yet here I was, committed to stair-stepping my way down while connected to a 240 pound dirt bike.
At the highest point above the ledges, I could make out spectators lining both edges of the channel, some with cameras and others shouting encouragement. If ever an enduro course offered a spot for hours of entertainment, this was it, and I certainly didn’t want to let down any of them. With a gentle throttle hand, I pointed my KTM toward the center of the creek.
The first few ledges served as a warmup, more or less, for the larger ones to come. I planted my backside on the rear fender and gently launched the motorcycle over the first edge, landing in a small puddle of dark water. With half a second to recover, I launched over the next drop, then another and another. After four or five ledges, the channel curved slightly to the left, where a pair of much higher ledges appeared. These were the photo-op wet dreams of cameramen, and after sizing up the first, I expected to be the Donnie Dannar of the Leadbelt Enduro. With little time to set up for the first big launch, I opened the throttle slightly and began freefall. The landing zone, now visible, appeared as another dark pool of water, but considerably larger than the others. Was this a waterlogged mining shaft or an inch-deep puddle?
I leveled the bike as we returned to earth, landing with a hard thump and a small splash. With little time to prepare, the final, largest drop came almost immediately into view. Around 4 feet from top to bottom, the approach to the ledge required a quick change in direction and captured the attention of many a photographer. With the creek curving to the left, cameras could line up facing the entirety of almost every rock ledge in the series of step-downs and capture images of riders launching over the final drop. Photos would later show the mass of ledges, all in countless layers of limestone, from top to bottom. When these images hit the internet over the coming days, I found the Jamie Forbes version and spent a considerable time staring in awe. His photo showed me in midair while cleaning the final drop, motorcycle level and rider in perfect form. The guy was good.
Half a second later I landed, bottoming out the suspension and sloshing through a shallow puddle. I exited the creek and followed the trail out of the woods and into the sandy, open fields near the staging area. A couple miles later, the final checkpoint awaited near a raised bicycle/walking path.
Fifty miles down, fifty more to go.
The route sheet showed a lengthy mileage reset allowing enough time to gobble up a turkey sandwich and refuel the KTM. I felt oddly energized, despite only a handful of minutes to catch my breath during those 50 miles. Unlike typical Midwest enduros, this one had no restful road sections linking up wooded areas. The Leadbelt was 100% off road. No headlight or taillight was required, leaving many bikes’ appearances similar to what typically shows up at hare scrambles. Only the timekeeping equipment gave away that these machines were enduro racers. My KTM, on the other hand, kept its enduro-centric purpose visible to all, headlight and taillight permanently attached.
Thus far the bike had performed well and barely showed any signs of a three hour trip through St. Joe State Park. A quick inspection revealed no need for anything but a full tank of gas, so I fired the engine and headed back out for the second loop.
In the span of 100 miles, sometimes it’s difficult to recall significant details of a particular section, and I honestly don’t remember anything substantial about the hour or so it took to arrive at the next checkpoint and mileage reset. At the gas stop, now 70 miles into race, I topped off the fuel tank without Jeff, who I hadn’t seen since he showed me his dysfunctional Watchdog computer. I paused for a couple minutes of rest and then headed into the woods a bit ahead of schedule. It was a calculated risk. At the riders meeting we had been warned to expect a checkpoint shortly after the refueling area, and sure enough, a group of club members appeared just inside the woods, standing beside a signpost with flip cards showing “4”. I really needed “5”. If either of my feet touched the ground within sight of the pen-wielding checkpoint workers, they’d write “4” on my fender-mounted scorecard and two points would be added to my tally.
So began another type of competition: Slow racing. Enduro rules stated that as long as I remained in front of the checkpoint crew and maintained forward progress without planting either foot, they could not write anything on my scorecard. So I transitioned from beast mode to sloth mode, standing on the foot pegs and balancing the bike while I slowly inched ahead, praying the checkpoint crew would flip the cards to “5”. Just as I nearly lost balance and put down my foot, the cards flipped to “5” and I checked in exactly on time, with no points added to the scorecard.
What would enduros be without rules?
Nonstop, start-to-finish cross country races, that’s what. As it were, the rules allowed the Missouri Mudders to build in just enough rest periods to keep me riding a ridiculous number of miles in one day without being carried off the course. This far in, only the waterfall section had truly challenged me, but a usual wildcard had yet to show its face: Mother Nature. So say Midwesterners, If you don’t like our weather, just wait…it’ll change. And sure enough, it changed. When I began my second trip through the best singletrack on the course, the front tire suddenly took on a mind of its own, sliding around every corner. The back tire joined in, leaving the KTM a nervous wreck in the woods. Apparently a small cloudburst dropped just enough precipitation to dampen the dirt, through which I slid for a couple more miles. Then, just as suddenly, the trails returned to dry dirt.
Back in the public area of the park, 80 miles into the course, my knees felt the effects of 5 hours in the saddle. I had officially entered the Advil stage of my racing years and wished for a handful of little red pills. I also needed to pay more attention to the arrows. Where the course converged with a well-established ATV path, I overshot the junction and blazed my own trail while searching for a quick way back onto the marked route. The old growth forest, filled with large trees and scant underbrush, allowed ample time to locate an easy way back onto the ATV path. When an opening appeared, I swerved left and expected to simply merge with the wide trail. But after years of ATV-induced erosion, I realized I was riding 5 feet above the marked route. Over time the ATVs had carved out the side of the hill, effectively creating a manmade ditch. With no time to react, I flew over the ledge and dropped down into the marked course with a heavy thump. My knee pain suddenly ended, and a few miles later, so did this part of the loop.
In the middle of the sand flats, Jeff remained missing in action while I paused for a brief mileage reset. These final 12 miles would test my fitness, and I wished for more than a one minute break before final departure. On the west end of the park, the rocks seemed rockier, the tree roots rootier and the hills hillier. Or, quite possibly, I was more than ready to see the finish line. Either way, my anxiety for the waterfall section trumped all physical pain. As much as I tried to recall the exact spot where I entered the flat limestone creek on the first loop, my mental acuity simply would not cooperate. Physically, I wasn’t much better. Rising up to stand on the foot pegs, planting my backside on the seat, or jerking back on the handlebars to assist over logs…each offered a different type of pain. This race needed to end, but the ultimate challenge still lie ahead.
Finally I reached the split arrows and again chose the “Hard” option. Fewer spectators lined the edges of the creek to watch me clean each ledge smoothly, and I could not have been more pleased to say goodbye to the waterfalls.
Several minutes later, I arrived at a sand track near the entry road to the staging area, thankful to be in the home stretch. With my backside firmly planted on the seat, I noticed a cameraman set up by the road, snapping photos of riders nearing the end of the loop. I reluctantly stretched my legs and stood on the foot pegs just in time to fake an aggressive stance before a flash burst from the camera. From there, I flopped back down onto the seat and spotted the final checkpoint.
One. Hundred. Miles.
Another racing first.
My final score of 55 was good enough for 7th place in the Vet A class. I felt satisfied in nearly matching the pace of perennial fast guys John Yarnell and Aaron “Chili” Roberts, both competing in my class. At the top of the overall leaderboard, many familiar names snagged the top 10 positions, including Missouri’s own Steve Levian in fourth. Seventh place finisher Fred Hoess might have earned a spot or two higher, if not for smashing into a deer on the trail. But none came remotely close to overall winner Steve Hatch, who carded a score of 5. Yes…five. He zeroed 9 of the 12 checkpoints. Enduro math indicated Steve reached the finish line 9 minutes sooner than me and rested 41 additional minutes after mileage resets. Runner-up Randy Hawkins scored a 6, while all other riders finished in double digits. That, folks, is why Messrs. Hatch and Hawkins are both are paid handsomely to race dirt bikes, while I and most of the rest of the Leadbelt racers limped and hobbled back to their day jobs on Monday.
