Marshfield, Missouri

When the Marshfield round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC) approached on the racing calendar, I set out two goals: Enjoy the event as much as last year and annoy Matt Sellers less. Recall the 2001 hare scramble, where I showed up at his house with bad wheel bearings, then led him on a roundabout route to the race site. Neither aggravation would repeat this year, but a new one filled its place, cutting my race short.

The Marshfield site is a gem of a property in the otherwise rough country of Southwest Missouri. Fear not, rocks are aplenty, but the land is rich in narrow singletrack. I loved this place last year and couldn’t wait to try it again. With Matt as my copilot, we set off early in the morning, sped through the registration line and geared up for a practice lap.

Out in the woods I found Kurt “Pizzaman” Mirtsching breaking in the trail on his big KTM four-stroke. Kurt’s strong frame was more than beefy enough to handle his powerful bike with ease. I settled in behind him, studying the physical actions required to manhandle the machine through such narrowly spaced trees. Kurt’s body remained in constant movement, standing and sitting and leaning in all manner of angles to the left and right, sometimes dropping low to avoid a tree limb or springing upright to use his legs as an extra layer of suspension. His style didn’t quite match that of a rodeo bull rider, but it wasn’t far off. Kurt was a model of perpetual motion.

Then arrived a water-filled gully, and Kurt’s progress came to a halt. An easier line was visible to his right, and I simply couldn’t resist the urge to make it rain. With a blip of throttle, my front wheel skimmed the surface and the rear wheel found the bottom of the gully, parting water like Moses on a KTM. If Kurt needed cooling, mission accomplished.

The trail opened into a wide pasture filled with green grass and speeding motorcycles. On the far side, at the point where most riders backed off throttles and prepared to reenter the woods, a large terrace had been constructed for erosion control. In 5th gear, this grassy ridge offered a free opportunity to launch a motorcycle over a jump for the ages. I had seen videos of European Enduro GP professionals sailing high over similar jumps, as if they’d taken a pause from a motocross circuit to show the mild mannered woods racers how to fly. Nobody like that existed at Marshfield, Missouri. Most of us treated jumps like a roller coaster handles freefall: Safely connected to the earth. When the terrace approached, I throttled down and gently rolled over it.

An hour later the starting area filled with its usual crop of restless riders searching for just the right position to beat all others to the first corner. Hare scramble starting lines come with no reservations, so the rule of first-come, first-served has some riders staking claims early. Some simply park their motorcycles and leave in search of shade or mingle with other racers. The kick-start crowd might deposit a stand or a step stool and bring their bikes back later, ready for the dead engine start with the extra leverage of a stand-up position. I did neither. When the time came, I planted my bike in a spot where I could reach the inside of the first corner within the shortest distance. A novel strategy, yes. But my good intentions usually ended in one of the many alternative outcomes described in previous race reports.

On this day, though, I actually charged off the line fairly well and entered the first turn within sight of the lead riders. Matt also began quickly but faded fast, eloquently stating “I got off to a good start, but everyone else just passed me.” I felt exactly the same, soon finding myself mid-pack in the Open B class with limited room for passing. Eventually the trail widened enough to squeeze by a handful of riders, at which point I settled into a train of motorcycles led by none other than Pizzaman. I’d never seen Kurt ride so flawlessly as he led the charge in the same state of perpetual motion I’d witnessed on the practice lap. Why was this man not already advanced to the A class?

I passed more riders, moving up through the cluster until Kurt became the only impediment between me and clean air. We finished the first lap wheel-to-wheel at the scoring trailer, then sprinted back into the woods. A few miles later, his riding style became a bit uneven as I harassed him for a pass. Smart riders know when to push and when to conserve, and Kurt recognized it was time to let me by. I knew the pressure of riding someone else’s race and the risks which come with it, and Kurt must have realized the same. Like any good racer, he also knew where and how to ease off the throttle ever so slightly, allowing just enough room for me to squeeze past while losing almost no time.

With no other riders in sight, I pushed forward in hopes of catching others in my class. As the first lap ended, I caught only a rock in my boot. Most footwear comes with a weakness or two, and now I’d found one in my AXOs. This brand became my favorite in 1995 after a trip to the vast forests of upper Michigan. An unfortunately placed tree stump snapped a couple of bones in my foot while trail riding, and the boot could only be removed with the help of a sharp knife. I’d purchased the cheapest of the cheap, a sad pair of O’Neal’s which came as a package apparel deal from a mail order company. After my encounter with the Michigan stump, I splurged for slightly higher quality boots. The comfortable AXO’s stepped up my game, but suddenly the Marshfield trails altered my feelings. To call it a rock in my boot, or even a stone, would be a bit generous. This tiny jagged fragment worked its way down the front of the boot and lodged on top of my right foot. To be more specific, the little rock settled just above the fourth metatarsal, tightly pressing the fragment against my tender skin. If one can imagine a small nail pounded into a person’s foot, over and over, this was the maddening sensation. The rock also distracted from the important task of finishing the race with my spine intact. Surely, I thought, the rock will shift to the bottom of my boot and release me from the stinging pain. Sadly, it did not.

In a stubborn rage, I tolerated the pain and completed the lap. The idea of pulling off the trail and fixing the problem never even crossed my mind. But little did I know, relief was on its way. Suddenly the front end of my KTM became nearly uncontrollable and I had no choice but to stop. The front tire lay squished against the dirt, victim of a pinch flat. The top riders knew better than to rely on inner tubes, using airless foam inserts instead, but I was far too frugal to endure the high cost and too lazy to learn the difficult installation procedure. From then on, I decided my Michelin S12 front tire of choice would never again be used in rocky terrain, with its super soft sidewall and propensity for flats. And like magic, I would never again suffer a rock-induced flat tire.

I limped back to the truck, kicked off the painful boot and packed my things. Matt finished a short while later and we left for home. My 15th place result in the Open B class would be a throwaway for the series, but I learned valuable lessons. The boots would either be modified or replaced, and Bridgestone M59’s would be my standard front tire for years to come. I also learned early June is tick season in Southwest Missouri and Deep Woods Off is a worthy investment. And to be sure, strictly following the MHSC driving directions is an excellent way to avoid aggravating Matt Sellers.