Marshfield, Missouri

When retired athletes are asked about their most memorable games, one would think the hard-fought, outstanding victories would first come to mind. Turns out the great ones often recall more about losses that should have been wins, still gnawing at them years later. For me, Marshfield will forever be the one that got away, fresh in my mind decades later as my greatest motorcycle maintenance failure since the infamous rag-in-airbox incident at the Roselawn enduro.

In reality, the Marshfield defeat was rooted in the 2002 KTM 300MXC acquired last year. A darned beautiful-looking machine it surely was, but over time I learned what lie inside, and it wasn’t all pretty. On the one hand, I’d replaced fewer broken parts than my previous KTM, which pleased my wallet. The 300MXC, however, crushed me in other ways, starting with the mushy front brake. Stopping on a dime was a pipe dream, for no matter what I tried, the brake lever had to be pulled almost halfway to the handlebar before the bike even considered slowing. Internet chatter suggested switching from the stock Brembo master cylinder to a Nissin unit from a Honda CR motocross bike, so of course I jumped on the hype bandwagon and scoured humanity for a good deal. After the Kahoka national hare scramble last month, I ordered the Nissin master cylinder, installed it on the 300MXC and pretended the $110 was money well spent. On the Marshfield practice lap, the results were less than conclusive.

On the other side of definitive, best riding buddy Matt Sellers chauffeured me to the race in a positively stunning new Chevy Silverado pickup truck, with its 4 doors and heated leather seats and a really big engine. While luxuriating in the new car aroma, I recalled the old days when a Silverado defined the quintessential farm truck, often parked beside Ford F-150s at local eating (or drinking) establishments, lightly coated with gravel dust and the front bench seat (the only seat) decked out in soybean-encrusted vinyl. The interior aroma offered elements of dirt, sweat, corn and grungy farm dog. Times have changed, and I wasn’t complaining.

My gripes would come later in the race, but I really had only myself to blame. More on that later, but for now, a beautiful June day greeted us at Marshfield, where the surprisingly not-on-Saturday ATV race wrapped up just after we registered at the signup trailer. Near the staging area, riders splashed across a creek with relatively mud-free machines. The practice lap confirmed a dry course, although it wouldn’t be a hare scramble without a handful of mud holes scattered throughout the property. Regardless, my KTM shined bright on the starting line.

Honestly, I didn’t have high hopes for this race. The 10-mile course suited my riding style about like any other rocky Missouri terrain, where simply keeping up with the Vet class leaders qualified as a victory. After bouncing off just every rock on the practice lap, I hoped only to finish in the top half of our class. But sometimes there’s more to a hare scramble course than rocks and trees. Today, I had Kevin Ruckdeschell, and he would make all the difference.

Lined up next to me with his #94 number plate, Kevin rejoined the Vet class after sitting out the ridiculously muddy Kahoka round in May. When the starting board dropped, he blasted off like an NHRA dragster and put 5 feet between us before I could even release the clutch. Like my 11-year-old self, learning to ride for the first time, I dumped the clutch and stalled the engine. Two kicks later, I joined the Vet class dead last at the first turn.

A short grass track welcomed us to the course with several sweeping curves, and to my surprise I actually passed a guy in there. Just before we entered the woods, another rider fell over while braking for a turn. Two down, ten to go.

In actual race conditions, the Nissin master cylinder now proved itself to be as exactly the same as the old Brembo unit. The faster sections tested my resolve with sphincter-tightening braking ahead of sharp turns. Too cheap to buy the grippy organic brake pads, I’d installed the longer-lasting sintered metal version after the Kakoka mud bath destroyed the previous pads. Clearly, sintered metal wasn’t my ticket to out-braking my competitors.

Despite the Nissin disappointment and lack of passing opportunities, I did manage to move past a couple of riders on the initial lap. The first half of the course gave us bike-only singletrack, tight as anything the Missouri forests can offer. Two miles in, where a small hill littered with rocks and roots created a bottleneck of riders, I strayed from the main line and found my way to the top with minimal effort. This section had given me fits on the practice lap, but delivered confidence as I passed by with ease.

With so many riders stuck on that hill, traffic thinned out after I moved on. After starting dead last, I couldn’t know how many I’d passed in my class, or if I was riding better or worse than normal. In the first-lap chaos of a hare scramble, it’s challenging enough to keep the bike on two wheels, let alone track Vet class riders who are converging with other B classes into a mass of colorful bikes and riding gear. Near the end of the singletrack section, though, a predictor showed up in the form of Neal Soenksen on his familiar solid grey KTM. Neal is a strong rider in the Vet class, generally finishing at or near the top of any given race. Here I found myself gaining ground on him, within striking distance and approaching a spot on the course I remembered from the practice lap where a clean pass could be made. Normally my practice laps are more like mini races, where I try to find a groove on the course, work out arm pump and generally ride as fast as possible. Today was no different, except the mental note I’d filed away of a squared-off corner, now just ahead of us.

And in an instant, my hot line put me ahead of Neal.

Where the singletrack merged into the ATV course, MHSC scorekeeper Tim Eidam appeared ahead, moving along briskly in the Senior class. As I approached him, Tom collected a nasty bark sample, bounced off a tree and crashed hard. After the race, he would declare that the impact "scared the s--- out of me," but quickly gave me a thumbs-up from the ground. I charged toward the creek crossing near the scoring trailer and spotted the #94 of Kevin Ruckdeschell pulling through the scoring lane. Beyond the trailer, in the grass track section, the course continued straight and Kevin inexplicably turned right. I lost sight of him for a moment while he corrected his navigational error, then met up with him near the pit lane. Kevin could have dashed ahead of me right there, but the fair racer that he is, he let me by. Little did I know, I was now leading the Vet class.

I put a few seconds of distance on Kevin, believing the other fast guys in our class were still to be found. Every mile of the course was marked with white paper plates stapled to trees, along with other paper plates with encouraging messages such as “Got Arm Pump?” and “If You Can Read This You Might Want To Start Using the Throttle.” The 5 or so miles of tight singletrack in the first half of this second lap seemed never to end, and neither did the paper plate messages. Many were blurred by my focus on tree roots and jagged rocks, but I believe one message read “Trees Are Moving Faster Than You.” With that encouragement, I finished the lap in first place, despite losing the front end around a turn and tumbling down a hill.

On lap 3, Kevin put on a charge and caught me near the end of the singletrack section. The trail dropped down into wide-open quarter mile stretch of pasture, where I slowed to grab a small tree branch lodged in the exhaust pipe. Kevin flew by and I followed him all the way to the scoring trailer. Lurking behind were Elson Moore and Steve Crews, setting a blistering pace and closing the gap.

With Kevin leading to start the final lap, our battle pushed us toward the top-10 overall on adjusted time. We had no way of knowing this, of course, and I only knew I needed to find another good spot to pass Kevin. That opportunity came at a creek crossing in the singletrack, where the main path took riders wide right to avoid tree roots on the opposite bank. I’d attempted a straighter line on the practice lap, but the roots slowed me enough to avoid it during the race. Now came time to try again, and I squeezed ahead of Kevin where the lines converged.

For another mile or so, I couldn’t see or hear Kevin until a section of winding grass track. From a distance, he seemed to be just emerging from the woods, perhaps 10 seconds behind. This seemed a safe enough gap to back off a bit in the wide-open pasture section and take a sip from my Camelbak. Just as the cool water met my mouth, Kevin flew by and beat me to the woods.

Again I followed Kevin, hoping to stay close and find my way around him. One final passing opportunity came to mind where a creek crossing had been slightly rerouted. I figured Kevin would take the safer line to the left, and I’d charge through the more risky original (and shorter) line to the right.

The opportunity never came. During a run through a dry creek bed, my back wheel slid out on a side hill and Kevin disappeared. After this minor fall, the front brake master cylinder assembly became loose around the handlebars. When I swapped master cylinders, I’d forgotten to put thread locker on the clamp bolts. KTM two stroke engines vibrated like a Home Depot paint shaker, and any bolt not secured by thread locking compound was sure to find its way onto the trail. I knew this very well, neglected to remember and now had about 4 more miles to deal with it.

While I struggled to use the front brake, the distinct buzzing of a small bore two stroke engine screamed from behind, growing louder as the course reached its end. I suspected this might be Steve Crews, one of those rare individuals who could extract more than most from a Kawasaki KDX200. Typically a beginner bike, the little KDX proved that in capable hands, the bike could be competitive at this level of racing. A glance over my shoulder confirmed it was Steve indeed, quickly closing the gap. I held him off until the creek crossing just ahead of the scoring trailer, where Steve launched a kamikaze charge, dousing me with water and beating me to dry land. From there, Steve checked into the scoring trailer a couple seconds ahead. We paused near the RFID scanner and congratulated each other.

Soon after, Elston Moore came through, followed by Kevin. Somewhere in those last couple of miles Kevin dropped his bike, falling from 1st place to 4th. I felt his pain when I realized I gave up the class win in the last 100 feet of the race, which stimulated memories of Matt Sellers passing me in the last 300 yards of the Sedalia hare scramble in 2000. This time I felt even worse, especially when the overall results showed Steve in 10th place overall. My 11th spot overall bettered any other finish by many places, but top-10 would have been a pretty amazing feat, considering how I began my Missouri racing experience in 1998. Missing this opportunity would disappoint me for many years, but I took some comfort knowing it was Steve Crews who, against the odds, put together that charge to win the Vet class. And I had none other than Kevin Ruckdeshell to thank for pushing me to my absolute limit throughout most of the race. These days would be remembered fondly, when friends were rivals, challenging each other to reach for that last ounce of strength and courage in pursuit of cheap trophies, bragging rights, and stories to tell for years to come.

In all, the Vet class placed four riders in the top 20 overall, a testament to the speed and competitiveness of these old guys. Doug Stone took the overall win, followed closely by Steve Leivan. Tom Eidam recovered from his bark sampling and won the Senior class, while Matt equaled his best finish in the Open B class with third place.