Morrison, Illinois

In the world of off-road racing, Mr. October I am not. On any Sunday in any month named October, I’m most likely to be found on a different kind of off-road machine. Fall means harvest time in Illinois and most weekends are passed amidst the rush to bring in a crop and not break any of Dad’s farm equipment. In years past I spent days on end dreaming of a special kind of Midwest race where field lanes and ditches were more common than woods. A Hare & Hound for Illinois, if you will, where big-bore bikes rule and 125’s would stay at home. Little did I know at the time, there is such a race in the Midwest and it is called, simply, The Race.

Mr. Bill Gusse brings us this event each year in October as part of his OMA National series. I’d never attempted The Race but had heard rumors it was alternately tight and slow and open and fast. I’d been told some of the same trails would be used from the Moose Run in June. This was all true. What I hadn't heard was each of the two loops would be 35 miles in length. This same 70 miles had taken me 5 hours to finish at the Moose Run, which meant one thing.

I didn't bring enough fuel.

The gas jug felt a bit light on Sunday morning when I threw it in the back of the truck, but I figured two gallons in the jug and three in the bike would be good enough for 5 hours, which was all I was able to handle at the Moose Run anyway. But upon closer inspection the jug contained only about a gallon of premix. Four lousy gallons. I envisioned my future, stranded in a cornfield many miles from the staging area. My only hope would be begging for gas from some random stranger, who would not be Doug from Hampshire, parked beside me with his massive Kawasaki KX500. The motorcycle carried a huge, bulbous fuel tank, probably capable of running five hours straight. Doug seemed indifferent to fuel issues, with no sign of gas jugs after he unloaded his 100-mph super-two-stroke. Local fast guy Ryan Moss, a veteran of many Bill Gusse adventures, also seemed unworried before the race, with 5 gallons of gas on hand. I, on the other hand, was nervous but ultimately reached a calculated, well thought-out conclusion: Ride until the fuel is gone.

As the noon hour approached, riders brave enough to enter this long, difficult cross-country race ventured to the starting area in a harvested soybean field. A wide line of riders on the first row gave the field a hare & hound flavor, where the first row is the only row. All the Pro riders and the A classes positioned themselves in the general direction of a grain wagon about a quarter-mile out in the field. Two more wagons were placed across the field in quarter-mile increments. Mr. Gusse instructed us to ride around each wagon and then enter the motocross track. Whoever could open his throttle the longest and brake latest and enter the motocross track first would win a cash prize. Also helpful in this competition were wide-ratio transmissions and final gearing designed for a 100 mph top speed. My Kawasaki KX250 had neither, not that it would matter much. My dead-engine starting blues would continue, leaving my chances of pocketing the cash at exactly 0%.

Mr. Gusse very much wanted to begin The Race at 12:00 sharp, but we racers are so used to tardy starts that, as usual, we took our time readying ourselves and our bikes. The lineup of riders casually rolled into their respective places right about the time the signal was given to shut off engines. Many weren't paying attention in the rows behind us, and with little warning after the last of the engine noise ceased, the green flag waved the front row to the grain wagons. I really wanted to be squarely in the mix of riders sprinting across that soybean field. In my formative years I’d spent many a fall on dirt bikes, flying over the smooth stubble of recently harvested crops. This was my kind of riding, but my KX250 objected. After four swift kicks to the starter lever, I brought up the rear as we rounded the first grain wagon. I followed a cloud of dust to the second and third wagons, and then to the motocross track. The cash prize was long gone with the rest of the front row, but I did manage to pass two riders who’d already crashed in the soft, wet peat the Morrison area is famous for.

A short run through the motocross track gave way to a flat-out, wide open adrenaline rush through two miles of harvested corn fields. We slowed just once at a road crossing, then continued our sprint toward the woods, the first of which was only a small buffer between the cornfield in which we’d been and the cornfield for which we were headed. Another mile, another field. The remaining cornstalks, cut off by harvesters a foot above the ground, were no match for motorcycles blazing trails at 75 mph. The brown and crunchy stalks exploded to bits as the path widened.

Eventually the course arrows, spaced hundreds of yards apart, directed us to woods resembling the old Moose Run course. The Race could not have been a race without a mud hole or ten, and the predictable arrival of the first appeared just inside the trees. At least 30 of so men in front of me had already carved a handful of bike-swallowing ruts. Naturally, I found one. Rather than the soft peat I’d just spent the previous four miles floating across, my bad fortune was traditional Illinois black clay. And OMG was I ever stuck in it. I knew the only chance of escape was either the help of one or more very strong men, or by using my hands to dig my way out. Bike after bike flew by without stopping, which annoyed me until I realized no passing rider appeared strong enough to squat-thrust my KX250 out of its rut. These were dirt bikers, not NFL linebackers. I reached down into the black goop and began digging.

With nearly all riders on the course long gone down the trail, there remained only myself and two other men, both lodged in various states of quiet despair. Soon we communicated our troubles and decided our collective efforts might be enough to escape the mud hole. Thus began the laborious process of extricating each bike, one at a time. The easiest was the Husqvarna, which really only needed a good push over a log. My KX250 went next and, thanks to my generous hand-digging, came out somewhat painlessly.

The Honda 4-stroke was another matter entirely. This motorcycle was a beast. I marveled how its rider expected to make his way through the course with such a mammoth machine. I could imagine his euphoria as the Honda breezed through the cornstalks, followed by dread as course entered these narrow woods. So early in the race, I’d rather have not expended the energy to help the guy, but the unwritten rules of off-road racing are clearly established: Help those who help you. Together we tugged and pulled but the Honda would not budge. Its rear end was buried almost to the seat. Thus began three grown men grabbing handfuls of black muck, clearing out the frame and rear wheel. Eventually we pulled away enough mud to lift the back end out of the rut and lay the bike on its side.

Exhausted as I was, now at least I wasn't dead last. The Honda guy took some time to get moving, while I remounted and caught up to the Husky rider. From there I raced alone for 10 minutes and eventually caught up to a stray rider now and then. I even found Doug from Hampshire plodding through the woods on his KX500. He had told me earlier the mighty KX would go 100 mph and he was surely correct. After I passed him in the woods, he blew by me in the open fields while my right hand explored the throttle stop. The KX seemed unchallenged by this at all, while Doug appeared to be hanging on for his life.

The combination of fields and woods continued through the first half of the course, and I grew to enjoy the diversity. The narrow trails tested my stamina just long enough before the trail opened into vast, hilly farmland. The open terrain surely tested the limits of farmability and left surprises at the crests of just about every hill. Sometimes the beaten path abruptly changed direction and other times I found myself heading for grassy waterway crossings and wondered what I’d find inside them at 70 mph.

Aside from the usual smattering of downed trees inside the woods, Mr. Gusse set up a pair of obscenely large logs at spectator points mapped out on the race flyer. The first log brought on the same reaction as many Moose Run obstacles: You Cannot Be Serious. Such was my first impression of a 3-foot diameter log lying nearly parallel to the trail. Yellow ribbon limited my options to a quick 90-degree turn and an even quicker lofting of the front wheel as high as I could make it rise without flipping over backwards. All of this had to happen in about half a second. Somehow it did. Once the front wheel cleared the top of the log, the bike teetered on its skid plate. From there, gravity took care of the rest and I was on my way.

The second huge log was about the same as the first, but this time we were offered two options. Most riders chose a route far to the left where the approach, like the first log, was another quick 90-degree turn. A shorter, more direct route over the log had a second log sitting high off the ground about a foot beyond the main log. This didn't look like much fun. I chose the left route and once again turned sharply, dumped the clutch to lift the front wheel above the log and let gravity help me across. These were arguably the largest fallen trees I’d ever successfully ridden a motorcycle across, and I have to admit I was feeling pretty good.

After 2 hours of tight woods and WFO sprints through fields, I arrived back at the main checkpoint, full of confidence. I’d survived one lap. The ladies handling the scoring told me to go left, but I pointed myself straight at my pickup truck and filled up with the last of my gas. Even after wasting 15 minutes in the mud hole, I’d finished the first lap much more quickly than expected. Assuming I could avoid another mishap involving mud, fuel would not be a problem.

My real problem was interpreting the instructions from the ladies at the main checkpoint. A left turn took me back into the bean field where we’d sprinted around the grain wagons. Halfway through the field I figured out nobody else was doing what I was doing and I probably looked like an idiot screaming across the field and around the grain wagons all by myself. I found my way back to the motocross track and the proper location to start the loop.

The second time around proved much easier than the first, with the course now very well defined. In the wide-open cornfields, motorcycles had shaved the stalks more effectively than a Bush Hog mower. Inside the woods, the trails could be followed without as much attention to arrows. Mr. Gusse’s philosophy on course development favored the concept of navigation, which made the first lap more of a sighting expedition for the first row of riders. Now I could see a well-worn path through the trees and even avoided the mud hole which cost me so much time. I cleared the massive logs, survived the 75 mph sprints across fields and finished the second lap in just 90 minutes.

Other than the funny noises ringing from under my KX, the bike performed as fine as it could, given my extensive use of the carburetor’s main jet. No event I've ever ridden, not even Tebbetts, Missouri, was so fast for so many miles. Better yet, I didn’t even have to beg for fuel in a random cornfield. I’d found my childhood dream of a hare & hound for Illinois. Little did I know there was such a race in the Midwest and it is called, simply, The Race.