Certified World Wide Website


  • Home
  • Let's Play
  • Let's Fix Some Stuff
  • Our House

June 16, 2002





Park Hills, Missouri



There’s an old adage in woods racing about slowing down to speed up. When I first heard this in my early days of racing, I thought it to be hogwash: If I reduced my pace any further, I’d be standing still. And besides, this guidance usually came from old guys who probably preached the advice to make themselves feel better for riding so slow to begin with. But over the years I came to understand and appreciate their logic. When the riding becomes technical, raw speed can create more problems than it solves.


At St. Joe State Park, the old adage could have been thrown out like yesterday’s egg salad. After more than two hours in the rough rocks and sketchy sand, I could safely declare I’d never ridden so fast for so long. On the 13.5 mile course, my 35-minute lap times put me on an average speed of just over 23 miles per hour. Sure, high school track stars run that fast in the 100 meter dash, but nobody makes them do it over a bed of rocks while dodging cedar branches. This was speed, hare scramble style.


Rewind to the staging area before the race, where I found myself parked beside a group from Arkansas. They weren’t sure what to expect from the non-public area of the park. When asked for input, I suggested the practice loop may not reflect all the park had to offer. The sponsoring club only allowed a 5 mile preview, much of which centered on the sandy ground near the staging area. St. Joe does have some trees here and there, so I assured my new friends from the Toothpick State that things would slow down a bit in the far reaches of the course. I also mentioned rocks, and lots of them.


My assumptions lacked a certain degree of accuracy. Soon enough we’d all find out why, but nobody could debate the truth about the weather. We enjoyed a blissful Sunday morning on lawn chairs while dust kicked up from the peewee motorcycle race. If not for my aging KTM 300EXC parked nearby, the entire day could have passed while I relaxed with a fresh 12-pack of Mountain Dew. Apparently the motorcycle had been made aware of its imminent departure from the Stichnoth garage and was decidedly disagreeable when I kicked over the engine. After several minutes of leg exercise and a throttle adjustment, the engine fired and I completed my practice loop.


From there, I dined on my usual Carl Buddig meat sandwich (turkey, of course) and a Quaker Oats chew granola bar (chocolate chip, naturally) and then cruised over to the starting field. Unbelievably, the skies opened with a 5-minute rain. Just like that, no dust. In off-road racing, this is very much like strolling to an American Airlines check-in counter and receiving a first class upgrade without asking. If ever a reason existed for lucky pennies and four leaf clovers, this was it.


Good fortune continued with the Open B class placed on the 3rd row, behind only the Pro and A classes. Gone were the usual traffic jams with other groups of B riders bunched together in the first lap. Few of us would catch up to any of the riders departing ahead of us, so we were more or less given first dibs on the course.


As the green flag waved us into the sand, my start was typically unimpressive. The big 4-strokes powered through the flatland ahead of me and forced their way into a small opening in the trees. Inside the woods, sunlight dimmed and I realized my new tinted goggle lens was about to send me into a tree. I’d once again violated the try-it-before-you-race-it rule, not realizing my eyes needed half a minute to adjust to the darker view. On a motocross track with no trees, I’m sure the lens would remove all glare and work perfectly. Zipping in and out of the woods, I wished for my old clear lens.


My eyes adjusted in time for a steep uphill, followed by an equally steep downhill. Another rider struggled with the descent and I stalled the engine trying to move around him. Dwayne Parish, flying down the hill like a man chasing a speed record, passed me and attempted to check out. I restarted quickly and kept him in sight, then executed an unnecessarily aggressive block pass around a tight corner. So early in the race, I could have expressed some patience, but the train of riders I’d followed during the first lap at Marshfield was still fresh in my mind. I was determined to lead.


But follow I did, as I pursued the class leaders. At the 5-mile mark, we entered the trails not part of our morning preview, blasting through sand whoops at warp speed before settling back into the woods. A completely new section, touched only by the club workers, took us through the far reaches of the non-public area of the park. The old concrete structure from past lead mining was again made part of the course, where bystanders offered encouraging sign language and may have also been speaking, if one could make out the sounds of voices above the sharp reverberations of screaming dirt bikes.


The course continued through fast, rocky sections where every harsh smack of tire against limestone brought about pinch flat anxiety. At these speeds, I could only wince and pray for a second or two after impact, then focus on the next piece of trail junk doing its best to eject me from my KTM. On this initial lap, the democratic method of line choice hadn’t yet produced results. With no clear consensus from the masses, I blazed my own path around rocks and roots and cornered like a rookie motocrosser.


At last, we departed the woods and rocks for a long, flat levee covered in green grass. This earthen dam had once held back a huge volume of water for the lead mining process. Today, our race used the structure to link up two sections of the course, where riders could upshift to top gear and open throttles to their stops for more than a quarter mile. Hare scrambles rarely offer these opportunities, and we all took advantage. My KTM topped out around 70 mph, which was plenty fast for me. Some of the big four strokes surely touched 90. This was serious, threatening speed.


With hard braking and club members urging us to turn left, we entered the last of the course before winding our way back to the staging area. I’d earned my way into the top-3 at the scoring trailer, all the while wondering how I’d completed the lap so quickly. We had explored every corner of the park property where motorcycles were only allowed on days like this, and in little more than half an hour I’d covered the entire course.


I set out for another lap knowing full well I wouldn’t spend much time in first or second gear. The trails had developed their usual preferred lines up every hill and around corners, which only added to the speed of the course. The sand flats were wide open affairs, one of which nearly ruined me as I slammed through the whoops in fifth gear. The motorcycle has a way of letting me know when I’ve pushed it to its limit, and this section was a clear sign I nearly put the bike into a cartwheeling contortion of man and machine. The rear wheel kicked violently from side to side, while the handlebars jerked into a direction ill-suited to forward progress. I let off the throttle just in time for my faithful 300EXC to compose itself.


Taking a few less risks, I finished the lap in 2nd position, but my lap times began to slow a bit. The near-crash scaled back some overconfidence, which benefitted Ray Osia as he took over my spot on the 3rd lap. I ran my own race from there on, riding safely through the fourth and final lap. The checkered flag, like everything else on this day, came fast. I had survived, and secured my spot on the podium with Ray and Open B winner Keith Kibort. As a testament to speed, the 2nd through 5th places in the Pro class all finished within one minute of overall winner Brandon Forrester. There was no slowing down to speed up at St. Joe State Park.



Copyright 2025