Park Hills, Missouri

After a long, 5-week hiatus from racing, my body had recovered enough from the Polo, Missouri hare scramble to jump back into the facing game. I might have chosen a more appropriate event to test my shoulder than a 3-hour AMA national hare scramble, but the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship had co-sanctioned the race and I still had a shot at 3rd place in the Open B series. The prior weekend I'd tested the shoulder with a gingerly trail ride at St. Joe State Park and survived with a healthy dose of ibuprofen. I'd kept my legs in shape with a couple week's worth of bicycle rides through the western edge of St. Louis County. Physically, I wasn't quite 100%, but it was time enough to throw a leg over my KTM 300EXC and line up for some bar-banging fun.

Matt Sellers also joined, chauffeuring me to St. Joe for a second consecutive weekend of off-roading. The tone of the drive was subdued, with the events of September 11th freshly burned into our minds. Matt is a Navy veteran and was, like many current and former military men and women, especially shocked and angered by an attack on U.S. soil. This was the kind of thing the armed forces took great pride in preventing, yet somehow it happened, and something had to be done.

Today, that something would be a mental diversion of sorts. Many events across the country had been canceled, but the hare scramble would go on. Its place on the national schedule attracted a nationwide crop of racers collecting points towards an AMA championship, along with one international star: Shane Watts was here. The year before, the Australian proved himself one of the most gifted and versatile off-road riders of all time, winning the Grand National Cross-Country (GNCC) championship series while riding no fewer than 6 different versions of KTM motorcycles. No matter two-stroke or four-stroke, 125cc or 500cc, he won. He arrived at races without an 18-wheel tractor-trailer and sometimes slumbered in a sleeping bag under the stars, and still won. He had no patience for conservative race strategies and held back nothing, sometimes winning by wide margins when he could have backed off a bit and cruised to victory. He had conquered every important off-road series in his native country, in Europe, and in the United States. Shane Watts had nothing to prove to anyone, other than his love for racing, which brought him to the Midwestern United States just five days after an event which changed the world forever.

This particular spot in the Missouri region of the Midwest, known to the mature off-road crowd as Flat River, often punishes riders with higher speeds and plentiful rocks. A seemingly fresh and smooth-ish trail can degrade into a choppy, rutted rock garden with high probability for sore body parts and pinch flats. When conditions are dry, as they were on this day, blinding dust becomes the ultimate obstacle. Oncoming trees and gullies and even other motorcycles, unseen in a deep haze, are only part of the battle. From behind, dozens of riders also ride with limited sight, each a potential rear-end ambush. Further adding to today's challengers were national AMA hare scramble rules forbidding practice runs through the course. Proverbially, and a bit literally, we would ride blind on the first lap.

In the staging area, Matt and I geared up with no particular sense of urgency. We'd arrived a few hours ahead of the starting time and, amazingly, a 90-degree sun wasn't baking us like a Thanksgiving turkey. My only rush was to the port-a-potties, so as to finish my duty before Matt could realize I'd used the last of the toilet paper. I quietly giggled as he rooted through his truck for a suitable substitute.

The national series format mixed up the starting lines from our usual MHSC order, with the 250 B and Open B classes combined on row 6. Matt and I picked a spot in the familiar sandy field next to Andy Mueller, a regular in Missouri's Open B class, and saddled our bikes nervously while the first five rows departed. A whole different caliber of riders lined the front of the Pro class row. Some of these men earned livelihoods racing dirt bikes in the woods and were paid well to represent teams and to win, which in turn was designed to spur sales of motorcycles and paraphernalia. Others aspired for this honor and risked themselves to achieve it. Still another group, the local men we knew, worked to represent Missouri and show the professionals they could hold court on home turf with the best in the business. This collision of ambitions caused an actual pileup at the dusty first turn, where a Pro class rider crashed and was run over by several others, all gunning for the corner at 45 miles an hour without the benefit of clear vision. The start paused briefly while the corner was moved away from the injured rider, who remained on the ground.

At last, our row of 29 riders received the go-ahead to fire our engines and sprint across the sand. The sheer volume of pistons and combustion roared through the crowd of motorcycles and onlookers with such force that I couldn't make out the sound of my own engine. The extra half-second I paused to take in the hand-numbing vibration of the 300cc two-stroke left me a bike-length behind most of the group, now drag racing through a cloud reminiscent of the 1930s Dust Bowl years. Into the first corner we plowed, rearranging the sand into ruts and whoop-dee-dos. Most of the first mile of the course kept us uncomfortably outside the woods, where limited sight gave way to periods of absolute blindness. For those accustomed to the washboard effect of automobiles on gravel roads, the same thing happens with motorcycles on sand. The only difference is the depth of the ripples. At St. Joe State Park, a couple dozen dirt bikes need only race through the sand once, before the terrain becomes a roller coaster of two-foot whoops. Thirty seconds into the race, we were already there.

Following the course was as simple as remaining inside the massive cloud of dust. Brightly colored arrows and yellow caution tape, my usual guidance, appeared and disappeared more quickly than I could register the images. Soon enough, all motorcycles turned sharply into the woods and followed a path used in the previous hare scramble in July. The smaller details of the trail, usually in sharp focus, blurred with the grays and browns of a forest in September. The fine particles drifting through the air left a grainy taste with each breath, and for a brief moment I wondered if past lead miners enjoyed the same flavor here. Of greater concern were unseen, sharp-edged rocks lying in wait for the perfect opportunity to pinch one of my innertubes. Early in the race, my front wheel had already smacked into several. The impact tends to transmit a distinct message throughout the motorcycle, as the rock forces the front tire as tightly against the rim as it will go. First is the clank of impact, then instant fork compression, and finally a sharp jolt resonating through the handlebars. Afterwards, I wait for the dreaded sensation of a flat tire. These pinch flats happen quickly, or not at all. Lucky for me, my extra super heavyweight tubes served their purpose. My race would continue.

On the opposite end of the St. Joe State Park property, the trail passed under what appeared to be a 4-lane highway bridge, and later meandered its way back under the roadway through a culvert. After the race, Matt correctly pointed out that the bridge was not a bridge at all. The structure was yet another relic left over from past lead mining. Within this area I bounced off a rock and ran straight into a tree, somehow keeping the bike upright and suffering no damage. I bounced through a huge rock garden shared with the Leadbelt Enduro course last May, and then finished the lap in and around the power line section. Where overhead lines hung from large towers, all trees had been cleared, leaving a roller coaster of scrub brush, gullies and dry ruts. My first lap was over, 16 miles and 45 minutes after the start.

Mental math had me completing 4 laps, with a pitstop at the midway point. I would refuel at Matt's truck, which flashed by in the wide, graded path winding its way through the staging area. The fast guys had long since churned the smooth sand and gravel into a mess of soft ruts, destined to become deeper and choppier as the race wore on. A quarter mile later I left the pit area and began another sprint across the sand flats. Back inside the woods, I attempted to launch myself over tree roots lying diagonally across the trail. The landing sent me off course and straight into another tree. This time the bike and I fell to the ground, but luck was again with me: No damage or injuries, and the engine continued to growl on its side. I had used up more than my fair share of good fortune for the day and decided to avoid further collisions with trees.

That I did, even as the course turned rougher. Few surprises came my way, with every possible rock and root and rut now fully exposed by the knobby tires of a couple hundred dirt bikes. Clear lines showed the way through nasty rock gardens and the usual shortcuts (all of them legal, of course) appeared around the insides of corners and the outside edges of fallen trees. As soon as 45 minutes can pass by on a dirt bike, I was back at Matt's truck, refueling for the second half of the race.

With a fresh tank of gas, I attacked lap three a bit more aggressively. One would think 16 miles of trail would be impossible to memorize, but it's surprisingly easy to recall those things which have the ability to snap femurs like dry kindling. Another lap's worth of riders had cleared even more fine powder from between the rocks, leaving nothing for the trail to hide and everything for me to bear. This place was a rolling jackhammer ride. I pounded through the course, knowing I could look forward to yet another lap of this. But as the course completed its long circle around the park property, Shane Watts passed me while I exited the long power line section. I marveled at the sheer volume of speed required to put that much distance between himself and the rest of the competitors. Even with his 10 minute head start, Mr. Watts had traveled quite possibly 13 or 14 miles further than me in the same 2+ hour time period, while piloting a motorcycle through terrain much better suited for antelope. This was a whole other version of unreal.

Shortly into the 4th and final lap, most of the other Pro class riders gradually caught and passed me. With fancy foam innertubes and not a care in the world for pinch flats, they launched through the rock gardens as if gliding across grassy meadows. Halfway through the course came Steve Leivan on his thunderous Yamaha four-stroke, passing me as he always does, which is to say without a hint of backing off the throttle. I could surely emulate Steve, if only I had some hand-eye coordination and a bit of balance. Today was not the day those skills would come, and I was ready for the finish line. At the 3:17 mark, tired and sore, the MHSC scoring crew recorded my final lap time and I limped over to the pit area. Matt followed about 15 minutes later, both of us so tired that we decided not to wait for the results to be posted.

The next day PizzaMan told me I finished second, a happy yet bittersweet result. Some of the Missouri Open B regulars had entered the Open A class, knowing they could start on an earlier row and still get credited for an Open B finish after the MHSC scoring crew sorted out the non-MHSC riders. The sorting process had me in 5th place when adjusted for all MHSC Open B riders. Even so, I now had 11 solid scores to count for the MHSC series, which I hoped would be good enough for a podium finish.