Polo, Missouri

In the afterglow of my class win at Florence, I couldn’t shake a gnawing doubt that my victory wasn’t entirely earned. This year’s fastest Open B rider by far, Matt Coffman, broke a finger and required surgery, while points leader Keith Kibort was out with a broken leg. Both had finished well ahead of me all season, but bad luck kept them out of the running at Florence. Such is life in this racing game, where outcomes can be determined by injuries and chance. Matt and Keith suffered some of each, while I skated into the second half of the season will all my faculties intact.

The same could not be said for Matt Sellers, whose luck would turn into an emergency room visit after the Polo round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship. I’d long ago lost track of the number of races we’d attended together, but one thing was certain: Driving partners are a good thing. They help pass the time with endless hours of deep conversations about suspension settings and gearing combinations, and they’re nice to have when one requires chauffeured transport to a hospital.

Matt’s fate arrived later in the day, long after our journey to the furthest northwestern reaches of the state. The highlight of the four hour trip to Polo is crossing the Missouri River at Lexington on a two lane bridge narrow enough to high-five oncoming drivers without so much as extending an arm. This bridge was about to experience its own fate with a planned replacement in a few years, but for now the river crossing was an exercise in fearless driving.

At the race site we chose our usual primo parking spot beside the port-a-potties, which put us close to the registration line and the Shakespeare’s Pizza entourage. Notably absent was its intrepid leader, Kurt “PizzaMan” Mirtsching, who had other two-wheeled activities planned for the day. Also missing was the roar of ATV engines, for Polo is a bike-only event. The whole ambience of the place carried a laid-back vibe, from the plentiful parking spaces to the serene calm of a Sunday morning at daybreak. Throughout the staging area could be heard the casual banter of racers and families enjoying a warm, pleasant morning. From the sea of cars and trucks and trailers radiated a happiness only experienced by people joining in an activity they truly love. On top of that, the port-a-potty toilet paper supply was surprisingly robust.

An hour after arrival, Matt led me through the practice lap to a bottleneck at a short hill climb. The route to the top was rocky and loose, with a two-foot limestone ledge at the top. As riders examined the options, their sense of urgency rivaled a Department of Motor Vehicles office staff, and I had no patience for waiting my turn. To the right of the main line, I sized up an alternate route around several riders parked on the side of the hill and blasted to the crest, capturing the clean air which came with it.

From there, the trail flowed nicely and I set into my usual habit of racing the practice lap. Smarter riders cruised thoughtfully through the course, searching for passing lanes, memorizing obstacles and gathering intel. I just couldn’t give up the opportunity to crack open the throttle. Etched into my memory was the rocky bottleneck and the point at which I crashed out of the race last year. The rest of the lap was a blur of singletrack and trees. But despite my lack of practical knowledge of the Polo course, I had a feeling today could be a decent day. Maybe it was the confidence of winning at Florence, or a track well suited for my riding style. Perhaps the comfort of empty bowels and abundant bathroom tissue would stimulate a respectable finish.

A good start would certainly help. Its importance was highlighted on the front row as Brandon Forrester fouled a plug on the starting line. In the hunt to end Steve Leivan’s 8-year reign as MHSC overall champion, Brandon’s motorcycle still remained silent when the green flag sent our Open B class into the woods. My luck proved better, although disaster nearly struck when another bike leaned into mine as we sprinted in a straight line toward the trees. Holeshot honors usually go to the rider willing to hold the throttle open the longest and brake the latest, and today I won that battle. I’d never before led my class into the woods at a Missouri race.

Clear trail was my reward. A couple miles into the course I couldn’t hear any motorcycles behind me, and I was already approaching slower riders from classes in the starting rows ahead. Indeed, this had the makings of a good race.

The property, owned by the Adam Ashcroft family, had never seen ATV racing, leaving the trails narrow and tight. Passing was an exercise in threading proverbial needles, where shortcuts forced me into gaps not designed for standard 32-inch handlebars. No worries, though. I’d long ago taken on the practice of hacksawing a couple inches from brand new handlebars, thinning the overall footprint of my KTM 300EXC. Along with chopping the bars, my motorcycle came with the same advantage of all two-wheeled vehicles: Variable width. Turn the handlebars, and like magic, the machine narrows. I could point the front wheel toward gaps less than 30 inches wide, and with a quick turn and a couple of whacks of bark against hand guards, the bike (and its rider) skimmed through.

By the end of the dusty first lap, the tree-dodging put me ahead of all riders I was capable of catching, and I settled into fresh, unadulterated air. The trail had broken in nicely on this second pass, with the best lines well established through the winding course. Sprinkled throughout the terrain were rocks in the same shapes and sizes my parents used for stepping stones back home on the farm. As my tires bounced across the flat chunks, the rocks clinked and clanked like a truckload of clay pots. Climbing steep hills, the rear wheel flung the stones downward with a chorus of jingles and jangles. I caught up to a Junior class rider attempting to scale one of those hills on his pint-sized motorcycle, engine screaming and back tire delivering an avalanche of rock down to the base. At the summit, he ejected with a handful of throttle and a shove against the seat. From a precarious position on the side of the hill, the little man’s head followed his bike as it launched gracefully into the air, flipped backwards and tumbled to the bottom. Sometimes it’s just not your day.

Near the midpoint of the lap, the trail descended with a series of rock ledge drop-offs, where the HammerDown video outfit showed up to record what surely would be highly entertaining footage. Standing on the foot pegs with my backside hovering well beyond the seat, I carefully stair-stepped down into the ravine, leaving the video crew without any fodder for the highlight reel. Shortly after, I emerged into a pasture where Matt Sellers stood idle beside his bike. His stance suggested a mechanical issue, so I shrugged and continued back into the woods. Another cautious lap kept me in the lead.

The HammerDown crew had left the rock ledges when I arrived for the third time, while Matt remained parked in the grassy pasture. Surely this was not good. With him was 200B rider Jeff Neathery, who’d suffered a flat tire. Something was clearly wrong, but I continued into the woods, more concerned about my lead than helping my friend. I knew Matt was in good hands with Jeff, a genuinely decent person who would assist him back to the staging area.

On the fourth lap I backed off a bit, trying to maintain my lead and conserve fuel. The engine began demonstrating the Bog of Insufficiency late in the third lap, a telltale sign of a tank in need of a refill. With 10 minutes to go, I paused to switch the petcock to the reserve position and finished in the lead position.

The celebration was short-lived, as Matt sat slumped in pain back at the truck. In the open field, he’d drifted off the main line and found nasty ruts hidden in the grass. The bike ejected Matt onto his right side, leaving him struggling to make a run back to the staging area. Thanks to Jeff Neathery, he’d arrived safely at the emergency responder vehicle, where EMT’s attended to his injuries. I loaded our bikes, packed our gear and drove straight to an emergency room near Matt’s house. His wife met us there, where X-rays revealed three broken ribs and a broken collarbone. Polo had struck again.

Two consecutive class victories boosted my confidence, but neither win put me in the top-20 overall. The key to earning a spot in the MHSC’s “A” class was gaining points toward the overall standings, which required fairly consistent top-20 results. My 18th place overall finish at the wet Columbia race gave me a few token points, and I needed quite a few more. My mud riding skills might have been better than the average MHSC racer, but Missouri wasn’t the kind of place in which to rely on bad weather to advance my goals. Much work remained, and I was ready.