Polo, Missouri

The 250-mile trip to the Ashcroft property near Polo may burn some fuel and several hours in the truck, but the course never disappoints. The terrain does, however, tend to leave me and travel buddy Matt Sellers in various states of brokenness. We’ve taken turns leaving my favorite venue of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC) series in pain, beginning with my shoulder injury two years ago and Matt’s visit to the emergency room last year. Today was my turn, again, to hobble off the course and spend 4 uncomfortable hours in a pickup truck.

These days begin with the best of intentions. It’s always a possibility, but we never plan to get hurt. None of us could do what we do on a dirt bike without pushing the thought of injury into the further reaches of our minds, where those notions won’t disturb our joy of rushing through the woods at speeds the human body isn’t designed to withstand when things go wrong. Luckily for me, I only limped away from this race.

With Matt again riding shotgun, we arrived in time for a practice lap on the bike-only course, now parched and dry from the August heat. The narrow trails remained relatively smooth and unadulterated by ATVs, while a steady cloud cover blocked the sun from a Florence-like oven roast. Throughout the 9.3 mile course, huge cracks in the soil reflected scant rainfall during the past several weeks and dust clouds followed every rider.

Around noon, I reluctantly suited up in riding gear better designed for cool spring mornings and located a spot on the starting line next to #106 Wade Hall. Back on his Yamaha after a wrist injury, Wade planned for a leisurely return ride while I intended to haul the mail on a course well matched for my style. When the Vet class launched toward the first turn, I found myself in a surprising third position, then quickly lost that place to #383 Neal Soenksen inside the woods. He took a chance on an undeveloped line on the inside of a curve, and I chased his dust for a few miles. As we approached a slower rider from a class ahead of us, I took a risky detour through tall grass and passed both riders.

Now back in third place, I could make out race leader #81 Matt Weis in front, followed by #226 Jerry McCasland on a Honda. Jerry set a strong pace through the relentlessly curving singletrack, clouding my vision as we chased Matt. He led me through much of the first lap as I searched for an opportunity to pass. Just before the main checkpoint, the trail dropped into a series of dry creek beds filled with sharp-edged rocks, which seemed a reasonable place to attempt a high speed pass. Creek beds are generally free of trees and clear of dust, even in the driest of conditions, and I could make out a pair of slower riders ahead. Like the setup for my pass on Neal, I would wait for Jerry to back off the throttle as the two riders approached, then pounce on a sketchy line nobody else had yet attempted. This plan was conceived and mentally approved in all of 0.75 seconds, and if successful, I’d pass three motorcycles at once.

It almost worked.

I jumped out of the main line through the creek bed, grabbed a handful of throttle in 3rd gear, edged by Jerry and then felt my front tire clip an angular rock. My KTM launched into an unfortunate trajectory, and darned if I didn’t almost save it. Instead, the bike turned on its side and took me with it. Missouri rocks rarely allow riders to walk away from a crash without a bruise or two, and my get-off left me with a sore ankle. As I lifted the bike and restarted the engine, several riders passed by, their wheels kicking up limestone rocks with the same clinking racket as a truckload of clay pots bumping against each other. The only recognizable motorcycle was the bright green Kawasaki of #442 Steve Crews, and I assumed Neal was also ahead. I gathered myself, aimed the bike towards the main line in the creek bed and evaluated my throbbing ankle. Like so many other minor injuries, I knew the best action was to remain in action. If I stopped now, my ankle was sure to stiffen and punish me with pain, so I continued on the trail and the discomfort subsided after a minute or two.

In 6th place at the RFID scanner, I trailed Steve Crews and other Vet class regulars. The ankle pain had me riding like a metaphorical roll of caution tape, where fast but risky paths remained off limits to avoid any situation where I might need to dab my left foot for balance. Every so often my sore foot brushed against a rock or a tree, which normally wouldn’t even have registered in the endless mayhem of charging through the woods on a 50-horsepower rocket, and I’d feel a sharp sting shoot up my leg. Gear shifting became a lower priority affair, and thanks to the torque of a 300cc two-stroke engine, I could clutch my way through most of the course in third gear. But this wasn’t how races are won. I simply lost the ability to ride aggressively enough to catch the race leaders.

The crash just had to happen on the first lap. To finish the race, I was in for three more laps and at least 90 minutes of treading lightly through the rolling hills of western Missouri. Championships are won on bad days, I reminded myself before realizing I wasn’t much in the hunt for a Vet class title this year. I was, however, stubborn. There would be no quitting, even after whacking my foot against a boulder on a rock-infested hill, after which I fired off a string of expletives that would have made Old Man Parker blush. Fortunately, the Hammerdown Video crew had set up at the top of the hill to record every word.

Gradually, persistence put me back in the top half of the Vet class. By the end of the third lap I climbed into 3rd place, well behind #76 Gary Mittleberg and #237 Elston Moore. Earlier in the lap, 200B rider Zach Bryant had closed in quickly from behind, his Suzuki RM125 screaming its greeting as he flew by. Well on his way to the A class, Zach made quick work of me while I attempted to match his pace. His youth and energy seemed custom-matched for his little 125cc two-stroke. Inside the woods, Zach’s throttle never dropped below half open, which required exquisite clutch control and lots of gear shifting, not to mention an obscenely aggressive riding style. He made it all look easy, while I rather enjoyed my lazy man’s bike of choice, the KTM 300MXC. Zach did take a minor spill down a steep hill, where I tried my best not to run over his bike, but he rebounded quickly and soon left me again in his dust cloud.

The fourth and final lap tested my limits both for pain and for snakes. Within the same creek section where my suffering began, Open B class winner Mark Kendall closed the 2-minute gap between our classes. Just before he passed me, I caught a glimpse of a brown snake lying across the trail and I lifted up both feet like a kid riding his bicycle through a mud puddle. I know little about snakes, other than I hate’em like Indiana Jones. Perhaps that’s a bit harsh…I avoid them. I also know that in Missouri, some snake bites will send a person to a hospital, and I wasn’t taking chances. In the moment, it never occurred to me that a poisonous snake could only cause problems by biting all the way through my leather boots, an unlikely scenario, but regardless, I ran over it and so did Mark (probably without the leg lift).

Finally, I made out the familiar sight of the scoring trailer and my race was over. Back at the pickup truck, I could barely walk. At some point during the race I had smacked my right foot against some unknown trail object and it hurt almost as much as my left ankle. Now entirely worthless for anything except driving, I once again let Matt handle most of the heavy lifting as we prepared for the long ride home. His race turned out much better, walking away nicely with a 3rd place result in the Open B class. But all things considered, 3rd place in the Vet class exceeded my expectations and proved how stubbornness can overcome the absurdity of racing a dirt bike through the woods with a sprained ankle.