Polo, Missouri

Someday, or perhaps in another life, I’ll find a way to properly explain the challenges of off-road racing to the unaffiliated. To date, my words have fallen flat. Last Christmas, during the annual gathering at my aunt’s house, I described the effort of controlling a motorcycle through a long muddy rut and felt like a truck driver explaining how hard it is to back a trailer into a loading dock during a snowstorm.

“Sounds rough, pass the corn casserole” they gurgle between bites of turkey leg.

“It’s the weather,” I plead, “that changes the tables”.

“Bears play in 20 minutes,” they respond.

From the end of the dining room table, I give in, channeling my inner George Wendt: “…daaaaah Beersssss!” With this, I’m invited back into their world.

Such is life outside of racing. Round #3 of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC) offered the kind of man-versus-nature battle I often describe to friends and family. Sometimes it’s dust, other days it’s heat or cold. Today was mud, and plenty of it. Already the course had received a couple inches of rain, with more on the way. Sprinkles fell briefly while I stood in the signup line, wondering why, with all that goes into preparing for a dirt bike race, never did an umbrella factor into those plans.

The raindrops ended quickly and I hiked back across the staging area to my pickup truck. Grass had turned to blackness wherever trucks and trailers navigated for parking spots in the pasture. I avoided those pathways in favor of greener areas, hopping from one spot to another when dirt bikes or loading ramps blocked the way. While returning from signup, Kevin Ruckdeschell emerged from the woods on his motorcycle, performing course marshal duties today instead of racing. The bike barely displayed any revealing characteristics of a KTM, other than a few small orange patches here and there. A thick layer of Northwest Missouri muck painted the rest of the machine.

Undeterred by the 20 or so pounds of mud stuck to Kevin’s motorcycle, I geared up for a practice lap. It’s purely an optional thing, but I always feel a twinge of FOMO when offered a course preview. Sure, I could have arrived yesterday afternoon and walked or ridden a mountain bike through a full lap, just like the top Pro’s. Then would come internal debates about sleep accommodations and the hardware needed (Tent camping – no way. Enclosed trailer – maybe. Small RV – sure, why not? Designated bike hauler/sleeper van – yes please!). If allowed to fester in my mind, in short order I’d be spinning a yarn not unlike the children’s book If You Give a Pig a Pancake:

If you give a racer a 5x8 enclosed trailer, he’ll want to stock it with a new set of tools, so he doesn’t have to load and unload his current set for every race. If you give a racer new tools for his trailer, he’ll want to build a workbench in case he blows an engine during the practice lap. If you give a racer a workbench, he’ll want a bigger trailer. If you give a racer a bigger trailer, he’ll need sleeping accommodations.

And so on, until said racer is pulling a $100,000 fifth-wheel travel trailer with an $80,000 Chevy ¾-ton truck. I felt as if indulging in something so simple as a small enclosed trailer was a gateway to more expensive things, which meant I’d be taking my racing far too seriously.

So I geared up on the tailgate of my modest 1996 GMC Sonoma, strapped on spare goggles and pointed my Kawasaki KX250 into the slippery woods. As expected, this part of Northwest Missouri offered deeper mud than typical MHSC courses, but the trails included a steady dose of rocks. In the southern half of the state, a solid base makes wet conditions tolerable, but today’s terrain seemed more like sprinkles on top of frosting. As soon as a motorcycle churned up a rock and scooted it aside, nothing remained to keep the ruts in check.

In between the slippery and narrow trails, a handful of short sprints through open pastures should have offered relief. Normally a field of grass offers a chance to breathe deeply and regroup before diving back into rutted hills and spinning one’s wheels through greasy clay. Not today. The pastures had no chance of drying out, and my knobby rear tire chewed up blades of grass better than a John Deere lawn tractor. Much like a conveyor belt, the chain sent the grass to the countershaft sprocket and wrapped tightly. Combined with mud, the whole mess encased the sprocket and the resulting friction nearly set the grass on fire. Back at my pickup truck, I parked the bike and gazed in awe as smoke floated out near the shift lever.

Along with steaming mud and grass around the engine, the KX250’s Devol radiator guards had collected enough muck to block most of the air flow. I scraped the guards clean and wondered how the engine could ever be cooled after a couple hours on these trails. It’s only money, I mentally reminded myself while lined up beside 11 other members of the A Sportsman class. This wasn’t, by any means, my first rodeo. All the way back to Marietta, Illinois in 1996, I’d ruined an engine during another spring mud bath near the home of notable poet Edgar Lee Masters. The Spoon River Valley had crushed the soul of my nearly new Suzuki RMX250, joining the piston to an overheated cylinder. From there, I could have authored an anthology of frustrations in returning the poor engine to its former self (which never happened, and led to my experiment with KTM motorcycles). But today, on the starting line and ready for a challenge, I knew the risks…and secured the necessary credit line on my Marriott Visa card.

Right on schedule, the Pro class departed in a blur of grass chunks and mud scraps. Somewhere along the horizon, motorcycles dashed through the pasture, mostly unseen ahead of arching tails of blackness shooting out behind. I ducked down as the second row fired its engines, shielding my goggles from soggy projectiles launching toward my helmet. A minute later, my turn came with the roar of a dozen engines. I’d retained the Michelin S12 rear tire from the Cornstock 100 a week earlier, knowing full well Northwest Missouri and its somewhat soft terrain would be a good match for my favorite mud tire.

With a fistful of throttle in the open field, I quickly discovered how little tire choice mattered. Wet grass on waterlogged soil rendered both my tires about as effective as street slicks on loose gravel. I imagined this initial sprint through the pasture might feel similar to the SuperMoto genre of racing, right about the point where pavement gives way to hard-packed dirt. Wheel spin could hardly be over-exaggerated. It was simply the only way to maintain forward momentum, and even the most furious spinners seemed only slightly better than the rest. I thought perhaps my Illinois mud riding skills might pay off right now, but I settled into my usual mid-pack position as we dropped down into a creek.

Trail markers pointed us straight through the center of a flat rock-bottom stream, where I immediately lost the front end and tumbled into a series of ledges. I partnered with the KX250 in a graceful slide, much to the delight of spectators lining the creek banks. Kevin Ruckdeschell, standing 100 feet downstream, offered this encouragement: “It’s a two hour race!” Indeed it was, and in a matter of minutes my little spill became virtually meaningless, a faint memory. But in the moment I was a bit annoyed, not only for needlessly amusing the spectators, but mainly because I was now completely covered in water and had only ridden 200 yards into the course. I restarted the engine and charged through the creek, hoping to catch up with my class.

During this lonesome period, sliding through the course in last place, I scanned ahead, desperate to make out anyone in my class I might recognize. Narrow, winding trails and spring foliage made this difficult. The course remained slimy and the KX250’s tires just wouldn’t stick to the trails. Light traffic on the practice lap kept most riders true to the main lines, but this wouldn’t last. Eventually the lines would fan out around low areas, after ruts deepened and stuck motorcycles blocked progress and impatient racers found other ways around.

For now though, riding alone with no other riders kicking up mud and water, my goggles preserved a crystal clear view and I hoped my tires would grab better on the second lap. In a normal muddy event, a slick first lap often gives way to tacky mud, as knobby tires churn up the muck and the moisture clears out a bit. If I could stay on two wheels for another 30 minutes or so, maybe these watery ruts would transition to gummy trails. And, perhaps, I might find the tail end of the A Sportsman class.

If only.

Two short hill climbs demonstrated the enigma of a course made from equal parts mud and rocks. Unlike the steep climbs of the Cornstock 100, where clear lines and a healthy dose of momentum took me to the top, Polo’s deceitful rocky mix fooled me into believing I could do the same here. Indisputably, damp rocks are more slippery than wet clay. On these hills the rear tire would bite into a small patch of soil, then meet up with a stone and spin helplessly. If momentum cooperated, the tire might advance past the stone toward another patch of soil and reestablish traction. This repeated many times, quickly, while gravity and inertia took over and the pace gradually slowed with each repetition. I barely escaped to the top of the both hills on the first lap, but later I’d find that clear lines didn’t guaranty successful climbs.

I slid my way through the rest of the first lap, pointing the front tire into ruts and hoping it grabbed into each line. In some sections the rear wheel did more steering than the front. The grass tracks had already turned pitch black, and for half a second I wondered how much expense this would add to the cattle operation’s feed bill. I am, after all, an agricultural banker, and these things cross my mind in the most inopportune of times. Thankfully, the pastures ended and the woods begged for my attention and I moved on to more pressing thoughts, such as where in the world the rest of the highly competitive Sportsmen were positioned on the course.

The scoring lane appeared ahead, signaling the end of the first lap. My early crash set me well back in the class standings, but I hoped all those years toiling through Illinois mud and playing in snow on my 1981 Suzuki TS100 might pay off today. Perhaps I could outlast the Missouri men unaccustomed to these conditions. It worked before, so why not today?

Those rocky hills, that’s why.

In the second lap, one the climbs became nearly impassable and I failed the first attempt. Dragging the KX250 back down to the bottom, I gave it another try and ascended successfully. This kind of wasted effort is difficult to measure, as the physical cost tends to be expensed later, sort of like a speeding ticket one pays and moves on without attending a driver review course on a Saturday morning: Sooner or later, the insurance premiums increase. On a hare scramble course, the bill for a failed hill climb comes later in the race, usually about the time a competitor closes in from behind and passes by while the energy reserves are completely expended.

I’d soon find out the cost of this hill, but not before another mistake put me even further behind. The course designers had wisely constructed a pair of bridges across a ditch, allowing safe passage and a contingency plan if a rider fell over while traversing said ditch. The second bridge would keep traffic rolling, should anyone block the first. Of course, the designers did not plan for the possibility that two riders would block both bridges at the same time, or an even more unimaginable feat performed by Pro class rider Tracy Bauman. According to Kevin Ruckdeschell, who claimed to have recorded the incident on video, Tracy used both bridges, at the same time, to cross the ditch.

On the practice lap I’d already tested another smart design feature, where the edges of each bridge were outfitted with 2x4 boards running lengthwise. Wet, slime-covered lumber offers about the same traction as a hockey rink, and sure as Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson are headed for divorce, I tested out those running boards on the practice lap. My back wheel slid out before I even realized I’d hit the ground, er…lumber. Only the 2x4s kept the KX250 out of the ditch.

I crossed the bridges cleanly on the first lap, but now I found myself in an odd position after taking a shortcut around a corner. The alternate route quickly converged with the main trail, just ahead of the twin bridges, where a large V-shaped log blocked my path. Lying at an angle in the mud, the log required a quick burst of throttle to lift the front wheel a few inches and cross over. At first I coaxed the bike toward the log, hoping the front wheel would work itself up and over the log on its own, with no help from the clutch and throttle. On each attempt, the front tire simply slid to the side of the log. And with so little traction, the rear tire wouldn’t grip enough to raise the front wheel using the time tested clutch-and-throttle method. After struggling for a full minute, I dismounted, one hand holding the KX250 upright and the other reaching for the log. I latched on, heaved it into the ditch (the log, not the motorcycle), and then proceed across one of the bridges.

Despite my troubles, somewhere amongst the dense trees and slippery hills I moved into 5th place to start the third lap. Skating over the course, I balanced my way through ever-deepening ruts and forced the bike over every obstacle. Near the midpoint of the lap, a bright flash appeared ahead, followed by a huge crash of thunder. The skies let loose with a downpour and the wind blew fiercely through the trees. Suddenly I noticed small white balls bouncing on the ground.

Oh, hail!

The pea-sized projectiles dropped from above and flew into my helmet, stinging my cheeks and chin. Soon the hail ended, but rain and lightning continued for most of the lap. Somehow I managed these miserable conditions nearly flawlessly and actually enjoyed the rain and the sound of knobby tires spinning across fully saturated earth. The trickier spots had now developed creative alternate lines, usually around gullies or short hills where the clay-based soil allowed minimal traction. Ruts spawned alternate ruts, and then new alternates around the old alternates. Point to point, the laps weren’t any longer, but the course had widened.

Near the end of the third lap, a piece of me hoped for the race to be called on account of the lightning. Dense cloud cover and heavy rain darkened the course to a dusk-like level, where a headlight might have sharpened the view. But no, we are the MHSC: Hail and 1.21 gigawatts be damned, we finish what we started! Thus began my fourth and final lap, just as the rain reduced to a sprinkle.

In the odd world of woods racing, a strange thing happens when the rain shuts off: Traction gets worse. Somehow, someway, a steady watering cleans out the muck and allows the tires to grab the trail just a bit more tightly. Without falling precipitation, mud clung to my tires and the bike drifted in random directions. Suddenly my pace dropped and my riding style turned into that of Andy Dufresne escaping from Shawshank State Prison. In pure survival mode, I avoided nasty ruts leading up and out of creek beds and chose good lines up hills, then shuddered as the second half of the lap revealed trails in much worse condition. This part of the course passed through the low-lying areas where ruts deepened after the storm. Alternate lines had widened so far around most mud holes that I couldn’t even see the epicenters. All I knew for sure was to avoid straight lines through the morass, for those would surely end badly.

On higher ground, the hills added more challenges. One of the rockier climbs began with a hard left turn and a short approach. Several bikes lay on their sides at various points along the face, as riders lost traction and bailed out. With the main lines blocked, I continued forward, hoping for a better way. In dry conditions, this section wouldn’t have challenged anyone outside the C class, but today’s rain turned this mild hill into a mountain. My eyes scanned for undisturbed vegetation and a clear path to the top. Ten yards beyond the main lines, I blazed my own trail on a somewhat diagonal route up the hill and suddenly found myself heading toward a wire fence. I frantically changed direction and followed a path parallel to the fence, then felt the dreaded decrease in forward progress where the bike tells the rider “You ain’t gonna make it.”

I could have pinned the throttle and hoped for a miracle, or planned ahead with an easy turn and coasted back down to the base. I chose the latter, regrouped at the bottom and pointed the KX250 toward a slightly different line. The second attempt put me further up the hill, but fallen trees stopped my progress at the top. As I struggled to push the bike over the logs, the engine began to overheat. Pro class rider Doug “Holehsot King” Stone lapped me as my rear tire spun over the last of the logs.

And the battle continued.

Now one long rut, the course became a momentum crusade. Good line selection kept me moving forward, but I’d probably have made better progress riding with skis attached to my boots. Knobby tires polished the most clay-packed ruts into a smooth sheen, not unlike finished pottery. I struggled to balance myself as the front wheel refused my demand to autopilot itself to the finish. One would think, incorrectly, the bike could use a 4-inch-deep rut, no wider than the tires, like one of those self-steering car rides at Disneyland, where a toddler thinks he’s driving but the track underneath keeps the vehicle from plunging into an alligator pond. Unfortunately, the front tire of a dirt bike tends to bounce between each side of the rut, practically begging the rider to dab both boots on either side and skate through the course.

One last hill tested my resolve on this final lap, requiring two attempts, and then the scoring checkpoint and checkered flag appeared ahead. Back at the Sonoma, I examined my poor KX250. With 10 shades of black and 20 pounds of attached clay, I marveled at how the motorcycle could still propel me to the finish line. The gear shifter had nearly disappeared inside the mud caked around countershaft sprocket, and the radiator guards seemed to be almost fully encased with grass and muck. Yet somehow, the bike persevered.

Before removing my soaked pants, boots and jersey, I performed the most physically taxing chore of the day: Pushing the KX250 up the loading ramp and into my truck. Without assistance, this was possible only because the Sonoma had not succumbed to the auto industry’s insistence that pickup trucks ride almost as high as a Peterbilt. My low-stance bike hauler, along with a nearly 7-foot-long wood plank, reduced the angle and allowed me, with a last-gasp effort, to shove the bike into the bed. Can’t you just ride the bike up the ramp, one might ask? Yes, of course. The day after I graduated college in 1993, I did this on my Suzuki SP200 in dry and sunny conditions, earning much respect from my roommates. It’s a little different with muddy tires, a ramp sitting in the rain, and a pasture filled with the same spectators previously entertained by a KX250 (and its pilot) sliding horizontally. As the iconic hip-hop trio Salt-N-Pepa would advise: Push it good…push it real good.

Indeed.