Sedalia, Missouri

Had I lived in the 1800s and desired to move West, I'm quite sure I would have perished along the Oregon Trail. In fact, I might not have even made it to Independence, Missouri. Forward thinking often eludes me, and a wagon train journey would have required a lot of it. Case in point was the Sedalia round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship, for which I was in no condition to race. After Polo two weeks prior, my sore shoulder hadn't fully recovered and I waited until the last possible instant to realize I had options.

One possibility was spending a lazy Sunday as the Matt Sellers Chief Executive Head of Mechanical, Nutritional and Motivational Functions while he raced through the woodlands of Western Missouri. That was simple enough. He would race and I would watch and my Sunday would breeze by like a back-to-school sale at Walmart. This seemed my most likely alternative.

But on Friday, another option materialized. I realized I could race without actually racing. No helmet, no boots, and no motorcycle for that matter. By simply volunteering to help the club run the event, I could earn valuable series points. The Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC), in an effort to encourage riders to assist in making races happen, offered once-a-year “Work Average” points to anyone willing to leave the bike at home and assume duties during an event. For the event worked, a rider would receive points equal to his or her top 5 finishes. With that in mind, I located the phone number of David Von Holten, the local promoter, and began trading voicemails.

We finally talked live at 9:00 on Saturday night. David was glad for the help and asked me to report for duty at 7:30 on Sunday morning. I would work both the ATV and motorcycle races. After I hung up the phone and realized the commitment I'd just made to David and the MHSC, I crawled straight into bed. Next I knew, the alarm clock sounded at 4:00 a.m. and I threw on some clothes. Over the next 18 minutes I brushed my teeth, shoved five Mountain Dew's into a 6-pack cooler, backed out of the garage and pointed my truck toward Sedalia. Two Dew's and 3 hours later I arrived at the race site and checked in.

From there I moved to the scoring trailer, where I would help back up computer tallies by writing down the numbers of the ATV riders as they passed by. A handheld bar code scanner would record the lap times electronically, but a manual backup system ensured all riders received proper credit for laps completed. As a newbie to this sort of thing, my responsibility was not actually writing down the numbers. A more experienced course worker had advanced his way further up the ranks and was granted the backup clipboard. He recorded the digits on sheets of paper, while my job was shouting out the numbers.

The shady spot I selected near the trailer provided what I thought was safe harbor to yell numbers at Mr. Clipboard. This worked well for some time, until the ATVs crept closer to the boundaries of the chicane leading to the operator of the handheld barcode scanner. Every hare scramble incorporated these types of lanes set up with caution tape attached to metal posts. The cattle-like chutes directed riders to the appropriate spot to stop and be scored and, more importantly, the chicane slowed the riders to walking speeds. In amateur off-road racing, competitive juices overflow like wedding champagne, whereby rules of etiquette are often eschewed in pursuit of $5 trophies. Without a scoring chicane, standers-by may find themselves with a handful of new bumps and bruises.

Over time, the ATVs pushed the limits of the cattle chute, edging closer to 5-foot posts holding long strands of colorful ribbon. With time running thin, one exhausted rider slammed his left wheel into the post nearest my feet. Without this steel boundary, I may have joined the ATV for an unpleasant ride.

By 9:30, the ATV race neared its end and I was deployed to the first checkpoint about a mile into the course. On the opposite side of Lake Creek, this spot marked the beginning of a bike-only section of the course. Riders would ford the creek through 12 inches of water, cross over 30 feet of a flat, slippery rock ledge and then climb a 10-foot creek bank. Just past this obstacle was our checkpoint, where the racers were to shout out their bike numbers while negotiating a sharp curve around a large tree. I would then transcribe the numbers onto sheets of paper, again and again throughout the race.

The advanced riders handled the creek crossing with relative ease. The Pro class arrived first, their wave preceded by the tune of screaming engines. Fifteen seconds of chaos ensued as riders packed into the 180-degree curve and yelled numbers on the fly. Next up was the A class and its slightly less aggressive train of deafening engines and tires kicking up dirt and mud. Some riders shouted out their numbers, and others relied on my eyes as I strained to read the small digits printed on each person's helmet sticker.

Intermediate classes arrived in greater numbers, first the B riders and then the novices in the C classes. Pandemonium multiplied in the creek, where two sweep riders planted themselves in the water and directed riders to the chicane on the other side. The mass of dirt bikes nearly overwhelmed me, as riders launched their bikes up the creek bank, sometimes successfully, leaving a trail of dripping water all the way to the checkpoint. As more and more riders crossed the creek, the bank became damp and slick and full of bottlenecks. On their own, riders of all skill levels were capable of climbing the bank, but one small mistake would leave groups of riders stuck in traffic, backed up into the creek.

Had I viewed the chaos as a spectator, the creek would have entertained for the better part of two hours. These dirt bike mishaps tickled my soul, in part because I'd experienced just about every version. The embarrassment of falling in front of a checkpoint full of spectators felt like tripping down the stairs at Busch Stadium and spilling beer on random spectators (not that I'd know anything about that). After a handful of these incidents, eventually one comes to accept that no matter how serious he takes his racing, for a brief moment in time he is comic relief for those with their own life challenges. We laugh. We move on.

One group moving at a surprisingly brisk pace was the Junior class, which raced the same course at the same time as the adults. These young men mounted 80cc and 100cc motocross bikes and joined the race in its first hour. As they spread out across the course, a racer on a Honda CR80 fell at the top of the creek bank and killed the engine. While the little guy struggled to right the bike and restart its engine, I walked over to suggest that he turn off the fuel to clean out the flooded carburetor. At the very last moment I held back from offering this advice, making use of the four recreational years of my life some would describe as "college" and concluded that a "little guy" with a full, robust mustache was probably not a Junior class racer in need of guidance.

In the Pro class, Aaron Shaw led most of the way, followed by Brandon Forrester, as the lead group passed through our checkpoint on their 5th and final lap. Trailing in third position for nearly all of the race, Steve Leivan closed the gap and passed Shaw and Forrester on the last lap for the overall win. As the defending MHSC champion, Steve's number was easy to make out as he shouted "ONE!" each time through the check. A veteran of the Pro class, he demonstrated a smart strategy at Sedalia, riding a steady, controlled pace which kept him in sight of the leaders while saving just enough energy for his last-lap heroics.

The race concluded with a team of sweep riders helping the last of the stragglers complete their laps. My job was done, my work average points earned. The unsung heroes of these events are men like David Von Holten, who produced a herculean effort in organizing this successful race. I found myself with a new respect for the groups which stage off-road races. They're all winners.