In this age before smart phones and Google Maps, two types of travel directions existed: The kind which got you there, and the kind that got you lost. In fairness to the official Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship schedule, with its 50-character descriptions of how to reach race venues, Matt Sellers and I erred in our memories of the Smithville Lake directions. In Missouri there is a slight difference between U.S. 69 and U.S. 169. One road goes to Smithville Lake and the other to Des Moines. We traveled toward Iowa for quite some distance before pausing at a gas station for directions. We are men of course, resorting to gas station assistance only after many pointless miles. Our hourlong diversion ruled out a practice lap, but we arrived, ready to race.
Had I practiced beforehand, the air might have left my sails about the time I realized the course was more Grand Prix than hare scramble. This style is well suited for motocrossers looking for a taste of hare scramble racing, with bits of woods mixed among long sections of wide-open grass tracks. Many riders can survive such a course without hand guards and finish the race with most fingers intact, hence the ability to bring a motorcycle unequipped for the woods and still enjoy a good time.
I'd already heard Smithville Lake was a bit of an "open" course, but didn't give a thought about skipping the race. Another decent finish might provide more cushion to firm up my 3rd place standing in the Open B points battle. The MHSC series allowed several throwaway scores in calculating final results, and I hoped a good result at Smithville Lake might replace a less favorable finish from earlier in the season.
None of this would matter. If ever a course were suited to my weaknesses, Smithville was kryptonite. At first, I was fooled by a quick start and my best-ever position at the first corner: Third place. This felt good for about a mile, with the two class leaders in sight and nothing particularly unusual about a grass track spreading out the field so early in the race. Most trail bosses prefer such a course layout, which prevents clusters of riders from pushing into the woods like a rush hour onramp to the Kennedy Expressway. But five minutes into the race, the reality of this place sunk its incisors into my psyche. There were woods, yes, but also grass, and lots of it. A quarter-mile of trees would give way to a half mile of open fields, over and again, rinse and repeat. Riders capable of twisting throttles to the stops, upshifting to high gear and braking late at every turn, would perform well here. I was not one of them.
I did give it my best shot, for a time at least, lasting roughly ten minutes. I blew past a turn on the first lap and watched two riders pass by. A few miles and another blown turn later, two more motorcycles sailed past. Soon Matt caught me, then Kurt "PizzaMan" Mirtsching blitzed by, sending me from 3rd place to who-knows-what in a matter of minutes. Kryptonite, this course.
The psychology of racing, sometimes exuberant and other times despondent, took on the latter as the scoring crew scanned my bar code sticker. At the end of the first lap I knew my race was over, for the most part, and I'd traveled far for a venue which probably wouldn't count towards my series points. With that in mind, I set myself to cruise control, riding easily through the woods and cautiously across the grass tracks. For a change, Missouri gave us relatively smooth terrain, but what the course lacked in rocks was more than offset by thorn trees. The sharp branches practically dared me to come close, just to see how far the thorns could pierce my jersey. I obliged, naturally, and found my sleeves in a state not unlike the Kraft company's destruction of perfectly fine blocks of cheese. My cheddar was shredded.
Now on lap two, I weaved through the grass tracks much like a retiree strolling through a shopping mall for exercise. I needed others to think I was trying, with the most minimal of efforts. I did actually put in a couple of respectable laps, repassing PizzaMan late in the race. But I never again saw Matt until the after checkered flag, back at the truck. He'd gained two minutes over me, finishing his best race of the season in a solid 4th place position.
My 7th place in Open B did no favors for point standings, but luck was in my favor. I retained 3rd place for the season by a single point over Keith Kibort, and for the first time ever, attended the annual MHSC banquet a few months later to pick up my series trophy. It was official: I was a racing addict, and next year couldn't come soon enough.
