Steelville, Missouri

Behind the scenes of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC) are some of the real heroes, every year toiling away behind closed doors to build a season of 15 or so races. During planning for 2004, at some point the sponsoring clubs must have set a friendly wager on who could assemble the most technically challenging motorcycle course of the series. Round 1 at Lebanon set a high bar, and today’s Round 2 at Steelville raised it a notch. After a one-year hiatus from the MHSC schedule, the Nasty Creek club came back with a fury, drawing up another rough, tough course and the longest hare scramble loop I’d seen since the March of Dimes event in 2000.

After a tree jousted its way through my radiator two weeks prior, my not-so-new Kawasaki KX250 arrived with a gaggle of new parts. The radiator, of course, was replaced with a new version, although the Utah miracle workers at Mylers Inc. would somehow return the old one to usable form. The original piston suffered a bit, so Wiseco provided an aftermarket replacement. FMF rescued the exhaust system with its thick Gnarly pipe, while eBay added a cheap set of brand new radiator shrouds – with Pro Circuit factory-style graphics! If I couldn’t be fast, I would at least look fast.

And finally, because of poor tire management, a fresh rear tire completed the trimmings. With better planning, Steelville would have been the end of the line for well-used rubber, given the sad fact that rear tires come here to die. There is no other kind of jagged than Nasty Creek stones. A new rider, examining his rear tire after this race, might imagine the terrain as one giant cheese grater. A week earlier, fixing all of Lebanon’s destruction, I scrutinized the back tire, pondering its four races and rounded knobs. Perhaps I could go one more time at Steelville and then send it to the trash heap. Then I glanced up at the fresh Bridgestone hanging on the garage wall and declared, It’s only money, let’s kill some rubber and win this thing!

To no one’s surprise, I got one out of two.

The Steelville staging area, a gorgeous green valley surrounded by budding trees, aligned with a crowd of trucks and trailers and bike haulers of all sorts. Dry dirt and balmy temperatures promised a large turnout and a meandering 100-yard signup line confirmed it. Long before online registration was a thing, race mornings began in queues, but this one may have contained its own ecosystem and social constructs.

Minutes became hours, and then Kurt “PizzaMan” Mirtsching stopped by to show off his new helmet camera. Another throwback to the olden days, this system included two parts: The camera itself, mounted to Kurt’s helmet, and a recording device strapped to his person. With YouTube not yet birthed and GoPro video another two years out, Kurt’s bulbous bundle of gadgetry was the next best thing, all tucked away in a backpack. The spacious pack could have left enough room for a trail picnic, where I might envision Kurt enjoying proscuitto and brie sandwiches with rosemary fig confit, washed down by 16-ounce cans of Miller Lite (his new sponsor for 2004). A contrast of cultural sophistication, Kurt can challenge one’s perceptions. He’s also a pretty fun person with whom to converse while progressing 6 inches per minute toward the signup trailer.

As we neared the 11:00 hour, it became clear a full practice lap wouldn’t happen. I geared up and headed out into the course, scouting about 1/3 of the trail before a club member sent me back to the pit area. With a quick splash of fuel, I returned to the starting field and lined up next to Gary Mittleberg. If I could stay close to Gary, I’d surely finish well, and what a pipe dream that was (he would disappear out of sight before the first turn). We viewed the AA (Pro) and “real” A classes drag race to the edge of the tree line and attack the grassy field, weaving back and forth across the pasture. In motocross style, the riders jammed together in a high-speed chase, bumping handlebars and rubbing tires.

This dusty field had memories. My first race here in 1999 burned in an image of the dead engine start, a chaotic drag race to the first turn, my handlebars locked with another rider’s and a cartwheeling dirt bike beside me. Perhaps the dreadful vision lowered my testosterone level a bit. A cautious start put me mid-pack when the A Sportsmen fired their engines and tackled the pasture. Arrows and ribbons pointed to an earthen dam, then into the woods, where Kevin Ruckdeschell guided me under a tree slumping across the trail. The thick trunk leaned about 12 inches above my handlebars. Ducking low, my eyeballs met the gas cap and my helmet nicked tree bark.

Half a minute later, Kevin stalled at the bottom of a rocky ravine. I led Todd Corwin around him and pushed at a pace Todd found slower than his liking. Climbing a hill littered with boulders, the KX250 struggled while Todd’s KTM glided to the top. His presence pressured me into one poor decision after another, and Todd finally reached the end of his patience. Over the throaty rumble of his four stroke engine and the screaming of my two stroke, Todd’s voice projected a mishmash of words I couldn’t validate. His tone, though, expressed everything: Todd was faster and losing time to the leaders and I needed to get the heck out of the way.

Just after the spot I’d been redirected to the staging area during the practice lap, I descended steeply down a curvy trail and found a large tree in my path. We call these no-see-um’s for their tendency to appear around blind corners. In a panic, the front brake lever on my KX250 kissed the throttle tube, which tends to deposit a rider to the ground. The bike stopped immediately, while I rolled 30 feet down the slope. One by one, Todd Corwin, Tom Huber, Rick Helmick and Matt Coffman coasted by while I struggled to upright the bike on the side of the hill. Several kicks later, the engine fired and I rejoined the trail.

Restarting on the hillside left me tired and lethargic. The 81-degree high temperature was no record for Steelville, but I wasn’t used to this kind of heat in April. Plodding ahead through rocks and trees, I caught up with Tom and Rick and followed them along an old horse trail near a creek. The flat, two foot wide path reminded me of driving Chicago’s suburban Interstate 90 at 2:00 a.m. Nothing but straight ahead and clean air. The three of us upshifted to top gear and opened our throttles, trees and underbrush whizzing by in a blur of grey and faded green. When the course narrowed and twisted, Tom would pull away, then I’d catch him again in the faster, more open trails.

This game of chase continued though the end of the first lap, where I followed Tom into the RFID lane and passed him after we crossed the earthen dam. He had signaled his desire for me to lead and let me by, which worked fine until we scaled the same rocky hill on which Todd Corwin’s KTM glided up the previous lap. Tom’s four stroke Yamaha did the same while I struggled again, and he whizzed by as I abused the clutch. We would trade positions now and then, navigating rocky ravines, side hill goat paths, and a switchback or two that would have challenged a Grand Canyon mule. Around the midpoint of the 13.4-mile lap, Tom gradually eased ahead and faded from view. He arrived at the scoring trailer 13 seconds in front.

Averaging around 40 minutes each loop, the first two laps set a dangerous pace, and not at all related to speed. Rather, fuel management would tread through my mind on lap 3. A trio of 40-minute laps would end my race just as the official clock hit two hours. If I arrived at the scoring lane even one second before time expired, I’d be sent out for a 4th lap. The 3 gallon aftermarket IMS tank on the KX250 might fuel me 2.5 hours, but four laps on a course this long would push beyond that…and the tank had no reserve. Never had I pitted for gas during a 2-hour hare scramble, and now my brain considered the possibility. Most of the fuel-thirsty Pro class riders and anyone running a tiny motocross-style tank knew the drill and were prepared with gas jugs dropped somewhere along the pit lane (and often a helper standing by). I had prepared for none of this. A pit stop would require leaving the course, sprinting to my pickup truck and pouring a gallon into the tank.

This I pondered while wrestling the KX250 through lap three. Just after the scoring trailer, I remembered that I forgot to wrap my thumbs with Band Aids, shielding from blisters set off from some odd hand-grip position I’d never bothered to figure out. Without protection, my right thumb blistered and irritated me throughout the lap. A mile later, I rejoined Tom Huber and he waved me by at the same spot as the previous lap. This time, I found a groove and pulled away. Two minutes ahead, Todd Corwin’s pace couldn’t be matched, despite my quickest lap of the day.

Thankfully, the checkered flag displayed at the scoring lane. My race, along with any fueling concerns, was over. The Sportsman class podium and its fast, aggressive riders proved out of reach today, as did crafty veteran Steve Leivan, holding off youngster Caleb Wohletz for the overall win. Back with a vengeance, Steelville did not disappoint.