Taylorville, Illinois

With a three week gap in the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC) series, I found myself scanning other regions for races. Thus far in the 2003 season I’d stuck to Missouri events, but a change was in order. The schedule for AMA District 17, covering the upper 2/3s of Illinois, showed a hare scramble at Taylorville, about 100 miles into the Land of Lincoln. I’m always game for trying out a new venue, so I loaded up for a solo trip to the South Fork Dirt Riders club grounds.

Nestled between Illinois Route 104 and the south fork of the Sangamon River, the 250-acre club grounds contained a total elevation change of about 10 feet from top to bottom. What the land lacked in hills was more than offset by its volume of clay. On a long morning reconnaissance trip through the course, I could have been blindfolded and forgiven for mistaking the sunbaked surface for concrete. In the shade, the clay bore a darker tone with a greasy consistency, thanks to a couple inches of rain the week before. Surprisingly wide trails twisted across grass tracks and through the woods, making this the most un-Illinois hare scramble course I’d ever seen. Ruts and depressions in the hard clay had filled with standing water, most of it the brown and smelly variety that even farm dogs wouldn't drink. Near a creek lining the south property border, the rains filled the channel just over its banks and encroached on the trail. In one spot the main route appeared to continue parallel with the creek, but sparsely placed arrows pointed left to avoid a deep water hole. Anyone missing this turn would take an unplanned swim.

Trail scouting complete, I returned to my pickup truck expecting to see and hear the usual gathering of bike haulers and engines firing up and riders crisscrossing the staging area. Instead, I was greeted by an odd silence and an absurdly small group of trucks and trailers parked near the motocross track. In all, only 22 riders signed up for the motorcycle race and, after previewing the course, I could understand why. This wasn’t a property for hardcore woods riders. Adding to the club’s poor turnout, another District 17 hare scramble had been scheduled on the same day, further upstate. Apparently most of the district riders headed north, leaving me to compete only with myself in the Vet class. I felt bad for the South Fork club.

With no skin in the District 17 series, I treated the race as training for Missouri hare scrambles. After winning the MHSC Open B class last year, I poured my efforts into the series for 2003, determined to race every event and compete for the Vet class title. Next week I’d be back across the river again, banging bars with the MHSC regulars. For now, I lined up on the front row of the starting grid for the first time ever.

The green flag waved us onto the course, and with a solid kick the engine fired immediately. I chose a wide line into the first turn and settled into a half mile weave across a grass track, with several bulldozer-induced jumps sprinkled in between the sweeping curves. Those jumps excited me like a visit to the Department of Motor Vehicles on Saturday. The riders who’d spent any amount of time on motocross tracks quickly gapped me here, but I had my sights set on the woods, where I’d show them a few things.

When the course finally slipped into the trees, I demonstrated only my ability to crash. In one of the few narrow woods sections, I whacked my handguard against a healthy maple, sending my nether regions directly toward one end of the handlebar. Luck would save me from a painful groin injury and I remounted quickly, but the small group of fast guys I’d been following were long gone.

We moved on to the more spacious trails with sparsely spaced trees and alternatively slimy and solidly packed clay. The terrain proved more challenging than expected as I slid through the slippery shaded turns and skated over hard-packed clay baking in the sun. Wet or dry, the compact surface was no match for knobby tires. There would be no deep ruts today.

Another wooded section in the middle of the course gave way to a rough, high-speed area where the choppy clay surface added far too much headshake in 5th gear. Without a steering damper, my arms might have ripped from the handlebars and sent me cartwheeling halfway across the club grounds. Thankfully, the Scotts Performance company saved me for the billionth time and we re-entered a slower, happier place in the woods. Where the trail paralleled the creek, I caught up to a guy who passed me when I crashed earlier and witnessed him heading directly for the water hole. Too late to warn, I marveled at the splash. The log ride waterfall at Dollywood might have displaced a bit more water, but not by much. This rider’s race was surely over.

Near the end of the first lap, the course took us through another wide open section of grass and medium-sized jumps. I’d scanned the general area in the morning and decided not to walk it, but now wished I had. The landing zones became visible only after I already committed to the jumps, which wouldn’t have been a problem except they resembled steeplechase water obstacles. At my C-class motocross pace, I couldn’t muster enough momentum to clear the rutted mud pits and the bike touched down directly in the center. I somehow forced a successful (although wet) landing on the first jump, then changed trajectory on subsequent launches by aiming for the left or right of the jump face. That kept me out of the deepest water.

Twelve minutes after departure, the main checkpoint appeared and I continued for what would be many laps. As with most District 17 hare scrambles, this one was manually scored on paper and I didn’t know my position, nor did I much care. Even so, my racing mind still pushed me to charge through every corner and clear those steeplechase jumps and finish well.

By now the sun had baked the stagnant brown puddles to medium warm, splashing against my pants and leaving stains no amount of Spray ‘n Wash would fix. The short laps put me on the heels of the second-row riders less than halfway through the two-hour cutoff, and with trails wide enough for a Case-IH 2588 combine with an 8-row corn head, passing was a breeze. The lappers simply held their lines and I casually moved by. Back at the creek, the water hole had claimed another victim, this time a Suzuki turned upside down beside the trail with its spark plug removed. The sight brought back memories of my first drowned-out bike, a 1994 Suzuki RMX250, nearly a decade earlier. I submerged the bike in a creek at the Keen farm back home, with only one end of the handlebar visible above the water. At least the hare scramble guy knew what to do. Back then, I phoned the local Suzuki dealership out of desperation and listened to the owner, Russell Bills, talk me out of pulling the engine apart.

On the final lap I approached a rider laboring through a greasy mud hole, his rear tire spinning aimlessly. With little momentum and both legs stretched out for balance, he slid across the slime just as I did at my first race almost nine years ago to the day. On Father’s Day in 1994, I was that same struggling rider, wondering why in the world a hare scramble seemed like a good idea. But as time passed, the hard work and commitment to improvement, the bank account drained, mechanical mysteries solved, woods riding techniques mastered, new friends made and tons of fun were worth every minute (and penny). I’d come a long way and it was all good…except maybe the emergency room visits and my mother’s anxiety whenever she knew I was racing. Reflecting on my progress, however, I was a world apart from a decade ago.

Fourth overall would have felt better with more riders on the starting line, but the day served its purpose. I discovered a new riding area, put in some racing seat time, didn’t break anything on the bike or my body and was back home in 90 minutes. A fine day, indeed.