Warrensburg, Missouri

Between St. Louis and Kansas City, Interstate 70 pierces Missouri through its center, dividing the state between farming communities in the upper third and endless forests below. In my 6th year as a regular in the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC), the freeway is common. Its pavement exists, for the most part, to deliver joy on a dirt bike. The road also delivers home many a weekend boater from Lake of the Ozarks, packed tightly with cars and SUVs traveling in large groups which often reduce to a crawl at random spots for random reasons. Too often, the gridlock began with a horrific accident and ended with a panicked 911 caller unable to precisely describe where emergency responders could locate the carnage. Thus began installation of more than 2,000 mileage markers between St. Louis and Kansas City, spaced 2/10ths of a mile apart.

The signposts flew by, five to the mile, on an early morning drive to the Warrensburg round of the MHSC. With Matt Sellers riding shotgun, we enjoyed a cozy conversation inside my little red pickup truck with the short cab and long bed. Interrupting our discussion of the mundane, an 18-wheeler pulled alongside and blasted its air horns around mile marker 153.4. I’ve come to expect the unexpected on I-70, but this was new. Typically a honking vehicle meant my driving style was underappreciated or something important was about to fall out of the back of the truck. Neither of us noticed a one-fingered rating of my driving, so we assumed a critical item would soon end up on the highway. We scanned behind, searching for any untethered objects attempting to flee the bed, but all appeared secure, so we continued on. The tractor-trailer moved ahead, then slowed, and I began to pass on the left. Its driver became visible and rolled down the window, revealing none other than fellow MHSC racer David Brewster. “I can’t race today!” he yelled above a 70 mph breeze. We laughed, shouted back our condolences and carried on.

Ninety minutes later we arrived at the Warrensburg staging area, a green pasture on a free range livestock farm surrounded by gently rolling hills and woods. The property, like so many other race venues in Missouri, was now familiar as an annual McDonalds pilgrimage to enjoy a McRib sandwich. The form of the land was no more likely to change than the shape of a miniature rack of ribs served on a toasted bun. Warrensburg promised terrain much like that of my Illinois homeland, with scarce rocks and flowing singletrack, and that’s exactly what Matt and I found in our track preview.

On this 60th anniversary of D-Day, the Pro and A classes invaded the course with a drop of the 15-second board and a rumble of two-wheeled weaponry. While some clubs wave a flag or discharge a loud firearm to release riders into the woods, the MHSC uses motocross-style sign boards, about 16 inches square, noting 30 and 15 second intervals before departure. At a specified instant the individual displaying the sign releases it from his grip, allowing gravity to signal go-time. Observing from the third row, the board seemed to drop in slow motion. Some riders in the first two rows reacted immediately after the holder freed his hand from the board, while others seemed not to realize the board had initiated freefall. Only when the quicker reactors threw down legs against kick starters did the others follow, putting them a bike length behind.

As much as I aspired for quick starts, at most events I was one of the second-reactor types. Today would be no different. The A Sportsmen departed in similar fashion as the two classes ahead of us, slamming kick start levers and twisting throttles and releasing clutches. Front tires skimmed across the grass, some rising above ground as riders corralled the flighty bikes. My Kawasaki KX250 jumped into the fray, speeding forward within inches of riders to the left and right. Braking for the first turn, Carl Dobson’s rear wheel slid dangerously to the side and toppled his motorcycle directly across my path. For an instant I considered using his bike as a launching pad, then paused a millisecond and joined Carl on the ground. Viewing the scene from the Open B starting line, Ray Osia uttered the obvious: “That guy can’t buy a good start.”

Perhaps my encounter with Carl compared to that one person everyone knows who seems magnetically attracted to misfortune. But I’d never spent any significant effort practicing starts, so that I might possibly rise above the chaos fanning out behind race leaders. Too boring, I declared. Speeding through the trees, climbing hills, fording streams…those things excited me. I had no interest in spending an afternoon methodically piecing together elements of good dead-engine starting techniques and executing to perfection. Most accomplished athletes will point to the mastery of boring stuff as a key to excelling in their craft, yet I simply wouldn’t put in the time.

Which led me back to Carl Dobson’s motorcycle, lying on the Warrensburg dirt with my front wheel lodged between his rear fender and tire. A couple quick jerks on the handlebars freed my bike from Carl’s and we both gathered ourselves and remounted, me in dead last and Carl a few feet ahead. Within a half mile, we caught up to the tail end of riders in our class.

Now came the tricky part. In the A Sportsman class, everyone can ride and they all know how to race, most having done so for a very long time. To put it, for example, in golf terms, these are the men who consistently shoot below 90 from the back tees, with no gimme putts or blind eyes to rules that get in the way of bragging rights. These are first chair trumpet players in your local municipal band or bridge players with 5,000 masterpoints. They know their stuff…they love their stuff. And on a hare scramble course near Warrensburg, Missouri, they won’t yield simply because another rider revs his engine from behind.

Thus began the difficult task of passing. The first of the large creek crossings, with uncomfortable depth and a sharp left turn leading up the opposite bank, put me ahead of a struggling rider. I gained a few more positions with strategic moves through the trees. Near the midpoint of the first lap, Elston Moore was paused beside the trail resolving a mechanical issue, gifting me 10th place.

Next up was Bob Searing, effortlessly carving lines through the leafy underbrush. Unadulterated by ATVs, the trails remained narrow, twisting in and out of low areas near creeks and up to higher ground above. Like last year’s races here, the smallest creeks again became part of the course, with two separate runs through the center of the tight, winding beds. No passing would happen here, for the constricted channels set a few feet into the earth and the near-vertical banks on either side offered no alternative routes.

Nearing the end of the lap, Bob remained just ahead in 9th place, while I checked into the timing lane in 10th. I moved by Steve Crews on a hill quickly developing into a bottleneck of riders pushing and spinning wheels toward the crest. Knobby tires had polished the main line into a shiny clay rut, slowing me just enough for Elston Moore to effortlessly climb faster up a different line to the left. As the second lap wore on, he quickly turned on afterburner-like speed and gapped me by a full minute at the scoring trailer. I remained stuck in 10th place.

Then, early in the 3rd lap, Elston reappeared inside another run through a narrow creek. Somehow I’d gained back the minute lost on the second lap and found him in my sights, but nowhere in these narrow creeks could two bikes could safely squeeze side-by-side through the channel. I expected to follow Elston until the trail led us to higher ground and stalk him like a late-night TV host. Instead, a passing lane appeared at a bend in the channel. A few enterprising riders had shortcut the bend, briefly exiting the creek and then dropping back down into its channel. Elston followed the bend, while I popped out and cut the corner, beating him to the point we converged.

Elston conceded the pass but wouldn’t let up. All throughout the second half of the third lap his engine roared, never more than a couple seconds behind. I sensed that mistakes would ultimately determine the outcome of our battle, and soon enough an error proved me right. Near the end of the lap, the trail descended steeply to cross a small creek, where my front wheel stopped suddenly at the bottom of the silty channel. I fell into the creek, bathing myself in murky water while Elston splashed by.

I lifted the KX250 out of the stream and continued a short distance, then witnessed Elston on the ground just a few turns later. I sneaked to his left side just before he threw a leg over his seat and fired the engine. At scoring trailer near the finish line, I checked through the timing lane again in 9th place, wondering how such an intense battle for mediocrity could be so darned enjoyable.

Our skirmish intensified on the fourth and final lap. Elston lurked, just out of view wherever I could turn my head sideways and glance behind. He was back there somewhere…I knew it. One small error and he’d surely be glued to my rear tire. I sharpened my focus and concentrated on the not-so-boring stuff like placing front tire in exactly the right places, twisting the throttle into the meaty part of the engine’s power band and charging through every twist and turn. Only perfection would keep me ahead. But even the best riding can’t overcome the greatest wildcard of hare scramble racing.

Lappers.

I should have relished my speed. Not so long ago, I’d have been overjoyed at the thought of riding fast enough to gain a full lap on other riders. But lappers come with a certain element of unpredictability. One never knows how a slower rider will react to a faster one closing in from behind, or the surprising spots lappers show up on the course.

At the base of a short, steep hill, the trail turned quickly toward a deeply rutted line leading to high ground. I locked into this loose dirt, dumped the clutch and powered up the hill, only to find two riders stuck near the top. I was now blocked in a rut on the side of a sharp hill. Here, a layperson might ask, Why not simply change course and ride to the side of the riders blocking the trail? The answer is thus: Traction. Escaping a rut is difficult on flat ground and nearly impossible on the upside of a steep hill. I’ve tried, believe me. Knobby tires prefer to ride on top of the dirt, not in between, and once momentum is lost, so is progress. The riders blocking my path killed my drive, and as I paused a few seconds for them to move aside, Elston found an inside line around all of us. With no stalled momentum, he flew up the hill as if riding to QuickTrip for a pack of smokes.

On high ground Elston remained visible in the distance and, ever so slowly, I reeled him in. We arrived together at another small hillside where on previous laps, other riders clogged the main line. About 20 yards ahead of this line, I noticed a shortcut up the hill and passed Elston again. From there, I stretched a lead just far enough that I couldn’t hear his engine, but it wasn’t enough. Within the final mile, lapped riders jammed up the trail at a small creek crossing with deep ruts, each taking his turn. Like a fool, I waited my turn, pausing just long enough for Elston to sneak by in what he would later described as a “sucker” pass.

Racing requires no turn-taking, and I paid for the hesitation by trailing Elston at the finish line, he in 9th place and I in 10th. Unknown to both of us, 7th and 8th places finished just a few seconds ahead. Thus ended a most competitive fight for average. Matt and I packed up our bikes and gear into the little red truck, wondering what interstate highway surprises lie ahead.