The sport of off-road motorcycle racing, in whatever long-ago decade it began, was apparently developed by individuals with no time to schedule around the weather. The tradition of running rain-or-shine events was passed down to the current generation of hare scramblers, who remain convinced that Mother Nature can go pound sand whenever she decides to urinate on a race course. To that effect, the Westphalia round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship went off as planned, drizzle be damned. This was a hare scramble, we were here to race, and no such precipitation would stand in our way.
Wet conditions do tend to change a rider's mindset, however. Rain forces extra preparations, mainly for vision and traction. Fresh roll-offs and tear-offs must be administered to goggles, and perhaps a change in tire selection could be in order. Trucks and trailers are filled with umbrellas and pop-up awnings for cover. These distractions are coupled with the psychology of racing in less than desirable conditions. For sure, everyone loves riding on sunny and warm days, but Westphalia would be less than this and we all knew it. We just weren't willing to sacrifice a day of racing for a bit of rain.
The steady morning sprinkles were enough to keep the dust down from the ATV race, which went off without much moisture. By the time the motorcycles gathered in the starting area, the drizzle steadied while the mystery of Pizza Man became less mysterious. He and I had traded emails during the week and chatted briefly on the starting line. His namesake originated from his occupation as purveyor of pizza at a popular joint in Columbia. With wavy long hair and an easygoing style, he was immediately likable, much as many of my competitors. Now I understood why series racing can be so addictive: It's more than just the racing.
For ten or so minutes on the starting line, the rain worked its way between my roll-off tape and goggle lens. The moisture locked the tape to the lens, rendering it mostly useless. After playing with the tape, it finally broke free and slid easily across the lens, just in time for the green flag. I launched my KTM 300EXC into 5th place at the first corner, following Pizza Man and his large-bore KTM four-stroke into the woods. A few miles in, near a spectator point, Steve Hemann flew by and promptly laid down his own KTM around a slick, grassy corner. This was a tricky race.
Through the first lap I maintained my position, not knowing how far ahead the Open B fast guys had distanced themselves. The Westphalia course put the motorcycles on the same trails as the ATVs in their morning race, which normally thrills me about as much as colonoscopy. But on this day the rain worked in my favor. Growing up in the mud lands of Illinois, I knew a thing or two about sliding my way through trails. I'd moved up a few spots at the midpoint of the race, after a couple of our class leaders dropped out for unknown reasons. The drizzle was now a full-on rain.
But suddenly, out came the sun. The course dried quickly and the second half of the race was pure traction. For a change, I rather enjoyed the dust-free, two-track trails. The most fun section of Westphalia, the terraces, became even more joyous with dry grass. The man-made structures, common to farms within hilly terrain, were used for the pleasure of dirt bikers who like to fly. The course was routed into the faces of a half-dozen terraces, each a high-speed four-foot jump. Wet grass made the jumps sketchy, but when dry, these were made for fun. I indulged as much as my softly-suspended motorcycle would allow, first hitting the terraces on the descent into a low part of the pasture, then doing it again on the way back up.
With 28-minute lap times, my pace was good for 5 turns around the track. As expected, the white flag came out at the end of my 4th lap, and with one more mistake-free pass through the course, the checkers came out at the scoring trailer.
There's a certain feeling at the end of a race, when I feel tired but not exhausted and I didn't crash or make any significant mistakes, where I'm confident I'll be rewarded with some hardware. Those feelings came rarely at this point in my racing activities, but today was one of those days. I anxiously awaited the results like a 9-year-old on Christmas Eve. Each time a race official exited the scoring trailer with a handful of printed papers, I pushed forward toward the outer wall of the trailer, squinting to find an 8.5x11 printout of the Open B results.
It wasn't a class win, but close enough. Second place was as good as a win for me on a course which least suited my abilities: Fast, rocky, and wide. Maybe I could see myself as a Missouri racer after all.
