Florence, Missouri

For those keeping track, quite a long period has passed between races, and for good reason. Aside from dirt bikes, I enjoy about five other things, most of them heavily processed foods. But one stands out: Mountain biking. I entered the sport before it even had a name. In 1981, my parents upgraded me to a brand new Sears Free Spirit with 26-inch fat tires and 10 gears to choose from. Next came a Trek hardtail in the mid-1990s, for keeping my legs in shape between motorcycle races. Then in 2003, after abusing my lower back in Missouri rocks for several years, I acquired a Giant NRS full suspension bike. That one took me to Whistler, British Columbia this month for a week riding the most fantastic mountain bike trails in all of North America. Before leaving, I whacked my knee at the March of Dimes hare scramble in June, then whacked it again on a rented downhill bike at the Whistler-Blackcomb ski resort. I needed healing.

The Florence round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC) wasn’t exactly an easy return to racing. This place punished me last year and would do it again today, although in a completely different manner. Recent heavy rains and cloudy skies ruled out another dusty scorcher. My troubles would be water-related, starting before the race even began.

Matt Sellers and I pulled into the parking area, traces of 2001 still lingering. That year, rising floodwaters canceled the afternoon motorcycle race. A mile into the practice lap, course marshals wouldn’t let us cross the main creek through the property, and for good reason: The current might have dragged us all the way to the Osage River. Today the soggy tracks left by trucks and trailers left little doubt we were in for a mudder. We wasted no time gearing up and rushing out for practice. Even if the promoters called off the race again, we’d at least gain a little seat time on a preview lap.

Sloshing through the staging area, I led Matt into a relatively flat section of woods and followed the marked trail to the main creek. When I notched my first class win here in 2002, water flowed in a trickle across loose silt, leaving only a slippery bank to climb out of the channel. Two years later, three inches of rain had upgraded the creek to a river. I nudged the front wheel of my Kawasaki KX250 into the current and fought to hold a straight line toward arrows on the other side. In one brief moment the exhaust note changed to the unmistakably muffled, gurgling tone of a submerged silencer. Through water this deep, the KX250’s airbox and carburetor barely remained dry.

Near the far edge of the big creek, a lesser stream joined up and spewed its murky contents into the main channel. Trail arrows directed us toward the mouth of the small creek. I’d already strong-armed the KX250 across 50 feet of river, and now the arrows split in two directions. A blue set pointed directly up and out of the big creek, while the red arrows continued upstream through the small creek. Nearby a club member on an ATV monitored the situation, and I asked which color arrows I should follow. “Both,” he replied.

Got it.

I chose red, while a group of riders behind paused for a less ambiguous response. The red line eventually led out of the flowing water and through several miles of two-track ATV trails, where I jumped from one track to another, over and over again. The muddy ruts and deep woods kept me moving at a snail’s pace and I rode alone, still unsure the red arrows marked the bike course. Half a mile later an orange-vested gentleman parked on an ATV offered encouragement that I was, in fact, doing fine.

I didn’t feel fine. Normally wet races bring out my best racing, especially against Missouri natives who seem to enjoy mud as much as I relish a good, deep colonoscopy. But somehow the combination of mud and loose stones put me off my game. When the trail looped back to the big creek and its ambiguous arrows, the KX250’s knobby tires offered roughly the grip of a greased firemen’s pole. Now came time to cross the creek again and return to the staging area.

Trail arrows guided me 100 yards downstream and pointed to an opening in tall weeds. Through this narrow gap I spotted rushing water and an unclimbable bank on the other side. How deep was the creek? Who knew, and I would not be the first to find out. A minute later, A-Intermediate fast guys Gary Wolf and Adam Ashcroft arrived on scene, where Gary wasted little time charging into the water. Adam and I jumped in behind and followed closely. The sponsoring club’s intentions here were apparently washed away with the rains. Best I could tell, this initial 30-yard surf session would take us to a gravel island, where we’d sprint a couple hundred yards in a downstream direction before departing the island for the mainland.

Gary successfully led Adam and I across the fast flowing channel to the gravel island. So far, so good. Adam and I shadowed him to the next crossing, where the channel narrowed and current flowed like the River Rampage at Dollywood. How deep was it? Again, nobody knew, but Gary threw caution into the swollen creek and charged ahead like a drunken boat captain. I watched in horror as the entire front end of his KTM immediately disappeared under the water, resurfaced, and then the back end followed suit. Adam and I first viewed this with amazement (“He made it!”) and then with fear (“Wait…we gotta do that, too?”). The sponsoring club had sent out a course official to help guide us across, and after witnessing Gary’s spectacle, he suggested we enter the creek a few feet further downstream. He assured me it was shallower there.

I believed him.

He lied. The water wasn't shallower. It was deeper, and not by a little.

Like a submarine crash dive, the KX250 plunged into water nearly as high as its seat. The bike moved five feet forward before the engine bogged abruptly and shut down. I knew that sound: The dreaded death stall of a waterlogged engine. There I sat in the middle of the creek, drenched up to my butt cheeks and seemingly done with the race before it began. I pushed the bike to the other side of the creek, uttering expletives that would have made a dock worker blush. Head hung low, I paused to contemplate what just happened. I’d flooded the engines of many a motorcycle, just never on the practice lap of a hare scramble. What a cursed land, this place called Florence.

While I drowned myself in sorrow, my soaked motorcycle served as a cautionary tale. The same course worker who sent me into the deep pointed other bikes further downstream to cross back to the mainland. They all made it just fine, including Matt.

I left the bike in weeds near the creek and began a walk of shame toward the staging area. Along the way, Matt arrived on his motorcycle with a spark plug wrench and I hopped on the back. We located the KX250 and went about the business of clearing water from the engine. Thanks to our early start for the practice lap, time was on our side. We turned the bike upside down, expelled liquid through the spark plug hole and, after 15 minutes kicking over the engine, finally brought it back to life.

I’m not a big fan of riding, much less racing, a motorcycle submerged in water until after it’s properly serviced, but I didn’t come here to spectate. I returned to the truck, fueled the bike, chomped down a sandwich and headed straight for the starting line. Matt had saved my day, but I still fumed. The Florence curse, alive and thriving, could suck it.

Maybe I wasn’t the only one who felt this place was jinxed. Florence’s questionable reputation, or perhaps the rain and mud, had thinned down the field to just four A Sportsmen on the third row. With regular Todd Corwin working the race, only Gary Mittleberg, Slade Morlang and Kevin Ruckdeschell lined up beside me. Our foursome filled out most of the top 5 in series standings, and it’s reasonably safe to say that’s the only reason we showed up. Points is points, and we all had some to gain today.

With riders assembled across a grassy field lined with spectators, all eyes focused on the 30-second board held high by a man standing in the distance. Engines silenced and voices diminished to whispers, interrupted only by random shouts of encouragement for certain Pro class riders set to depart. In an instant, the stillness turned to the roar of engines firing, throttles twisting and dirt bikes lurching forward.

The 30-second board reappeared for the A-Intermediated class, followed by another calm minute before my turn for chaos. With one swift kick to fire his engine, Kevin jumped out ahead and burst toward the woods. Gary and I kept him close, but at this distance in these damp conditions, I felt like a sheet of drywall being textured with a spray gun. Within seconds, mud spatter coated my goggles. Not to worry, though. I’d done at least one thing right preparing for this race. While gearing up, I lightly duct taped a tear-off across the goggle lens, thinking this might buy me half a lap before I’d yank it off and rely on roll-offs. Twenty seconds in, the tear-off was trail junk.

The four of us swapped positions so many times in the first couple miles that I honestly can’t remember who passed me when, or where I passed the others, but it’s likely all four of us led at various points. Halfway into the lap I caught up to Gary, now in second place, and thought maybe he was cruising just a bit in the mud. When he wants to go fast, Gary is untouchable. Other times he conserves energy, and I can sometimes pull up behind and admire his smooth lines. I expected Gary to glance back and roll his eyes, as if I could actually hang with him for more than 10 seconds, and then disappear like Bigfoot in the Cascades. But then the unthinkable occurred. After a hard charge up a snotty hill, I set up for a pass in an open field and edged by Gary, who cheered me on. Screaming in my head were these words: Holy crap, I just passed Gary Friggin’ Mittleberg!

Further along the trail Slade fell in a rutted section and restarted as I approached. He struggled to find his rhythm and I took advantage, passing around a muddy corner. Once again, my mind went crazy: Holy crap, I just passed Slade Friggin’ Morlang! Both Gary and Slade would stay close and follow me through the scoring lane at the end of the lap. I didn’t expect either to remain behind me for long, but I could now boast that I’d finally led a lap in the A Sportsman class.

The lead didn't last, of course. Gary and Slade quickly found better lines and passed me early in second lap. Both were long gone when I approached the first creek crossing. On the opening lap most riders chose the blue arrows leading up a steep embankment on the opposite side. That worked fine for me then, but now the blues were gone and the reds led us straight into the mouth of the smaller creek, same as how I’d crossed through here on the practice lap. The KX250 plowed through.

Rising out of the smaller creek, I chose the only viable rut to higher ground. On the left edge, a barely ridable foot-wide patch of soil hugged a clump of thin trees, marking the difference between making it out of here safely and drowning the engine. Nearby another rider had attempted to skirt by the rut and found himself buried in three feet of dirty creek water. I felt his pain. From here on, the rut would be a single line of demarcation among finishers and victims.

The trail on the far side of the big creek had now burned in with motorcycle ruts replacing the two-track from yesterday’s ATV race. Course workers kept us safely on track to cross back over the big creek, and I sped through the mud toward the scoring trailer. Just before arriving, a small bottleneck slowed riders at what normally would have been a narrow, dry wash, but today this low area flowed steady with the remnants of last week’s rains. While attempting to cross, a young man in the Junior class fell in a rut and could only watch as bigger bikes used his motorcycle as traction. I could make out Gary ahead, politely running over the small bike’s rear wheel as he passed by cleanly. The kid labored to pick up his bike and clear it from the rut, and each time he tried, another rider on a larger motorcycle ran over his wheel. As I watched him throw up his hands in frustration, I noticed another way around and soon found myself hung up on a rock ledge. Slade stuck with the main line and passed me here, while earlier in the lap Kevin had found a way around me. I checked through the scoring lane in last place.

By now, almost every tricky section had developed multiple lines, and lap 3 brought nearly endless alternatives. The first big creek crossing was once again modified around many dead bikes littering the area. I could only imagine their frustration knowing if they’d simply placed their front wheels 12 inches to the left or right, they’d still be racing. For entirely different reasons, Kevin was not racing when I approached his bike near the midpoint of the lap. On its side, the KTM concealed a rock Kevin used to beat his bunched-up chain back into place. I paused to inquire how he became entangled in this predicament, and Kevin’s only response was encouragement to continue pursuing Slade, about a minute ahead. I tried, but finished the lap in third place.

Lap four brought on more ruts and riders struggling to climb hills. At the big creek crossing, course workers pointed out the best lines and I proceeded where instructed. Into the deep, I pushed toward the mouth of the smaller creek but found myself stalled next to Gary Wetherell on his own KX250. Todd Corwin helped move me to dry ground. “Most of the KX250s are stalling here,” said Todd. Gary and I both pushed our twin bikes across the creek, where my engine fired on the first kick and Gary’s didn’t.

The tallest hill on the course came shortly after, where a motorcycle coasted to the bottom for a second attempt. I blazed my own alternate path up the hill and made slow progress to the top, but the marked trail had disappeared. Hare scramble rules typically dictate a 20-foot rule, where riders must remain within that distance from the course arrows. Sometimes, in the Stichnoth Modified Rules of Racing, a reinterpretation of 20 feet must be accommodated. Under brutal racing conditions where widely varying alternate paths are a given, Stichnoth Rules dictate that as long as one can visibly make out certain features (trees, rocks, Bigfoot, abandoned cars, etc) that are within 20 feet of the arrows, all is good. Call it the one-degree-of-separation corollary to the 20-foot rule, or call it cheating, whichever. Either way, I scaled the hill and eventually found the marked trail.

Near the end of the lap Aaron Shaw, the finest mud rider in all of Missouri, flew past me in an open field. My watch suggested an outside chance this fourth lap could be my last, but when I approached the scoring trailer only the AA class had been posted as meeting the two hour time limit. Aaron would bask in his overall win while I entered the course for one more lap. As I weaved through the scoring lane chicane leading to the RFID receiver, an overhead LED screen still displayed Slade’s rider number. He must have been scored very recently, so I assumed he wasn’t far ahead.

With four laps already completed, plus the practice lap, I’d seen enough of the course and its evolving ruts to sort out the most troublesome sections. The fifth lap went off without incident and was actually one of my quickest of the day. Somehow, somewhere, I slipped by Slade to take over second place. Like mine, his bike turned a dark shade of gray and I probably didn’t realize who I was passing. Gary had jumped out to a 4 minute lead at the start of the lap, and even though I cut that in half on lap 5, his cushion put him comfortably in the winner’s circle. In the overall standings, Gary took 9th place I took 12th and Slade was 13th.

Florence once again lived up to its reputation. Never has a racing venue challenged me so consistently, and so differently, and yet produced some of my best results in MHSC competition. This place truly has a bit of everything for a hare scramble racer, and for that I offer much respect.