Once in a blue moon, the stars and planets align properly over Kahoka, Missouri and leave the soil dry, the sky sunny and the temperature pleasant. Thus do hare scramblers rejoice. Five times I’d raced here previously, under weather situations ranging from hurricanes to tsunamis. Perhaps that is an exaggeration, although I once felt the hair on my arms stand up in a lightning storm and swore I could see a funnel cloud forming. Then there was February 1996, when I drove nearly 250 miles each way to race test a brand new Suzuki RMX250 at the Burkhart farm. As one might imagine, riding a motorcycle anywhere outdoors in a Midwest winter is not ideal, and Kahoka’s frozen tundra tested only my patience. Punishing heat arrived in 1999 and deep mud in 2002 and 2003. Only the 2001 race offered near-perfect conditions and, thank goodness, today’s event would deliver the same loamy soil and balmy weather.
The Mulekicker National Hare Scramble returned here in 2004 after many previous dates on the American Motorcyclist Association’s nationwide series. It’s a unique challenge finding land suitable for such a race, starting with the unusual concept of professional athletes competing on the same course, at the same time, as amateurs. Outside of marathons, the Baja 1000, and pro-am golf tournaments, few sports allow individuals such as myself anywhere near someone racing to fulfill his need to eat. But that’s how we hare scramble in this country, and that’s why so few venues make it possible for professionals to ply their craft without major interference from the likes of me. The Burkhart farm offered a long motocross track as a base of operations, plentiful woods, and most importantly, numerous pasture areas where pro riders could sprint past slower riders and avoid bottlenecks in tight singletrack.
Matt Sellers joined for the trip north, our second in two weeks. Like last month’s Newark round of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC), Kahoka enjoyed the same pleasant soil in the upper right corner of the state. We parked alongside Team RocketRacing.net, where I collected two trophies before the race even began. John Yarnell had been saving my 6th place plaque from the Leadbelt Enduro back in May, while Gary Mittleberg held on to a 2nd place trophy from Florence in July. A third trophy wasn't in the cards, as I signed up with the nearly-pro 250A class and had no expectations of earning any hardware. The dual-sanctioned Mulekicker awards points for the AMA National series, and the regular MHSC riders have their scores tallied separately after the race. The Missouri contingent registers for classes based on AMA rules, and then the MHSC scorekeeper transfers those results to whatever class in which they're competing for the season. I chose 250A because we’d start on the second row, directly behind the Pro class. Sure, those guys would ghost me long before we entered the woods, but for at least a lap or two I’d have clean air without interference from slower traffic out front.
National AMA rules allow no practice lap, so Matt and I used our spare time wandering through the farmstead serving as the Mulekicker’s staging area. On any other day, this was a working farm with a white house centered within various outbuildings and bounded by rolling pastures. A month earlier, if one strolled no further than the back porch, the Burkhart place would have seemed perfectly ordinary in these parts. Moving further beyond the driveway, keen eyes may have noticed something awry with this place, starting with a machine shed full of ancient dirt bikes stored up high and out of the way from agricultural equipment. Along with used-up knobby tires strung around fence posts, a casual observer might suspect the owner wasn’t quite all-in on the farming. This would become obvious with a short walk past the machine shed. There, in all its glory, lie a groomed motocross track built into the side of a 60-foot hill.
For sure, not your typical farm.
Already the racing could be heard throughout the staging area. Youth classes took turns weaving in and out of the woods and zipping across a flat, choppy portion of the motocross track. Massive enclosed trailers and RVs lined this section, which would stage the pit area for the afternoon race. The nearly obscene financial investment wasn’t limited to the big bikes. Matt pointed to a heavily modified Kawasaki KX65 speeding through the loam and suggested the owner of the tiny motorcycle had probably sunk more money into it than most of the adult bikes.
The MHSC Junior class had already taken to the course, following AMA national rules limiting the smaller machines to the morning race. At a normal MHSC event these youngsters would lien up beside the big bikes in the afternoon for an abbreviated one hour race. Today, Kiefer Rosier pierced the morning air with a wide open throttle as Matt studied a particularly choppy section of the motocross track. We gasped as he and his bike separated like a professional bull rider from a world class bovine. As with the men and women of rodeo, those with fragile bones need not apply to this sport, and Kiefer offered a prime example. He remounted, regained the lead, and took the win.
As the sun climbed just past high noon, big bikes gathered in a wide pasture. My spot on the second row offered a clear view of the various routines of the fastest racers in the Midwest and beyond. Andy Shea’s Kawasaki sparkled while a female companion sheltered him from the sun with a large, colorful umbrella. Missouri’s own Aaron Shaw frantically took a wrench to his cylinder head and changed a fouled spark plug. The gifted Australian, Shane Watts, drew little attention on the far side of the Pro class line. Only “Watts” printed on the back side of his chest protector gave away his identity. Shane’s understated appearance belied the fact that without a chain of unfortunate injuries this year, he’d likely be leading every national off-road series he entered.
A two-kick start put me well back from the other 250A riders, not that I expected anything else. This class predated the “Pro 2” designation for riders not quite ready for the premier class but still very fast in the woods. A couple decades later and a magnitude of new sponsorship dollars would eventually morph the 250A class at National events into a gang of low-level professionals almost ready for bigger paychecks. However, this afternoon they were simply the fastest of the amateurs. Within a matter of seconds these riders put a gap on me like Justin Gatlin sprinting 100 meters against 3rd graders. In that setting, anyone with eyes would see something special about an athlete of such caliber. They simply look world class. Compare that to the physical appearance of a world class dirt biker like Shane Watts, perhaps at a pub, enjoying a Victoria Bitters next to a bumbling amateur like myself, and nobody would ever suspect six years ago he won the International Six Days Enduro while I could barely make two laps around the Flat River Grand Prix. Off-road dirt bike skills only become clear when the racing begins, and the riders on the first two rows of the Mulekicker demonstrated their abilities.
We charged across green grass, banked hard left after 100 yards and then followed a fence line doubling as pit row for the pros. A short hop through the motocross course took us at warp speed into the woods, then quickly dumped us back into another makeshift pit area on the opposite of the farmstead. I’d placed a fuel can somewhere in here for a rare pit stop later in the three-hour race and hoped I’d remember its location. Within this first-lap chaos, I didn’t ever think to visualize my gas jug. MHSC regular Adam Ashcroft appeared ahead, and my focus switched to his rear tire. Instead of eying my fuel, I spotted a quick line in the grass track and passed Adam before darting back into the woods.
Without the traditional MHSC warm-up lap, I felt a bit off. Course previews help me find my way back to racing, usually after a week or more off the bike, whereas the Mulekicker threw me directly into the fire. Most of the 250A pack remained close when we entered the first of the tight singletrack. The Burkhart crew had prepared well for the national event, weed whacking the brush and trimming back face-slapping tree branches. These woods had potential for enduro-style tightness, but the lack of foliage stepped up the speed. A mile later we emerged into a wide open sprint across a pasture, then back into more woods. This high-speed, low-speed transition would repeat for most of the 10-mile course.
Near the 5-mile marker, the trail opened to the freshly manicured motocross track. To be clear, the manicuring occurred over many years with countless truckloads of recycled municipal mulch. In these parts, that’s the only way for Missouri mud to be ridable after rains. Mike Burkhart apparently struck a sweet deal with local tree shredders and applied generous heaps of mulch all throughout the motocross track, then working it into the soil with a field cultivator. We took in a 300-yard portion of the track, a hillside straightaway with two jumps on the downside. Travis Green, an appropriately named Kawasaki rider from Ohio, caught up to me from the 200A row and launched his bike high into the air. Landings are soft on the Kahoka track and Travis didn't slow down for the second jump. He disappeared long before I made it back to the woods.
The second half of the course included multiple grass tracks and higher speeds. This year I haven’t loathed fast pasture sections as much on my Kawasaki KX250, with its motocross-style power and confidence-inspiring brakes. Not that I passed anyone in the grass, but I gave up no positions and, solely through attrition, worked my way up to the 12th spot at the end of the first lap. By now the 250A class had spread out across the course and I could focus on the trail in front, rather than the rear tires of riders ahead of me. After two years of muddy Mulekickers, I almost didn’t know how to ride here. Dry choppiness remained from endless mud ruts of past races. The worst of the chop came in front of the pit area, just before entering the motocross track for the final time on each lap. This section was a straight line sandwiched between a grassy area and the track, fast and incredibly rough. While bouncing across the densely compacted soil, some racers pitted along the fence line separating the course from the staging area, adding traffic and chaos to an already unruly stretch of dirt.
Without traffic ahead, I located my red 5-gallon fuel jug in the grass alongside the woods. I’d planned to stop for gas after the third lap, figuring I’d be 30 miles and about two hours into the race, but I finished the second lap at around the 40-minute mark and the third barely an hour removed from the start. Was I really speeding around a 10-mile course in 20-minutes? Surely the mileage didn’t add up, or my watch had malfunctioned. I’d wrapped the Timex Ironman around the handlebars and gave it a smack after I checked through the scoring trailer a third time. Sometimes the watch would shake itself into “alarm” mode and give false readings, but the Ironman functioned perfectly. I could pit for fuel at the beginning of lap 6. I blasted through the 4th and 5th laps, maintaining a couple minute gap ahead of Adam Ashcroft while slicing through the trees. The KX250 leaned into the grass track turns and launched across the straight sections, then slipped back into the woods over and again. In the middle of the 5th lap, I approached a group of lappers including the #369 KTM of Jim Walker. His RocketRacing.net website, like mine, chronicled his dirt biking journey in a much prettier format. I suspect he might have shelled out actual cash for the web design, and it showed. Would his upcoming race report mention me, diligently following his group through the singletrack and unable to pass? Would it mention Shane Watts closing in from behind, also stuck behind this freight train of riders?
Doubtful.
Mr. Watts had taken over the lead on this lap and intended to keep it, regardless of the painfully slow amateurs holding him up. The magic of Mike Burkhart’s course design solved both my problem with lappers and Shane’s, when we quickly exited the woods onto the motocross track. There, he checked out and Chuck Woodford chased from a few seconds behind. Then came Jason Raines and Cole Calkins, both flying across the track. The wheels of the foursome seemed to touch dirt only occasionally, yet their motorcycles moved with the speed and grace of Ricky Carmichael at Hangtown.
I couldn’t ponder the magical abilities of the professional racers for more than a few seconds. On a hare scramble course, wandering minds are accidents waiting to happen and besides, I had bigger issues ahead. Adam Ashcroft had apparently pitted earlier in the race, allowing me a healthy cushion in the fourth and fifth laps. Now I required fuel. I located my red jug along the grassy strip next to the woods, dumped a gallon into the tank and watched Adam pass by as I screwed on the gas cap. With a swift kick and a handful of throttle, I caught up to him a minute later and followed his lead for half the lap.
At one of the few mud holes on the course, I took a chance on a straight line directly through the center. Most riders chose a longer path around the edge, and when I glanced at Adam taking the wide route, I aimed for one of several ruts in the muck. The KX250 sank a little deeper than expected and the bike quickly slowed to a stop. With luck on my side, Glen Osia appeared like a liberator, calmly hopped over the parallel line of ruts and tugged on my front forks. In a second, I jumped back onto the main line and chased Adam.
Again we entered the motocross track, this time at the spot Travis Green had launched into low earth orbit on the first lap, and Adam remained about 100 yards ahead. I chased him back into the woods, then out into open areas, and still the same distance separated us. As we approached the scoring trailer to end the sixth lap, I couldn’t close the gap.
The white flag appeared at the scoring trailer. I’d expected 8 laps and figured I could take my time reeling in Adam. But now, with a little more than 20 minutes remaining, I decided the time was now: I must pass Adam. So began a hard push at 100% race pace. Every corner, I held the throttle just a bit longer, braked a bit later, searched for a little extra traction. All of that comes with risk, of course. One minor mistake and Adam would be unreachable. So I did what the professional riders always talk about in magazine interviews, where they pace themselves through most of the race and then pour on the gas in the final laps. Normally I had only one speed on a race course, and that was whatever it took to keep up. On this final lap, perhaps knowing there would be no 8th lap, somehow I’d saved some reserve for a full-on sprint.
With less than 10 minutes remaining, I could finally make out Adam’s orange KTM inside the woods.
And it was on.
Now I could decide where the pass would be made. I’d already attempted the mud hole shortcut, and the tight singletrack gave no hope. I’d have to do it in one of the grass tracks or the motocross track. Had I put any thought into this strategy before the race, I would have ruled out the motocross track immediately. I could maybe execute a Hail Mary pass on a grass track by nudging my front tire uncomfortably close to Adam’s leg. Some riders would back off after witnessing such shenanigans, feeling no need to risk injury engaging like that with an idiot on a Kawasaki. Adam, however, would not be intimidated and I knew this. If I passed him in such an aggressive manner, he’d come right back and shove me wide, probably with a large grin as he roosted by.
So I settled for the least favorable tactic of all: I would pass Adam on the motocross track, and I would do it exactly where Travis Green did it to me. I would put aside my fear of flying, summon all my courage, and launch my way around Adam.
The downhill jumped appeared ahead. This was my shot.
T-minus three seconds.
Two bike-lengths ahead, Adam knew not what was coming. And neither did I, really. Flying down the hill, he tapped the rear brake to line up for the jump. I tapped only my nerve to take a silly risk where I was least skilled. Adam launched off the face of the jump with a few feet between his tires and the earth. Following on his left side, I launched higher.
Waaay higher.
Whether or not I matched Travis Green’s lift, I’ll never know, but Adam and I ended up floating beside each other through the air, the bottom of my tires level with the top of his helmet. I had never sailed so high in the air on anything but an airplane. After the race, Adam would describe my leap as a “Bubba pass”, in reference to the airtime of James Stewart as he often passed riders through the sky.
I led Adam through the rest of the course, gapping him slightly and then giving it all back when I entered the woods and slid out around a corner. The engine kept on running and so did I, still ahead of Adam. With dehydration chills stirring through my body, I checked into the scoring trailer one last time.
My goal was to not finish last in 250A, or at least beat someone who completed the entire race, and that someone was Adam Ashcroft, a respectable racer and all-around good guy. We chatted after the race and relived the Bubba pass, laughing at its absurdity. I checked my lap times and marveled at my last-lap sprint. During most of the second half of the race, my lap times slowed to 23 minutes, but the final charge on lap seven shaved my time to a respectable 22:19. Much quicker than that was Jason Raines with the overall win, just ahead of Shane Watts in second. Top overall Missouri finishers were Chris Thiele in 6th and Steve Leivan in 7th. In the MHSC-only scoring, I was fourth in A Sportsman and 24th overall. The Kahoka dirt proved to be as special as it comes, once in a coon’s age.
