They called the hare scramble Hell’s Holler, but the devil in it struck me two weeks prior. Ahead of round #10 of the Missouri Hare Scrambles Championship (MHSC), trail boss Gary Mittleberg invited me and others to break in trail on the large Northeast Missouri property hosting the race. Motorcycles rarely touched those woods, and Gary needed help burning in the course.
Naturally I jumped at the opportunity. As one of the few MHSC venues in the north half of the state, Newark offered few rocks and the best dirt in all of Missouri. I loved this place in 2002 and was now offered it twice in two weeks. On a warm Saturday I brought my backup ride, a KTM 300MXC, and followed Gary’s teenage son Cameron through a course roughed out with red ribbons tied to tree branches. Cameron, rapidly rising through the MHSC ranks, dutifully sacrificed his bike and body leading our group and clearing out a host of hidden obstacles. Later, after we all took a couple turns fumbling through dead leaves and underbrush, the Mittleberg’s would finalize the route with arrows stapled to trees and yellow caution tape to keep riders away from trouble spots.
Gary had marked out a 15-mile loop, almost all new singletrack, and I wondered how this would ever develop into a race course. If the Mittleberg’s had ever explored the place on dirt bikes, their tracks were covered up better than a fake moon landing. Around 11 miles into the loop, I found a hidden obstacle Cameron hadn’t already crashed into. It seemed a harmless log lying parallel to the trail. But at the exact instant I upshifted into second gear, the end of my left boot met a broken-off branch pointing out of the log. The boot took hold of the branch and my foot peg smashed from behind and everything came to a stop. I peered down to see what had caused such a sharp sting and found my boot wedged between the branch and the foot peg. When the pain didn't go away and I couldn't put much pressure on my foot, memories of my Michigan solo ride in 1995 came to mind. Did I really want to know what I’d see when I pulled off the boot?
Gary sent me back to my truck on a shortcut through Joust Hill, so named for a tree branch along the steep climb that once separated a rider from his bike. The next day an X-ray confirmed what I already suspected: One broken toe. For such a small bone, it sure did hurt. Over the next two weeks the pain gradually subsided and I passed a final test the night before the race: I could shove my foot into the boot and shift gears. Therefore, I would race.
Nestled in the rolling hills of Knox County, the town of Newark is no more than a speed bump on Highway 156, making the rural land ideal for a day in the dirt. With Matt Sellers riding shotgun, we arrived to a gorgeous day at the Miller farm and pulled in beside former Open B classmate Marty Smith. He immediately pointed toward my truck’s rear tire, flat as my dad’s crewcut in 1963. Marty came prepared with a floor jack for the tire change and an extra Camelbak for Matt, who’d left his at home. Little did I know, whatever the truck ran over had punctured not one, but three tires. Later that week, after several long days of planes, hotels, rental cars and fancy finance talk, I found both tires on the right side completely flat. Somehow, of the hundred or so vehicles parked in the pasture, only my little red GMC Sonoma found the exact location of the sharp object(s) hidden in the grass.
With Marty fixing us up, Matt and I registered for the race and headed into the woods for a practice lap. Gary Mittleberg had shortened the course to a more manageable 10.5 miles, deleting a section or two and eliminating hills which may have created bottlenecks. Adam Ashcroft and Carl Dobson began their practice lap at the same time and we took turns leading and losing sight of arrows. Two weeks ago the break-in crew did its best to open the trail, and even with a well-arrowed course, we struggled to find the flow of the place.
Out on the starting line, all the regulars in A Sportsman showed up to enjoy the Newark dirt. Once again I brought my B-game to the A class and, as usual, lagged behind at the start. Always searching for excuses, I blamed it on the guy holding the starting board. The start of every MHSC race comes with both a man (never a woman) and an 18-inch square piece of plywood held high in the distance, well in front of the riders. The board is shined up with a coat of paint and carved out with a hand grip. The front is printed with “30” to indicate that many seconds remaining before riders must fire their engines and sprint toward the trees. Sometimes the sponsoring club splurges for a fancier plastic version, similar to those seen at motocross events for mechanics to message their riders during the race with notes of encouragement (“You’re not last!”) or warning (“Go faster, Jeff Emig is hitting on your girlfriend!”). The typical hare scramble starting board also is printed with the number “15” at a 90-degree angle to the “30”. The holder of the board first displays “30” in an upright position, then a quarter-minute later tilts the board to show “15”, and finally releases his grip to signal the start.
Today, the starting board man violated standard protocol. He failed to tilt the board. I waited for it…and waited more, scrutinizing his every movement for the telltale arm twist which shifted the board 90 degrees. It never happened. His only motion was dropping the board to the ground as it continued to read “30”. I wasn’t prepared.
Near the back of the pack, Elston Moore and Todd Corwin joined me in tight formation. The practice lap had turned the course into one smooth, curvy line, simple to follow with a little guidance from arrows. Passing Todd and Elston, on the other hand, was less straightforward. Steady underbrush concealed the openings we’d otherwise have seen clearly in the more open, rocky hills and hollers south of Interstate 70. But that didn’t keep any of us from trying. We swapped positions frequently, each eyeing minor shortcuts around trees and pouring on the gas to scale hills. The smallest of errors shuffled our order. This was the glorious chaos of the first lap of a hare scramble inside Midwestern woodlands, and I loved it.
At Joust Hill, I spotted up for a quick burst to the top and grabbed a handful of throttle. All went fine until I veered left at the top, a little sooner than the arrows suggested. There lay an unpleasant log, setting me back a few positions while I struggled to convince my Kawasaki KX250 there was no other way but up and over. I checked in 6th at the scoring trailer.
Minutes later, Elston and Todd continued their cat-and-mouse game as I approached from behind. Darting in and out of view, Todd’s orange KTM contrasted with Elston’s blue Yamaha within a wave of green foliage. I closed the gap and focused on the Yamaha’s rear fender, not realizing we’d veered off course. We both missed arrows pointing down into a small creek, where we were to ride through the center for about 200 feet, then exit to higher ground. I’d missed the same turn on the first lap but spotted Todd ahead, just as he popped up out of the creek. Now with Elston leading, we both realized our mistake. He backtracked to the creek while I continued forward, already knowing I didn’t need to turn back. My path would take me to the spot where Todd had exited the creek on the previous lap, and I rejoined the trail there while Elston stuck to the intended route. I’d be stretching the truth to convince anyone I kept within 20 feet of the arrows, but Elston wasn’t one to take offense. Tough as nails, he seemed more inclined to respect my Junior Johnson racing philosophy, where a little cheating just means you care enough to try. And now we both knew a little shortcut.
I pushed ahead toward Todd, who’d pulled away and disappeared in the trees. With no other riders in front, I breathed clean air and threw the KX250 into every loamy berm. For half a minute the course felt more like an enduro, where riders are spread evenly at the start and racing without traffic is common. Then Steve Dean appeared, a reminder that today was not an enduro day. I made a quick pass and then charged forward, hoping to find Todd.
A quick glance across a gassy open area revealed Todd’s KTM in the distance, vanishing again into the woods. Slowly I narrowed the gap and closed in near a steep, slick downhill. At the bottom, I braked late and pushed Todd wide where the trail curved sharply to the left. He remained a bike length behind for another mile and then beat me to a sweeping turn, taking the lead again.
Two minutes later, we dropped down into a ravine and followed the bottom for a hundred yards. I took a higher line and passed Todd again. His KTM’s engine growled from behind, never more than a few feet beyond my rear tire. As we approached an opening in the trees, I prepared for a drag race across a pasture. Todd’s four stroke thumper came with more straight-line speed than my KX250, and I feared he would blast by me. Somehow the green machine found enough velocity to fend him off before we darted back into the woods.
At the scoring trailer I checked in 3rd, then flailed through the grass track near the staging area. Todd and Elston both passed by in about the first 100 yards. Always the bane of my racing existence, those short tracks have cost me more places than Team Festina at the Tour de France. I kept both riders in sight and passed Todd in the woods, only to be passed back at the bottom of the same ravine where I’d squeezed by on the previous lap (this time he took my high line: I followed the low route). We’d traded positions so often, I could almost smell what he ate for lunch.
Once Todd moved ahead in the ravine, my stamina shrank like wet corn in a dryer bin. For two weeks my heart rate had reached its peak exactly zero times. Other than light calisthenics in front of Desperate Housewives on ABC, me and the couch got to know each other a little too well. I couldn’t match the pace of Todd and Elston, and both gradually pulled out of view.
By the fourth lap, outside of a few bumps and foot plants, my toe wasn’t much of a bother, but my pace slowed considerably. I lost another minute or so waiting for a line to clear on a hillside where a rider lost momentum and struggled to finish the climb. Another rider waited his turn at the bottom, and I suggested he try a different line on the right. Like a fool, he took my advice and failed. And then, like a bigger fool, I tried to show him how it should have been done. I made it three feet further up the hill before losing traction and falling over. I picked up the bike and coasted to the bottom, just as the first guy finished his climb and cleared out the line.
Elston and Todd gapped me by a couple minutes in the final lap as my energy level faded. Fifth place was all I could muster. Slade Morlang continued his charge toward the A Sportsman series championship by winning our class and finishing 9th overall. In the Pro class, Steve Leivan clinched a remarkable 12th MHSC championship with the overall win.
