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CRUTCHER'S CORNER

Return To The Tiddler | Chapter Two: Spring Creek

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INSTAGRAM | @rippinruts

Jeff Crutcher is one of a kind. Although we grew up a few hundred miles apart, rode all of the same Midwest tracks, and know most of the same people, our paths didn’t cross until 2015. In the time since Crutcher has become one of my closest friends, has come up with dozens of creative ways to profit off his passion for moto, raced multiple rounds of the Lucas Oil Pro Motocross Championship aboard a KTM 250 SX two-stroke, works a full-time job as a delivery driver, and wrote a now-gone blog for TransWorld Motocross. Because the basis of Swapmoto Live is something for everyone, Jeff is a perfect person to contribute to the site from time to time. 

Expect more of Crutcher’s work in the next few weeks, because as you’ll read below, he’s taking a swing at the Spring Creek and Washougal rounds of the Lucas Oil Pro Motocross Championship on his KTM 125 SX. You can support his efforts with some of the merchandise he’s made with MUF.

In the middle of Big Sky country along US-212 it hit me. The same way a brick crashes through a window of a convenience store during a gang initiation petty robbery of twinkies, I exploded into the conclusion it’s not about the results sheet with your name on it in whatever place. In comparison: the brick is the tool, the initiation is the motive, the twinkies the proof versus; the bike is the tool, the escape is the motive, the memories are the proof.

On Saturday after a double dosage of water which would challenge Noah’s Arc the Spring Creek facility became Raging Creek. A massive storm the shape of a country mart beef jerky careened west to east over the valley-laden southern Minnesota countryside delivering two waves of rain blankets without concern for my plans to jam out blistering laps in session one of group 250 B. For weeks I’ve been planning, no make that months of mental visualization about how fast I was going to go. But just as it was for every other Schmoe in my group it was not meant to be, as Zeus himself took pride in unleashing his best work in the early morning creating a grease on slime condition.

I wasn’t close. I am not a mud rider. I didn’t have proper jetting. I blew it on bike setup. 20 minutes after the single session of qualifying was over, I didn’t care about not getting exactly what I wanted, my street clothes were on and my mind ready to watch the top 40 like a Blackwater 100 Mud Flea.

Being a spectator at a muddy outdoor motocross national is one of the most rugged, exciting, and exotic ways to be a bystander of a sporting event. Airhorns aplenty, beer flowing like water, family memories being created by the second, soup in your socks, and a cavalier attitude about points chases arises as one prepares to watch absolute survival conquest of man over obstacle. It’s a fascinating anomaly that seems to happen at least once in a season and is honestly a true treat to be on hand for an eyewitness account.

Because Saturday was a (literal) wash for me, I stayed with my Bubba Burger teammates of racer Brent and mechanic Dane Rouse to compete in the Spring Creek day after the national amateur day race. Brent and Dane flip roles from Saturday to Sunday making for an equal fun time between the two brothers. There were no A riders on 250cc machines Sunday so I signed up for two fun time classes of +30 A and 125cc two-stroke open. +30 was a 3-2 moto score for 2nd overall, and coming from behind on a track heavy with uphills in both motos against all 450cc machines was an accomplishment. The 125cc class was hilarious in the fact that when I was on the gate, lined up and ready to flex my BDE, there were baby faced teenagers, former pro’s, and everyone in between fully prepared to die on their hill of being top 125 dog. My moto scores were 1-1 and my championship plate awarded through the signup window had me grinning ear to ear. Validated once again with the big number 1.

After packing up the team rig, Brent manned the wheel and brought us to South Dakota Sunday night. Monday morning I woke up in the van, my girlfriend next to me on the Sprinter futon, rolling cargo door cracked open with crisp Badland air chilling at the skin. We all stumbled into the Love’s which we parked behind and shared covfefe strategy on which truck stop blend produced the best long distance release of energy required for high mileage interstate crosses. The four of us gathered up back at the rig and hatched a team meeting: we have to do as much tourist shit as possible in one day.

Motocross has become extremely professionalized, and in the same mouth, one has to chew that fact is the flavor of sterility. Contracts are drawn, riders are signed to manufacturers around puberty, then shipped off to XYZ-TF for years of development at some remote location only to be seen in an insulated environment of the big 6 amateur nationals peppered throughout a calendar year. Eventually, these racers hit the big stage in major city sports domes through the winter and find themselves jumping on a plane toward the next round of outdoor nationals.

Gone with that are the road trips pouring with character-building from being stuck in a sweaty van with a grip of other borderline delusional adrenaline addicts. This is where the experience seasons an individual to a well-rounded man of adventure, penny-pinching, navigation, and overcomes the unknown of what and who exactly is at the next pit stop. It’s a treat to be able to truly say that my passion is not lost in the midst of expectation and results. I get to go to Mt. Rushmore, not watch my practice mechanic throw wrenches. I get to ride down an Alpine Coaster in South Dakota, not stand in line at the Hertz kiosk. I am seeing the beautiful nation that the United States is, not just fly over it on the way to work.

There are a group of people all over the country just like me and my friends in this red white and blue Freightliner vessel that I’m in right now. We are called privateers. It’s a license that most would trade for a factory ride, in all honesty. But for me it’s an opportunity to escape the working world and have an excuse to live a life that I’ll be proud of when I’m reflecting on during my golden years, rich in endless travel memories beyond airport carousels breaking down and obligatory repeat dinner at Outback after a Saturday race performance.

Yes they are the badasses of the sport, the factory riders. I know a few of them will read this while flying over the top of me. But honestly, they can have their jets- I’m down here having the low budget time of my life with my back marker brethren.

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Michael Antonovich

Michael Antonovich has a wealth of experience with over 10 years of moto-journalism under his belt. A lifelong racing enthusiast and rider, Anton is the Editor of Swapmoto Live and lives to be at the race track.

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