Working Class Privateer | Complete Series

July 17, 2019

Last year my close friend Jeff Crutcher made an attempt to race a handful of rounds of the Lucas Oil Pro Motocross Championship. Jeff’s a great guy and his outlook on the sport is far different than the others he joined on the starting line, as he’s a full-time delivery driver for FedEx with no ambitions to be the next hero of the sport. The rush that comes from riding is what motivates Crutcher and it doesn’t hurt that he has pro-level talent. That, plus a witty writing style made his “Working Class Privateer” op-ed series a welcome addition to the old site. Over the course of five articles, Crutcher gave everyone a glimpse at what happened on race weekends, from the action on the track to the experience of having his dad hold the pit board at RedBud to mix-ups with officials on his KTM 250 SX two-stroke. With Crutcher set to race Spring Creek and Washougal on a KTM 125 SX in the 250 class, I figured now was a good time to grab the old write-ups and archive them on the new site.

I could write a few hundred words on Jeff, but it’s better if you form an opinion from his work. Like what you read? Check out the two works from his new series, “Still Smokin,'” and come back for future installments that will cover his two-race summer vacation…

PART ONE | THE BEGINNING

As a summary, 2018 started practically junk in the context of training for a string of outdoor nationals. The Kansas City area is essentially offline during the winter months given our oftentimes brutal cold winters, which can frequently be dry, antropic lifeless days strung together. Typically riding can resume on a very lucky February day just as we had on the 5th of that month. The high was forecast the low 40s, which is February riding weather- and an overzealous me forgot one small detail to prepare for this day. If you’ve never ridden a two-stroke you’d not know best practice of running a fatter main on cold, lean (air pressure is high on cold days causing the bike to burn more air after it’s sucked in and mixed with fuel through the carburetor) day will yield optimal power. Apparently, I didn’t know that either. After maybe 10 minutes on the only sandy track in our locale, I roasted my top end by running my bike way too lean. I just… I just screwed up and didn’t think about my jetting on the cold, lean day because my brain was checked out on getting to ride for the first time since Thanksgiving weekend.

I am a Wiseco sponsored rider and I firmly believe they are the leader in aftermarket top end product. However, upon my initial diagnosis after tearing down my engine it seemed to be a rare part failure of a wrist pin needle bearing letting go mid-moto, and it playing Mexican jumping bean inside the newly dubbed El Cilindro club that I was unbeknownst as the formal host of the party. I packaged up my cylinder, head, and broken piston parts and overnighted them to Ohio where Wiseco calls HQ. This is where the real dance began. Someone in the shipping department mislabeled my RMA number, tagged it incorrectly, and shelved it in the wrong location. At this point, my parts were wearing an invisibility cloak inside their warehouse. All of this information came to me later on when they diagnosed my problem but we will get to that later. Time to crank the music up: the man in charge of my RMA was on vacation… for a couple weeks. I thought to myself, “Okay it’s February, the temperatures are sub-freezing, I can afford a few weeks.” Two weeks pass and I phone in again, he’s back but swamped. Let’s jump forward a few more weeks when it’s discovered my parts were hiding in a home of dust bunnies, and within half an hour Wiseco engineers perform the metal hardness test and conclude I burned the piston and the ring hung on the exhaust port causing the wrist pin to stretch open the bearing housing. No worries mate. Forward that shit to Millennium an hour north and gitt’erdun.

A fun tidbit: the day my cylinder arrived for repair at the Millennium factory it was accompanied by 700 other cylinders. Wow. Had I been a cheater, my cylinder would’ve not needed replating- just a quick bore to 285cc’s and back in action. I didn’t know I was being a martyr by choosing to stick with the OEM bore, as the replating department was four weeks behind at Millennium. At this point, it would be 10 weeks before my engine was back together. I knew I needed a stock bore fire breather, so I stayed the course. In the meantime, I was riding again but now on my friend Nick Peterson’s 16 RMZ 450 that was completely stock with 140 hours on it. Majority of the riding (and by majority I mean all) on the mint condition RMZ was woods riding in our only open to the public area just west of me in Topeka, Kansas.

My engine came back to me ready to be ripped on. In what was the coldest April on record, the only consistent place to ride was still Oakland Park in Topeka. Back into the woods I went. Pro tip: if you ever want to be motivated to ride 30-minute motos just connect with a local pro woods racer like I did with Harrison Helmick, who is a very talented XC2 GNCC racer. Harrison obliterated me any time we rode in the woods, and would often lie to me about how long we were riding as he held he time on his heart rate monitor. An inspiring guy to ride with. Having someone who was used to racing for a few hours at a time, be the lead for a 30 plus two as your go-to man for solid motos is a great friend to have. Always connect with your local woods guy.

The weather began to warm, I began to ride moto again. At the end of April, my longtime bro of bros Scott Gebken and I hit the pavement for a two day riding weekend in Texas. We didn’t exactly have a plan until we got on the road Friday night, barreling down I 35 and discussing all factors life, moto, the teenage years, and occasional ideas on where to ride the next two days. Through much searching on Instagram and discourse, we had decided to sleep in the van Friday night in north Texas and ride Oak Hill on Saturday. Upon arrival, we were greeted with an absolutely National caliber prep, of which the new ownership team was very proud to display for us and the 5 other souls who came in the gate that day. Of course, Scott and I couldn’t believe our eyes all day with such a phenomenal prep job and such few riders. “If this was in Kansas City we would have 600 entries!” was said in about 10 different ways between motos.

I want to touch on an app called LapKing right now. The moniker for their platform is claimed “the home of social racing”. Imagine a bare-bones LitPro app for your phone but with Mad Skills MX game-like leaderboards and lap time charts. Half of the team creating the app is an old schoolboy rival of mine, Vince Monteleone. Vince was on hand and we started banging out harrrrrd laps between the three of us. All pro riders, jockeying to see who had the quickest time. I ended up walking away with the top spot, but as the day went on we started filming. Vince found himself in a corner with the camera that I was particularly fast in, and just as he pushed record I ended my day with a hard slam into a dirt wall. As I crawl back to my bike, doing the post crash check list of “Does this work? Check. Can I lift my arm? Nominal. Is my wrist broken? Can’t decide.” I regain my composure, pick my bike up, start to examine and see my exhaust is mangled against the frame of my KTM. Remember that cylinder I paid top dollar to have rebuilt, causing me two months of non-ride time? The impact of aforementioned dirt wall caused the flange which connects to the cylinder to bust off. I felt like I dropped and shattered grandmothers heirloom china. Disappointment of all the money, all the time, the satisfaction of having such a firey engine that will rip me every holeshot I can desire being cracked into pieces came over me with a deep sinking feeling. Here I was, riding all time best at all time comfort and a rut gives out on me sending me down into the dumps.

At this point, I’m thinking “I can’t afford another new cylinder, and it will be a stock bike again. I’m fucked.” My whole plan of doing the initial Southwick and Millville run was shot. There was, as with all complex situations, a stipulation toward receiving my pro license. I had to race twice, and one had to be a pro-am.

Let me elaborate: The last pro national I did was in 2009. In 2017, I didn’t have any aspirations of racing any professional races so collecting my points again to renew my license was not on my radar. It wasn’t until late January of this year when I was looking into the future and planning on doing these races, forecasting what I was going to do with myself that I decided I’m mentally ready and more financially fit than ever.

I started the approval process for my card again in February, the same week I melted my piston. When I spoke with the AMA they diverted me to MX Sports Race Director Jeff Canfield. After a few quick discussions of my plans, he instructed how to go about getting my card again with insufficient pro-am points: the discretionary approval process. He outlined that I needed to get on the gate a minimum two separate events this year before he would approve me as an eligible racer at any MX Sports promoted events. Given that I’ve held my card for many years in the past and my references, thats what he saw fit.

I was pushing my bike back to the van at Oak Hill, thinking of all the time money and worry invested into being where I’m at right now with a jacked wrist, my “good” shoulder feeling like I got shot with a nail gun, and a broken cylinder. My plan to race the next weekend at round two of the Missouri State series was G.O.N.E. Pro card approval- toast. Vacation time that I strategically put in front of races, wasted. All the 50-60 hour work weeks and saving every dime of overtime I could to pay for the traveling to come, spent. Longest push back to the van ever.

After loading the bike and texting Nick Peterson about what happened, he informed me KTM build the exhaust flange off the cylinder as a bolt on part. I’m sitting passenger seat as Scott drives us out of the Oak Hill facility, feeling that really murky grey area in disbelief as you’re double checking the numbers on your lottery ticket. I pull up the parts fische and HOLY SHIT!!! Rejoice!!! Can you imagine how high I felt when I realized my broken cylinder was actually only a $90 replacement part? It was worth that agonizing push back to the van to remember all the things I had invested into this year.

Without flexing my results too much, I’ll just note that my performances at the Missouri State race and the Pro-Am in Iowa at Riverside were enough to satisfy Canfield and he gave the green light for his office to approve the pro racing license. In the same weekend that his penstroke checked the approved column, Gebken and I had a big moto camp scheduled in Wichita at Bar2Bar to further finance the racing program. At this time, I added in Muddy Creek to be my first pro race in 9 years given that it’s practically on the way to Southwick. The mega camp was a huge success, and on the third and final day in the last hour of the event was a scheduled “coach’s ride” where myself, Scott, and our third coach Brad DePrenger were riding with our students as a fun tip of the cap to their efforts and a neat play to ride with mini bikers and novices. It’s almost as if 2018 has turned around and things were now at a steady bar. I was riding exceptionally. My body was feeling great. My bike was dialed. The rollercoaster was gone and my program was locked in for Muddy Creek.

I was doing laps with a little 65 rider who was sending all the doubles on the track. I’m following him, adding a little pressure from all angles to see if he holds technique under fire. This is the end of the weekend and I’m shot from three eight-hour days lugging around my gear and giving instruction. 2018 luck wasn’t through with me yet. I routinely landed off a small double and a SHARP pain sent up my left asscheek and locked up my lower back. I pulled off the track and leaned up against a fence and fell off my bike. “What in the actual fuck?” I’m yelling as I’m pounding the sand. The strain loosens a little, and I begin to do a little track side yoga in full moto gear. The three days in boots caught up to me. I was smoked. Scott and Brad loaded up my bike and packed up my gear as I sat in the cab of my Dodge, sweating my balls off with a broken A/C (I’ll replace it after the Nationals was my plan). My left ass cheek and lower back is locked and on fire.

When I get home, I try to stretch to no avail. I call into work and tell my manager unless he wants me to deliver packages at the speed of baby’s crawl, I’m not coming in. It’s Memorial Monday, so I schedule a visit with the local sports chiro on Tuesday. She gives me the Jazz about my back being out of line- which I already knew. I’m a damn motocross racer lady, just diagnose my ass cheek! Through a series of stretches and some trial and error, she diagnoses me with a strained piriformis. It’s a small beef jerky size span of muscle that conveniently wraps around the sciatic nerve in the pelvis. She claims I should be off the bike at least 4 weeks. I have a week I can spare to go full yogi and stretch this shit back into place, but I need to be back on the bike at least ONCE before we leave for Tennessee. The days are long when I’m doing nothing but research on how to rehab a pulled piriformis, and listening to this hippie YouTuber named Adrian whom has the number one yoga vids. She guides me back into alignment and my chakra has never been more centered. Also my butt and back came back to me, and back to work I went after a week of this woo woo nonsense. Side note, I am a regular stretcher. Now I am a 4 times a day heavy duty stretching machine.

As I write this, I’ve ridden once (last Saturday, same day as High Point) since Memorial Day. For a whole week, I was hands and knees crawling around my house, two weeks ago. The bike is together. The air filters are prepped. It’s 10am and I’m suiting up to head to work for my 12 to 8:30pm shift tonight. I have a vacation day off tomorrow, Wednesday, to load all of my things up into my truck and shuttle them over to Nick Peterson’s house in the morning. Some more last minute details of new Mika brake pads, wheel bearings, and Pirelli’s will be performed at his house in the for-hire race shop. Thursday is a 12 hour shift at FedEx (I am what’s called a swing driver, so my schedule consists of filling in for guys on vacation- hence the varying work times) on the KU campus as Peterson skips town to follow the mishmash of interstates to East Tennessee.

On Friday, as Nick is in Tennessee setting up the pit, installing my hats off device, taking our bikes through Tech Inspection, I’ll be at FedEx delivering packages somewhere in west Lenexa, Kansas. I’m very, very low in seniority at our local station so I’m more likely to be struck by lightning underwater in December than getting a summer Friday off. My shift ends at 3pm, and my flight leaves MCI at 5:30pm with a layover in Atlanta. I’ll be landing in Tennessee at 11pm local time, with my best friend Keith picking me up from the Tri Cities airport. I’m hoping for 6 hours of sleep, a fresh coffee when I pick up my credential at 7am, finding my rent-a-mechanic who’s driving in from VA Beach, and I’ll be ready to make some memories which will last a lifetime come green flag of 450 group B practice 1.

PART TWO | MUDDY CREEK

While you’re reading this, I want you to log into youtube/Spotify/etc and pull up the following song: Migraine by Corrosion of Conformity. You may not have known who this song is by, and perhaps you can’t place where it comes from- or you might have known where I was going with this before you finished reading the “Migra.”

In 1995 John Fox and company filmed and released the sequel to Terrafima, arguably THE video which started the moto-video revolution. Many had come before T1 and all were quality flicks, but T1 set the bar for production/quality/soundtrack. Depending on age or personal preference a person may make a point of the Crustyseries being the pinnacle moto film, and I probably couldn’t argue my way out of which series was the King of Kings. However, the release I am speaking of is Terrafirma 2.

My first motorcycle was a 1995 KTM 50sx. My first set of gear came from Ocelot. You bet your top dollar my first helmet was fully fashioned with a neon pink Troy Lee visor with a matching neon-rainbow checkered flag sticker kit also from TLD. I was buried so deep in the prime of 90s moto at such a young age that the soundtrack of Terrafirma 2, even at the ripe age of 8, was permanently etched into my proverbial MX DNA. It was my plastic housed, iron oxide coated bible that came in a glossed paper case with none other than the man I wished ruled the world: Showtime. I couldn’t watch the video enough. To this day, if you bring up Mike Metzger or the Junkyard Dog- I flash Pennywise in my head. Ezra Lusk: Sprung Monkey. Name a rider in Fox gear from the 90s and I’ll drop the name of the band they were affixed to in eternal video form.

But there are two songs, and two features from this film that are the loudest and most important to me.

1. Corrosion of Conformity – My Grain.

This was the perfect and I mean biblically divine PERFECT choice song to attach with hardcore outdoor motocross action from the 1995 outdoor national series. This 3 minute and some odd segment dipped me in wax like a bottle of Makers and sealed my mind on one thing: someday I would be a pro motocross racer.

2. CoC (again, shocker) – Albatross.

Cue the zoomed in facials of John Dowd and Robbie Reynard. Shots of snare ripple from the stereo over the top of a crunchy, dirty, downright grunge riff. Frames change with the crack of each beat. Reynard’s head flips to the right and his eyes survey the course like a wild tiger catching the scent of prey, shielded by his very 1995 neon orange Scott goggles. A montage of the Motocross 338 property reveals itself, and the song builds through one of the best drum fills known to man. Evergreen trees and painted yellow car tires splotch the nor’eastern countryside, and BOOM in comes the bionic kid dragging bar in a leftie sand berm. My heart is racing right now just thinking about it.

At this moment I sit in a Howard Johnson hotel lobby, a fairly fancy joint for a couple privateers (thanks to the Priceline negotiator), with a finished complimentary waffle and my second cup of coffee. I haven’t slept more than 5 hours a night since Friday. My hands are blistered, right hamstring tight, left piriformis still nagging, forearms like overcooked spaghetti. I’m reflecting on my performances on both Saturday and Sunday at Muddy Creek. There were some glitches in the program that definitely hosed me out of a better pick in the LCQ- but you can either dwell or move on and I chose the latter. My qualifying time in session 1 was dismal at best. Halfway into lap one, I hit a rut in a downhill right-hander that led into uphill rollers. As my forks bottomed the thought of “I am so unprepared for this” flashed across my inner dialogue, but I laughed it off and pinned it up the staircase. I did not set the Tennessee dirt on fire. I did, however, have an absolute blast.

In qualifying session two I ripped off the line and was prepared for a heater. I clicked off the bomber and barely made it on a wing, a prayer, and every bit of juice my 14-51 Mika’s could summon my MX32 to deliver. Banged through ruts like a mad dog on a suicide mission. Kamikaze with no regard for limb, life, or the well being of the other riders on the course. It felt as if I was shaving seconds off my Q1 time like Greek lamb meat. I crossed the line, deadbeat and out of wind with a couple other laps left in me which I sporadically clicked off through the remaining 13 minutes of qualifying.

After the session was over, I picked up my mechanic and headed back to the pits. As soon as I dismount an MX Sports official rides up behind me into our Missouri State Riders Union vanpool. Silently, he eyeballs my motorcycle. I inquired what he was up to and if he was just a two-stroke fan, as he inspected my bike with a very prejudicial eye. “This is not a Yamaha” he stated. In agreeance, obviously, I asked if there was a problem. “There’s no problem. Yamaha is illegal and this is a KTM”. He awkwardly rode off and a friend of mine who is the social media guru for Supercross Live- Shane Doyle- informed me they disqualified me from timing because I was on a Yamaha.

I’m thinking about my first lap as I kiss it goodbye. Was it a qualifying time? No. But it was MY best time, gone, because of an obvious target against two strokes. We will never know who protested, but it was someone who was very well familiar with the homologation rules and that the Yamaha Corp did not pay the fine for the YZ250 to be legal in pro racing. Just the man keeping me down, but they didn’t know who was riding the 681 FedEx smoker. I would not be given back my time, and I would go into the LCQ with 37th gate pick from a shoddy 2:16 from Q1. On a deep uphill start, my 250sx was a pocket knife in an RPG fight. I had a snowball’s chance in hell for a good start, but that didn’t stop me from giving it the old college try in every section of the track. One of my fellow union-mates was a few spots ahead of me on lap 2 and as I was looking forward over a single and going for a tear off, the unwavering absolutism to beat Collin Fletchall filled me to my core. Nevermind I was in 30th. The repeating banners disappeared and the crowd washed away as the ONLY thing I could smell was the blood of number 142. Every race Collin and I go to, by hell or high water we end up battling to the checkers. In 3 laps we diced through the pack while having our own war for nothing, and after about 5 swaps for position, I came out the victor of our battle and charged on to pass Chance Blackburn in the very last corner. 24th was a victory, and like Ricky Johnson after taking a win in the LA Coliseum my left arm ripped off my bars and pumped invisible iron over the finish line tabletop in absolute cheer.

Reenter 1995 Jeff. He’s so proud of 2018 Jeff. This year I replicated my bike to be similar to my 1995 50sx, and have been blasting the Terrafirma 2 soundtrack regularly. Fast 40 or last in LCQ- any day at the Natties is unequivocally a win. I pulled off of the track with my face pelted from endless 450 roost, numberplate blacked out from the same bird-shot-like dirt clods. It had been 9 years since my last LCQ at Millville in 2009 aboard a KX 450 that made me hate motocross (never meshed with 450’s). Yet here I was at 29 with a career, 401k, pension, still completely addicted to motocross and coming back for more. I think I’m a lifer.

I woke up this morning thinking about 8 year old me, sitting in his parent’s basement watching RR22 and JYD shred the Southwick course. At 8, I knew one day I’d be there. It’s a very surreal and bizarre feeling knowing The Wick will have my signature upright and a gear high riding style carved into the sand berms that I drooled over countless times. I’m having an “oh my god I made it” moment. How I define making it does not include numbers on a sheet of paper representing moto finishes. If that was the case, I’d be going home with my tail tucked between my legs after getting my ass handed to me on Saturday followed by a raw spanking on Sunday- we stayed around to double down on a 200% payback for the Mega Series FMF Am Day event, where in 250 Pro Sport I went 6-6 for 5th of 20 VERY talented regional riders and a few stragglers from Saturday.

But that isn’t the point. I’m here for the same reason I started riding: FUN.

Nick, Sam and I are packing up and heading to the carwash for cleaning and bike prep, then pulling off in Baltimore to visit Washington DC for a photo in front of Don’s house and to pick up my girlfriend from the airport. From there it’s lunch in NYC on Tuesday, and northbound some more to New Hampshire for riding at Sandbox. Jake whom owns the facility has invited all pro-licensed riders to ride for free, so shoutout to him for giving our bracket a little help along the way.

PART THREE | SOUTHWICK

Combined together between Supercross and Motocross, 999 pro licenses can be held in a single year. 99 (or one-tenth) of those licensed riders are ranked in order from 1 to 99 based on the previous year’s top 99 points accumulators between indoor and outdoor racing. Of those 99 racers, perhaps 50 of them will enter each round of both SX and MX. Furthermore, 25 to 30 of this elite class will remain healthy, have sufficient funding, a canopy to pit under, etc. We’re down to- and I want to spell this out letter by letter to illustrate the picture I’m painting.. two point five percent of available numbers being represented at every round of professional dirt bike racing in the United States.

What does that make everyone else?

In what other professional sport can someone like myself potentially line up (directly) next to the points leader of the outdoor series because I could go fast for one single lap? It’s a stretch of the imagination, but for all intents and purposes and/or that funny line in your homeowners insurance policy written out as “an act of God”- it’s in the wheelhouse of possible. One lap. That’s all that is asked of me.

Perhaps on a good day I could transfer directly in. By a good day, it would probably take about 55 entries showing up and 30 of them being their first time riding a big bike. A slight exaggeration yes I know, but that’s certainly how I felt after riding my first session out on the famed Southwick course. My first qualifying time was somewhere around 20th in my group, and I was satisfied with that. “Room for improvement, I could probably drop a little here and a little there and bump up to around 15th in my group” I said to myself as I checked the scoreboard on my phone after session one. Wrong.

The course was twice as rough my second time out. I continuously kept making mistakes all the way around each lap and found myself counting my lucky stars after the checkers were thrown. At the pit, my team comprised of myself, Nick Peterson #400, Frank and Sam Craven, and my girlfriend Aubree shared “tactics” of how to overcome the conditions and laughs at how insanely large the bumps and chop had become. There is one way, and one way only to train for Southwick: go to Southwick.

Personally, I strongly believe the one day program is bullshit. Timed qualifying lends such a helping hand to the seeded 250(f) racers who have the track worked in for them by 250(f) group B and a majority prepped track for the 450 group A racers to enjoy and lay our industry loved terminology for quick laps: heaters. When I first started racing outdoor nationals in 2005 I had to race my way into the Sunday program, and on Sunday morning race some more to qualify for the fast 40. This was absolutely the most fair way to select whom will be lining up for the final 2 main event motos in each respective displacement category.

However…

MXSports and its sanctioning body the AMA have absolutely zero obligation to cater to racers like me. Notice I didn’t say “athletes like me”, that’s because in the spectrum of red plate holder Eli Tomac all the way back to the guys who didn’t qualify into the 450 LCQ- by comparison, I am not an athlete. The riders in my category are hobbyists. Even some of the riders who make the final 40 are just that. We have good looking bikes, the lanyard that reads “PRO RIDER” in bold lettering, sublimated team shirts to thank our sponsors, and respect given to us by fans regardless of finish position just like the top dogs. What I DO NOT have is the talent to qualify myself as a professional athlete. I am a participant in the biggest little sport in the world.

Quite morose sounding. I view it the opposite. It’s my one way ticket out of normalcy that will make for quality campsite stories in my golden years. MXSports gave me my license for $350 and a few results proving I’m capable. Imagine calling the MLB and asking to speak with their director of operations to tell he/she how good you are at fielding a ball and swinging a bat. “I have a small resume and a couple videos of me taking hacks in my yard. My high school coach will vouch for me” and huzzah you’re center field going around the horn in daytime warm-ups nestled between the likes of Golden Glovers similar to Alex Gordon and Mike Trout.

It’s quite odd that the premier class seems to be holding the majority of secondhand group of riders. Let’s be honest with ourselves- not one person in the paddock believes that a 250 two stroke compares to a 450 four stroke. We all know the story of the development rules being adjusted for the minority and taken advantage of so egregiously by the OEM’s with such haste and great prejudice against the commonwealth of the market’s best interest in the name of technology advancement. Hence why someone like myself who is entry list fodder is required by regulation to race the premier class, because I purchased the motorcycle that suits my riding style best. This isn’t the best pound for pound analogy, but I’ll use it anyway: there are far less major league players than there are men on triple, double, and single-A clubs. To develop and refine talent in our equivalent to the majors simply based on the cost of competitive equipment has bad policy written all over it.

The hobbyist professional is essential to motocross and supercross, and also the majority of entries at every round. I’m in a unique position because my expectations to perform on any level are practically nil. When I was on the starting gate for the LCQ at The Wick and the card turned sideways I thought to myself “wow my heart rate is way low”. When you take the pressure of performing to whatever standards you think you should live up to, the racing becomes a lot more fun. Sometimes I feel sorry for the guys who do this for a living, their probability of having a bad weekend is far higher than mine. I started 15th, and made a few passes to around 13th on the first lap. Being that close to the top ten in the LCQ was an accomplishment. I dropped back a few spots by way of very novice line selection on lap two, then set up to pass a dude on a Honda. In my 25 years of racing I’ve never taken a face-full of roost so hard as I did off this guys rear tire. It was beyond bird shot- more like ten desert eagles of sand from point-blank distance and it almost knocked me off the bike mid-air. The roost penetrated between my helmet and goggles and sealed off my helmets ventilation so within half a lap my goggles fogged up and my sight was gone. I dropped anchor and fell back to 24th at the checkers, exactly where I finished last weekend in Tennessee. For me, this was a good weekend and a major check off my bucket list.

After leaving the races in Southwick we stopped at a fueling station that had a full blown red bull display featuring both Ken Roczen and Ryan Dungey. We grabbed our snacks while the boxvan was being filled up outside (thanks to the gentleman who stopped by and gave Nick and I $100 for fuel, he didn’t want to be named) and as I saw the good people of southern Massachusetts hurry around town going to the places they can be found- I caught myself thinking about how amazing the fans of our sport are while pouring over the fence lines to cheer on the locals and privateers. It was a humbling thought considering that just 5 miles away the largest motorcycle race in North America was abuzz and the average American was completely clueless to what was happening in our world. We have our problems, our politics, our arguments. The privateers will always feel shafted, and the factory riders hanging on by the skin of their teeth. The fans will come to the track and scream until they’re hoarse, air horns will be emptied, beer will be spilled, sunburns will be aplenty. This is a niche sport with all the territory it commands. I’m god damned blessed to be a sliver of it for 45 minutes a weekend.

Side note: thanks to Jake at Sandbox and his local riders, every fan that came by and talked to Nick and I
while buried in the wooded part of the pits, Frank Craven for the loaned boxvan and hospitality, MXSports for not exiling me and my critical analysis, GuyB for allowing the outbound links, TWMX, Cameron McAdoo, Chris Zieber, my sponsors, and readers like you. See you at Red Bud, bring La Croix.

PART FOUR | REDBUD

I got a text message from a number I didn’t have saved in my phone the weekend of High Point. The gist of the conversation went: Hey Crutcher are you doing Red Bud? No, I’m not. Well, you should because it’s sick to have old and fast hardcore guys out there still doing it! (I still didn’t know who this was, which is a little game I like to play called “figure it out”) Jokingly I suggested, “Okay then you pay for it”. The number had a 712 area code, one I was familiar with but not 100% on what part of the Midwest. The response: Okay, I’ll pay for it at the track tomorrow. I was taken aback. “Okay okay, who is this?” I gave up on my game of guess who. “Cameron” the blue bubble read.

Sometime in the late winter clutches of 2014, my father and I headed south to Wichita to race a Loretta’s warm up at Bar2Bar. At the time, my plan was to bulldoze my way into The Ranch on old skill and new bikes. But that also meant I had to pull Excalibur out rusty and dull by lining up for some local gate drops. We nestled into the near-frozen parking lot betwixt a pair of vans whom also were getting preseason motos in, both admonished plates from our neighbors to the north- Nebraska and Missouri. Dad and I had put together a team effort like the old days, two bikes, a pickup and trailer, new gear, and a lofty target set on the homecoming class aka Junior +25. Sipping coffee and warming our hands in front of the space heater while getting suited we invited in our pit neighbors for some warmer air. Cameron McAdoo and his dad Joe, alongside them their buddy Danny Greiner came into my dad’s 6×12 Doolittle and we shared warm greetings with propane warmed air while gazing out onto the only sand track in the state.

That chilly day, Cameron, myself, and local veteran Craig Royse raced a barn-burning pace in 250 and 450, while just Craig and I battled in +25. Each of us clicked off various combos of first second and third place finishes. Through our battles on the track, Cam and I shared an admiration of “I used to be you (16 and fast)” and “I hope I’m your speed when I’m old (25)”. At the end of the day, we all exchanged phone numbers as Kansas City was the first major town south of McAdoo’s native Iowa. A bond through competition was born. Obviously, Cameron went on to land a spot on the elite Geico Honda team, Craig started a plumbing business, and I kept chugging along at FedEx.

I don’t care how large your salary is, paying $250 for someone else to race is a hell of a generous thing to do. Cameron and I exchanged some more texts and I asked why he wanted to pay for my entry? He explained how much he enjoyed me going for it again, and that I wasn’t asking for handouts because I keep a full-time job. In retrospect, I believe his original intention was to pay for my entry if I wasn’t going, so my joke of “if you pay for it” fell right into place. My old iPhone had been zapped to death by a cheap car charger, so that’s why I didn’t have Cam’s number in my phone when he text me about Red Bud. Boy am I glad he still had mine.

My dad aka Jerry C. got a ring from me about the matter, as he follows what McAdoo has been up to through his career. Before I called him I made plans with Gebken to haul my bike up north as I did not have that Friday off, so I knew I’d be flying in last minute once again. Scott tore himself up on the step down before the mechanic’s area at Muddy Creek, so an alternate plan was devised for The Big Show to once again drag my circus act around. My dad asks a LOT of questions any time I come to him with essentially anything, so I had to have a blueprint for him- something that’s very hard to do while essentially flying by the seat of my pants. These past three races have reinstated a sense of fluidity in me, something I at times have a difficult time accepting.

Jerry C. hadn’t been to Red Bud in nearly 40 years, his last appearance at the track n’ trail was also his best performance at an outdoor national way back when everything was uphill both ways. He was on board. Since his recent retirement from Power & Light, he’s developed a taste of luxury, but I’m still held accountable for something when big JC is paying. The rental car was my expense for the weekend, a hell of a bargain considering he offered to pay for airfare and hotel.

Friday afternoon I would get off my shift from FedEx at 3pm and heat my shoe en route to the airport just in time to snag a circle-lot parking spot and pass through security to meet my dad at the gate. I want to fully disclose something here: I didn’t pay my entry, I didn’t pay for my flight, the hotel was paid for, and someone else took my bike to the races. In our sport the end goal is to have another wallet than your own footing the bill. Factory for the weekend is how I’d sum it up.

My favorite part of the weekend was the car ride to the hotel just outside Buchannan from Chicago where we flew in. Jerry C and I discoursed and reminisced all the way back to his days as a pro, to me racing mini bikes around the country and the current state of the nation. My dad, like my grandfather, took the route of the workforce over education and through real-world experiences of a hundred lives they’ve passed the same work ethic on to me, and just like them, I see the world with a bullshit-detecting perceptive eye. Our midwestern style blue-collar approach to life is where I get my idea of what success is and is not. You’ve read me ramble on about how fun motocross is and how every waking moment of it should be appreciated, and the car ride with dad reminded me of why I feel so fortunate to be where I am: racing dirt bikes with the fastest in the world, a great life ahead of me, every memory I’ve ever made racing, a pension and 401k, and perceiving life as something worth doing. My lap times in timed qualifying were not fast enough for me to transfer directly in, but I ended up 52nd overall and 10th in my 450 group B. A crash on the first lap tore off my left shroud and it stuck out like a cactus in Minnesota over every jump. My times, however, were extremely validating, and the closest I’ve ever been to a qualifying time- something that gave me the feeling of “hey perhaps I do belong here as more than a two-stroke novelty”. Regardless of the racing, it was just the quality of father/son experiences as the old times on my white ’95 50sx racing out of the Aerostar and tri-rail trailer at Kingsville Saturday night.

Every weekend I’ve had strangers come up to me and tell me how much they love what I’m doing. Never this spring when calling MXSports about my license did I think I would have a contingent of working-class fans behind me. At times people will (and I want to make it clear I do not mean this in slander) fan-boy to me, which is a surreal feeling. When I watch the cream of the crop nailing corners with flawless technique, just like everyone else I’m blown away at the factory riders immortal skill atop their iron pony. I gallivant through the pits and stare at the gloss of every shiny new piece of equipment under a canopy. Although I’m there to compete, it’s still a blast to see the top dogs do things I could never do on a motorcycle. So when people come to me giving respect, it’s not because of my skill on the weekend, it’s that 7 to 7 grind I give during the week. These good men and women understand the sacrifices made to do this, and they fully “get it” how I’m a total nutjob for racing dirt bikes.

The most respect due are to the dads in motocross who brought us in, gave us the taste of the best sport. Thanks to my dad for teaching me the big picture at 16 when he gave me the keys to my own moto career by telling me I was 100% responsible for every aspect from that day on. It was a blessing in disguise, but at 29 and looking back I’m glad he did. Motocross is more than the competition, it’s a lifelong brotherhood you’ll make with the people you race against from all over the country. It’s an unbreakable bond between the friends/family who gave you moto, almost like a disease that controls every waking thought you have and guides every nuanced decision you make. It’s being blessed with a curse to always put motocross first.

Let the legend live on, keep family in motocross.

PART FIVE | SPRING CREEK

Prior to this year, I could never afford to do more than 2 nationals in a year. I always felt like somehow I was being shafted by MXSports or the AMA for everything being so expensive, at a time when vehicle fuel was teetering on $4 per gallon, being stuck in the back 40 parking lot when I did show up, and just cheated out of equipment/opportunity/you name it- I had a reason or justification for why I was never given a fair chance at becoming a professional moto racer. But therein lies the problem with my old outlook. Fair chances are not given, fair chances are earned. That’s a really hard concept for many riders and industry people to wrap their head around, because they have their head buried so far up their own ass they can’t see the light of day.

Before you write me off as some type of anti-privateer shill, there is nobody in the paddock with more love and admiration for the peasants on purchased equipment. I have a tremendous amount of respect for everyone who lines up at a pro national. Being completely honest though, our sport attracts riders and crew members who want to be the “star”. Henceforth it’s no surprise a lot of individuals feel like they are the have-nots simply because they are the ones still footing their own bill. I was that way for a long time and I can spot it from the other side of the course. But let me tell you, there is nothing more dignifying than paying for everything off the salary of your own hard work.

I don’t really care for Millville on pro day, or all together as a course. The last time I rode at Spring Creek was in 2009- the last pro national I competed in before Muddy Creek this year. Part of this disdain was a motivating factor to compete again, which was deeply rooted in how much I hated the Kawasaki 450 I raced on in 2009. Almost a decade surely changed my outlook on life from “I want everything to be given to me” to “I want everything to be earned by me”. I wanted to do better than I did in 2009, even if that had nothing to do with on track results but instead strictly attitude improvement. The course had to be overcome, and I had to do it on a bike I love.

Everyone has a regret or a “If only I would have done this one thing different”. It took me almost 10 years to realize how much a thorn in the side my last attempt at pro racing was to me. Obviously, I’m not getting any younger and with each calendar year I see that it would only get harder physically to be competitive. Oddly though, my mind and attitude gets stronger with more resolve as I mature, with that I recognized I had to right the wrongs (of which I mostly blanked out of my mind through sheer disappointment) that 20 year old Jeff made. Today as I sit here typing this, I feel 100 lbs lighter with almost a seasoning of De Ja Vu, as if I had wished for the opportunity to NOT feel the way I always have about my old shitty results and attitude in 09 so many times that this feels like it’s happened before. It’s a very rewarding feeling and I hope that whatever thing it is that bothers you from your past with a coulda/woulda/shoulda will some day be conquered and converted into an “I can, I will, I did.”

My weekend was vastly different from the previous three nationals, namely that I made a plan to drive up and pit out of my Dodge pick-up instead of pitting with The Big Show. However, as I have learned this year- the less you ask for the more you receive. Dane Rouse, big brother to 450MX racer Brent Rouse popped in my Instagram DM and unveiled to me his plan for the Bubba Burger team (consisting of Brent Rouse and Brandon Scharer) to field a 3rd rider at every event for the remainder of the season. They had picked me for Millville and extended the invitation to pit with fruits such as free Bubba Burgers, my own EZ Up, bike wash station, a prime parking location, cold drinking water, and Dane serving as lead mechanic for anything that might go wrong. This was quite different than roughing it in the cornfields out of my Dodge and a very attractive offer. I signed on the proverbial dotted line for my one day contract as an official rider on the Bubba Burger team roster.

Friday morning I loaded up at 4 am and went to work for a dreamy 5:30am to 5:30pm shift. My job for the day was loading 4 vans with packages and running a combined 100 deliveries and pick ups in downtown Lawrence, KS- home of University of Kansas. Back at the station I hit the locker room and refreshed for the 7.5 hour drive. I expected to make it a few hours north before needing a pit stop and perhaps a nap- but I hardly made it out of Kansas City before my watering eyes demanded I pull off and get some power sleep in. Admittedly, I am not the best at traveling, but that’s based off a scare I had about 10 years ago when I was on tour with a band as merch guy, and I was behind the wheel and fell asleep somewhere in Ohio. I woke up in the median without wrecking and made a promise to myself that if I ever get tired, take 30 minutes and get a reset in. I laid down across the front row of my single cab and set a timer for an hour, except I didn’t push the “start timer button”. About an hour and a half later, I wake up and the sun is dropping like a Mayfly in June. Not much of a speeder, but I needed to make some good time. I set the cruise at 80 on I35 north with the intent to pull off for the night somewhere in South Minnesota. Some coffee, a cheeseburger, a tank of “Iowa Clean Air” E88, and an episode of Joe Rogan fueled me to east of Albert Lea where I found a dark drop and switch lot around 12:30am. I was an hour and a half from the race track, so the timer was set (I double checked) for 4:45 and off to count sheep I went under my grandmother’s handmade quilt.

Saturday morning I woke up a tick before my alarm buzzed, and the crisp Minnesota air was ideal for windows down and hoodie up. I fired up some Yacht Rock radio on spotify after grabbing a hot cup of joe (shoutout to the guy at Pilot that comped my coffee- your sponsorship was greatly appreciated) with an ETA of 6:15 am. There were some local road closures so I FedEx’ed my way through the back country of Wabasha county on gravel roads and actually arrived almost 20 minutes early from my ETA. Upon arrival, the security crew was very skeptical of my rig with lack of parking sticker. I explained I just got there, with arraignments to do Tech at 7am, and that I was pitting with Bubba Burger. “OH! You’re the FedEx guy!!! Come right in!” That’s right peasants, step aside- FedEx has arrived. Later in the day I learned Brent and Dane feed the parking crew with Bubba’s at every round, and they informed Chris and security crew that I would be rolling in on Saturday morning. The pit spot was GOLDEN. We were inches from Factory KTM and Rockstar Husky.

I placed my bike and pit kit under the Bubba tent while the rest of the crew was waking up (typical left coast cali boys waking up after the sun) then shot over to do Tech with John Starling at around 6:45. A brisk 62f in the Spring Creek valley matched my dark roast perfectly as I did some glad-handing with the usual suspects at riders meeting, and some old familiar faces. Obvious already it was going to be a great day at the races. Forward to practice session 1, Brent and I climbed the starting tower to watch group A take off and cut the first laps in when I heard shouting from below. “JEFF. JEFF. GET DOWN HERE. YOU’RE IN A” Dane was screaming as he pushed my bike out into the starting line. “What in the actual hell” I was saying as I stammered down from the birds nest. I jump on the 2 smoker and Dane says “Dude you’re in A group! So sick! Go have fun!”. I missed the wheels on the ground lap, and pulled out on the course right behind my old trainee Benny Bloss. I followed him for half a lap thinking it would be my golden ticket into the chocolate factory, just riding his pace over all the leaps with literally zero time on the track and not even a sight lap- until he pulled a complete amateur move and without reason fell over in a left hander. I passed him yelling “Booooooooooo!” whilst enjoying a nice relish of “I see we still have work to do with old Coach Jeff”. It was a cute thought until 3/4th’s a lap later I tipped over like a beginner before the new section that was once collarbone hill, and Ben passed me back. Karma.

I pulled off the track after the checkers flew with another giant grin and as much bewilderment of how in the hell I got slotted in group A- and I inquired with Jeff Canfield whomst is the Race Director. It was based off my times from Red Bud mixed with who did and didn’t show up at Millville. It’s a loose formula, but it worked in my favor. My time wasn’t impressive, but in the second session I managed to shave 4 seconds off. Segment-wise, I was wicked fast until the uphill of Mt. Martin where the 15 horsepower disadvantage was spotlit like an ant on the sidewalk under a child’s new magnifying glass. The unlikelihood of making the uphill 3 piece was slim to none, especially after I consulted with Stank Dog on the line of qualifying session two. I asked if he got backside of the landing to which he replied “I tried it and nutted it.” There are three measurements of casing a jump: Short It, Frame It, Nut it. The final being the worst case scenario. I knew if his 40 pound lesser than I meatwagon mixed with his Haeseker hotrod engine couldn’t do more than Nut It, that jump was completely out of my wheelhouse.

I had 24th pick in my LCQ, and another very obviously down on power start. A few heroic passes on the first half lap in the sand rollers upped me to about 16th, until we hit the uphills and I dropped multiple spots. Every lap though, I made some fantastic jockeys for position in the sandy sections of the course and that alone was a job well done for me. The final lap I had a tip over, but that didn’t ruin any of the fun. Not my best finish in my season of LCQ’s- but I rode a hell of a lot harder and a hell of a lot better than 2009 Jeff which was the ENTIRE reason I set out to do this string of races this year. As AMA clipped off my transponder after the race- I fist bumped Nolan Myers after we had a small epic through the last lap.

I returned to the Bubba Burger factory tent and started sharing race stories with the team. Brent said I passed him in the sand rollers in a way that made him question why he even races, which was a nice feather in my cap. Dane started ribbing his brother with “Dude the FedEx guy beat you once again”. Laughs were had, the vibe was great, and the appreciation for moto was strong in our tent. Just by proximity, we were an easy stop for autographs and sticker handouts. Brent fired up the grill and started making his signature grilled onion and bbq Bubba’s with cheese, and we broke out the sharpies for all the fans that stopped by for autographs. I remember when I was a young boy, it didn’t matter who they were or how they finished- I wanted every rider’s autograph. The tables have turned and I was now that no-namer handing out my John Hancock on event T-shirts and other rider’s plastics. Around 7pm I decided it was time to flush this turd in a punchbowl and head back to Kansas City. On the drive home, it was nothing but nostalgic reflection. It was an absolute thrill and honor to be part of this series, to get to overcome my past bad results, to do it entirely on my own dime for a weekend, and to do it all on a bike I truly love: my 67-hour stock-suspension $167-a-month 2017 Freedom Cycles KTM 250sx 2 stroke.

Unlike so many other professional riders in moto who get too excited to finish their own sentence- I actually CAN thank my sponsors and am going to do so right now: Jeff Stanfield at Freedom Cycles in Grandview, MO. for sponsoring me without question since 1995, Wiseco, Bill’s Pipes (who came on board this last week), Fox Racing and Josh Hudson my local rep, Nick Peterson’s Bike-Works, Innovative MX and Scott Gebken, Transworld Motocross and Anton for giving me a soapbox, Mika Metals, Twin-Air, WeBig Inc and Todd Covey, Pirelli Tires, Motul, Bar2Bar MX and the Richardson Family, Bubba Burger and the Rouse brothers, everyone who listens to my podcast Over The Bars, the entirety of the Missouri State MX Series and EVERYONE back home, every person that came up to me at the last 4 rounds, the posters on VitalMX, my personal family, my girlfriend Aubree, MXSports and the AMA- my management team, coworkers and workgroup 5, the IXDA staff and FedEx Express- and to readers like you: Thank You.

See you on Sunday.
Jeff