The Legend of Searcy Creek

  My brother Doug and his friend Rick had a lofty perch atop Searcy Creek hill one Saturday morning back in the early 1970s. A crisp, late March wind swirled around the fifteen year old boys who were laying on their stomachs watching a scene that took place every weekend some hundred and fifty feet below them.

  Close to fifty dirt bike riders had gathered across the street from the base of the hill. They were all there for the same reason and that was to ride the trails that stretched out for a mile directly behind the boys.

  The trails were a dirt bike riders dream with plenty of hills, creeks, mud and trees to test your skills on.

  In order to experience them, you had to first get there and that was no easy task. You had two choices. Option one would be to try what only one man had ever accomplished and that was beat the hill Doug and Rick were staked out on. Option two was another hill a half block north. It was the same height and length but not nearly as steep. It took a better than average rider to make it over the top. It’s the route my brother, his friend and ninety percent of the riders took.

  The boys watched as Honda’s, Yamaha’s, Kawasaki’s and Suzuki’s were unloaded from pickups and trailers.  A sound similar to an angry swarm of bees filled the air as riders raced up and down the street to warm up their bikes before attempting the climb. Most would make it up hill two but a few would get close to the crest just to lose control and tumble all the way back down to the street below.

  From time to time a brave sole would muster up enough courage to try the merciless hill number one. A few of the better bikers would make it to within 20 feet of the top. At that point the hill went virtually straight up where it hurled riders to the hard ground below as easily as a duck sheds water off its back.

  “I saw a lot of bikes go up that hill in one piece just to see them come crashing down seconds later in several pieces” said Doug as he reflected on those weekends over 30 years ago.

  My brother and his buddy weren’t waiting at the top of the hill to see people fail but instead were waiting for one particular man to arrive. The wait turned out to be a short one as they spotted Marion Ault’s four wheel drive Chevy pickup turning off of 210 on to Searcy Creek road. The trailer hooked to the back rattled slighted as Marion pulled off the pavement in to his usual parking spot.

   Two Suzuki’s side by side on the trailer and another one in the back of the pickup left little doubt that this 37 year old man took his dirt bike riding seriously.

  Like a golfer deciding which club to use, Marion would take a long look at the hills and what condition they were in. Rain or a slight freeze the night before could change the terrain and become a factor in which bike he would select.

  Once the preferred cycle was picked, Marion would easily climb the lesser of the two hills and disappear into the maze of trails with Doug and Rick in hot pursuit.

  If he chose to, the winner of over a 150 trophy’s on the Black Jack Circuit which covered a four state area could have left the fifteen year old boys in a cloud of dust but instead let them tag along.

  After a hard ride of an hour or so the group would come back to Marion’s truck for brief rest stop. Sitting on the end of the trailer while the warm sun dried their now mud soaked clothes, the three would watch as dozens of bikers attacked hill number two.

  An occasional two or three riders would break from the pack and slowly approach the mother of all hills. Sitting on their powerful bikes they would race the engines and scan the near vertical climb with wide eyes.

   More often than not they would succumb to the hills intimidating mystique and move on as they reassured each other that no one could slay the beast.

 These guys must be new around here thought Doug as he stole a quick glance at Marion.  The soft spoken man said “Give me a hand with the trailer boys”. Before they could finish unhooking and set a ramp on the back of the truck they were surrounded by a small group of riders.

  Doug and Rick hustled back to their spot on top the hill as Marion eased his big 400 CC Suzuki down the wooden ramp. A couple of downward kicks with his foot and the slumbering giant sprang to life.

  Word gets around quickly when some thing big is about to happen. The small group had suddenly swelled to a large one with bikers steadily arriving from the trails.

Every one shut down their cycles. All eyes were on Marion as he raced up and down the street warming up his ultimate hill slayer.

  The bike was now ready to go as Marion took a position directly below the hill. The bike pulsated with power as he looked the hill over one last time.

  He turned and rode two blocks away where he would begin his assault. Marion slowly turned his baseball cap around backwards and reached into his pocket for his trademark cigar. With the cigar now clenched tightly in his teeth he popped the clutch and lunged forward.

  With the crowd now completely silent you could hear each gear rap out to its fullest. 1^st,  2^nd and then 3^rd as man and machine slammed into the hill creating a large cloud of dust.

  Dirt and small rocks were sent flying high into the air as Marion fought to keep control on the rugged terrain. Doug and Rick were mesmerized by the heart stopping action barreling up the hill towards them. The bike and rider were now close enough that the boys could see the determined look in Marion’s eyes.

  He was about to enter the critical stage of the climb. Another twenty feet and victory would be his but it was straight up with a slight dip that had a nasty habit of tossing bikes like corkwood. Just as the bike hit this section Marion used every ounce of his strength to beat centrifugal force and lean out over the handle bars to a point where he was looking at his front tire. When the anticipated dip lifted him into the air he was able to maintain control and downshift a gear before the rear tire came in contact with the dirt again. The 400 bogged down slightly but dug in just enough to carry Marion over the top.

The crowd looked at each other in disbelief as the boys rushed over to congratulate him on what they thought was a perfect climb. “No, that slight hesitation when the bike bogged down could have cost me dearly he said as he turned his cap back around”

“What do you think went wrong?” asked Doug.

   Marion, with his quick wit and wry sense of humor said it must have been the cigar. He threw it on the ground, lit up a fresh one and off they went on another quick jaunt through the trails as the sun began to set on a beautiful spring day.  With the bikes, tool boxes and gas cans loaded up the group headed back to the Sheffield area of Northeast where our families lived next door to each other from the 1950s to the late 1970s.

   Marion was and still is the best role model I’ve ever had in my 56 years on earth. Amazingly, at 72 years of age he still rides dirt bikes in Poker Enduro races near Cole Camp, Missouri where he now lives.

  I asked him why he does this at an age when most people are content to do less strenuous activities like golf and fishing.

  “I love the freedom riding brings” was his reply. “It helps keep me in good physical shape by improving my flexibility and balance. I use nearly every muscle in my body as I ride over various terrains. Making split second decisions helps keep my mind sharp.”

   I couldn’t agree more and I have a feeling this remarkable man will be conquering hills and winning races for many more years to come.