The Missing Link: An Adventure in South Central Missouri

[MotoNews]

Published in: Rides

Motorcyclists like to think of themselves as rugged individualists and, much of the time, we succeed in living this dream. As dual-sport aficionados, our first priority is to explore beyond the limits imposed upon our street-bound brethren. But at times, the very individualism that defines us also blinds us to some of the best riding opportunities. We miss the connection between our well-traveled two-track, or even packed single-track, trail and what lies beyond that tangled mass of deadfall from some forgotten storm, seemingly blocking our way into the nether regions of the forest. In our haste to hustle to the next GPS coordinate, we often bypass dim pathways used only by the ghosts of our restless ancestors.

Fortunately, there are those who make it their business to scan old maps, sometimes even get off their bikes and actually walk with compass, map, and marker in hand, and maintain miles of trails that would otherwise be reclaimed forever by nature’s relentless desire to return to her roots. The more dedicated of these benefactors raise the commitment level to the point of turning their passion into their livelihoods.

Dan “Link” Lingenfelter is one of those people who helps connect our eagerness to explore with the trails that slow us, challenge us, and stick like cockleburs to our memories. From Vegas card dealer to enduro racer to race promoter and, finally, to proprietor of a haven for off-road riding in the central United States, Link gives back to the sport he loves. Last May I was fortunate enough to join a bunch of yahoos for a ride at Link’s Freeman Off-Road Resort. Strap on your Sidi’s and limber up your tow strap. We’re heading deep into the Missouri backwoods to ride with “The Missing Link!”

“If you bump my back tire, you’ll never see me again!”

Strong words from a guy who stands 5'9″ and weighs upwards of 280 pounds. But Link can back them up. We are on his home turf in south central Missouri, skirting the borders of the Mark Twain National Forest, 1.5 million acres of dense pine, oak and hickory situated in the Ozark Mountains. Here the densely wooded landscape is laced with rocky-bottomed streams and mined with slippery roots seemingly placed just to confound even the saltiest rider.

We have all spooned Pirelli Trials tires onto the rear of our machines in anticipation of the relatively low speeds and sketchy terrain. Our host for this extended weekend has a well-earned reputation as a man not to be messed with—on or off the bike. Link is one of those “old guys” who, at 57, still rides really fast when he wants.

An ex-semi-pro enduro racer in his home state of Illinois turned off-road event promoter, these days Link is busy keeping up this backwoods haven for motorcycle and quad enthusiasts. He provides campgrounds, clean showers and bunk cabins, and, best of all, for a small fee will lead your group on a ride that will make a great story for the grandkids.

The wooden shack Link calls his office doubles as quarters for this crusty widower, but he never lacks for company. Link’s “Freeman Off-Road Resort” often has a waiting list. I am fortunate enough to have been invited along for a belated “April Fool’s” ride, arranged by Kansas City’s Troy Wolf, instigator of at least one questionably sane single-track ride in the Ozarks each year and usually scheduled closer to the day reserved for pranksters. Six riders have gathered in the dark woods for this year’s assault.

We congregate for breakfast around Link’s motorized picnic table (a rolling party when he hosts rallies for the V- Twin persuasion), to discuss our route for the next couple of days. This contraption is Link’s own invention, a standard issue picnic table merged with an aging, fat-tired quad. Chains, rods and bell- cranks are stationed at all the strategic points to make it work, and a steering wheel is perched within easy reach of the port-side bench.

Link nods towards our table and says, “I’ve had more women ride on this thing than I’ve had on back of my bike,” and he grins with a charm that could certainly have enticed a few ladies to join him on either machine.

“So, do you like hills?” Link asks with a wry grin. Troy had cautioned us not to answer this question in the affirmative, because Link loves to challenge his patrons to the edge of their abilities. Ignoring Troy’s good counsel, a few of us raise our hands anyway. Troy shoots us one of those, “Now you’ve done it,” looks that suggests we have no idea what we’re in for.

Link sizes us up and tells us to meet down at the shop in half an hour, gear and gas.

His “shop” is on the site of an old house that burned shortly before Link’s arrival seven years ago. Rumor has it that the building was set afire by transients cooking something other than bacon and beans. Link built the current structure, reusing the original floor and a remaining concrete wall.

A nearby trailer house met a similar fate, leaving piles of needles and other illicit paraphernalia that had to be shoveled out before the shell could be discarded. Of the local drug trade, Link shrugs and says it’s not much of a problem anymore.

“Why’d they leave?” I ask.

“Simple. Their kind preys on the weak. I just made it clear that we don’t do that stuff around here anymore and they left.”

I didn’t press for details for fear of learning more than I needed to know, but backwoods folk are known for their ways of convincing ne’er-do-wells they’d best move on to easier pickings.

As we ride down to the shop, I spy the unmistakable lines of a 1974 Honda XL 250 leaning against a post.

“I bought that bike brand new for my Dad,” Link volunteers when he notices my stare.

A tomato plant grows out of a rusting enduro fuel tank hanging from a nearby tree perch atop the porch over the shop and the really good stuff hangs from the ceiling and walls inside. Link’s first race bike, a Hodaka 125 Wombat, serves as wall art, framed by pages from early girlie magazines. His 1974 Honda Elsinore hangs on the adjacent wall, along with other vintage iron.

This is definitely a man-cave of the first order. I poke around, finding an old Hooker header and a Bassani exhaust from what looks like another early Honda four-stroke. Two Handi-Lifts add enough modern technology to keep Link off his creaky knees. By the looks of all the homemade tools and equipment, it is becoming clear that we have stumbled upon one of the last of a dying breed of men who can literally fix anything with baling wire and bubble gum.

As we gather in front of the shop, ready to start, Troy explains that we have three types of trail here.

“Two-track is for quads and sissies—only to be used in case of emergencies or as connective arteries between the good stuff. Single-track is what we live for, and then there is ‘Link-track,’ the stuff nightmares are made of.”

Somebody blurts out, “What’s ‘Link-track?’”

“When the guy you thought you were following close behind disappears into the woods and the only visible trail is the dim mark behind you, you are on Link-track,” Troy replies… the voice of experience.

After losing his beloved wife to cancer nine years ago, this place has become Link’s passion. He spent two years seeking the right place to build his park and has walked and ridden these trails ever since. He knows all the abandoned county roads and overgrown trails covered with deadfall or vegetation for miles around. Link has flagged many of the trails, but so faintly that following one can be rougher than running barefoot through a sticker patch blindfolded.

Link sits atop his two-year-old Husky 510 which has seen better days, its radiator shrouds clipped to the nub to prevent them from hanging up on the tight foliage and an array of brush scratches on every exposed piece of plastic.

After a brief safety lesson consisting of “If you get lost, you’re pretty much screwed unless you stop right where you are and wait for me to come back,” Link lights the fuse on his bike and disappears down a tight, single-track trail laced with roots and canopied by overhanging limbs. He sets a more or less sane pace for our relatively savvy group, but still we find ourselves strung out along the trail. Fortunately, our leader has the decency to post the next rider behind him at virtually every turn, making it easy to stay on track.

I enjoy the pace and think, “This isn’t so bad,” when something smacks me on the head. The sudden, sharp impact feels like a brick dropped from an airplane. I wonder for a second if it might have been a meteor, and I pull up, stunned, trying to maintain consciousness. My neck feels like it has been compressed by John Henry’s sledge hammer and my goggles sit askew over my nose. I take off my helmet and find that the top vent is missing and an inch-wide sliver of bark is lodged in the opening. I just missed clearing a four-inch limb by that much. I never saw it coming.

The single-track dumps us out onto a rocky, washed-out power line road. Link maintains quads for the electric company and enjoys a mutually beneficial relationship with those who may otherwise ban motorcyclists from riding here. He pauses at the top to observe our progress, assessing our skill and calculating just where to go next, based upon how easily we clear this scrappy hill.

A couple of guys struggle with the loose rocks, but everyone makes it to the top. Satisfied, Link takes us to the next level.

Missouri has had a rainy spring and the creeks and rivers are swollen with run-off. We come to a number of intimidating crossings where several of the KTMs drown out at one time or another. Fortunately, with a bit of pumping and puffing, they all start up again. The two-strokes are the worst offenders. I guess that’s the price you pay to ride such a lightweight machine. My Beta 525 never misses a beat—luck or just good waterproofing? I don’t really care as long as I don’t have to kick.

Deep into the woods, Link’s fuel-injected Husky spits the bit. We spend the next two hours pulling the fuel tank, fussing with the fuel pump and other embedded componentry, only to put it all together again and fight through another quarter-mile of Link-track before it dies for good. I attach a strap between our footpegs and commence to tow our seemingly indestructible leader out of the woods.

A high-water crossing looms between us and our escape route, a bunch of gravel roads that will eventually lead us back to base. Stopping to evaluate this rushing torrent would mean losing precious momentum, so I just roll on in with Link and his dead Husky in tow. My Beta dives in like a Golden Retriever pup and scrambles for traction on the rocky bottom. Just as I start to lose momentum, I look back and catch a glimpse of Link, jumping off his bike with surprising agility and heaving it towards dry land.

We exit the stream and roll out onto a section of gravel forest road. One of the guys had insisted that Link keep one end of the tow strap wrapped around his hand grip, streaming up from his foot peg, “Just in case you need to let go.”

Unfortunately, sometimes things happen too fast to “just let go.” As luck would have it, the strap slips off the peg, yanks his handlebar, and Link is sent flying with all the grace of a wet mattress falling off a pickup truck. He lands with a thud, cursing the well intentioned “pal” who suggested holding the strap in his hand.

Bent but not broken, Link lets Troy take his place as tow-ee, while Link and his bruised ribs ride Troy’s KTM back to the resort. We welcome the graded gravel and paved roads as we burn off the last few miles back to Link’s place, where we appreciate well-earned showers. Sean, a regular at Troy’s annual events, has brought dinner fixin’s and we all enjoy a quick meal together before gathering down at the shop again to watch the early ’70s cult movie, “Little Fauss and Big Halsey” with Robert Redford and Michael J. Pollard as wandering motorcycle racers vying for pretty girls and fame. We take time to lube and adjust chains, top off fuel tanks and secure a few loose parts before turning in, tired but well satisfied with our first day of backwoods bashing.

Link is up early on Day Two, heating and straightening the aluminum brake lever I bent on a sapling and preparing to lead us again, this time from the cushy seat of his quad. His bruised ribs will curtail his two-wheeled guide gig for a few days, but where there’s a will, there’s a way and Link always has the will. Some trails are simply too tight to handle on anything wider than a two-by-four, so Link loops around from trailhead to trailhead, pointing out the entrance to each narrow section.

Our final trail is definitely Link- track. We leap deadfalls until we are blown and wondering if we have enough gas to find our way out to the road. We meet up with Link at an old barn, covered with what looks like a hundred years of growth. What a find, way back in these old woods! A short ride later the forest opens up into a moonscape of sand that reminds me of Dumont Dunes—tailings from a giant lead mine.

We play on the crusty, white expanse until our stomachs tell us it’s time to eat. Making our way to an old-fashioned gas station, store and restaurant near Bixby, Missouri, we rest and fill our hollow legs. We are only about 45 miles from our departure point via backroads, but it feels like a world away after all we’ve been through. We load up on burgers, fresh greens and Coca Cola, then turn tail for home.

Opting for a more sedate return route, we wind along remote forest roads, cross rivers at low water crossings instead of boulder-strewn rapids and, finally, enjoy a few miles of twisty, narrow black-top. Link’s place is a sight for sore eyes as we drop our kick stands for the last time this weekend.

Someone hands me a cold Fat Tire Ale as I peel my boots from my wet, tired feet. I gaze over at my bike and notice fresh brush scratches where untouched decals had been only a few days before. These battle scars will remind me what a good time we can have when someone goes to the trouble to make it happen.

Trails like these are out there, and our new friend is just “The Missing Link” we needed to show us where they are.

Thanks, Link, for having us over. We hope to see you again next year. Sorry about the ribs….

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