Racing Pioche, NV at Pearson Ranch

Usually the starts are my best attribute in dirt bike racing. “Get a great start and steadily and methodically work my way to the back.” However, at the Person Ranch, the starts were horrible for a lot of us.
Not the start of the race. Starting the bikes. Between the cool temperature (39 degree at sunrise, honest!) and the elevation of over 5,000 feet, many bikes stubbornly refused to ignite. By the Unclassified race, I was already feeling a bit tired from kickstarting the bike!
The Unclassified is a practice lap or two. I only did one lap, as I spent a considerable amount of time dragging Mark’s bike out of a creek and helping him- what else- start it.
It was worth it, however, as I got to watch him crash. He plowed through the mud, hit a buried obstacle and the bike stopped, sending Mark over the bars and doing around a one and a half somersault on the ground. Watching it, I thought it was pretty funny until I realized it was Mark. Then it was hilarious.
My attitude came back to haunt me in the race as I got hung up in a barbed wire fence, slid out in the muck, blew the course and killed the engine twice. All on the first lap. The second and third laps were marked improvements, with only a glitch or two. Lap four however, I went through a deep section of slop. I kept it throttled and bulldogged through, my feet paddling through the slop, the tire sending a roostertail of black sludge skyward. What do you know, I made it! I accelerated over the grass and slid out a few feet later. Drat! Kick, kick, kick. *
Funny, after the practice laps, no one sounded particularly excited to race. But once we raced, everyone returned and reported a good time. Something about the racing that gets us fired up. And a bunch of friends, competing together and apart, enjoying good times together, make it an epic race.
The others’ results were a mixed bag. Kevin returned, disgusted because his bike died often and he struggled to light it up again. Aside form that, his riding was inspiring. Bob had a few glitches, but rode well. Mark, with his epic new riding gear, somehow managed to return still looking good. I don’t know how he did that. I looked like I lost a mud wrestling contest. Bobby-O suffered bike problems, as he let the kids ride it and they didn’t take care of it for him. Ouch. A DNF for Bob. Dylan rode like a champ.
Speaking of DNF, my nemesis, Bandit, suffered a DNF as his bike stuck fast in the muck. He’s usually the only other one stupid enough to race at our age. Bandit has one arm and races with a prosthetic on his right arm. I know, it give him an advantage as his arm doesn’t get tired, but no matter how much I complain about it, people just look at me like I’ve lost my mind or something. Anyway, we are in a hot contest for the season championship, as Bobby-O and Kevin are too.
And the Pearson Ranch was a welcome retreat from the blistering heat of Las Vegas. Not to mention the beautiful pine forests, rock outcrops and vistas to provide us with an epic view. Mark insisted I write ‘epic’ in the blog, so he gets three. The water was epic as well. Four.
* At this point, I broke my foot. Got up and finished the race. Won my class! (1st out of 1!)

Primm WORCS race

Perhaps this should be a 'Motivational Minute' cautionary tale. Because I lost the mental game at the WORCS race in Primm last weekend (www.worcsracing.com). First, the start. There's nothing like the start of a motorcycle race. Bikes on either side, revving their engines, every eye focused on the starter, anticipating his throw of the flag. Then he tosses it up, and the crowd thunders to the first turn, wrestling and vying for position, dirt and dust flying through the air. I excel at holeshots, launching off the start and getting into the first turn in the lead. This race I reacted quickly when the starter threw his flag, but bogged my engine. I should have revved it more. Entering the first turn, I found myself midpack and started the bad self-talk. "You suck!" "I can't believe this!" A few qualifiers here. This is not to justify my poor performance, but to put it in perspective. The WORCS series is a bunch of committed riders. They compete in five states, so they spend a great deal of time, money and effort to their sport. Also, I attended a speaking seminar (http://www.worldchampslive.com/champcamp-lady.html) and drove straight out to the track, changed out of my slacks and sweater and went racing. Not a good way to get your head in the game. The first lap consisted of numerous people passing me as I mentally flaggellated myself for my performance.
The course wove through the desert with short straights and myriad turns. Plenty of braking bumps and ruts kept the riders on their toes. The turns consisted of fluffy sand with ruts carved in from hundred of bikes railing them previously.
On the second lap, I rode better and even passed a few people who had either fallen or had bike problems. No matter- I passed them. On lap three a rider passed me and I kept up with him for almost the entire lap. Then I CHANGED MY MIND and passed him.
I figured out the turns, finally. Enter with more speed and turn wider. Protecting the inside proved to be slow going, and corner speed increased tremendously.
What do you know? The rest of the race was fun and free, riding fast, full of joy. Because no matter what happens in the race of life, you better be enjoying the journey. And the results? Hmm. 15th out of 16 in my class. And that guy didn't start. Last place. Rats. Well, nowhere to go but up, right?

Henderson

The desert is such a place of starkness, solitude, and beauty. Riding around the Eldorado dry lakebed area provided us with a treat of gnarly rock mountains, open valleys, and panoramic vistas. Roger led today, of course. I didn't want to humiliate him with my speed and skills now, would I? Recognizing certain sections, I remembered the challenges of racing the Henderson 400. Rock faces shot upward, then as we crested the hills it became hang on and look for the lowest edge to drop over. Another day of beauty and challenging riding.
We scouted West across a valley and toward the base of another range of mountains. Finding trails on the opposite side became difficult. Soon we struggled up a rock strewn wash, then we spotted it.
Amidst all the beauty and grandeur, a scar on the landscape. Looked like an Isuzu Rodeo, or a Nissan Pathfinder.
How in the world did they- whoever 'they' were- get it here?
And then they set it on fire.
Feeling like Grissom from CSI, I inspected the hulk.
Wow. That was one hot fire.
Why is the front fender missing?
Roger opined that it looked like the taillights had been removed.Or the fire was so hot, it consumed the melted plastic.
So sad.
While other desert relics such as abandoned cabins represent broken dreams, this only reflects evil.
"Someone probably stole it, joyrode it out to here, then burned it." I said.
Roger shrugged. "Maybe the owner did it. Take it out to the middle of nowhere, torch it and reported it stolen."
I looked for the VIN number. None.
Either way, it bore the scars of evil behavior.
Peering inside the rear hatch, I spotted something. It couldn't have survived the fire. I reached inside and picked it up. A magazine.
Porn.
How appropriate.

Dirt Biking Las Vegas Style

So what is it you do that makes you feel alive? One person may enjoy bowling a great game, or perhaps a salesman lands that big deal. Others love meeting and talking to people. Hiking can be a time one feels closest to God, and fully alive. The Little Woman finishes a quilt, shows it to me, and it's easy to see she's doing what God wired her to do.
Dirt biking does it for me. Last Saturday Kevin, Mark, Bob and I went for a long ride. We explored new trails, found an abandoned cabin, and rode like heroes for a bit.
I struggle with insecurities riding with my buds. Kevin just won the season championship in his age division. Bob and Mark are no slouches, either. I hate to make them wait.
Speaking of wait, here's an example of dirt bikers' 'love language.'
"We'll ride up the big wash, go right up the trail, stay toward the red rocks, and meet you at the saddle." That's love language for, "We're not going to wait for you. See you at the saddle."
We found new trails, truly amazing as we have tread this area for more than a decade. Surprise, red clay soil, and it feels like we're in Utah. We came upon a ruin, a stone cabin in disrepair. So many spots in the desert exude loss and despair, broken dreams. Mark posed with a beer can. Right. That's how we roll! We continued, riding over mud, dampness, and dust. Patches of snow dot the landscape.
Once in awhile, during a ride, it happens; you ride like a hero. Fortunately, Saturday blessed us with the moment. Kevin rode first, zipping along a dual track dirt road.
The challenge catching up with a fast person is you must first ride faster than him, and do it in his dust. I screwed up my courage and went for it, finally pulling beside him and into clean air.
Then we turned it on.
We flew up the trail side by side, yelling into our helmets and smiling like 8 year olds at an ice cream truck. Racing trails like this requires faith in your buddy, and Kevin kept me confident as we raced faster, 50, 60, 70 miles an hour, our handlebars almost touching, the forks absorbing the bumps. A dip approached, and we both slowed, then jumped out of it, Kevin slightly ahead and higher. I throttled up and we slid right into a sweeper turn. I must trust Kevin on right turns, and he trusts me on lefts. And we both simply know that Mark and Bob follow, riding like idiots too.
Bonus time. The group rode a single track section through Pinion Pine, and blew through the area, sliding into turns and blasting out of them. For another few moments, we are free, riding loose and fast, confidently blasting through the high desert. We were all champions that day.

Rainy Day Riding

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It was the third day of rain in Las Vegas (an anomoly for sure), and Jerry called me.
"The weather, the dirt is perfect! Let's go fo a ride."
He was right.
Most places when it rains, nobody wants to ride. But in the desert, the dust disappears, the dirt is tacky and hooks up, and the weather is cool.
Sure enough, correct on all points.
Awesome day to ride.
Jerry and I met around a mile from the dry lakebed- which, when it rains, is called a...lake. He introoduced me to Jim, his neighbor. We unloaded the bikes and took off.
I mean, we took off.
The testosterone was running free. We flew over the whoops, charged up the washes, and railed the turns like we knew what we were doing. At least they did. By the first stop, I was a quarter mile back. But everyone smiled and agreed, it was the best day for riding.
We continued up the mountains and into the clouds. Trees appeared on each side. At one point, we came upon a longhorn bull, both he and us asking, 'What are you doing out here?' Around mile fifteen we arrived at the cabin.
It's really a shack, but a nice place to stop and enjoy the scenery. Jerry wisely brought things to eat, and generously shared them with us. What a guy. Soon we felt the chill as our sweat cooled, so we took off, ready to warm up again.
Next we weaved through tight single track and up narrow waterfalls. Challenging and gorgeous! The viewpoints from the peaks treated us to cloud formations, the lake below, and hills dotted with foliage. Tracking down the hills we soon returned to the valley with fast sections once again, this time with raindrops pelting our goggles, making visibilty a bit sketchy. That was my excuse anyway, as the two of them left me in the...well, it wasn't dust, anyway.
We couldn't stop smiling and commenting on the excellent riding conditions as we loaded up our stuff. Then back to town, where Jerry not only bought lunch, but set the table and cleared it afterward. What a guy.
It just doesn't get any better than that.
If only I rode a little bit faster.
Right.

12 Hours of Glen Helen 2010

It’s around 4 in the morning, and I’m racing down a hill- a single-track, rutted mess with deep rollers. I have too much speed, so apply the back brake-too much and no front. The back end bounces and swaps, the front dives down the hill and my body slides forward. Too much weight on the front and it is over-the-handlebars time. Doing the counterintuitive thing, I let off the brakes and the increased speed straightens us out. Man! The last lap, I did the exact same thing. Okay, give credit to exhaustion. Twelve hours is a long race, and I haven’t slept in twenty- four. But I complete my segment and hand it off to Mark. He’ll do a couple laps and Jim will get us to the finish line.
Good lighting is the key to good night racing. And looking at our opponents, it’s obvious they have great lighting. It’s easy. Just spend money, and off you go.
We are short on helmet lights, so two share with two others. Then our light kit for Bob’s bike fell apart before darkness. So, we continued with Mark’s bike, with an aftermarket light and couple halogen helpers on the bars. Neither Jim nor I could get our helmet lights adjusted correctly until the last laps. So, besides money, maybe a little forward planning and training would help, too.
The track was mostly fast and open with a few interesting tidbits. Like up the stairway, over the bridge and down the stairway. A few loader tires and logs made for some interesting challenges, but the most unusual test appeared around two a.m. Perhaps it was a water main burst, but suddenly Bob encountered a huge volume of water, like a monsoon flash flood. The stuff crossed the track and ran down the course for half a mile, serpentining through the course. Once I raced along a straight section and two experts passed me, one on each side, soaking my goggles instantly.
Glen Helen has some huge uphills and downhills. Approaching the downill edge, my lights point straight and below is only blackness. I nevertheless carry some speed, yet the experts leap into it, landing fifty feet down slope. Incredible.
Being old and slow, the race holds few highlights for me. The payoff is racing bikes at my age. However, on one lap I caught a guy as we approached the aforementioned downhill. So I left it on a little longer down the hill (cliff?), braked harder into the right turn, and passed him on the outside before going up the stairway. Woo hoo! This offset the dozen or so (hundreds of?) bikes that passed me through the night.
So with only a few mishaps- mostly just small tip overs and restarting challenges- team 210 (our combined ages) finished fourth out of five in our class. We actually finished better than ten others from different classes. “But we’re only racing against ourselves.”
Right.

The Twelve Hours of Glen Helen

You know those spare tires, the donut type ones? You know, they take up space when you don’t need them, they work when you’re in a pinch, and they just get you by when you use them? That’s how I feel about being in ‘The 12 Hours of Glen Helen’ race that’s coming up. Mark Cline was kind enough to invite me. Maybe he doesn’t know my history.
In 2005, my son Tim, Bobby O and I raced the Six Hours of Glen Helen. I started for the team, and got off to a great start. The race was looking really good, until five hours, fifty-nine minutes and thirty seconds to go, when I crashed and broke my left ankle, and jacked the right. Pretty short race for me. Actually, I managed to kick start the bike (with a broken ankle- ouch!) and finish the first lap, so the team could soldier on.
This race is different, as it is night, 6 p.m. Saturday to 6 a.m. Sunday. Night changes things. Dust becomes harder to see through. Shadows mask-what? Deep ruts? Rocks? An illegal immigrant family living in the shadows? Who knows?
Lighting is really important. That’s why I have helmet lights and handlebar lights in addition to the stock light. However, looking at the sad array of components that I neglected to check for the last, oh, two years, way too many things are missing. Like batteries, lights, chargers. Enough of each component for each light that not one light is in working condition. We’ll just do our best.
The team is important. Jimmy Marchant is racing with us. He’s fast, and the energizer bunny. He’s bringing his toy hauler, too, always a bonus. And he keeps the bike on two wheels (ahem). Bobby Gardner’s no slouch, either. To be honest, he’s most likely to wad up the bike, but let’s not think about that. Mark Cline heads up the team, and is providing much of the necessary hardware. Like the bike. And last, the donut spare.
Mark and I tested lights (what little we had) Tuesday night. The other thing that night changes is that speeds decrease dramatically. Bad for the donut spare. Night is so weird, too. We got off course in a section we have probably ridden a hundred times. Fortunately, the race course is marked with reflective ribbon, excellent for seeing course markings. Joshua trees are weird, too. They always look like someone is waving at you.
So, we’ll see what happens. We will probably be a great team to help the other teams feel better about themselves. However, night races are a lot of fun. And team races are especially fun. A bunch of guys comparing notes on their race and sharing a common goal with one another, makes for a fun race. We’ll suck, but so what? We’ll have fun.
I just hope my part of the race is more than thirty seconds.
Post race wrap up Monday

Desert Wildlife

“Hey, Mr. Parsons! Whatcha doing?”

Oh, no. It was Billie Haskins, the nine year old kid next door. He had a way of driving me nuts. I was working on my WRF 450, trying to pull the rear wheel to fix a flat. I had a cheap open end wrench and was pushing for all I was worth. I did not need Billie Haskins right now.

“Fixing a flat, Billie. Hey, why don’t you go play in traffic or something?”

“Ha ha. You’re so funny, Mr. Parsons. My dad says you should always use a box wrench or socket and breaker ba...”

“YOUCH!” The open end slipped off, slamming my fingers onto the swing arm.

“Yeah, because that’s exactly what he said could happen. AND it will strip the axle nut.” Billie peered at the rounded nut. “Like that.”

Little monster. I sucked the blood off three fingers and tried another section of the nut. The metal had stripped over onto the next section, so I began hammering the open end onto the nut. Now it would hold.

“Hey, Mr. Parsons, have you ever seen any wildlife in the desert when you ride?” Billie asked as he stomped a cockroach on the floor.

Had I ever. The desert is full of wildlife. People think that the desert is a barren wasteland, but I have seen my share of wildlife.

Once Matt and I were riding at night, and in the middle of nowhere, we came upon a parked car. The windows were steamed up, and because of the glare of our lights, we were unable to see inside. We decided later that there were probably two people in the car, and they were either killing or breeding, but it was none of our business, so we just passed by real slowly, revving our engines in a menacing way. Same story an hour later on the way back.

Roger and I were zipping up a trail on afternoon, and I was behind him at the time. I don’t really know WHY, because I‘m way faster than him, but sometimes these things just happen. Anyway, as he ripped around a corner, a teenage boy and girl stood up really quickly from on a mattress, pulling on clothing. We dusted them both pretty good. Gee, that’s so romantic.

Or how about the time I was on my back, on the ground, next to some girl- I don’t know her name- and while your mind is racing at the thought of this wild life, we were changing the starter in her Suburban. I had ridden up to find her, again in the middle of nowhere, underneath her truck, trying to change the starter. We worked at it together for around an hour, and finally got it hooked up. All the time she is muttering about her worthless boyfriend, how she had to pick up and leave, and she can take care of herself. The rig is packed full of all her earthly belongings. It is just beginning to get dark when we finish, and I determine that she doesn’t need a new starter. The battery is dead. Brilliant.

More wildlife? Well, there was the naked guy sunning on a chaise lounge chair next to his pickup. He wasn’t in the middle of nowhere. He was about a mile west and south. Should I stop and see if he needs any sunscreen? Don’t think so.

Then there was the pup tent. Right next to a jump we flew over. (I swear you could see light under both my tires!) A head sometimes would pop out around the third rider past. The guy was there for about a month.

Once we were, I don’t know, around fifteen miles east of the middle of nowhere, and there was a Mexican family in a camper. By the very permanent look of the surrounding area, they had been there for quite some time.

There was the guy in his ’76 Monte Carlo, working on his engine. He’s at the end of this Jeep road with 7 foot whoops! I don’t even see how he could have gotten there. Or why. Can’t you just see it? “Hey honey, I’m going out ten miles of nasty dirt roads to work on my car.” Well, at least Billie Haskins wouldn’t bother him out here.

Roger and Bob came upon a person who had apparently committed suicide. He was on the ground with a gun in his hand, very dead. That was really wild. But no life.

I was ten miles off the road and found a guy in a pickup with a flat and no spare. He had four kids with him. Apparently none of them were Boy Scouts. You know, “be prepared?” I rode down to get cell service and called his buddy to tell him Dave was stuck out in the middle of nowhere, but I knew better. The middle of nowhere is two miles north and three east of here! When I got back they had built a fire. So they were a little prepared.

“Well?” Billie asked as he handed me a socket and breaker.

I grabbed my old crescent wrench. “Oh, a jackrabbit once in a while, lizards, an iguana once.” Better leave it at that. Billie is just too young.

Vegas to Reno

As half of our support team waited with me at pit 2, the big question was “Where is Gordie?” The race was underway, Tim had started first, and Gordie was supposed to take over at pit 2. I was expecting to take the reins at pit 4. But where in the world was Gordie? As the clock kept ticking, it was apparent that Tim would be pitting here soon, and Gordie would not be here to replace him. Just as the race is getting underway, the best-laid plans are suddenly going awry!

The “best laid plans” began months ago, when my partner in business Gordie McCarty, my son Tim and I decided to race the famous “Vegas to Reno” race, hailed as the longest off road race in the United States. We actually started by identifying our ultimate goal- to finish the race. That is a noble goal, as the bike must go the distance in spite of flat tires, crashes, incredible dust, and running with trucks. The racers must go the distance as well, overcoming incredible obstacles, of which the greatest would be exhaustion.

The course was 526 miles long consisting of dirt trials and roads, gravel and sand washes, dry lakebeds, and some of the nastiest silt imaginable. Thick, fine silt the consistency of powder snow that would grab your front wheel and hurl you into the dust in an instant.

In order to finish the race we must be fully equipped from the start. So we started with a new bike, an XR 650 Honda. This model (although highly modified) was what had been winning races in the near past. As race time approached, we worked on bike setup.

The next key to finishing the race was the riders. Training regularly and vigorously was our key to success. Gordie practiced in Sacramento, mostly on motocross tracks, on his Yamaha YZF250- not exactly a desert bike, and not necessarily in the desert, but riding and training just the same. He also did cycling classes regularly, which are truly a brutal workout- a great cardio builder.

I trained by exercising at the YMCA 3 times a week, as well as Tae Kwon Do, and riding 100 miles a week in the desert.

Tim trained by being Tim. He raced motocross and lived his 200 MPH life.

Would we be ready? I was 48 years old. Was I nuts? Did I think I had what it took to race 185 miles (my portion) in a single day? What about Gordie? He will start the race riding a bike he has never ridden before, with little to no desert riding experience. Tim had little time on the 650, and really wasn’t training. However, he was in great physical shape- provided he didn’t get injured before race time. Well, we had enthusiasm, and we would make the best of it.

When I signed us up for the race, I found that we could have pit support from American Honda! Now this sounded like a great idea, as we really didn’t know what the hell we were doing. I contacted Bruce Ogilvie from Honda, and got it all set up. They would fuel us, replace flat tires, and help with broken things (please dear God, no broken things!) This was a great encouragement to Team Rock Stars (our team name, as we were sponsored by Parsons Bros. Rock Retaining Walls).

Bruce Ogilvie (who is a living legend in the desert racing world) sent us pit information and specific instructions on setting up the bike. So, I started getting the bike set up. That required changing the muffler, air box, and jetting. Now it was running faster! Next was making it run dependably. So, I safety wired spokes, bolts, and plastics. Finally, Pirelli tires with heavy tubes front and rear.

There was still plenty more that needed to be done. We needed fire extinguishes, numbers on the chase trucks, 3 complete fanny packs with tools and parts, matches, and water. Extra parts were stocked for mid-race repairs. Not only was it the longest off road race in the United States, it was beginning to feel like the most expensive.

Gordie flew into town at noon the day before the race. That gave us enough time to run home, go for a quick ten-mile ride with him and his Dad. At least he rode the bike before the race! We all went to the Suncoast Casino for the rider’s meeting and tech. Now it is beginning to sink in- we are entering the Vegas to Reno race with a bunch of RACERS! Bikes, trucks, buggies, and quads- every kind imaginable! Teams with matching shirts, huge vans with tens of thousands of dollars of parts, tools, and equipment. Trucks and Hummers tooling up the parking lot, shaking with barely constrained horsepower. What were we doing here?

I was beginning to feel like some idiot who mindlessly signed up for this race without really knowing what we were doing. (Which was largely true.) Of course, dropping the bike as we unloaded it in the parking lot wasn’t a great confidence builder, either. (“Hi! We’re the idiots that will be in your way tomorrow, and I’m the head idiot, Kevin!”)

First stop, the Honda van. Bruce Ogilvie told me to stop by so he could have a look at the bike. While Bruce helped us tremendously, he didn’t help my feelings of inadequacy, as he took apart and fixed various screwups I had done to the bike. Then Johnnie Campbell stopped by and gave us a few tips. Johnnie Campbell!! JOHNNIE CAMPBELL!! That’s like playing a game of pickup basketball in a schoolyard, and Michael Jordan stops by and gives you a few tips. I was starting to like this sport. The people are still real. What a treat!

No matter how well you plan for something, there are always “variables”. One of our big variables was Tim, as he had been sick the day before the race. He had been running pretty hard, and the flu seemed to catch him in a weak moment. Gordie assured me Tim would suck it up and perform like a master come race time.

Race day comes early after a late night to bed getting the last preparations done. We got up at 4;30 and headed to Pahrump for the start of the race. (Why is it called “Vegas to Reno” if it starts in Pahrump? Because Pahrump makes it sound like it starts in some piss-ant little town- which it does). The early start is so the first riders can begin at daylight, as the time from the first rider to the last finisher is 21 hours. I hope that’s not us. One chase truck took Tim and I to the start. We would make sure Tim got going okay, and then head for pit 4, where I would take over for Gordie. We couldn’t see Tim start, as it was around a half mile of walking to the start, so prudence told us to believe he would start okay, and we would get in place.

Since we were far enough ahead of Tim, we thought we would stop at pit 2 to see Gordie take over for Tim. I was shocked to see the way the leaders came in to pit. This was really a race! The pit crews swarmed the bikes after they slid to a stop, fueling them and changing riders in a flash! In mere seconds the bikes were refueled and tearing off into the desert! It was a scene of controlled chaos as multiple bikes entered and exited without hitting one another. As time went by, we began to wonder where Gordie was. He should have been at this pit by now. Was he lost? Perhaps a flat tire on the truck? Did he go to the wrong pit? Finally, Justin (my chase truck guy) and I decided I had better get ready to spell Tim, as Gordie wasn’t showing.

As I started getting my gear on, the adrenaline started to flow, both with anticipation of the race far sooner for me than I expected, and the uncertainty of where my teammate was at this time. Added to the confusion were reports from the racers that most of the racers were lost in the desert from missing the arrows. Wasn’t the course marked adequately? Was Tim lost? Had he run out of gas? At last, the red bike with the headlight appeared, and a pit guy announced the number as 934. Here comes Tim! As the crew swarmed the bike with fuel, Tim’s few comments were “I passed 21 guys!” “We all got lost back there!” and “The bike is fine.” Lastly, “Go Dad go!” Suddenly I was off! A quick right turn, and a long straightaway, going through the gears, yelling at the top of my lungs, “yahoo! I’m racing the Vegas to Reno!”

I was following another bike from a distance, and reeling him in. I was going to pass this guy! I got by him briefly before hitting my first section of silt. As I sank into the silt, it clutched my front tire, and the rear tire began slewing around to the right. The natural response to this phenomenon is to slow down- definitely the wrong thing to do! I immediately feel off the left side in a huge cloud of silty dust. The dust was so thick, I couldn’t see my front wheel. I struggled to right the bike, and heard a sound that frightened me- the sound of approaching bikes behind me. Could they see me? Would they hit me? I changed my focus from starting my bike to waving my arms wildly so the first approaching bike didn’t hit me. He saw me and went by. My relief was brief, as I was again enveloped in a cloud of choking dust, and could hear another bike coming! Once more I waved my arms and avoided another collision. Another cloud of dust. Another bike. Another cloud of dust. I finally had enough time to get the beast started and get going again, only to fall down again within 300 yards of the last time! The same scenario happened as bikes continued to pass me, and I continued to struggle to continue.

I was finally able to proceed slowly, with both legs splayed out each side as stabilizers to prevent another fall. This was slower and more tiring than normal racing! Fortunately, the silt ended and I was able to get up to speed again. However, the silt would attack me numerous times again throughout the day, with the same dismal results. Another problem with continually falling in the silt I that I always fell to the left, burying the air cleaner side of the bike into the dust. Causing it to plug and choke.

Just a few miles before the 4^th pit, I came upon a famous dry lakebed, a smooth surface that was supposed to enable me to achieve “maximum flat out speed”. Maximum flat out speed on our XR650 is approximately 105 M.P.H. However, due to the excessive dust from the bikes and quads ahead of me, I was unable to go that fast. Maybe old age and intelligence had a part, as well.

A few side notes on demoralizing factors of my race;

Tim passed 21 riders before giving the bike to me. Tim is a much faster rider than me; so all 21 of those riders passed me. Also, Tim didn’t veer off course as much as many of the experts that were ahead of him, so he beat them to the second pit, where he turned the bike over to me. I was then passed by all of them as well. So, I started my leg of the race with the words “I passed 21 guys” ringing in my ears, and was promptly passed by much more than that.

I have ridden in the desert for many years, and had never encountered silt like that before. The first time I tried to go after getting upright, the front wheel was literally stuck in the silt. I was afraid of the silt for the rest of the day, and slowed down every time I got to it.

I didn’t realize until later in the race that I could ride off the road to the side and avoid the deep silt. Chock that up to a rookie mistake.

Gordie took over at pit 4 for me. Thank God, as I was exhausted. Was the whole race going to be like this? If so, we would finish in around three days! Fortunately, it wasn’t. However, each leg had its challenges.

Gordie’s challenge came in the form of a flat tie. Worse still, it was a front tire. A rear flat will cause the back of the bike to slew back and forth, but a front flat will cause the front to slew, veering the rider off the trail, or causing the bike to cross rut, and sending the rider on a little trip to the earth. Gordie however, rode his leg like a champ. In one section he demonstrated the phenomenon of gyroscopic flat tires. That is, a tire will acts flat and floppy, giving the rider all kinds of grief, and get worse and worse the faster he goes. However, when the tire rotation reaches a certain speed, the centrifugal force pushes the tire out and it acts inflated. Gordie was able to do this on a fire road, getting up to full speed, approximately 105 M.P.H., for a good eight miles or so. Thank God Gordie is nuts. It helped our time a lot.

My challenge (besides exhaustion and the 7 falls previously described) was discouragement. At mile 300, as I was riding along, I heard a noise behind me, and looked to see the first truck had caught us! The truck was RIGHT behind me- not more than 10 feet, and was quite anxious to pass me, as he was the leader. The section we were in was a tight road with big rocks on either side- no place to pull off and let him by! Finally, I found a LITTLE wide spot and let him by. As I waited for his dust to settle around me so I could see, discouragement, fear and exhaustion settled around me as well.

Soon another truck passed me, and I realized that the next 226 miles would be raced with trucks. I had around five miles to the next pit, and it was just a fuel stop. I was supposed to race the next leg as well, another 26 miles. I decide that if a truck didn’t kill me, I would get off at the next pit and give the bike to Tim. I just couldn’t go any further. I was the anchor to the team. I had let them down. There was no way I’d finish this race. Tim and Gordie would have to do it. As I reached the pit, I saw Tim without his gear on- wearing a t-shirt! He looked me in the eye and said, “Good job, Dad! You’re doing great! Go for it!” In a few short seconds I had a full fuel tank and clean goggles, and was off again! It was an amazing transformation because of those few quick words of encouragement. I began to race again, and not just trail ride! I could do this deal! When I heard a truck, I would just pull over and let him by and then race again! Thank you Tim!

Tim’s challenge came in the form of a missing contact lens. Oh, did I mention that it was dark at the time? Or that the light was messed up, and was pointing at the Big Dipper? That was certainly a tough section! Gordie and Tim were able to get the light in a reasonable condition to illuminate the trail; however it was so dim that you could overdrive the light at just about any speed. Those factors cost us dearly, and Tim was pretty discouraged after that section.

The night took its toll on all of us, as it was so hard to see, we were so tired, and it had been a very long day with a long night to go. However, we continued onward, remembering our goal to finish the race.

My teammates were kind enough to let me race the final leg, and I will always be grateful for that. As they handed the bike over at the last pit, slapping me on the back, we knew we were going to finish this race! Only 26 miles to go! I rode carefully, as it was difficult to see, and I didn’t want to screw up on the last leg. One kind fellow with a Baja light slowed and rode with me for quite some time, which was a great help. Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer, and rode on ahead. I don’t blame him, and I sure appreciated the help! A few miles later I came upon him and a truck. The truck had stopped because a rider had been lying in the road unconscious when they came upon him. Lucky they saw him. He had come around by the time I got there, and had started his bike and took off like a shot. What a race.

There is really no adequate way to describe the finish of a race such as this. Fifteen hours and fifty seven minutes after starting this race, I rode the bike to the finish area, where I was first congratulated personally by Casey Folks, the promoter, and given three little pins, one for each rider, commemorating our finish. Then I ride the bike up onto an elevated platform, where an M.C. interviews me. All my team is with me, as we celebrate our moment of glory! We have done it! We have finished the Vegas to Reno race! People are cheering, the team, elated, are congratulating each other, and it’s over!

Why would people do a thing like this? Why spend all the time and money preparing and racing in such a mad venue? I think we need challenges in life to really see just what we can accomplish. I know the reward is great when a goal is accomplished, and a team pulls together to make it happen. Perhaps it is because so few people can say that they have raced and finished an event such as this. I know for me it was one of the highlights of my life, something so rewarding and exhilarating, that it was worth every penny, every minute, every drop of sweat spent to achieve it. Achieve what? A three-dollar pin? A printed line in the results, 63^rd out of 104? Nope. Just an extremely high goal, well accomplished. Thanks and congratulations to all on the team.

Racing Dangers

Well, we all know that motorcycle racing is dangerous, but what is the most dangerous part? Some would say the high speed sections, others might say rocky areas, and perhaps silt would be a good answer. But I think the absolute most dangerous part of motorcycle racing is loading the bike in the pickup. See? You agree, don’t you? Everyone reads this and says to themselves, “Yeah, now that you mention it, it is the worst, most dangerous part,” because they remember a particularly bad time.

I had one unloading the bike, which is stupider, because I can’t blame exhaustion for the calamity. Loading the bike after the race can have any number of disasters due to Loader Fatigue Syndrome, or LFS. But no, I was unloading the bike, fresh as a daisy, in the parking lot of the Suncoast Casino, getting ready for Best in the Desert’s “Vegas to Reno”. This was our first Best in the Desert race, and the team was very excited about it. I pulled off the straps and started backing the bike down the ramp.

“Shouldn’t you be on the other side?” Gordie, my nit-picky racing partner asked.

“No, this is fine, AAAWWW!”

I dropped our nice new XR650 Honda right in the parking lot. Nice. 500 mile race, and the bike is on the asphalt, leaking fluids out of various orifices.

“Nice shot!” some guy yells from down the aisle. Jerk. This will take some time with my therapist, I think.

Another fine example of motorcycling danger was my good friend Jerry Stanley. No! I mean Oscar Figglewitz. When I say Oscar Figglewitz, do not think, “Jerry Stanley!” Anyway, Jer- I mean, Oscar had gotten into the truck to unload the bikes, and he bent over with his chest over the wonderful, extremely hard Scotts steering dampener and pressed the release on the strap. Slam! The bike released, shot up and nailed him right in the chest. Oscar said some words then that were quite intense and not meant for the company of ladies and children, but let’s just say he said “ouch” with enthusiasm.

Putting the bike on a center stand is dangerous, particularly with LFS. It’s kind of a clean-and-jerk move. However, just as the bike reaches its apex and you throw it over the center stand, any number of things can happen. On concrete, the stand can slide horizontally away, and you are left in the apex with a snap decision; do I try to throw the bike a little more and catch the stand, or drop the bike and try again? Sometimes NO decision is reached, and you compromise, which means you semi throw the bike, it catches on the corner, and falls on your leg. The worst example of this was in 1986, when Fred Migwortz in Lexington, Kentucky did the compromise move and got stuck under his bike. He was there for two weeks, surviving only on seat foam and water. His interview went like this;

“Yeah, well I wuz stuck under that thang fer two weeks. What cud I do? It wuz a 490 Yamaha, and weighed around 400 pounds, give er take. I couldn’t do nothin’ and nobudy came to help me, so I thought, “Geez, I’m either going to have to cut off my arm an eat it, or snack on seat foam.” Wall, I didn’t have no knife, so I couldn’t cut off my arm. Lucky I run straight water in the thang, or I’d of died fer sure, drinkin’ coolant. It wuz pretty good, except it tasted like rust. Finally, the repo guy comes to git the trailer, and as they say, the rest is history.”

The story sounded fishy to me, particularly because the 490 was air cooled. Maybe Fred drank his fork oil, I don’t know.

How about loading your tool box in the truck? Someday I may take mine to a truck scale to see just how much it weighs. But you know the challenge; you must bring everything, because sure enough, if you leave it home, you will need it. So I bring the clutch perch from my ’71 Bultaco Pursang, the fender bracket from my ’91 KDX250, and the battery box cover from my ’66 Honda S90. I just know they will come in handy someday, right? So, I usually try to get five friends to load it like a casket into a hearse.

I think the most dangerous part of motorcycle racing is pretty women. Absolutely, most dangerous. Because whatever we are doing, if a pretty girl is watching, we will screw it up. Or, we try to impress her with our skills, and it will really backfire on us. Best example, Ralph Warlick, 1974, after the Castle Rock half-mile race. He had a nice 650 Triumph Bonneville. If you don’t know what a Triumph Bonneville is, better ask your dad. Okay, ask your grandfather. Anyway, Ralph had just won the Junior Open class, and was riding back to his pickup with his trophy in his right arm. Right by his pickup were two very attractive girls, both with the most beautiful pair of huge, round, um, brown eyes you ever have seen! Anyway, Ralph was feeling pretty cool, so as he rode up to his pickup, he noticed that the ramp was on his tailgate, ready to load his bike.

Back in the day, a ramp was a 2 by something. More than a 2 by 4, but would be a 2 by 6, or 8. Ralph’s was a 2 by 8. They had nothing to attach to the truck, just a board. Covered with oil from years of leaking. Leaking oil was a Triumph tradition.

Well, old Ralph decided to ride the bike up into the truck. He gunned the engine, spun the back tire, and hit the ramp. The girls took notice. Ralph was liking this! However, he failed to realize he was hitting the ramp crossed up. And, too fast. When those Avon tires hit the ramp, Ralph did the first nac-nac in bike history! Only no one knew what a nac-nac was. The bike flew through the air, crossed up fashion, and the front tire shot sideways straight through the back window. Ralphie flew over the bars, did a complete somersault over the roof of the truck and landed- SLAM!- flat on his back on the hood of his ’67 Ford F100. Now he had the girls’ full attention. Time stood still. Thankfully, the engine died on the bike. Little pieces of glass fell onto the truck bed. Ralph lay on the hood, spread eagle, looking up at the sky. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably 10 seconds, he took a deep breath, which was good, because it had really knocked the wind out of him. The next few seconds were crucial for Ralph. He had to keep his composure and be cool!

Old Ralph slid off the hood and managed to land on his feet. He staggered to the passenger side of the truck, and grabbed the handlebar. He wiggled it a little, put his hands on his hips, nodded and said, “Yep, she’s secure.” Ralph walked around the other side, jumped in the truck and drove off. Very impressive.

I think Ralph really would have pulled it off, had he not driven over his trophy on the way out.

My Wife and My Mistress

I have a confession to make. I have a wife and a mistress. It is a tortured life, and I would like to tell you about it. Let me start by introducing them both.

Fist, my wife; She is dependable, loyal, hard working, forgiving, and friendly. She is very patient with me, and loves me unconditionally. Who could ask for anything more? Who would?

Now, my mistress; She is wild. She is crazy. She is mean and selfish. Life with her is no fun unless it is frighteningly exciting. Who could ask for anything like that? Who would?

My wife is a Honda XR400. What a great dirt bike! It runs dependably, climbs hills effortlessly, and handles well. And it has a soft seat. That’s important when you’re old. Okay, older.

My mistress is a Yamaha YZ450F. What a fabulous motorcycle! It is fast, handles incredibly, and is state of the art. It has a hard seat. Did I mention it is fast? It is fast.

When I go into the garage, this is what it is like with my wife;

(Enter Kevin into garage)

Wife; “Hi, Kevin! Do you want to go riding today? It’s Sunday afternoon, and the sun is out. I sure could use a nice, easy run in the desert. How about it?”

Me; “You know, that does sound like fun. Let me ask Sherri. (The Real Wife)

It is quite different with my mistress;

(Enter Kevin into Garage)

Mistress; “Hey Doug, let’s go riding and you can show me your stuff, fast boy.” (She always calls me Doug, as in Doug Henry, outdoor Motocross champion, who won the season championship on a Yamaha similar to her.) This wouldn’t be bad, except for her smarmy voice when she does it. “Come on, Doug, you can go faster than that” or “That was a jump? Come on, Doug!”)

Me; “Um, well, it’s Friday afternoon, and Sherri (the Real Wife) and I are going-“

Mistress; “Come on, Doug, let’s just go!”

Me; “We’re going out to dinner.”

Mistress; “Coward.”

Me “Besides, it’s 104 degrees out!”

Mistress; “I’m water cooled. I don’t care. As opposed to her.” The Honda. She hates the Honda. She would like me to leave the Honda for her.

So you see it’s a tortured life. The wife or the mistress.

The wife likes long, easy rides. She likes hill climbing, too. And, she has a soft seat. That’s important when you’re old like me.

The mistress likes going fast. Scary fast. And she knows how to make me do it, too. The easiest way is to have me ride around other people. An older person on a slower bike works well. But she can do it other ways, too. All I have to do is ride anywhere- anywhere! - And she says, “Is that the best you can do…Doug?” She likes a fast, insane life. Why am I so attracted to her? Perhaps it is because she makes me feel so young. But always- always! -she makes me feel stupid. I hate that! Take, for instance, low speed flameouts. Her specialty. First gear, crawling along, gas it, and she coughs and falls on her face. (Actually, I fall over the bars.) It takes a wild man to hold her interest!

The wife is well mannered. If I fall off while riding , she is quick to ask if I’m okay. The mistress will scream that her radiator is dented, or something. Then, she’ll make me go through a hot-starting procedure. She is unforgiving. The wife would start with the least effort! Did I mention the mistress is fast?

In the mistress’ defense, however, she can make me look good, even at an old age. Skipping through rutted trails (not deep ones!), she handles just great. Sliding through turns is a blast! My son and his friends are envious of me. They wish they could afford a mistress. They don’t know what they wish for.

She makes me work for her affections. I must stand almost always, as she has a very hard seat, and stiff suspension. Most of the time, I must hang on for dear life, as well, since we are going fast. Scary fast.

The wife is comfortable to be with, at any speed. She likes to go slow or fast, unless of course it is a rutted section, then she will want it to be a tad slower. She also has a kickstand, which is almost as important as a soft seat. That’s important when you’re old like me.

So you see, it is a tortured life. The Wife, or the Mistress. The mature, enduring, dependable wife, who knows I am aged and loves me anyway, or the mistress, the wild and crazy, fun-loving maniac who is in denial that I’m elderly, and will probably be the death of me. What a tortured life.

(Written with humble apologies to Sherri, my Real Wife of 33+ years. There has been no mistress.)

My Favorite Things

In “The Sound of Music” Julie Andrews sings of a few of her “favorite things,” like “bright paper packages tied up with strings,” and “snowflakes that fall on your nose and eyelashes.” If you don’t know what movie I’m talking about, go ask your mother. Okay, ask your grandmother. Anyway, I thought it would be nice to share a couple of my favorite things.

Motorcycles. Which is my favorite? I’m like a Golden Retriever on this one. You know what they are like. They love any person that happens to be petting them at the time. I’m the same. If I’m riding my WRF450, I am definitely in love with that bike. It does so many things well, like climb hills littered with 80s and 125s. That what those kids get for passing me. The happy button is pretty cool too. Ask your grandpa if he know what a happy button does.

My Honda CRF 250EX is wonderful as well. Awesome! It is so light and nimble! I’ve done enough mods to make it snappy as well. It’s a great MRAN racer, especially in the tight stuff. The 450 is good for the Alamo to Caliente stuff.

But if I happen to be on my XR 400 Honda, I love it too! I call it the “Lazy Boy,” because it’s like riding a recliner. Air cooled, soft seat, heavy and slow, mushy suspension, the works. But it is wonderful for just going out and having fun. And so dependable~. And you can kick start it! So, my favorite motorcycle is whatever one I’m on at the moment. As long as I’m on one, right?

Favorite place to ride. It has to be above my house at Lone Mountain, only because I can get there easily and ride there a lot. It’s familiar and comfortable, like old riding boots. I can ride washes, roads, single tracks, nasty hills, just about anything. But my absolute favorite section to ride? It’s a two-mile section above a wash that is a widened single track with tons of whoops. I don’t know why, but I can rip in that section! I can hit areas in third and fourth gears and skip over whoops and fly for a bit. For a few minutes I feel like Russell Pearson. Yeah, right!

Favorite MRAN racecourse? Man. That’s a tough one. Lately, I’d say the Caliente desert grand prix. That was a good mix of stuff, and the water crossings were a blast! I probably like it because I can still remember it.

Favorite MRAN race? This year, the SNDR Danny Hammel race. Bandit and I fought hard for miles before he left me behind on the first loop. Drat! It was a war of attrition as he broke his arm before finishing. (Not THAT arm, the prosthetic arm). I was happy just to finish that race. It was long and tough.

Favorite non MRAN race? Has to be Best in the Desert’s Vegas to Reno. Everyone should do that once in their life. Don’t take it lightly; it is one tough race. But there is nothing- absolutely nothing- that compares to finishing a race that long. What a sense of accomplishment! It is awesome to be on a team as well, enjoying the thrill of being part of a group that works together for the common goal.

Favorite time to ride? Anytime! Just this year I’ve ridden in rain, snow, sun, thunderstorms, cloudy and clear, temperatures from below freezing to 105 and more. As long as I’m riding, right? But my favorite time of day to ride is just at sunset at the end of a long ride. Out with my buddies, everybody rode hard, no injuries (well no major injuries), everyone’s bike is running good, and it’s time to head back to the trucks, as Mr. Sun is going to bed. The air is cooling, and everyone is feeling great. Everything, even the air, seems to be lightly airbrushed with a warm amber hue. Riding along, I can see my shadow long ahead of me, and shadows of my dust dance on the ground as well. Now the sun has just set behind us, and the opposite sky is a dark blue fading to fuchsia over the mountains. I can feel the sweat starting to cool on my back, and look forward to a fresh one from the cooler. The gang is cruising along on autopilot, feeling like the guys at the end of “On Any Sunday,” just playing around and heading back. Man, what a great time.

“When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad,

I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so bad.”

You got that right, Julie.