January 1972 - From The Saddle
January 1972 - Volume 2, Issue 1
TORSTEN HALLMAN JOCKEY SHORTS
MAKE YOU GO FAST
By Rick Sieman/January 1972/Dirt Bike
(Notes: This was my first attempt at a pure humor column. OK, I know it was a bit on the corny side, but hey … I was still learning how to write. At least it made some kind of point. I think.)
Eight months solid: Every weekend for eight months, never missing a race day. That's how long a period of time my old buddy Tom and I went doing nothing but racing.
It wasn't “Hey, Tom, are you gonna race this Sunday?” — it was “Hey, Tom, which race should we hit this Sunday?”
We both had fairly reliable bikes and generally finished every race, sometimes doing well, other times not so well. We'd decided, that to improve our riding skills, we would enter every race possible.
No more trail riding or fun riding for us. Nosiree , by gawd , we were going to be racer types—or break in the process.
So we started in earnest. One weekend, it'd be a motocross , the next a Hare ‘n' Hound and the one after that, a European Scrambles.
In between all of this, we'd catch a scrambles or a Grand Prix or damn near anything. It was fun, good hard fun. And we improved quickly. The hands got toughened up and our legs got in shape.
We got to the point where we charged for longer periods of time without getting burned out. There were crashes, but nothing serious enough to prevent us from riding the next weekend.
Then something strange started to happen: riding was no longer fun. We became too serious. If I didn't do well at a race, I became a miserable s.o.b . to be around during the next week. Same with Tom.
We got to the point where we became almost paranoid. We rode in the same class and spent a great deal of time clashing with each other over ownership of a few square feet of ground in a corner. More than once, both bikes went down because neither guy would back off heading into the same line.
The culmination of this irrational behavior happened at a European Scrambles near the town of Mojave. At 11 o'clock sharp, the banner dropped and our class ripped off the line, heading for the smoke bomb.
It was a rotten course, loaded with rocks and powdery silt. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tom's CZ right on my tail. More throttle. Couldn't let him pass.
By the time we passed the first check, traffic had thinned out and we had a first-class bash going on. I'd pass him, then he'd pass me. We both took stupid chances, jumping road crossings in heavy dust, blasting blindly through brush and stuff like that.
At the end of two laps, we were still side by side, neither one of us giving ground.
As we crested the top of the big hill and started to descend, Tom screwed it on and burst past me. Downhills were, and still are, my weak spot. He slithered and lurched and bounced down that incredibly steep grade, pulling me by a hundred yards in the process. A hundred yards that would be difficult to make up. I cursed under my breath and settled down for a long chase.
Then it happened.
His front wheel caught a rock, the CZ shuddered, stood drunkenly up on its front wheel, then endoed, pitching Tom over the bars. He hit heavily, and the bike landed on him.
I roared by, barely giving a glance. Open up a big lead, I thought, get way ahead and he'll never catch me.
About one minute later, I realized something. That was my buddy back there on the ground. What in the hell was I doing still racing, when he could be back there busted up— maybe busted bad?
I stopped, turned the bike around. on a small ridge and looked back.
Very hard. No Tom, no bright-red CZ. I got off the course and worked my way back to the base of the big hill.
He was still there and the CZ was on the ground, belly up. Tom was out. Really out. I took off his helmet and checked him out. No blood. Nothing sticking out at funny angles.
About this time, he shaped up and came out of it. He'd just been stunned out. Two minutes later, he got his wind back and was walking around.
The bike was a mess. Bars bent, dinged tank, torn seat, sheared cables and generally busted all over. I took the tow rope from my bike, hooked it up and towed him back in.
On the way back home, we rapped about the day's events. Tom summed it up: “You know, we've been playing this racing bit too hard. We're in a big rut. Hell, it's not even fun any more. I was trying to run you right off the course today, and that ain't the way it should be.”
The next few weekends, we went trail riding and fun riding. And you know what? We had a good time. No more blood and guts, kill or be killed riding.
Now we have a different attitude about racing and riding. We still race, generally three weekends out of a month. But every once in a while, we say the hell with it—and ride for fun. It keeps your mind fresh and makes both facets of riding seem better.
If you're in the racing rut, you owe it to yourself to break loose once in a while.
You might even like it.
- Rick 