November 1971 - From The Saddle
November 1971 - Volume 1, Issue 6
AFTER THE RACE
By Rick Sieman/November 1971/Dirt Bike
(Notes: When I started racing desert on a regular basis, I developed friendships with guys I raced with, some which last to this very day. And back then, there was a fierce brand loyalty that you just do not see today. Oddly enough, this old column was very, very prophetic, in that I felt that ours might be the last generation to be able to ride on open public land. Anyway, for those of you too young to race back then, this was the way it was at those rest stops before and after the races. Hell, it almost makes me want to drive to a Denny's and strike up a conversation with anybody with a motorcycle t-shirt.)
Some of the best moments a rider spends are not those on the track, but before and after the event.
Take a typical Sunday. My old buddy Tom and I loaded up the van before the sun rose and headed out for the desert to ride a European scrambles. We always leave early. This way, we never run into any churchgoers clogging the roads. Once we got clear of Plastic-town, the sun was just starting to peek over the hills. It was going to be hot later on .
A few miles down the road we saw the big sign off to the left: “Denny's Restaurant - open 24 hours.” There were already some vans, pickups, campers and trailers in the parking lot. Most of them had bikes loaded on them and decals on the windows proclaiming loyalty to one or another brand.
Some of the vehicles were ones we recognized instantly; their owners were familiar, many of the names were not known. Instead, we called each other by the bike we rode.
As we pulled into the parking lot, some of the riders in the restaurant waved a hello. We waved back. When we walked inside, we were greeted with, “Hey, howya doin ', Greeves? Think that old sled'll finish today?”
This demanded a good solid retort “Gosh, I don't know. You see, I put a set of Bultaco handlebars on.. The bike might have picked up a case of the dry rot just from coming in contact with that Spanish pot metal.”
This brought forth a collection of assorted boos and hisses from the Bul riders.
“Anyway,” I continued, “you can't bad mouth my old Greeves any more. I honorably retired it and bought a 400 Maico .”
A Husky rider in the corner crunched up some crackers in his soup and said, “ Maico , break-o.”
The waitress broke up our verbal battle, and we ordered. Not a whole lot; just enough to take away the edge of the hunger and give us some energy to burn during the race. I ordered double ham and eggs, french fries and a steak sandwich.
“Jesus, Super Hunky, are you planning on hibernating for the winter?” asked the skinny Montesa rider.
I ignored this crude remark.
After a leisurely breakfast, everyone headed for the road and the race. It was a long, long drive out to the course, maybe 120 miles. They seem to get farther out every week as the land crush grows greater. I have a funny feeling that ours may be the last generation to be able to ride freely on open land.
The pits were crowded and nobody seemed to know where sign-up was, so we just stumbled around until we found it. Bikes were everywhere - and so were the freaky pit-racers. Eight million miles of open land, and these idiots have to do their thing in the pits.
Funny thing: Most of the pit racers seem to be members of the pimple set. Guess when a guy grows up a little, he realizes how stupid and dangerous pit racing can be.
The race for the open class was flagged off at one o'clock sharp and took about an hour to complete. It was a neat course, except for the ever-present bad dust. My new bike felt good. I think I might have gone a little faster, but that damn breakfast kept making me belch every time I went over the whoop-de-doos . Musta been that fourth cup of coffee. Tom had some trouble with his CZ and placed well back in the pack. This was a real shame, because he'd been about third at the first check.
After the race, we peeled off our sweaty gear and inhaled some cold Gatorade and beer.
Loading up the machines seemed to take longer than usual, probably because the sun was high and hot and we were tired. After tying down everything, we headed down the dusty secondary road toward the main highway.
On the way back, we bench raced and took turns driving. Somehow, when you talk about a race afterward, it takes on a whole different light. That horrendous downhill that scared hell out of me every loop now became “neat.” And those leg burning whoop-do-doos became “just the thing to give the suspension a good workout.”
We compared the course to others we had ridden and did some mutual bitching about some of its bad points.
I sometimes wonder if there is such a thing as the “perfect course.”
About an hour and a half later, we pulled up in front of Denny's again. Most of the same crowd was there, and the bench racing started in earnest:
“How'd you guys like that fun downhill?”
“ Whatsamatter , can't you keep that CZ running?”
“I don't know howinnahell I missed that second check!”
And so forth.
Eventually, everyone started heading for home in little clusters, leaving tightly knit groups bending each other's ears. We left later than we had planned, regretting foolish promises to our wives about being home early enough to do something-or-other.
Back in the van, this time with the sun in our eyes and traffic getting thicker, we headed back home. It had been a good day. We looked at the other cars on the road alongside our van, and the occupants stared at us like we were freaks. Filthy, red-eyed, unkempt freaks.
Yeah, I guess we were. But it was worth it. I guess it always will be to the dirt rider.
- Rick 