clawbikes

1987 Honda CR125

2011-02-06T06:11:00.000-08:00

This picture was taken at the famous Mammoth Mountain Motocross race in 1988. I am aboard one of the best all-around bikes I have owned, a 1987 Honda CR125. Pre-race nerves aside, and notwithstanding the awesome "Team Fat Boy Nervous" hat I am wearing, I was fully in my element. Moments like this are what I have always lived for, even though I must admit some anxiety, nerves, excess adrenaline, butterflies and apprehension as I went through preparations for the race.

This race was a big deal for me and my buddies. We had, of course, read about the Mammoth race for years and always wanted to sample the legendary track nestled in the confines of the Mammoth Mountain ski resort in Northern California. Every motocross racer who ever rolled a knobby in the dirt knows about Mammoth and for many it is truly the one "must attend" event of the year, a chance to get out of the summer heat, and away from the dry, dusty tracks of Utah, left behind for the cool climes and rich, loamy soil of the high mountains. A chance to roost on hallowed ground that was the playground of so many of our heroes like Jeremy McGrath, Ron Lechien, Ryan Hughes, Doug Dubach and almost any other up-and-coming motocross idol you can name.

The Honda 125s of the late 1980s were super great bikes. They had been spawned from the omnipotent Honda works bikes of the mid eighties, super trick hand-made creations that were hewn from the most exotic materials and with technology that pushed the boundaries of performance and refinement. Honda was known for being the gold standard in quality and speed ever since the early Elsinores invaded the scene in the early 1970s. The production bikes that were offered to the hungry local racers, especially the 1986 and 1987 models, were solid handlers, tight turning, fairly stable, and had quick mid-range-and-up motors. The suspension was good in stock form, but my bike had something special: an Ohlins shock.

I can't take credit for the great modifications this bike already had when I bought it from my good friend Mark. It had been massaged by a great local tuner named Perry Payton (no relation to Mitch) who worked with some of Utah's top pros. Mark always liked to have the best equipment and partnering with Perry was a natural, producing some really smooth and fast motorcycles we were all envious of. By the time I got my claws on it, the lightly-used Honda was ready to rock, well-broken in and meticulously maintained. That easy life all changed when I got it as much happy roosting and berm-bashing ensued.

I was always more of a rider than a wrench. I will say that I was good about keeping the oil changed and new tires installed, but for the most part maintenance was just a necessary evil to keep me in the saddle and doing laps. The life that was left in the mechanicals was the currency I spent on fun, and the ebbing usefulness could be felt draining from one's sled as the months passed, ever advancing to the inevitable rebuild.

That point came in the last few weeks leading up to the spot on the calendar that we had marked off as THE event of the century, the much-anticipated Mammoth Mountain Motocross. As I was making my preparations for this monumentous occasion, I realized the transmission was in need of some attention. I think it was some missed gears, or maybe just some hesitation when the shift lever was forced upward in search of forward thrust, but something was amiss and the timing could not have been worse.

This chapter in my moto-history was post-serious racing. I had long since stopped racing every weekend and had been more of a "practice" rider with some events thrown in just to give the activity some purpose. I had been racing in some +25 veteran class events for the last couple of years and was clearly past my prime as far as speed was concerned. But the fire for the sport still burned bright in me, as it still does to this day. I have always loved the preparations and the ever-narrowing focus that comes from setting a race goal and putting myself on the start line to do battle. There are always moments leading up to the race that cause you to wonder just what the heck you are doing, and if all the emotions, sweaty palms and nervousness are worth it.

This photo reminds me of an exquisite irony I encountered there at Mammoth Mountain. I had spent weeks carefully attending every detail of my race preparation. I rebuilt the transmission on that Honda. I cleaned and re-cleaned every nook and cranny. I had new tires with new tubes just be be safe. I had every spare part you could reasonably carry to California. Every tool was polished and nestled in my tool box. Every detail was inventoried, checked, double-checked and rallied to the cause.

I was as ready as you could be for this race. And I was super wound up as you might be able to see in the photo. Tight was maybe a better word, and I rode like it. It was one of those races that seems like you are just flying at top speed as you are being passed right and left by everyone you were ahead of off the start. I was blowing through berms, braking half way down the big downhill, skimming the jumps, all the while gripping the bars with an iron grip. I had a predictably poor finish and was, honestly happy to get off the track with my good health intact.

As I was riding my shiny bike back to the pits, I noticed a local California racer unloading his bike from the back of his pickup truck. His Yamaha was a couple of hard-ridden years old, and dirty as it could be with mud and dust sticking to every surface. He was wheeling the bike down an aged piece of wood that was as grimy and scarred as a loading ramp could be and as he reached the mid way point of his offloading precedure, the whole carcass of a bike slumped off the side of that rickety ramp and thumped to the ground, chunks of debris flying. Just another race day for that guy. Oh and he was relaxed, joking with his buds and grinning away. It left an impression on me and I vowed to never lose sight of having fun again.

1986 Kawasaki KX125

2010-12-19T06:19:00.000-08:00

On my long list of bikes I've owned (look to the right side of this blog in case you haven't noticed) there is only one Kawasaki. It's no reflection on the brand, they are good bikes. I flirted with getting a KX125 back in 1978 when I was shopping around that year. The 1978 bike was very fast. It had a case-induction motor that used a side-mounted impeller to induct gas directly into the bottom end and made some great low-end power (for a 125).

Most of the 125 we were used to riding and racing were woefully deficient of any low-end power. The Hondas we had grown up racing had a sort of insistent, albeit weak, winding powerband that started off with literally nothing on bottom (the clutch was the prime motivator if you ever fell off the power), a noticable rush of power in the midrange and steadily ascending into what amounted to a shreik at the very top.

The Kawasakis were known for making good power at the lower reaches of the powerband. This style of power paid off for the brand for a few great years, and by 1984 or so they were competitive, if not dominant, players in 125 racing.

This particular 1986 Kawasaki entered my life during a long, non-current, and financially broke period of my young adult life. I believe at the time the only motorcycle I owned was my old 1978 Maico which was hopelessly outdated and, frankly, embarassing to be seen on. I had no money for more current iron, but I did have a desire—and was also ambitious and clever, having developed some keen motorcycle-acquiring skills that were honed over the years of dreaming from one bike to the next.

I was able to work out a trade for some design work with a man named John Maughan who's son Corky was the number 1 pro in 1986. I think this bike was given to Corky from some kind of shop sponsorship and since he was now on something newer and certainly better, this unloved, slightly dog-eared, and wrung-out machine was, at least to John, expendable. John owned the local motocross paper, Utah Cycle News, at the time and was looking to upgrade the look. I was looking to upgrade my mode of recreation, so a deal was struck.

Corky was a fast rider and had won the number 1 plate against the best Utah (and regional) competition at the time. The bike, as mentioned, was well-used but must have been well broken in because it seemed that all the parts, while loose and slapping against each other, all moved in an easy, slick and free revving manner. It was as if the moving parts all wore out at the same rate, creating a harmony of function that made a lot of noise but got that green bike moving in a hurry.

One thing that certainly contributed to the speed of the motor was the fact that John was a big engine tuner, and the cylinder on that bike contained some amazing boost ports that were cut into the cases at the induction. As I recall, the cylinder was ported to the extent that there was as much hole as cylinder wall, normally a recipe for disaster. I think the basic engine design was reliable, and also the Maughan's were sponsored by a shop, so replacement parts were plentiful, and since Corky was racing every weekend they had plenty of opportunity to break and replace parts. But nonetheless, this bike was well wrung out by the time I got it. In fact, every part moved in ways not originally intended.

I got many hours of riding this bike at tracks like "56" (shown) and one thing I remember was how insanely fast it was and that it handled very well if you knew how to ride it. The Kawasakis from 1986 were very advanced bikes at the time. The 1985 bike was a "factory works" replica that came to the public in a very advanced design, and the 1986 bikes had built on that design. I think the handling and steering were a little unorthodox, at lease as compared to the other 125s at that time. The Hondas and Suzukis had very quick steering and were a little busy at speed as a consequence. The Yamahas had always been "rear end" handlers that you would slide through the corners. The Kawasaki had a slightly "unhinged" feel to it in the corners with the bike able to turn a fairly tight line, but also posessed good stability on the fast sections. It was a little unusual to get used to, but actually worked very well once you forgot about it.

1984 Suzuki RM125

2010-12-18T14:55:00.000-08:00

The RM125s of the early 1980s had terrific rear suspension, cleverly named the Full Floater because the shock was isolated from solid connection to any hard frame parts by a linkage and a "dog bone" strut that was attached to the forward part of the swingarm. The strut pushed up on a pivot which transferred the forces down to the shock and toward the ground. This was one ground-hugging set up at a time when the motorcycle companies were still experimenting with different suspension systems.

I had been watching these bikes in races over the last couple of years, and even though their motors were not the fastest 125s at the time (I believe the Yamahas were king) the handling and suspension were great. I remember seeing Doug Dubach racing his 1981 Full Floater at Manning in a pro race. He was known for using his 1981 bike for several years after it was introduced, even though there were newer bikes out. Dubach was a journeyman pro paying his dues, and would go on to become a successful Yamaha factory rider, and would eventually reach the pinnacle of the sport with his win of an AMA supercross.

I had been admiring the Full Floaters from afar, and riding my Maico. I had a soft spot for the little yellow bikes, and wanted to get back to riding 125 after several years of riding 250s. So I went out and bought a new 1984 RM125 from Jack Overfield at State Sport. Excited for the maiden voyage on my new sled, I went up to one of my favorite tracks at point of the mountain, down below Widowmaker in the foothills. I was happy and pumped but I had no idea what I was in for with this bike.

It was trouble from the very beginning. I think it was the first ride, to be fair, that set the course for many mechanical problems that totally drove me crazy—riding was my thing, not wrenching.

What transpired on that first ride was I was just getting going around the rolling track and liking the killer rear suspension. Yes it worked with controlled precision just like I imagined. But, as I went through one particular G-out on the course, a dip with a small jump after, the back wheel suddenly stopped solid. Skidding to a stop, I saw that the chain had wrapped itself around the countershaft sprocket and doubled up in front, the dreaded chain suck. It was wedged tightly between the engine cases and the countershaft, so much that I had to pry it out with a large screwdriver, praying I would not crack the pretty magnesium cases.

Shortly after this first mechanical glitch, the transmission started acting up, missing gears and generally causing headaches and grief. I had the transmission rebuilt, but right after that work was done I experienced a heartbreaker of a blow up when I was going through the gears and suddenly the entire gearbox just completely lunched. I could feel the metal grinding and grating
between my feet... what a sad moment.

There were short periods where the bike would run fine, and tease me with the fun factor of slamming through whatever bumps might be on the track. I had some fun races on the bike, including racing at a cool track at Mt. Carmel Utah (shown). But the motor never ran well, and the bike was never fast. I have had some bikes that were just naturally good running and some that were faster than others of the same model and year, but I would say that this one was not happy from the start. Probably had something to do with the maiden voyage and that chain suck incident.

The last time I rode this bike was at the same track at Widowmaker I started the whole sad affair at. It was not running well and as I rode it just started to get slower and slower. I was having to use the clutch to keep it cooking enough to even make it up some of the small hills on the track, but I was having fun riding and I was disgusted at the same time. I should have had some mercy and stopped, but I just didn't care. Any amount of affection or pity I would usually feel for one of my beloved motorcycles was not there that day as I just rode her into the ground. The motor eventually lost all compression and I was forced to push it back to the truck. A sad ending to what was probably a better bike than it ever got credit for being.

1981 Maico 250 Alpha 1

2010-11-27T18:54:00.000-08:00

I got this bike in 1983, bought as a new stock leftover bike Don Gibbs had on his showroom floor. Since there were newer models at the time, I remember it was a pretty good deal. I always liked the 1981 Maicos. I had a good eye for what I thought worked on a bike, and the '81s looked balanced and strong.

The 1981 bike sits right between 2 models that were kind of funky in my opinion. The previous year's (1980) Maicos were radically redesigned, with a banana-shaped frame that was supposed to make the bike sit low, even with the long (12"-ish) suspension on front and back. I imagine some people loved the bike, but I thought it looked too hooptie to be any good. And the 1982 bikes were radically redesigned from my bike and featured a single shock design that was a disaster in terms of performance and reliability. The factory had spec'd a defective part in the linkage that made the shocks blow out, and the rising rate was so harsh the suspension never worked very well.

Anyway, my acquisition turned out to be a great bike that I kept around for many years and rode through a very long "non-current" stage in my life. I thought it was a good riding bike, with a passably fast motor and good long-travel suspension. Of course, we wouldn't dare say anything bad about the famous Maico forks. Even if they did not perform the best, we probably thought they did.

I set a personal best long jump record on this bike, up on a hillside at Widowmaker (Draper) of over 100'. My buddy Doug was there, and he had the same bike as me. We were "brothers of the non-current Maicos" campaigning our red sleds across the state for practice sessions and whatever came up. We never failed to draw attention from the Japanese bike riding fellows on more up-to-date machinery. We were the subjects of a few snide comments, no doubt about it.

I had a humiliating experience on this bike I will never forget. Doug and I, along with some other friends signed up for the Marty Smith Motocross School, given by none other than our boyhood hero Marty Smith. This was a big event for us as we all were star struck to the max. Marty was cool, and we were all trying to impress the poor guy, or at lease not totally suck in front of him. Marty put on a great class, working around the track obstacles one at a time and we eventually came to the quad jump section, something to be feared by us who should have known better.

There was a certain peer pressure in the group as one by one the riders—starting with the best ones—followed Marty over those peaks, taking all four at once. It was a jump of maybe 30' - a prodigious distance for a shaky amateur on a large, lurching "non-current" bright red Maico.

It soon came my turn to attempt the leap. I would say I was somewhere in the middle in the pecking order as far as ability, and in spite of my trepidation and desire for self-preservation I finally went for it. I sacked up, and found, after a few sucessful tries you could just hit the right side of the first jump (it was a little taller) in the fat part of third gear on that Maico and you would clear the precipice no problem. It was kind of fun. But knowing how things sometimes go, I wisely stopped the rampage after maybe five times.

Satisfied I had safely conquered the challenge, I shut my bike off and watched the others ride the section. Doug my "Maico brother" rode up on his identical Maico and sized up the leap. He had not witnessed my graceful execution of the jumps just a few moments earlier, in fact it seemed like he didn't believe me when I told him. I decided to give him a demonstration of what a well-ridden Maico could do on the quad.

I started the bike and lined up for a run at the jumps. When it was clear, I dropped the clutch and shifted up and got right in the fat part of third gear at just the right time, then... silence. A total flame out at the worst possible moment, totally committed. I just hung on, clinching the seat as the front end dropped and dropped, right into the base of the third jump. The impact slid me forward on the seat, past the tank, and nut first right into the triple clamps. I did the classic body flop into the dirt, throwing a huge cloud of dust and anguish into the air right at Marty's feet. The hero and teacher just shook his head slowly. I had forgotten to turn the gas tap back on when I started my bike.

It was an amazing thing, totally spoding out in front of my boyhood hero. Stuff like that builds character. More recently, I have come to appreciate those humiliating times because they make a really great story, much more memorable than if I was just clearing those four jumps all day. And I bet Marty Smith has never forgotten it either.

Diamond in the Rough

2010-11-27T07:22:00.001-08:00

This was the second 1978 Maico 250 I owned, the same one that's in my garage right now. I resurrected this bike from a shed out behind the Maico dealership in around 1982. At the time, I was a poor college student and could not afford a new bike. Yes, I had fallen into "non current" status, an affliction that affects those who have fallen off the moto map.

But I still wanted a bike! Luckily for me, bikes of this era also fell off the moto map, and became devalued and unloved in just a matter of a couple of short years. When Don Gibbs unearthed this particular Maico from the confines of his storage, it was rusty, ridden hard and put away bent. It took a trained eye to see beneath the grime, but I knew what was there, and I liked it.

It had been used as a desert bike. For those in the know, desert bikes were usually somewhere South of the moto standard of sano. Duct tape, wire, dirt and a crazy set of super-wide "jack rabbit" handlebars adorned a sad looking carcass of a bike. I paid Gibbs $600 and took it home.

This bike gave me many hours of enjoyment, riding - but never racing - on a college student budget. Being "non current" meant being slightly embarrased when going riding with your more "current" buddies. Yes, I cared. I wished I had a more modern bike with which to roost, but alas...

The picture above was at the old Widowmaker track. Yes, there was an actual "official" motocross track on the site of the famous old-school hillclimb in the foothills of Draper. This had been the track I watched the Plumb brothers race back in 1972, the famous "Fire-O'Cross" race, the name coined by the incident where the grass parking lot caught on fire and almost burned up our little Ford truck. Quick action by my dad saved the day, he jumped into the truck as flames licked at the doors, started the hapless beast, and drove to safety.

I remember that Evel Kneivel was there that day to put on an exhibition. He did a cool wheelie right down the start straight to the delight of the crowd. There were some international stars there that day, too. I remember seeing Jimmy Weinert sitting by the side of the track, broken Kawasaki leaned over. When he took off his helmet, I could see the reality of the effort racing takes out in his red face and crusty residue.

These memories are faint but still there, as is the feeling I still get when I look over my old Maico. I am glad I looked deeper than the surface on this bike. It paid me back for my pity with some great memories and some red face and crust of my own, something I will always be thankful for.

Our Saddleback

2010-11-26T14:23:00.000-08:00

Manning Cycle Park was one of the "big" tracks we raced on in the 1970s, and was actually the site of an Inter-Am race, I believe in or around 1972. I was there that day, a 12 year old kid, watching the international motocross stars like "Jammin" Jimmy Weinert and Dutch transplant Pierre Karsmakers, as well as Utah rider Bob Plumb, and it left an impression on me.

Manning hosted some other big races over the years and was the site of many battles on the local scene as well. We loved coming to this place and did so every chance we got, to sample the roller-coaster layout, varied terrain, time-worn blue groove, rocky straights, and the signature obstacle: the big dropoff. It went like this: you rounded the first turn, a sharp right, and then immediately a left hand sweeper that shot you out onto a straight with 2 small jumps (The picture shows me on the 2nd of them) that immediately preceeded a 20 ft. drop. The dropoff was basically a catapult for the next immediate obstacle, a plateau jump (tabletop) that was approximately 1/2 the height of the drop. A real slingshot if taken at speed.

Legend was that at one time a rider from Utah had jumped off the dropoff and landed right on the plateau, a feat we all considered crazy. Something like that would have scared the heck out of us, but what is motocross, after all, if not a series of scary incidents all strung together?

Manning was as close as it got to a real, pro motocross course, at least on our small racing circuit. It was, in other words, as close as it got to Saddleback—mecca to all that was motocross racing in the 1970s. My best memories were watching Plumb skip over the back straight, his bike just touching down maybe twice, then disappearing over the hill only to reappear in the next sweeper, his speed was amazing. The fast guys at Manning just kept the speed high, taking the outside lines and blue-groove with their tires skimming over the hardpack. Momentum was the key.

I guess in that way, it was a little like the real Saddleback. The proving grounds for the fast and tough, nobody ever won here that didn't deserve at lease one of those titles. Some guys I saw win or impress here: Stan Wynhof, Doug Dubach, Larry Jensen, Bob Plumb, Gary Neff, Randy Sargent, Dale Bohm, Steve Liedberg, Jim West, Johnny Greenway, to name a few. The first turn is where I witnessed a dude riding a brand new Husky 125 (Yellow tank) pull the holeshot, slide out in the first turn, and proceed to beat his pretty painted gas tank to a mangled pulp right there in front of spectators, his parents, and the almighty. Wow.

Another time I watched as the winner of the 125 amateur class stopped a lap early to grab a cigarette, light it up, and ride his last lap with the smoke dangling from his lip. Classy. I saw a crazy pit-racing incident that probably surpasses any I have seen since when a supercharged 125 Novice, name withheld, who was riding a tricked out Honda with every mod just ripping wheelies and throwing rocks right through the center of the pits. Then the same guy went all ballistic and ran my buddy Randy right off the track in their race, forever going down in our history as one to be targeted for revenge. Memories.

It is crazy how, I could never remember something like my (ex) wife's birthday, but I remember every rut, rock and bump on some old race track from 30 years ago. I could ride this track in my sleep then, and I bet if I could ride it now I still would remember the hot lines.

As Good as it Got

2010-11-26T14:05:00.000-08:00

There is a great phrase I have seen on T-shirts that goes like this: "The older I get, the faster I was."

I think we all are guilty of embellishing our stories just a little. I decided when I started this blog to not make it about me, or how I did in races. That stuff is boring anyway, and what I really like talking about is the bikes and the great stories about my friends and fun or crazy experiences.

That said, please indulge me just once, because this picture brings up a special feeling I had that day it was taken at "56". I remember it very well because I had a flat tire (you can see the rear tire is flat) but just kept riding and riding. I was having an awesome day. One of those days where there is no effort, just flow. I was just doing lap after lap perfectly, putting my tires in the exact same spot, clutching to perfection, and flowing over the track like syrup. There was one little spot where I could just loft the front tire in a controlled wheelie and set it down right before a corner, tap the shifter and roost out with precision every time.

That was as good as it got. And I knew it that day as I rode, in fact it was on my mind and I knew I should appreciate and remember this day. The wave had crested. I was 19.

Bonneville Night Races

2010-11-26T10:43:00.000-08:00

In the late 1970s (this picture is from 1979) we used to have a night race at Bonneville Raceways on the West side of the Salt Lake valley. This was, to us, like racing supercross at night, in front of a crowd, in what was basically a stadium with bleachers, concessions and paved pits. No wonder this was a popular place.

The track was relatively simple with limited space on the infield of the stock car oval to work with. There were lights, of course, and turns, jumps, whoops and some short straights to whip it up to speed before braking for the next turn as shown. I am squeezing the front drum brake on my 1979 RM125 with a 4-finger grip, such was the pre-disc brake braking performance of the time.

Saltair

2010-11-26T10:18:00.000-08:00

Back in the day we had some great tracks to ride. That is, before suburbia encroached. In the spring and fall we could jam at "56", the Gun Club or "Sweden", but when it got hot and dry, there was only one place to be - at the beach!

At the shore of the Great Salt Lake we had an awesome track with lots of turns, some small bumps and jumps, and tacky conditions even in the middle of the summer.

The 1978 Maico was a very solid bike, the source of it's great manners was a cromoly frame and swingarm, and stout 35mm forks. The shocks that came stock on that bike were just OK (Corte Cossa remote reservoir shocks) but it was the geometry and construction of the chassis that made that bike great.

Also the rocket motor. I had my cylinder ported, and with the stock Bing carb, that bike was fast. The explosive powerband combined with the ability to "speed shift" was a Maico bonus. This was a banner year for Maico, and watching their "factory" pro racers ride production bikes was amazing. Steve Stackable, Gaylon Mosier, Danny "Magoo" Chandler, Carlos Serrano, and the Europeans like Hans Maisch, Adolf Weil and Herbert Schmitz all rode the same basic bikes we did, albeit a lot faster. We emulated them in every way we could, all in pursuit of the motocross dream.

1978 Practice

2010-11-26T10:16:00.000-08:00

Practicing on a loamy day at the Gun Club. My 1978 Maico was so badass, I felt like Hans Maisch.

The Veteran

2010-11-26T10:09:00.000-08:00

By 1978 I was feeling like a Vet. I had been racing since 1973 and was 18 years old. I had this fantasy about doing stunts on my Maico, thank goodness I never attempted to: jump off the roof; ride over the top of the overpass on Wasatch Blvd and the freeway; ride up the side of a steep hill and do a 180; or ride alongside the freeway and jump the exit ramps. I had dreams about giant cliff jumps and wheelies down the hallways of my school.

Mix and Match

2010-11-26T09:56:00.000-08:00

This is taken at one of my very first "pro" races, somewhere in Idaho. I was riding my 1977 RM125 and sporting Lancer leathers and a Jofa mouthguard (open-face helmets were the norm) that I trimmed for some reason, and had a Champion sticker on my visor and gas tank. I probably never used a Champion spark plug, at least that I noticed, of for that matter any of the products that were advertised all over my bike, helmet or van. Most of the stickers we chosen for looks or for their reference to something cool or pro.

Those RM125s from the late 1970s were really good bikes, having been developed by the actual professional racers and brought to market on a very short development cycle. The 1977 RMs were wel-balanced with some very good forks and remote-reservoir shocks that kept the ride smooth and controlled. The handling was very predictable, and the great thing about 125s was, you knew exactly how fast to go: wide open all the time.

Motoqua

2010-11-26T09:35:00.000-08:00

We were lucky to have so many great places to ride within a reasonable distance. Most of the places we rode our dirt bikes were just fields where we and others had made natural-terrain tracks to practice. Within an hour's drive from home we had The Gun Club, Parleys Gulch, Manning, Widowmaker, Draper (we called it Sweden), Red Sands (North Salt Lake), Ogden, Saltair (the beach), Knolls (towards Wendover) and others.

But the staple of our riding and racing had to be "56" or Motoqua. Located on 5600 West and 2200 South, this sandy moto paradise was, at one time, a State recreational vehicle park. There was a motocross track, a flat track and lots of trails to wander. Many days were spent there riding, racing, practicing, breaking, wrenching and BSing. The sandy soil was shifty and dusty when it was hot, but when it rained, the corners turned to loam, the bumpy straights and jumps were a playground for speed and air time. Great fun.

This picture is taken from a 125 Amateur (intermediate) race in 1977 at "56". It was one of those tacky, moist days we lived for. Somebody on a Honda is pulling the holeshot (too fast to make the photo though). Right on his tail is Randy Wynhof (#188) on another Honda, and a Suzuki rider who I believe was from Tooele (not sure)... Others in this picture are Lance Lundgren, Bryan Haslam, Randy Thomas, Gary Groscost, Kelly Skeen and my brother, Scott Clawson. That's a packed field, a big crowd of spectators, perfect weather and fun track all in one image. Enjoy.

Crash and Burn Part 2

2010-11-26T09:17:00.000-08:00

This is taken at "56" (Motoqua) in around 1976 in a 125 Novice race. My friend Kelly has just laid his bike down right in the path of Victor Archuleta who is doing his best not to loop out. Can't remember the outcome, be probably rode it out.

Victor Archuleta was the brother of another racing buddy, Johnny Archuleta, who was a top expert at the time. Johnny and Victor were (and are still, I'm sure) good guys. Victor was sort of our local racing scene's "Magoo", a wild rider with unbounded energy and enthusiasm for twisting the throttle. I remember him as always super pumped are ready to race, even in practice.

One time we were riding at the Gun Club (There were several tracks around the old Holladay Gun Club in Salt Lake) on the gravely pit down near the road on Wasatch Blvd., and we noticed Victor was practicing his jumping off a drop-off jump. This particular drop-off was short and steep, favoring a cautious approach. He was making runs at the jump, faster and faster. You could hear him scream his 125 on one approach making us all look up just to witness a giant case-out and a "Crash and Burn" of titanic proportions. He went over the bars in a giant cloud of dust, his bike cartwheeling. Poor Victor had to be carted away in an ambulance that day with a broken hip. I felt sorry for him as he was riding his brand-new YZ125 and had his Hallman goatskin leathers all shiny and pristine. I knew he was excited, as were we all, about racing, and a new bike has an intoxicating effect. Until you biff.

Crash and Burn

2010-11-26T09:12:00.000-08:00

Back in 1975 my friends and I were high school kids, racing bikes and sluffing school to go riding, reading Dirt Bike Magazine in class, and generally living the life. Here is a picture we took up at the old Gun Club track and submitted to Dirt Bike's "Crash and Burn" special. It got published!

1970s Motocross Pix

2010-11-26T09:03:00.000-08:00

It's great how old photos jog your memory. While scanning some bike pictures for this blog, I came across some old photos from the 1970s that include some of the older bikes previously listed. Here are some choice pictures and the memories they bring up.

The first one here is from the Widowmaker Hillclimb, circa early 70s. Must have been around 1972 or 1973. This is the old original funky hillclimb that was held every year on the hillsides of Draper, Utah. I remember this event being a "must attend" happening for all hippies and bikers (and hippy and biker wannabe's like me) at that time. Good times.

1980 Yamaha YZ125

2010-11-25T11:30:00.000-08:00

I found this image of a 1980 Yamaha YZ125 on the internet,
as I did not own this bike long enough to get any pictures of me on the bike. The bike I briefly owned was purchased from my friend, Steve sometime in 1980 after I had practically raced the wheels off my 1979 RM125. That bike served me well to say the least, but the times were marching along, and the 1980 Yamaha had a motor that could not be denied.

This was a very fast 125 as I found out in one of my last races on my Suzuki, and at the hands of a very fast Yamaha rider, the former mini pilot who dusted me at Roosevelt, Utah. The Roosevelt track was hard and blue-grooved, with an uphill start, sweeping corners, some long straights and one nasty off-camber straight that just went along the side of a ridge. I remember that I was wringing the throttle for all I was worth that day, trying to coax some more speed out of my trusty Suzuki.

The funny thing is, I felt like an old veteran racing against the next generation of 125 experts at that time. I was only 20 years old and had been racing since 1973, but nontheless after being trounced by one of the fast new kids coming up I was starting to feel not so young.

I had the opportunity to buy this bike from Steve, who had done some modifications to the motor and I was super pumped to get a faster bike. Unfortunately, the bike never ran right and I ended up returning it to Steve (blown up, I believe). I think it had an air leak somewhere in the cases or around the intake for the case reed valve induction. Steve, of Marty Smith replica fame, was a tinkerer by nature and he always had modified bikes, trick parts and super clean stuff. We all admired our friend, for even after the Marty Smith era ended, he still always was super stylish and classy with his shiny stuff and flashy riding style.

As with all things mechanical, things were ever evolving. Getting better, faster and more reliable. The 125 motocross bikes we raced in the 1970s and 1980s were special in that they were the result of a determined evolutionary push by the motorcycle manufacturers of the day to prove new technology and one-up each other in the arena that was the expanding motocross scene in the U.S.

It's hard to believe today, with the awesome bikes that are currently raced, just how eccentric and flawed these old 125s were. Those of us who sampled these racers, in the quest for trophies and bragging rights, faced the prospect of sorting through the pros and cons every year. And we chose every year, and raced, crashed, won, lost, broke and fixed as we went. A great time to have raced all things considered!

1979 Suzuki RM125

2009-06-14T18:50:00.001-07:00

The Japanese motorcycles you could buy back in the “dinosaur days” of motocross in the late 1970s were evolving at a fast rate, and works technology was being incorporated into the production bikes you could purchase at your local dealer. As mentioned earlier, every year there was one or two standout bikes that would dominate racing. Make the wrong choice and you would struggle all year with poor starts and poor finishes.

Pity the poor fools that bought off brands like Ammex (yikes) or Carabela. There was plenty of variety through the 1970s, Husky and Maico mixed it up with bikes from Spain, Czechoslovakia, Sweden, and even Mexico. But the tide was turning on these old bikes and in their place in the winner's circle was, increasingly Japanese made.

The 1979 Suzukis were very similar in appearance, to the bitchen' factory race bikes of the dominant team on the world championship Grand Prix circuit, Suzuki. With great riders like the highly revered Belgian Roger DeCoster, dentist Gerrit Wolsink of Holland, Gaston Rahier and Andre Vromans, both from Belgium, and world championships, race wins, and the trickest bikes at the time, Suzuki was on a roll.

So how could you resist the 1979 RM125? Underneath the stock shovel-shaped fenders (the first thing I changed on my bike) was, for all intents and purposes, the same as Roger D. was slaying the world champs on. The entire bike was newly-redesigned and they nailed it. Punchy, solid, fast and balanced would describe this bike.

I left mine mostly stock, with the exception of the aforementioned fenders (Preston Petty “Mudder” on the front, and an aftermarket reproduction 1978 RM125 rear fender), some mild cylinder porting (exhaust ports raised slightly and the intake shaped and polished), the head milled for more compression, grippy Metzeler tires front and rear, some Oury waffle grips, and little else.

The suspension and everything else I just left alone. This was the beginning of bikes that did not need a lot of modifications to win races. And in 1979 the gates were full of these little yellow Suzukis. Yes, you could still win on other brands, but my memory tells me this was “the” bike to have that year.

We used to race on Thursday nights at the old Bonneville Raceways, west of Salt Lake City. They had made a small motocross track on the interior of the stock car oval, supplied lighting and the racers came in droves to race like crazy in front of family and friends. There were ample bleachers for the spectators, a refreshment stand, and enough dirt, turns, jumps and straightaways to keep us coming back for more every week. The black and white picture above is me, sometime in 1979, racing at Bonneville Raceways, wringing the throttle for all the juice—and fun—I could get. I was plate number 23 that year, a number that has stuck with me by choice (and sometimes providence) ever since.

Some Maico Pix

2009-06-09T16:53:00.001-07:00

1978 Maico 250 Magnum

2009-05-26T19:18:00.000-07:00

The Maicos of the early 1970s were some of the best motocross bikes you could buy at the time, the competition being bikes like Bultaco, CZ, Husqvarna, Penton (KTM), early Japanese models and others. All motorcycles from that era had flaws and limitations, but the Maicos were good all-arounders — with a tractable powerband, good handling, cool machined aluminum parts, and the legendary Maico forks.

As the 1970s progressed, the European brands pretty much kept pace with the fast-moving Japanese onslaught, albeit on more of a 2- or 3-year design cycle rather than a yearly one like Honda, Suzuki, Yamaha, and Kawasaki practiced. Long travel suspension went from 6 inches in the early 1970s to 10.5 inches by 1978. Lots of bikes had long travel, but the trick was to get the good handling and sharp cornering of the older, lower bikes combined with effective long travel.

Enter the 1978 Maico 250 Magnum. Maico had done a complete redesign of their motocross bikes for 1978, using features and parts that were just like the factory works bikes of Germans Herbert Schmitz, Adolf Weil, and Hans Maisch (son of the owner of the Maico factory "MAIsch-CO"). We had seen the factory Maicos up close and personal, on a post-high school graduation trip to Sears Point in Northern California to see the fall Trans-Am race. All the big heroes were there, the most electrifying being the cool Belgian, Roger DeCoster. Just his presence was enough to render 4 moto-crazy high school kids speechless and stupid.

We were all witness to much lawlessness and frivolity on this trip, but one lasting memory is seeing the Maico team that was there with American factory riders Steve "Short Stack" Stackable, and "Gassin'" Gaylon Mosier. Stackable rode a good race in the 500cc International class against some of the fastest riders in the world that day, but I will never forget the ride Mosier put in to hold off wild-riding Bob "Hurricane" Hannah in the 2nd moto. Both riders were swapping around the steep course, skidding in all the off camber corners and deflecting off every rut and bump. Hannah was closing fast, but Mosier turned the throttle wide open and executed some wild riding of his own to barely hold off Hannah at the flag.

The Maico I bought from Don Gibbs at Utah Sportcycle was for all intents and purposes the same bike ridden by the factory riders. At least the basic castings, frame dimensions, engine basics (excluding modifications like porting or boost ports) and most parts were the same. It had an all-new engine that featured some of the smallest engine cases we had ever seen. The clutch was housed in a compact, sand-cast side case, and used a double-row chain to transfer power. It used a piston port top end with radial cooling fins on the head, like the old Maicos.

The red frame was cromoly steel tubing, welded up in a double cradle configuration which allowed the exhaust to exit directly from the front of the cylinder, a feature that was thought to give more power. It had a banana-shaped steel swingarm that allowed the shocks to give long travel in the back with the bike sitting lower for better cornering and handling. The countershaft sprocket was positioned very close to the swingarm pivot, allowing for less free play in the final drive chain. This was a great solution to a problem with early long-travel bikes: the dreaded chain slap.

The famous Maico forks graced the front, the same sand-cast aluminum, leading-axle lowers as the earlier Maicos but with 10.5 inches of travel, machined triple clamps, and upsized 38mm tubes. The shocks were Corte Cossa (an Italian brand) and had remote reservoirs intended to provide extra cooling capacity for the hard-working dampers. A works replica lightweight aluminum gas tank, painted red to match the rest of the bike, some solid looking sand-cast aluminum conical hubs, Metzeler tires, and lots of machined pieces made for one cool bike.

The 1978 Maico was a very fast 250. One thing that helped hard acceleration was the fact that you could just shift through the gears without letting off the throttle or using the clutch. The shift lever, if nudged at the right RPM, would snick into the next highest gear with no hesitation or loss of forward momentum. The turning was exceptionally predictable and the bike could skate around corners faster than anything else at the time. Good stuff.

The magic of the 1978 Maico Magnum was that it melded the old handling traits, cottage industry feel, and raw-hewn "works" parts with the advanced performance being achieved by technology's march. In a time of rapid changes, Maico was defiant of the inevitable—at least for a few great years—before succoming to the tides of change and economics.

More racing pix

2009-01-03T07:55:00.001-08:00

1977 Suzuki RM125

2009-01-02T08:07:00.000-08:00

One of the unique things about racing 125s in the 1970s, was that choosing the right bike for that year was a lot more critical than it is nowadays. Witness the poor louts that stubbornly held onto their Honda CR125s too long. It was bad enough in 1976 when the RMs came into their own, but 1977 was Suzuki's time to grab another gear while the competition was fumbling.

Those of us who had jumped on the yellow bandwagon in 1976 snapped up the new 1977 models and never looked back. There was still a faction of Honda loyalists who had modified their bikes to the max, all sorts of innovations arose from the need to keep up. There were engine and suspension kits all over the place that summer (remember the "Skunk Works" suspension?), other makes toeing the line, pumped-up kids and their dads with trophies on their minds, and there was us, moving up the ladder of local Utah racing and living in a world of pre-mix, Metzelers, adrenaline and dust.

The 1977 RM125s were fast bikes in stock form, had evolved rear suspension with revised remote reservoirs, and a beefy front end that featured a well-damped leading axle KYB fork. This new front end created a more balanced ride and predictable handling, which combined with the solid mid-range motor and decent reliability, was a tough package to beat. We were loving it to the tune of trophies and upward mobility, moving up to Amateur and then Expert. Applying black numbers to white backgrounds was the first sign you had made it to the Experts.

The 125 Expert class at that time was loaded with talent, with some riders specializing in the little bikes, and other established pros racing 2 classes. It was not an easy time to be coming into the class with riders like John Greenway, Stan Wynhof, Jim East, R.S., Mike O'Driscoll, Johnny Archuleta, Dave Meacham, Cody Lewis, Greg Madsen, Randy Yates, Eldon Copier, and the infamous Danny Lechtenberg. This was the generation of disciples that followed in the boot steps of the pioneers of Utah pro racing like Bob Plumb and Gary Neff.

The established riders were not about to make room the the front for newcomers, as I found out in one of my first Expert races at Brigham City. The Brigham City track featured a fast start straight that was slightly downhill, sweeping into a scary-fast left up a gravelly hill. Since I had a fast bike, I was right at the front with Wynhof and Lechtenberg on either side of me. We came into that sweeper 3 abreast and 2 came out, you do the math. I ended up at the bottom of the pile-up (pictured at top) having learned a lesson about the top guys. I spent the rest of the race playing catch up (never did).

In the top picture you can see a stunned Johnny Archuleta (back, left), his Yamaha YZ125 is underneath Robert Borg's modified Honda CR125 (check out his cool Fox air shocks and aluminum swingarm)... we are all wondering what hit us. My bike was mostly stock, but had the head milled for more compression, stock pipe, and white fenders. I had Metzeler tires on most of my bikes, they were more expensive but worth it as they gave good predictable traction even when slightly worn. We are all sporting leather pants and open-face helmets.

That was a fun summer of racing, not too many responsibilities, good friends and sweet bikes. The rivalries we had with other riders added to the intensity, and we learned to respect the competition, at the same time figuring out ways to beat them. We learned to enhance our strengths and exploit their weaknesses—prepare, show up, ride wide-open and do it all over again next week.

1976 Suzuki RM125

2009-01-01T08:57:00.000-08:00

Things were happening quickly in motorcycle development in the mid-1970s. New technology was being introduced at a rapid pace, all in the pursuit of motocross dominance enjoyed by companies like Honda (and various factories before them).

Sometimes manufacturers would even introduce new models midway through a calendar year, especially in the hyper-competitive 125 class, and we racers were always looking for the "next big thing". It was commonplace to purchase a new bike every year, and sometimes every 6 months, if you wanted to stay competitive. Such was the impact of the emerging mechanical juggernaut of the Japanese quest for sales, pride and company honor.

Of course, we local Utah racers eagerly lapped up the spoils of this technological arms race, laying down our bets on new bikes at dealerships like Honda of Salt Lake, G&L Yamaha, Suzuki of Salt Lake, Plaza Cycle, Utah Sportcycle and others. 1976 was a hard year to choose sides, with Honda fans loathe to give up their little silver bullets, Yamaha loyalists exploiting the monoshock revolution, and Kawasaki riders wringing out their rotary valve KX125s. But many of us were enticed by the new Suzuki RM125, which looked like a copy of the factory "works" bikes ridden by Gaston Rahier and Harry Everts in the World Championship Grand Prix.

It turned out to be a good call. Suzuki had indeed grabbed the 125 class high ground, and we could tell these bikes were something special the first time we fired them up and blasted through the gears. The fat expansion chamber gave off a throaty mid-range burst of power that could be milked to advantage over the winding power curve of the competition. The rear suspension was also superior to what the other manufacturers were offering, with beefy, remote-reservior shocks mounted on a stout banana-shaped swingarm and offering nine-plus inches of controlled wheel travel.

The bike certainly looked the part with a works-replica gas tank, single-downtube frame, the aforementioned banana swingarm, some wide serrated steel footpegs, and a roomy layout that felt stable and relatively balanced. The front fork was of the straight-axle type, and was plush within the parameters of 1976-era performance, but gave the bike a slight front-down stance, the "stink bug" that was left over from the 1975 model bike, which had rear wheel travel exceeding the capabilities of the front suspension.

Sometime late in the year I installed a Marzocchi leading axle fork on my bike, purchased used from our favorite hang out, PF Racing. Since the bike was designed with a straight axle fork, the steering was probably affected in a negative way, but I never noticed. It looked cool, and that was enough for me. And besides, that fork had been used by one of the shop's winning pro riders, the infamous "R.S.", Randy Sargent, who could be seen ripping up on the local pros every weekend at our favorite tracks. PF Racing was the dominant local team at the time, and we wanted to be part of it. It was an exciting place to hang out after school (and sometimes during school) and I met several of my cool friends at that shop.

PF was owned by a guy named Jeff Vombaur, commonly referred to as "V", who was caught up in the passion of racing just like we were. In some ways "V" was ahead of the times in Utah, bringing a Southern California (mecca to the motocross community) vibe to the local scene. He always had the top local pro riders, on the trickest bikes, and travelled to the races in his PF Racing Van (also referred to as the "V"). His love of moto and his contributions to the fun factor at the local races sometimes surpassed his business acumen, the result being bankruptcy and some angry vendors, oh well. The memories of that great time, the crazy people, the rowdy trips and the bikes, races, magazines—the buzz of it all are what matters to us.

"V" is no longer with us, but the feeling remains that we experienced a special time in history with great friends—a little on the edge and loving it—some trick bikes and maybe a six-pack of beer as we invaded small Utah towns, living the life of the crazy motocross racer of the 1970s.

1974 Husky 250 mag

2008-12-28T10:13:00.000-08:00

This was not technically my bike until my uncle gave it to me in 2005. It was my dad's bike for a few years in the early '70s, and I raced it in the 250 novice class a couple of times when, for some reason that escapes me, I was without a bike (a breakdown, perhaps?).

It got sold to my uncle when dad tired of it, and was ridden until it became too dog-eared and rusty, at which time it was put away to wait for resurrection. I always knew uncle Jim had it put away, but was surprised when he called me and offered it to me. I was happy to come haul it off, and now it waits patiently for me to fix it up. It is in remarkably good shape for a 30-plus year old machine, it still has compression...

Husqvarna was one of the big players in the motocross world in the early '70s, and they are one of the few remaining old marques around today. The 1974 250 mag (the "mag" refers to the magnesium engine cases) was a somewhat revolutionary bike at the time: light, powerful and agile. The engine gave a raspy power that was typical '70s 2-stroke — rather abrupt with a substantial mid-range surge and vibrating into a decent top end. It was a man's bike, not like the toys we were racing at the time in the 125 class.

The bike also had another trait Huskys were famous for at the time: the infamous "Husky hop". The short wheelbase coupled with shocks that were mere ornaments possessing rudimentary damping characteristics, made for a handful on the sandy, whooped-out "56" track. This combined with the nasty power and quick steering made for one memorable, arm-pumped race. I lined up in the 250 novice class, pulled the holeshot and flogged out a haggard win. I can't remember the details, nor do I have any pictures, but I do remember the massive arm pump and close calls, swapping and lurching around. A character-builder of a race.

At some point we talked dad into installing a set of longer shocks in an attempt at smoothing out the ride. The stock Husky only has 4 or 5 inches of rear wheel travel, so we bumped that up slightly with a set of Ceriani's on the stock mounting points. It was common at the time to lengthen the swingarm and move the lower shock mounts forward, but we did not perform that particular modification. We did slide the forks down in the triple clamp to compensate for the higher rear stance.

The Husky hop remained, as my dad found out when, after one race, he was super charged-up from watching us kids. He went barreling into the whoops on one of "56's" rough straightaways, all full of piss and vinegar, and sideways he went. It looked like a bomb went off, dust and sand flying, red and silver Husky swapping, a classic "Flying W" that ended badly. A brutal end for both dad and the Husky, as shortly after, dad bought a Suzuki RM250 and never looked back.

Utah Cycle Rider

2008-12-27T09:34:00.000-08:00

Some Honda CR125 pix

2008-12-27T08:39:00.000-08:00

1975 Honda CR125 Elsinore

2008-12-26T06:48:00.000-08:00

Sometime in early 1975, I became the proud owner of a shiny new Honda 125. It was around this time the Japanese motorcycle manufacturers were ascending to the top of the motocross world, leaving the "old guard" European bikes like Husky, Maico, CZ, Bultaco (and any number of cottage industry makes) in the dust.

It seems that I had shown enough resolve in my pursuit of this racing thing that my dad decided to help me get a more capable bike. The LT100 I started on was a good beginner bike, but its performance was limited, not only in a lack of horsepower, but the soft suspension and wallowy handling was holding me back.

The big heroes of the day were riding Hondas, and some of my friends had already taken the plunge. The CR125 Elsinore had been around since 1973 and was clearly the bike to have in the super-competitive 125 class in motocross. A whole industry had sprung up, providing hop-up parts for these screaming 2-strokes. The starting lines were loaded with modified Hondas, from mild to wild, which usually won the race.

It was not unusual to have 3 full gates of 125 novices racing at any given event in the Utah summers at tracks like the aforementioned "56" and Widowmaker, Manning Cycle Park, Brigham City, Hyrum, Price, Green River, and others. The 125 class was the most popular in racing at that time and besides the dominant Hondas, there were Suzuki TM125s, Yamaha YZ125s, Kawasaki KX125s, and even rare and somewhat over-matched Hodaka Combat Wombats (seriously). It was in these scrambling hordes that my friends and I cut our teeth in the sport, dreaming of success, and emulating our all-time hero Marty Smith.

Marty Smith was the 125 national champion in the early '70s, a Honda factory rider and the embodiment of the stylish Southern California motocross star. We all wanted to be like him. We copied Marty's style in everything we could reasonably afford on a teenager's budget, from the factory-replica jersey, Jofa mouth-guard, Hallman goatskin leathers and Carerra goggles to the fire engine red paint scheme on the little Honda's gas tank. Some people, of course, could afford to be more Marty than others. My friend Steve was a Marty replica in nearly every aspect—up to and including actually looking like Marty himself. My other buddy Kelly, and myself, on the other hand, were slightly less Marty—though not for lack of desire to be so.

Kelly was an awesome factory replica dude, full of enthusiasm for all things Marty but on a slightly tighter budget than Steve. His personal CR125 was Marty-ed out with the requisite red paint—but everything else was dog-eared, worn out, bent, resprayed and coated with dirt and grime ready for another wide-open attempt at chasing the dream in the 125 novices. It was in this milieu of bikes and bodies, red paint, modified shocks and teenage optimism we happily mixed in with riders from Tooele, Price, Ogden, and Provo chasing the dream. Battles were fought over plastic trophies and bragging rights, every pass a grand story to tell, every rivalry fuel for the fire.

It was a fun time to be involved. Exciting things were happening with the bikes: shocks were layed down and moved up on the swingarm, seats were built up high with foam, hand-welded exhaust pipes of every configuration increased power, radial or "porcupine" heads were installed for better cooling, front and rear Metzeler tires for increased traction. The 125 class was the breeding ground for desire and ambition, and the notion that with modifications and ingenuity, a donkey might be made into a thoroughbred. Exciting possibilities were shared and passed around, implemented with varying success, and tried out on the grand stage that was racing in the 1970s.

1973 Yamaha LT100

2008-11-28T09:21:00.000-08:00

Sometime in Junior High, around 1973 when I was 13, I caught the motocross bug. This was the age of DeCoster and Lackey, the cross-up and peace sign wheelie. I was hopelessly hooked.

One of my Junior High buddies had a big brother that raced, so one weekend we went to the famous Widowmaker motocross to watch he and some other amateur heroes do battle. Local pro Bob Plumb and his brother were there that day racing, Bob on his big Maico and little brother Rick on a modified Hodaka Super Rat (with a burly leading-link fork) in the 100 class.

The main memory I took from that day was standing by the finish line as the riders exited the track after the race. These guys were larger than life to me, with their white Bell open-face helmets, Jofa mouthguards and Carrera goggles. They had their flat visors duct taped on, Champion spark plug stickers on their gas tanks, cotton jerseys under goatskin chest protectors, and the requisite leather pants and heavy boots. As I watched the last riders roll by, I remember being in awe of them, the thought that if I could someday be out there, even as the last-placed rider in a race, that would be a huge achievement.

The gears were churning. I went in search of the dream, picking the brains of every Junior High kid that was so lucky to own a mini bike. Every time I saw someone riding a dirt bike I would study every nuance, the sleek simple shape of a CZ gas tank, the graceful down pipe on a Maico, the raspy crackle of a 2-stroke exhaust, the smell of castor oil in the air. Some of my contemporaries at school also had the bug, and since many of them already had motorcycles of some shape or form I had to get one.

Enter the 1973 Yamaha LT100 MX, an early version of the developing japanese motocross bike, basically an enduro bike with the lights removed. It was a 2-stroke, 100cc lightweight "racer" with oil injection (a leftover from the enduro model), steel fenders, a cool downpipe that looked the part, and rubber footpegs (not cool). The grips had hard rubber "fins" covering them, the source of many blisters to come. I purchased this fine bike from a classmate named Matt Finley who I have come to know as an adult, he is a very fine guy. He is my car mechanic to this day, but that's a story for another time.

I spent many hours in the fields riding this bike, experienced many slide outs and bloody knees. My first semi-panic-ridden mechanical thrashes were on this thing, wire and tape repairs so that I could get back to my passionate scrambling.

I had a great battle one day after school in the small field just to the South of our Junior High Seminary building, a lumpy oval dirt track with a some gravelly corners and 2 fast straights. My rival that day was my great friend Kelly who was mounted on a sweet Bultaco trials bike. Pride was at stake here and both of us raced it out, skidding around and bottoming out suspension, until one of us gave up. I think Kelly won, he being faster and with steely resolve borne of the fear of losing to a punk beginner like me. After we finished our race, we were treated to the spectacle of another kid blitzing around the track on his cool Honda CR125, all style, wheelies and speed! This turned out to be another lifelong friend, Steve.

I used to ride this bike, ninja style, through the neighborhoods in search of terrain. One of my favorite memories is flying around the cinder running track that was right next to the aforementioned Seminary building. I descended on this field with engine screaming, cut 2 or 3 dusty laps and beat it home before the startled teacher and students knew what hit them. Good times.

My first race was on this bike, sometime in 1973. The race was at 5600 West, a track named "Motoqua" which we simply knew as "'56". I had practiced enough that I felt I was ready to race, and nervousness notwithstanding, had lined up behind a rubber band in the 100 Novice class with 20-30 other racer hopefuls. As the start approached, I started the bike several times just to test it, being anxious and also a little worried. But when the time came to kick the engine to life for real, it refused to start. I kicked and kicked. The race referee held the start for me. I kicked the lever until it fell off! Some friends pushed me in an attempt to compression start it, and still it refused to light. Dejected (and a little relieved) I pushed my bike back to the pits and watched my class race around without me.

I was finally able to get it going again in the several hours between motos, the culprit being a fouled spark plug. After replacing the oily part with a clean one, while riding around the pits I saw a strange sight. Several guys were standing around watching as this dude would start his bike, put it into gear and let out the clutch, wereupon the bike would move... backward! Good for some laughs at the time, I am sure he did not think it was that cool.

The second moto went off, and I took the start with the others and raced — the details which do not come readily to mind — except that I took last place. My dad had gotten off work to come see me race, and he joked later that he didn't know if I was far ahead or far behind, but there I was, circulating by myself, living the motocross dream at last.

Azuki 10 Speed

2008-11-27T14:55:00.000-08:00

The next bike that comes up on my radar is the white Azuki 10 speed. This was about 1973 or 1974 when I was about 14. Somehow I had become aware of the genre of the 10 speed racing bicycle and had my sights set on getting one. It was probably visits to a bike shop close to my house, about 2 or 3 miles away, that sparked my interest. The exact details are lost to ancient history.

I do remember there were posters of road racers on the walls of that bike shop, funny striped hats topping their heads. They looked like super athletes to me, pedaling their 10 speeds up mountains, a look of hard determination on their faces.

On one of these trips to the bike shop I decided I wanted one of those cool 10 speeds. The thought of that many gears held a special fascination for me, being a technically-minded young man. I remember being enamored with the shiny paint job on that bike, the clean lines and purposeful stance, plus it had a sweet pair of gear shifters mounted right on the stem! A pair of top mounted brake levers completed the package.

I had saved my money for this bike, and had probably dreamed and planned a fair bit before I got up enough courage to ask my dad if it was OK. Being a shy and respectful kid I probably agonized some about just how to pop the question. But I was determined, and a foreshadowing of a lifelong trait emerged that summer: when I want a bike, I get it. There is not much that can stand in my way when it comes to acquiring a bike I want... that's just the way it was and is to this day.

I chose an evening of TV watching as the time and place to get the last thing I needed, dad's permission. My dad has always been a super cool guy, but I was super nervous with so much riding on it. I remember it took a really long time to get up the guts to ask, and it dragged on late into the evening. I am pretty sure he knew I had something on my mind, but he said nothing so it was up to me to finally squeak out the words. Talk about stage fright. It felt like this was a big moment with big consequences and I was keenly aware of the short silence as he mulled over my request. To my vast relief, he said yes—that is if I had my own money for the bike— I could get it.

Little did dad know, this was not the last time we would wrangle over a bike I wanted.

Penelope the mongrel

2008-11-09T13:05:00.000-08:00

The next bike I owned was salvaged from our backyard junk pile. I am not sure where she came from, but I saw potential in her red curves and fat tires. She was an old 1969-ish Schwinn Hollywood, girl's model, and I named her Penelope. I am not sure where my Sting Ray had gotten to at this point, maybe I sold it.

Anyway, I modified my new bike with a banana seat—a must for that dirt bike aura—and some BMX handlebars I mail ordered from a magazine. This was 1972 and BMX was still in it's infancy. I remember being super excited to find some bars with a real crossbar just like the motorcycles I dreamed about. I also ordered some motocross-type grips, and I even managed to find some knobby tires for the 26" rims.

Armed with these mods and a 12-year-old's imagination I was on my way to real motocross. One of my favorite after school activities was to ride in the field by my house. The area we grew up in, Holladay, still had a few vacant tracts of land and it was here I spent many hours in search of entertainment. There were several ridges running downhill from the top end of the field down to the bottom, with trails running along these ridges. The soil was rather sandy, making it almost impossible to ride up the trails. But a few minutes of pushing uphill rewarded me with some precious seconds of downhill racing, shredding the turns, foot out and sliding.

One Saturday I found an old car hood out in the field. It was perfectly shaped with a wide flat back and peaked at the front, just made to serve a moto crazy kid some air time. I placed this hood at the top of a small uphill that was at the end of one of my downhill trails. This made for a great finish to the fast downhill run as you carried just enough speed from the downhill to crest the small hill and boost that car hood to major air. I was loving it.

I was getting off the ground a couple of feet maybe, but it felt to me like some major hang time. One particular pass at the car hood, after executing a bitchen jump, I experienced a hard landing that folded my frame (it was a girl's bike with no top tube) and sent the cranks downward and dragging on the ground. Not good for performance. I walked Penelope back home and set about brainstorming a fix. Being a resourceful kid, and having a genius for a big brother, a solution for the bent frame was soon found. We used a car jack to straighten the frame, and a piece of steel tubing resurrected from the back yard junk pile was inserted to serve as a top tube. Some steel putty and duct tape secured the new part in place, and viola!

This bike was fun to ride downhill because the 26" wheels carried momentum. Penelope was a silly bike by any standard, but she took many victories over the Sting Rays owned by my friends. When I got those big wheels rolling along, watch out! They say necessity is the mother of invention, and this bike brought this concept home to me. I began to learn about creative fixes, performance modifications, desire to succeed and the first thrills of winning races on this bike, so it will always hold special memories for me.

Blue Sting Ray

2008-11-02T18:44:00.001-08:00

The first bike on my list is the 1970 Schwinn Sting Ray, blue in color, I received for Christmas when I was 10. My brother and I had been pestering our parents for these bikes—they were a hot commodity among the kids in our neighborhood. Some kids had cheaper imitations, the Huffy comes to mind, but we were lucky enough to get genuine Schwinns. Of course we would have loved to get the hot rod “Orange Crate” model with a stick shift (!) on the top tube but we were happy with what our parents bought.

One of my memories of that time was how my Grandpa Clawson took an interest in what was going on in the run up to Christmas and the whole "kids want bicycles” news. He and Grammie came over to our house sometime before the holidays and showed us some of his racing medals. Grandpa had been a Utah State Champion in the early 1920s and we most certainly would have seen some of his photos and his State Champ jersey on that day. Honestly, I don't remember much about those things. We were not really excited about bike riding, or racing, at least not the old fashioned "10 speed" type of racing that Grandpa had done.

We wanted Sting Rays because they looked sort of like choppers or at least some vague hippie-type conveyance. We wanted to cruise around, pull wheelies and scramble in the dirt sort of like we were on motorcycles. Now that was cool!

One day a group of friends was out in the field by our house. A kid from the neighborhood named Mark Knudsen had made a jump out of some sod, placed at the nexus of a rocky downhill-to-dip trail that had the potential to launch a kid plus bike at least a couple of feet into the air. I remember Mark was great on a bike. He could wheelie his Sting Ray down the street and perform a number of sweet tricks such as standing on the seat, skidding using the coaster brake, and of course jumping. My group of friends were all more adept at jumping than me, and on this day were giving me (chicken) tips on jumping technique.

As I recall, the thrust of the discussion was proper weight centering that would give the best chance for a successful jump. "Successful" would be a jump that didn't end badly. The true fact is, I was scared to death.

After some serious self talk and a couple of aborted runs at the ramp, I made my first attempt. Rolling down the rocky hill and up the face of the jump I realized to my terror that I had not pulled up on the bars like I was instructed by my friends. The result was a classic endo, the first of my career. Ass over teakettle would describe it, and a face full of dirt and misery were my rewards. For a timid kid such as I, this was a humiliating experience... in front of my peers no less, suffice it to say I was afraid to try again—but just pissed off enough to give it another go. Dammit! (yes I was into cursing even back then.)

Fortified with anger and resolve to redeem myself, and with the repeated instructions to "pull back" ringing in my ears, I was back on the bike for another run. This time I was NOT going to endo. As I crested the jump for the second time, I did pull back on the bars. Way back. The dreaded loop out, right onto my ass with a thump that was felt all the way to my teeth. This was a prelude to many future crashes, and many encounters with a mouth-full of dirt, severe pain, and a mixture of anxiety and determination that would ultimately keep me coming back for more.

Love of racing bikes

2008-11-02T05:42:00.000-08:00

In this space I will write, in chronological order, the history of the bikes I have owned in my riding (and racing) life. Some great stories circulate around the bikes I’ve owned, and I hope this blog will jog the memory to recall some of the great experiences I have had through my passion for bikes.

I will start with the earliest bikes I can reliably remember (trikes and such excluded), and will frame the list with bikes I have raced, because that's the other point of this blog. I have always loved racing. From my early teens on, I have been fascinated with bike racing. From racing neighborhood friends on clunkers down trails in the fields where I grew up, to racing against more serious competitors on motorcycles—and later back to bicycles—racing has always been the point of most of the riding.

It's interesting to note that my early years of bike riding were an attempt to emulate what I dreamed of... motocross racing. In my late 30s it came full circle, back to bicycles. Maybe it was a reaction to the danger and complexity of motocross racing, that was certainly part of it. I was shocked and saddened to see two of my motocross heroes, Danny “Magoo” Chandler and David Bailey injured racing, and those events got me thinking more about the danger of that sport.

But I think it was also a desire to move on to a new challenge, something I could improve on every day. I think that's what I really love about bike racing. There's no limit— there’s always something you can work on.