Some Maico Pix

1978 Maico 250 Magnum

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

1977 Suzuki RM125

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

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

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

Some Honda CR125 pix

1975 Honda CR125 Elsinore

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

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

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

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

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

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.