cell pic dump

Tis the season

Meanwhile in Montrose.....

Getting old

I don't want to get old. I think I wont. But lots of people do. I am not sure if or when old tries to get me but when it does I will tell it "No." and beat it with an oversized chain saw bladed meat cleaver if I have to. Because I want to keep on racing motorbikes forever. Or until I turn into dirt. Racing is a lot more than riding. It is lining up at the gate knowing you can stomp a mud hole into any asshole and feeding it the beans to win it. What a great captivating addiction racing is. It is red hot no white hot. Many folks get burned out. Sure aint cheap, But what is money for?  And injuries can really change a fellow. But look at five and dimmers like Max:

Max Schaaf | This Time from Mark Choiniere on Vimeo.

Touristing the finest motorcycle shops of Hawaiian Gardens, Long Beach, and Venice Beach.

Chopper Daves. I have spent more hours looking at picters of his shop and THINGS in his shop than anywhere on the internets. What can I can I say. I dont want to got blind.

Roland Sands shop was a lot more simple and hands on than I thought it would be. Roland is a super nice down to earth guy. Likes to pin it. And his race memorabilia pile (They were rearranging shop) was very rich with coolness.

Deus Has a nice little U.K. sized shop where some Wooly fellow puts together some dame fine looking siznycles. I would love to give the CRF a flog. From what I was told about its engine build and set up I think it could own the 450 record at pikes given not the twats. The RC8 is a sophisticated take on style and looks more than ridable.

11 days inside Vana White

What a tool a van is. The right tool for the job. Especially when that job involves loading up plenty of beer, a few old dirtbikes, and your smelly buddies.

Itinerary:Vegas, meet wife, Cosmic Cowboy, Other friends from around the world. Watch GNC Final. Race the Super Hooligan. Say good buy to Wife. Go to the Pinball Hall of Fame (what else is there to do in Vegas.) Camp in desert at abandoned air strip. Go to Malibu and Hang out with friends. Visit Deus, Chopper Dave's and Roland Sands Design. Ride shitty old dirt bikes from Palm springs to Vegas. That simple...With a van you can. Vana white is by far the best 750$ I ever spent. That thing has processed a lot of cheap beer farts.




4Hours into our trip Vana White had a rear axle bearing shit the bed. It was not an easy fix. But when the going get tough; The retarded motorcycle enthusiast will persevere.

California. Gold in them hills. Mikey slept in the bat infested cabin. We awoke to a super sonic fly-by from a couple low flying fighter jets.
 
Gary put a new old top end in his bike the night before we left. It ran flawless the whole 500 miles and made my bike look almost purdy.
.
If we look lost it is because we are. If you aint lost your lying. Or you need to get better at loosing your self.
Half way through the 2nd day my shock shaft had enough. The rest of the ride was a bouncy mother fucker I'll have you know. But we made it back to the City of sin. Bouncing like a cholo low rider at ever stop light.

Matt rode his trusty old Honda. I will alway remember him doing can cans over the big jump at the moto-cross track on this beast when we were young little booger eaters. In Honda We Trust.

Mike rode the whole thing the hard way on the trusty old XL350. He was awarded the desert tortoise killer trophy. No turtles were hurt in the making riding of this ride. But I still feel bouncy.

I saw Kid Rock

Las Vegas is a naughty place. A vibrant, energy pulsing disco ball in the middle of a baron desert. Despite the fact that I find no comfort with in it’s dressed up dirty streets and over watered gardens, I keep ending up there again and again. When Sideburn got with Roland Sands Design and offered me a ride on a new Indian in the Super Hooligan race; How could I avoid being sucked back into another one of Sin City’s vortexes of naughtiness. A Vegas Casino is a perfect place for a Hooligan race. A Hooligan bike after all is about being more show than go. An over legged, synthetic implanted, wig wearing, over weight show girl is exactly how I think of a Hooligan bike. The rules only said stock framed street bike with 19” wheels so I reckon I could have rode my trusty old gal, XS race bike but how could I turn down a ride with a show girl? As with anything to do with Sideburn; The pits were full of friends both newly acquainted and old. After watching the GNC on the little diamond shaped boxing-ring of a track I must admit that I was a bit nervous about taking the long wheel based cruiser bike out to do battle with some tough looking competition. There was every thing from performance built cheater bikes, big name pilots, I think The Sons of Anarchy were there and Mad Max and of course five other bikes just like mine with competitive racers behind the bar, just like me. After putting my “factory Indian Race Team” jersey on I was told the Hooligans would not get any practice. (We were there to provide entertainment after all.) Then we were told that because it was being filmed for broadcast they were going to not red flag any crashes. (Gladiators must provide brutal blood baths in the Coliseum). In the first timed qualifying session I was a bit sad to see my name in 16th position on the big screen. I figured I better try to pull the finger out somehow and honor my friends and family spectating. So I shared a beer with another racer in my “factory race van”. Onto the qualifying heats. Green flag race starts. I like these, I usually feel like a real wild west gun-slinging quick draw for a holeshot. After seeing the flagger wait longer than the time it takes a pile of ants to move a lead filled Hershey bar all weekend, he waived the green before I even had my steed in gear. The next five laps could best be described as a combination of a demolition derby, a bar room brawl and a refugee camp being invaded by C-130 dropped food ration bombs. I was happy to snag the last qualifying position for the main event. I was also scared for my life. I made it a point to spend some time with my wife and tell her how much she means to me. She said that what ever went down during the race, I must protect my face because she didn’t want a deformed monster. Fair enough. The queue in staging was a very interesting place to watch my fellow competitors. Nerves were a bit on end. After all, many Hooligan racers have little race experience. This was one racer’s first flattrack ever. Another racer who lost his transponder was told to hit the road, despite finishing 2nd in is qualifier. Another racer was stripping off his protective gear preparing for a glorious battle. Some of the ticks and twitches others were making even got me to start freaking out a bit. And then, we were waived into the arena like gallivanting warriors. The King’s best gladiators. Or sheep off to slaughter. I had a second row inside gate pick so I hoped with some luck I would avoid the first corner carnage that was eminent. The green flag flew. The rest was a total blur, ever lap I saw another body bouncing off the ground or crawling for dear life to avoid being steam rolled by twin cylinder behemoths swapping violently out of control. I managed to keep it up right despite some heavy bumping and take a checkered flag with all my flesh intact. Hell, I didn’t even loose my Harley Davidson cherry. That little sucker is going to stay un-popped!

the snozzberries taste like snozzberries

Finding gold in Oklahoma

The Oklahoma Gold Rush Grand Prix. One fun packed three days of racing. It was beautiful. Much better than last year when on the first night I broke the foot peg off my XR650 on the moto track. This year I brought out my Pikes Peak special CRF450R/X and put a spanking on the expert supermoto. Latter I got the holeshot in the motocross main and dropped back to 4th. Saturday I battled well for how much beer I drink and got 4th in the two hour cross country. Sunday was the grand finale 3 hr team race and me and my pal Lord Mick flat out dominated. I like DIRTBIKES!!!

Totalitarianism

What ever. Last year they asked for feed back and I told them my opinion. After the race this year while I was still catching my breath after dumping a beautiful bike a reporter asked me about all the negativity from racers regarding the race directors and their handling of safety. I said there was room for improvement and of course what I said was taken out of context but that's the press for you. At least I got to experience the mountain when it was still half dirt and organized half decent. I actually find this letter funny. Like a clown. What is not funny is how many others who wanted to return to the race again received the same letter. Mostly local racers and mostly racers who did not have a huge budget and a made for camera image. Even more of a bummer is the 2016 entry fee doubled to $1400 and another $1400 for an early practice weekend. This is the second time in four years that they doubled the entry fee. Not exactly appealing to the grass roots racer. Even more of a bummer is the announcement that they are only accepting 30 total motorcycle and atv entries. That is about 5 bikes per class. And like so many other american organizations, they call this progress. I think I am going to go ride my dirt bike. Peace, grease, and wheelies.

The High Noon Scramble.

Kodiak Deathbeds - Cross That Line from jon west on Vimeo.

Turkey farts

I am pretty excited to be representing Sideburn in this super hooligan indoor short track. If short track is like a fist fight in a phone booth, what is hooligan short track? A battle ship derby in a kiddy pool? We shall find out.

KTM sodomizer

This 2006 factory replica makes me go pink to purple.

Fuckin flashback friday

To when Pikes Peak was still neat and Mick met Malcom.

Drinking Tecate in New Mexico

When you cross south of the border from our wonderful over populated colorful Colorado into New Mexico, the sign reads welcome to the land of enchantment. After last weekend I think the meaning of enchantment is now fully comprehended. Or at least more so than before I decided to get into a creepy van other than my own and put my life into the precious unknown tide of a camping chair amongst leaky exhaust fumes, three vintage flattrackers and the Ranum brothers.

The Lee family is who I have to thank for my Pikes Peak experience. one year they had something like seven Lees racing the hill. Chuck Lee is kind of like my MR. Miyagi. He told me to buy my first set of dirt track tires and life has never been the same. Chuck's brother has the Indian nick name: Dances with Booze. We pitted next to him and Chucks son and a few other Lee kin. Pallets were burned in the infield, Pot luck dinner was devoured and many a can of beer and more than a few jars of new mexico moonshine were emptied. Sandia speedway is worth a drive. Super tacky clay steep banked 3/8 with a short track inside sharing the start stretch. This confused me in practice as both tracks were to be practiced on. I watched before entering the track to see how exactly this sharing of the tracks was going to work. I watched as a figure eight style collision put on old fellow in the meat wagon with a broke hip, multiple fractured pelvis, busted nine ribs, broken collar bone, broken thumb, and a whack to the head. Hmmm, maybe a rider's meeting should commence.
Other than that it was a smooth two days of racing. We all did good. I won all my races until my rear brake broke on the last turn of my last lap leaving me a bit all to relieved to sit out the pro main with a growing hang over and another jar of shine. We stayed the night at a Lee family compound on the way home. I can't even put into words how much Tecate was drunk. I awoke to the sounds of Lee family still drinking at 8 or 9 in the morning. They are like indian blooded energizer bunnies. With 80's rocker hairband styling. For breakfast provided real genuine entertainment; one unfriendly tackle and one willing suicide belly flop from way to high up into a rock bedded ankle deep stream. No one missed a beat.  I think the most enchanting part of the whole trip was the lack of cell phones, cameras, and general concern for anything other than the here and now.

Well, we did have a few photo ops.  Just to keep my apparel sponsors happy.

Racer's Conundrum

As with all drugs, no high comes with out coming down. Except for those who take too much. A permanent trip is probably a real bummer. Every motorcycle racer that has ever been has had to deal with the come down. To live without that main line shot of adrenaline. Many find a dark existence trying to fill the hole. Some seem to try for the over dose. Some find the quality of friends, family and love to help them along through the days.
I often am asking my self how much is too much? Am I able to keep this all going for another year. Hopefully many more. I want to be like Malcom. I have a real healthy appetite. Flattrack bikes, DIRTBIKES, motocross, duel sport, road racing, hobby bikes, 14:1 compression 110 octane tire eating monsters. It is a large platter. Imagine what my tray looks like at the all you can eat buffet. Imagine the toilet bowl scrubbing that is needed.
"The post race blues", some call them. The yang to the ying I call it. The better the high, the bitter the absence. It has taken me a while to begin to process how cool my pikes peak experience was. Eight years of learning how to handle high speed, high risk road racing. Near misses with cliffs, spectators, trees, and wildlife. Six glory filled podiums, Many new friends. Some lost. The anger felt to others who tell me to hang it up. Who are they to make me feel selfish for living out my fantasies. everybody is selfish. If Gandhi and Mother Theresa had ever spawned, who's to say that the little fucker would not be the most evil roost slinging wretched wrist twisting demon to ever throw a leg over a motorbike.
 Before this year's race to the clouds and all it's events unfolded I said done. Mostly because of the race committee's frustrating incompetence. I certainly would not like to choose to live with fear and quit because of loosing a friend. Rather the opposite. Tell me what to do and watch the rebel rage against.
 A few weeks ago I got a letter from the pikes peak race committee banning me from competing again. For giving negative press to a newspaper reporter minutes after my race run. laughable bush league bull shit.
 So what I am really rambling about here is as known to me as Conan The Barbarian. I reckon I just like to write this shit so I can get it out and try to further understand it.
I am driven to push the limits.
 For the last few days I have been talking with the many time class winning 300X Baja 1000 team. They came up needing a rider at the last minute and somehow my name was given to them. Now I am trying to throw any reason to the wind and lust like getting invited to a cocaine party some eight years after giving up the stuff. Thankfully I have some good clean burning hashish er, I mean flattracking friends to hang with instead and I think the quality of such company that I would rather forgo the friday party with all of it's heavy substance 1000 miles of unknown mexican nastyness that I have sworn off before in order to be well rested and ready for a saturday party full of the best vegas can offer. An Indian motorcycle set up by none other that Roland mother fucking Sands, The GNC final and superprestigio to spectate. The invitation to perform gladiator style (hooligan) in the arena of the Orleans. And best of all; My friends from all over the world to share it all with. Buy a plain ticket you, yes you! And you too!

The Beach - Mablethorpe Beach Races

Burt Munro: Offerings to the God of Speed (1971) Part 1

Drag'n pegs and shit'n beds

Finished off the road race season strong at Pikes Peak Int. Raceway. Couple 3rds and a 2nd on the 450 lowrider. Riding the dirt bike 5th pinned with the peg grinding away and my out side leg hooked over the gas tank like a spider monkey on the banking is totally fucking bonkers fun. Got the SV a bit more dialed and I think I took 3rd in points for the season. I did not really shit the bed Fred but it sounded funny.

Here is to Dick Trickle!

Racing is getting your ass licked, nicked, kicked, tricked, and shicked.
What ever you do just try not to get dicked.
Racing is rarely perfect
but for the adrenaline derelict.

I like it.

motorcycle racing on video

Hey look Mom, no bloody brakes!

Kansas was good. Very good.