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.
Friday, October 30, 2015
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.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Friday, October 23, 2015
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
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.
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.Thursday, October 15, 2015
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!
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!