No Cigar

Last weekend was the annual local off road dirt bike race put on by our local club the Book Cliff Rattlers MC. It was an enduro format with 7 special tests totaling 83 miles of gnar singletrack. Every year I dream of winning the home town race. I have finished on the overall podium at least 6 times but never the top. I started the first test like a bottle rocket and within 5 minutes I was flying upside down, feet first over my handlebars. Some how I still won the over all on the test. I finished the next several tests in 3rd or 2nd without loosing more that a second or two of the leader. After test 4 I gassed up my 12 year old trusty CRF450X and ate a few caffeine electrolyte pills. I blitzed test 5 and felt great. After finishing test 6 I knew that nobody could match what kind of shit I had just done. It was like perfect poetry in motion. Very speedy motion. ( I later learned that I overalled the test by a considerable amount of time.) The last test was the big ten miler and I was ready to squeeze every bit out of it. It started with a couple miles of super steep downhill bob sled deep ditch rear brake locked trench warfare. One mistake would be a huge over the bars, After dropping what felt like thousands of feet the course turned to two track. Fast moister soaked sandy two track with sweeping corners and 5th gear water bar launch ramps. I was giving my tall desert gearing everything it had and loving it. Then the technical rocky climbs came. This was why the final test was for A class only. I made not one mistake. Feeling strong I could almost taste the overall trophy, a huge vintage snowshoe mounted with a trail sign placard. It would look perfect above the mantle... "FUCK!" - The first of many to come out of my mouth after my brake pedal grazed a slab-rock in the middle of the trail causing me to loose balance as my bike and I fell 15 or 20 feet down into a creek. I burned my hand on my rear brake rotor as I flopped my bike off of me. The brake pedal had punched a hole in my clutch cover and there was gear oil all over everything. The rocky creek bed was a rage of foot deep water cascading off one boulder to the next. everything was slicker than greased moose shit. There was a barb wire fence directly downstream so up and out was my only option. I knew my race was over but I knew I needed to get my self out of the shit hole. There were tree limbs and branches as big as my legs everywhere and my poor beat to shit clutch was rattling like some vintage Ducati. With some end over end bike flopping, clutch abuse(No, murder!), and a bunch more "FUCK!"s we got back on the trail ten minutes after ejecting from it, crossing the finish line only a half mile away. I finished the last test in 140th out of the 230 entries, 10 minutes off of the leader, 20th overall for the day. So close yet so far. Could always be worse. Much. And a finish is a finish regardless of position or engine oil quantity...

On the next episode of flogging Molly: will the old red head Honda get a trophy.....

Chasing Silence

Monarch Racer

CHCA round 2 on Monarch pass. A two mile section of mine road climbing thousands of feet just off of US Highway 50 and ending near timber line. Yes there are Monarch butterflies and yes I am lucky to race. I just received word that round 3, the Lands End hill climb has been cancelled. I am trying to find perspective but devastation is the only relative word I can find. I do live to race and though it is something I feel so strongly about I still can not explain why. Racing is just what has felt so sublime for me ever since I was a ten year old booger eater still shitting my pants on occasion. Racing is my savoir. Sphincter control and all. Amen. Anyhoo, the week before Monarch I received a call form the CHCA tech inspector who informed me the rally guys wanted me out of their class. Apparently they didn't like getting their asses kicked by a 1964 rusty slime green Herbie driven by a total rookie. After several failed protests on the rally rules I was supposed to be (and was) following I was allowed to stay entered in the Rally 2WD class and the bitching cry babies who have nice new proper modern race cars were told politely to shut the fuck up.  25 plus years of racing bikes of all sorts and never a protest or anything of the sorts and my first car race I was shown how very little some people hold the prestige of their racing morals. But meanwhile back to real racing; The motorcycle class at Monarch was the biggest class having 13 entries. That is double the most ever. And of course my epic, worthy, and welcome rival (who I cant help but mention races a 701cc and 650cc is the limit but I dont give a flying fuck!) who beat me at round 1 was ready to repeat along with two other riders who were nipping at my times every practice run. After Saturday I ended up in pole position in both motorcycle and Rally 2WD. On race day I ended up losing in my cager by less than a second to the offending protestor. Fair is fair, I'll beat him as I learn how to drive. The real racing action was on two wheels for me as I did not want to loose two of the dwindled four rounds (now 3 if we are lucky). I rode my 450 hill climb special with a fierce precision and won the class, setting a new record and finished 4th fastest vehicle of the day. And I drank a beer. And it was good!

The pit space up top at the mine site was primo, Especially with Marc and Andrew from the front rage there to help support me and my bulging hairy pepperoni titties ego.

I sure do appreciate being able to do this shit. I hope we as humans can somehow get more bonded together and stop bickering like a bunch of middle school cheerleaders all whacked out on laced pixie sticks and school spirit. PEACE!

The cabin fever pandemic takes me on a crazy train. A ghost train. The old Uintah Line... "The Crookedest Railway in the West".

I have never seen as many people out and about on the trails as I have this spring. Tell people to stay home and watch what happens. I am just another moth flocking to the flame. But these trails have always been my party. I was supposed to go to the moto track with Lord Mick Sunday but instead I ate mushrooms Saturday night with my Cookie and managed to swap my oversized gas tank onto my trusty ol beloved 650. I awoke Sunday with a plan to explore the old abandoned Uintah Rail line and the ghost town on Dragon Utah, some 80 miles north from my shop. The first 10 miles of the rout are a common dirt bike riding place for me but I never thought much about the random old flat graded remnants of the Uintah rail line. One of Colorado's most infamous rail road lines that now less than 100 years later is almost unknown to all but hobby train nerds( I love them). Ghost towns are cool. I grew up in a western Colorado mining town and some of my early memories are poking around the many abandoned former establishments. Tommy Knockers where also usually included in my bed time stories. Any hoo, I tooled along to the first ruins just a mere 20 miles from my shop in the old forgotten town of Atchee. All that is left of the once busy little town are the walls of the machine shop that served the giant steam locomotives.

Next is the 7 percent plus grade Baxter pass, switch backing up the Book cliffs to 8500 feet elevation. How such heavy machines traversed the pass are beyond me. And how the fuck they were able to hold brake down the grade. My fuck! Awesome shit in my mind I tell you.

Storage tank on top of Baxter pass, I could walk up the stairs and look down into it's hollow echo innards 

I shut off engine and coasted all the way down the back side some seven miles never touching my brakes or picking up any speed, twisting through the Aspen and pines, and service berry bushes as they turned back to juniper and sage brush. As the rout flattened out into Utah it became rather wide, well graveled and begged for 4th and 5th gear feet on the peg slides in and out of the twisty Evacuation (named) creek. Just as I started to have thoughts about being lost, nowhere near where my mental map thought, and running out of gas I flew by a small wooded sign that read "Dragon Utah". A few miles past and I found the old cemetery right across from the Gilsonite mine.

The Gilsonite vein mined here was in the shape of a dragon hence the name "Black Dragon Mine" and the town of Dragon. I found some old dug out one room homes still in the hill side and ate my brat weenie lunch amongst some old cans, broken blue glass shards and an old cook oven.

I tried to imagine the once booming town, founded back in the late 1800's. It was once the end of the rail line and with three hotels, hundreds of residents and even a gas filling station near the late 1930's before the trucks shut down the rail line. Hard to believe that out in the middle of nowhere was once somewhere to a lot of people.

This was once the entrance to the depot and then a filling station. All that remains is a dug out behind.

I ruminated and smoked a joint. Then I got back on my stead and took off towards home in a marihuana Baja 1000 flash back flat out frenzy. I made it all the way back in about an hour. An average speed that would have blown the minds of the old rail road workers. Those determined, unbelievably tough and crazy sons of good ol bitches. https://www.abandonedrails.com/uintah-railway

Search - The Anatomy of Auto Racing (1973)

I find this film outstanding. It is always a challenge for me to put the essence of racing into words but there are some great words said here. It also makes me wonder how different motor sport has become with the invasion of computers. I am thankful that we still live in an age where we can manually open throttle valves and control our machines with analog inputs. Long live the essence of seeking perfection through speed.

RACING!!! -The cold spell has broke.

I have not had a hiatus from racing this long since I was in grade school. I was hurt'n for a throttle flirt'n real bad. After over a year building the race car I finally got a go at my four wheel racing debut. It was a dream weekend. I slapped some old take off knobbies on my old pikes peak bike and loaded up the van with my "fancy race car trailer" in tow. I showed up friday evening to near 100 degree temps and a shit ton of flesh hungry ear buzzing biting natts. And then came the rain, after months of drought here in western Colorado. I slept away all night in the back of my van listening to the sweet patter of drops beating down on my van's roof. The first run Saturday morning was a bit of a mess as I forgot my front fender but by the time I was out again so was the sun and the thirsty desert dirt had soaked up all the slop becoming total traction. Being a four wheel rookie I was actually nervous in the bug but after a few runs I was in P1 and set a new Rally 2WD class course record. I also set a new motorcycle class course record during Saturday's practice/qualifying. Sunday was total sunny day race day. The usually marbly gravel 4.5 mile road was becoming a giant blue groove and pikes peak 3rd generation royalty Codie Vahsholtz was on to something with his 17" supermoto rains. He ended up beating me by .04 seconds ending my 5 year perfect CHCA win streak. I also took bride's maid in the bug to a BMW proper rally car driven by a suave dude with a European accent. I reckon you really can't win 'em all... Fuck, I love racing!
I find a meaning quality in finding enjoyment in something new right now with all that has slipped away from me lately. Racing and loving company are the only two things I feel with such a pureness that doing them completely and passionately are all I feel obligated to do and involve myself with.

Call me Dick Trickle

Deep Thoughts with Jack Handy

It is funny how one day just flows into another. Not unlike one generation flows into another, everything changes, only time's elusive passing is constant.
Trying to make the most of life.
Reflecting, ruminating, searching for the essence of it all.
Just living.

Racing

I miss racing at the elite level.
When you have a team of professionals backing you. Making the bike whatever you tell them to. The pressure and expectations make me demand the best from myself.
I am not sure if I ever hit the big time racing motorbikes or if the big time hit me. But it is cool to look back and know I was there. It means little now but in those intense moments it meant a lot and I reckon there is some pride but more so a feeling of satisfaction in making the most I could with what I had. Perhaps I could have made it last longer than a brief flicker but the experience was impactful and I learned a lot. I am not very diplomatic and often find my self opting to do things alone on my own terms but having to write press reports about a bike when the only words in my head were: Bag of dicks or finding people to trust with my life that may or may not have given two shits and a pop corn fart about me was a way to learn more about myself than ever possible had I never gone beyond driving around the county in a clapped out 4 door sedan with my race bike disassembled in the back seat. Shit, that was only 15 years ago and here I am sounding all washed up.
Maybe I am just feeling a lack of youth. My hair on top of my head fell out... boo fucking hoo! The not having any racing plans I think is what is making my a cry baby little bitch. The big enduro race I overalled last year supposed to be this weekend just got "postponed", The fist CHCA race where I was to maiden voyage my race car next weekend as well, The Dick Mann Classic motocross I so enjoyed last year has been cancelled. I am expecting more bad news and much tougher times to come but despite this sob story rant, trust me, I am keeping very positive and know that only positivity can create positive outcomes.  And we are in a "Pandemic", people are dying, financials are fuct... I must be a huge narcist but whatever. I feel like a cart with no wheels. I need to race. I am here to race.

Living in the now

A lot of frequent words and phrases around lately. I am sick of it and so is everybody but at least I have a partner to laugh with, a grumpy old hound dog to keep my emotions in relation to reality that is mother earth, and a cell phone to take pictures from the last week to share. ...When that fucking phone is not sapping the very living life force from me. I Know. I know nobody knows. Know-it-alls know the least. Time will tell as it always does. The good is always there if we only know where to look or how to see it. Less words please...

Jerry was a race car driver

Project race car update: Sometimes when you try to smoke a roach you end up smoking your mustache. But so far this roach of a race car is burning pretty good and the high is pretty satisfying. They have not announced postponement or cancelation of the first race exactly one month away but I suspect... I honestly don't know what to expect. I reckon rolling with the punches, tuck and role, and roll another one are all fair expectations at this juncture in time. It all kind of reminds me of how when I was a kid I thought grown-ups had all the answers and then I grew up (sort of) and realized that nobody knows shit. In fact I am pretty certain kids know more than adults. We are currently becoming aware that there is no wise protecting leadership figure to keep us safe and show us the answers to life's reason to be. We are all only helpless toddlers rolling around in our own shit. Anyhoo, Here is some VW crap I have been up to in after hours at the still busy, conducting business, business as always shop....

I cut the oil pan down -or is it up? Some tricky welding and for once I even worked wood outside of the shower and built a jig to make sure I got the pick up within 1/4" from the bottom to allow proper oil pick up without starvation.

I picked up a free loader freddy water temp gauge but the sender was long enough to please the most hungry of cock holster so I had to weld up a bung holster holy hole whole thing. Yeah.

The Colorado Hill Climb rules say the windows must be laminate so I asked good old buddy Captain WOR to work his window tinting skills with some clear tint so as not to disturb my junk yard classic car patina pervert look with some gang banger dark. I learned that there are actual window tinting competitions and that VW bug rear windows are so difficult to tint that they are often used in these tinting competitions. I also learned about Captain WOR's patience threshold. It is good that his dirt bike needs a lot of work. I am actually working on his bike today. Free of charge. And will be for a long time I reckon...

On my 2nd VW bug project (not the race car but the Joker purple Baja) I welded in some rear torsion tube brackets to convert it to independent rear suspension. Just bugging out you know.  

Keep it groovy my friends. 

川口市営第4回第2節最終日・優勝戦、突然の豪雨でいきなり3台が落車! 最後に笑ったのは誰?

we all think we know shit about shit we know shit about but the truth is we don't know shit about a lot of shit that we don't know shit about.

Ramsay Midwood Spinnin' On This Rock

The Joker-mobile

Got my first paint job done with less fuck ups than I expected. It looks pretty shitty up close but I reckon it is only going to end up getting the shit beat out of it anyhow. My hat is off to pro body work people. I spent so much time doing prep work and can still see every flaw. Painting is a lot of fun but I think I will stick to being a patina pervert as much as I can. Hope everyone is keeping it positive out there and looking out for one another.  Much!

Stroker Ace or Max Rockatansky

Since my last post I went to the local grocery store and found that people here are tragically flawed when scared. And they are really scared. I could not find any groceries or even dog food so I bought a keg of beer. I am continuing to work and customers continue to bring me their dirt bikes but tomorrow looks uncertain or perhaps it is just my paranoia or buying into the mass hysteria that seems to be sweeping everybody up by their Stephen King doomsday fiction fantasy pebble brains. The next person that proclaims or even mutters the word apocalypse might have to dodge my old ice axe hanging on my wall. Why am I so worked up though? Well I tell ya why, and it has nothing to do with people wearing Michael Jackson surgeon masks or using old paper bags to wipe my ass. I am supper bummed because I finally built myself a race car and the hill climb race season starts this spring or at least it is supposed to but if everybody keeps freaking out and manifesting the end of human play time than instead of Stroker Ace I may have to take things a little Mad Max direction instead. Come on people this is serious. Wash your hands, make a cup of tea or something and chill out.

Racing is a better way.

Cowboy's wake

A little over a week ago I drove 13 hrs out to Tommy's Triumph Shop to celebrate one hell of a man. I lived out of my van for 5 days, drank a lot of whisky and beer, and got to spend a day at Mark's Diamond Auto body.  (Long time friend of Tommy's and race team member who bought my old Champion framer that helped fund the opening of Newbold's Motorbike Shop). Thanks for the crash course in auto body Mark! It was a great trip and gave me a lot of time to reflect on our time in this universe. Like a common fool, all I listened to on my drive was news and talk radio and I came to the conclusion that brainwashing is a huge part of our society. I realized that when we get scared we look to the media to get our answers and it is currently not working out so good . It is hard to find our own conclusions but if we all tired a little bit more and looked towards others a little less than I think we would find that everything is pretty darn mighty fuckin fine. Go out side, ride a bike, kill your screen. Find your own answers.

What would Cowboy do?

Don't need no fucking toilet paper!

Take it like a man

The day before I put my beloved Baja dog down I fell on my ass.

More like a super strong freak gust of wind blew my dirtbike right out from under me on one of the more big jumps on any motocross track I have ever ridden and I fell like two stories past the landing zone and slammed my less fun to look at area to the hard pack. 

So the last three and half weeks have been tough on me. Living with out my Baja is like loosing sunshine, comfort, and companionship. I had no idea how massively much those knowing brown eyes of hers meant to me. It has been a tough past few weeks to say the least. The one form of therapy I know to always work is seat time on my good ol dirtbike but even 2 seconds in the saddle is more pain than my stench secreting crevasse can bare so all I have been able to do is work away the hurt and stay off my ass.

 Loosing Cowboy and Baja have made me a little more human and little less carefree dare devil. Fuck, I must be getting older. Roll cages, wet wipes, and Metamucil. A pathetic rant on this blog would always incite the Cosmic Cowboy and I could never refuse his wise words of telling me to shut up and go racing. Shit I don't think I have gone this long with out going to a race in a very, very long time...