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Warren's shop

Winter reflection

The denim jacket reeked of stale sweaty feet as I removed it along with my other clothes from the county jail rubber storage bin. The denim jacket was just a plain old jacket lined with plaid wool that had belonged to my step grandfather, a cattlemen. It had no punk rock patches or buttons, no painted on anarchy signs. Just plain denim; my best try at squaring up. Once I walked outside, I inhaled a welcome breath of the below freezing winter air as I walked into the Sunday sunset and walked 4 miles across town to my court appointed drug and alcohol group therapy class. 86 hours of court appointed, pay out your ass by the hour therapy. 86 was the maximum they could sentence. Reckon rolling my old 79 chevy van within city limits while trying to drift corners at 50mph was not such a cool stunt. (And yet here I am bragging about it. Again.) I remember the counselor was a psychology Doctor and sometimes his topics of discussion interested me. He once looked across the circle of people and asked me if I thought tattoos were for losers who had low self esteem. He also once proclaimed that insanity was defined by a person who repeated actions expecting a different outcome. Yup, I'm not sharpest peanut in the turd but I heard him loud and clear. I'm now much more covered with tattoos.  After the class got out I would sit in a dark ally waiting for my mom to pick me up, sometimes for over an hour or two and sometimes it was below freezing. We lived on a country ranch 30 miles away. The drive home usually involved conversation about me and I always thought it a shitty way to end a weekend. I'd go back to work Monday morning, all week, and after I clocked out Friday evening I would walk myself over to the county bed and breakfast and check myself in for another weekend of reading books and trying to sleep behind bars while hearing strange noises. I did this for 12 weekends in a row in the winter of 2004. I remember knowing that I was somehow fortunate. I did after all have a job turning wrenches at the local Honda shop during the week to pay my bail. Most of the people I was around had no such job and I thought it was a promise of a brighter future. After I got though my legal shit I bought a $600 four door BMW 317i with half a million miles on it's clock and put my dirt bike in the back seat and I went racing. And I never quit. And I wear the occasional denim with anarchy signs and obscene patches on it.

That time of year again

I always say it. I'll say it again this year. One of these years I am going.

Life, death, in between

 Last month my life changed like never before. I became a father. Pride, joy, amazement like I have never known before to exist! I did not ever plan on becoming a father but the universe provides. It is a giant weave of feelings too complex for me to pluck the words from but I will try to touch on the surface. But I reckon, it is far more common though no less meaningful or else none of us would be here. It is life. My daughter and me and Momma all share the life and pieces connect us all in this life as we hurl through the cosmos. Each of us contributing a generation until or body clocks out leaving behind pieces with the future. Grand responsibilities I have never before been able to even imagine. Those who do not know me so well ask what my racing days will now become. They will change but I will never not be who I am. I have always tired to preserve my self and respect the severity of life at speed. I continue to slide into life and it's sweeping corners with full bar locked lean angle, bargaining my tires for all the traction possible. Taking what I can, using what I need, giving back.

Last week my Wife's Grandfather died. He was as much of a grandfather as I have ever known. At 92 years, with the last 20 of them being diagnosed with Alzheimer's. He chewed his toothpick and smiled as he held is Great Grand Daughter. Then he shook my hand, said good bye. What Grace.

As Hunter S. said: "Buy the ticket, take the ride."

Project KTM Killer (old man woods bike)

 

I have been riding some of the new two stroke trail bikes and though I am stuck in the past I must admit that the modern trail bike has evolved a fair bit. Be it, this coming from a ham fisted WFO junky who has always raced off road on modified motocross models. Bottom line is that I am getting older and days spent riding 100 mile tight mountain single track on the main jet of a 55 hp fire breathing thumper steed set up more towards desert style off-road are making me feel my age the day after. To further my krux, I am a stout and stubborn anti-conformist so orange, Austrian, or even European won’t curt my mustard. As they often do, the mis-aligned queer gears in my head began grinding out a patina pervert plan: How good of a woods bike could I make out of a trusty steel frame Honda CR250... just then a lightning storm erupted above Dr. Frankenstein’s Laboratory. Good old Brian aka The WOR Godfather found me a 95 model for what looked a steal at $450. However to judge a book by it’s cover is far more safer a bet than used dirtbike shopping. The first sharp peanut in the turd was discovered when the drain plug was removed pooping out various chunks of steel and rubber bits. The fuel tank’s content had spilled past the float valve flooding the crank case, eventually seeping past the main seals, and eventually deteriorating the clutch basket dampers allowing the primary gear to break free from the clutch basket. The second sharp peanut in the turd to pass was discovering a botched weld job on the cases from a repair of a large hole. Skid plates are cool. I then discovered cracks in the frame so I sandblasted, welded, and had it powder coated. I bored out the triple clamps to accept some twin chamber Showa forks I had lying around and re-valved the rear shock. I shaved the head a whopping .065” to get squish at .047” but it detonated badly so I have fattened up the Lectron considerably. It is still a touch pingy once in a while so I plan to open up the dome. I’m also waiting on a Rekluse Core Manuel clutch assembly which will more than double the build cost. I have an 18” rear wheel to put on after I wear out the 19” knobby and I plan on raising the seat foam and handlebar height. I’ve put about 4hrs on it and I can say that it is a fun ripper. With a bit more tweaking I think it will hold it’s own against modern two stroke trail bikes just fine. And with some style!

Hill Climb Racing. Colorado Hill Climb Racing

 It takes everything I have to compete in these events. These "Hill Climbs".  No, not nitro burning extended swing arm chained tire drag race, what every red blooded yankey doodle thinks of when I tell them that Hill Climb racing is my main focus these days.(Although that looks fun and challenging in it's own way) The Hill Climb I love is rather a rare treasure left behind in the old dust of Pikes Peak. These Colorado gravel roads. Switch backing up mountains through forests, sheer cliff edges, and the occasional fucking Brown Bear.  As the cars both blue groove and chew the surface, the breaking points change, the random large rocks get kicked out of the ditch and into the line where concealing tree shadows can change from morning to evening. All the while the comfort zone expands into the limit of possible speed, constantly clawing for the new course record. What better a test to one's ability. A beautiful back drop to find a machine's character, become one with the controls all the way through to the tires, and exploit every tiny molecular piece of matter that makes traction. Yum.

Excess 750 spotlighted

 I used my dad's old 35mm OM-1 to take some pictures at the vintage mx in Bull Hollow and the shots got some attention on the instagram. The Excess 750 ended up with a feature at: https://www.bikebound.com/2021/08/24/excess-750/

End of an era

I had been hearing rumors that for the 100th running next year they were going to invite former motorcycle champions to compete on supermoto bikes. That is not to be though and I reckon I am a bit relieved. I wont have to find a sponsor to come up with the $3k to enter. I like how in their little press release history of bikes on the hill (Link here)they touch on mostly tragedy and only name the few record setters and multi time champs they want to. Seems cheap to me but maybe the hill just meant more to me than most. I will keep all my memories (mostly all good, a few bad.) very dear. Everything changes and moves on down the swirling shit pipe of progress. Nothing stays the same no matter how much we cling to it. While at Lands End I heard that Steve and Lisa the 2nd generation owners of my old race week paradise The Lone Duck Campground sold and I can't blame them one bit. But I sure will miss getting up at 3am everyday of race week, stumbling through camp to Steve's coffee machine percolating away like a beacon in the dark. After morning practice sessions Steve, Lisa, and family awaited us flipping flapjacks on the griddle located right behind the camp office desk. They loved the race as much as us racers. But with the paved over race course along with it came bigger pocket having race teams who would rather rent an entire house instead of a campground full of grass roots racers sleeping in tents, puking behind vans, and ripping mini bikes around. Oh the fun that was had. I am so thankful to have taken part in a treasure of American racing that was pikes peak. Dirt, blood,tears, champagne... Lots of love.

Edit/ Addition: from the next week's issue of Cycle News written by Rennie.

I remember Rennie always being a real gentleman racer and somebody I could talk with easily about anything. I think it was his first year competing when he smuggled a back pack of beer with his gearbag to the finish line and he was happy to share it with us as we waited up there all day before we could come down. Cheers mate.

Lands End Hill Climb 2021

< Motorycle class: New Record. Rally 2WD class: 2nd behind Jeff Zwart and a very nice Porche, and just in front of a very cool turbo Gremlin. What a total blast. I have so much fun at Lands End that words are just not there. What a high! How to assimilate such things into normal everyday life is imposibble ... Until next year...

“Deep and simple is far more essential than shallow and complex.” - Mr. Rogers

 

@camponophoto took this shot last Sunday. I think it is pretty good.

Rodeo 

Baby got back!

I built a Mini-me for Ronin Danger AKA Fred's kid. Look out.

Last weekend was the Monarch pass hill climb. The location of the first hill climb I raced in I think 2014. It is a good form of racing for me. I enjoy the demanding precision and perfection with limited time to get comfortable. Memerize the course best you can and take it to the limit knowing one mistake at the worng place could be disaster. Rewarding my inner mongoloid.

A poem I wrote last August:

Because I like to be put to the test.

I like to do things that put hair on my chest.

Ape-hanger, El Camino dirfter.

Adrenaline junky Trophy Whore.

Feed the need for speed

That's what for.

Rice burning beetle bug racer.

Baja beach one thousand mile tequilla chasser.

My drum brakes still have what it takes.

Beer belly thrusts and shakes.

I grow my own smoke.

I took the road I toke.

I'm the butt of my own joke.

June's affirmation

 Know yourself,  respect yourself, but most importantly; be yourself. 

For the win

 

Last corner, last lap, for the big win :)

Racing ...again!

 A John Prine lyric: "She reminds me of a chess game with someone I admire or a picnic in the rain after a prairie fire."  

Last weekend saw no fires neither rain but it was sure one hell of a welcome breath of fresh air to go racing for the first time in 259 days. Since my last race I have found out that I have a little baby girl on the way. Talk about an impactful statement. Love. It has been over a month now and a few CT scans, lung tests, and medical evaluations since I foolishly allowed myself to get shit-whipped of my dirtbike and my carcass is still sore but healing up well. I was not sure how I would perform this past weekend at the vintage trials and motocross back in my beautiful home town of Steamboat Springs. I started to prepare a couple of weeks ago by digging up the bones of an abandoned 1974 Yamaha TY250 trials bike from my bone yard. A previous owner had frankenstiened a YZ tank, mystery seat/ exhaust combo, and some deadly ATV or ATC foot pegs. I did what I do and deemed it competition worthy. Though surely not going to win any beauty contest it did get some grumbles and giggles from the vintage purist. 

Friday morning I loaded up and met up with the Kustom Coach Works (KCW) crew and convoyed out to my old home town on the best back roads I could think of to show off to them and their super cool vintage VWs. They usually spend about 100 nights a year sleeping in their rigs exploring the world near and far. Needles to say they are special people and I think they are top shelf cool. Big Ben had a fresh built old Honda trials in tow behind his 1950's bus equipped with a subaru engine. Saturday was the trials day and Ben did his first competition trials in 12 years. Talk about a dry spell. He impressed me immensely with his solid riding doing way better than people one third his age (and height)!  I flailed something awful on my first loop dabbing like a dog on a skateboard and dropping fives like a frat boy in the champagne room. I managed to get my act together by the final loop and zero every test but one but the overall winner only dropped one on all three loops so a repeat victory from my last time was not to be had. I actually got beat by many but I was having a blast. Post trials beers were drank.

The Dick Man Premier Classic BSA 500 I rode in the motocross two years ago was not able to make it out to the race due to a last minute transport breakdown so the owner of the ranch that hosts the whole weekend offered me up his 1960 BSA Catalina with a Dick Man worked over chassis. Talk about catching a break. All that I can say is that I am a lucky dog. I said that I would do my best to bring it back in the same condition. I tried not to listen when I heard what these old dirtbikes sell for. And then there I was Sunday morning, lined up with my clutch finger twitching as my eyes registered a dropping green flag. Seconds later I was flying into a corner behind somebody in sacrilegious neon green modern mx gear and a full face helmet. His rear tire blasted me for the next four laps while I learned my bikes character and mostly concentrated on breaking with my left foot and up-shifted by going down with my right foot. I nearly cooked a few corners and knew if i were to pass the faster rider I would need to make a pass on the inside line without somehow turning us both into a dusty bloody ball of expensive and very heavy vintage iron. 2nd place was fine. The 2nd moto would be my time to make a move. And it was. The last corner of the last lap... I saw an open door and I took it. There was slight contact, Whoooping and hollering as we drag raced across the finish line. I won by a wheel length. A pass of a life time. I was so winded I got my helmet off and felt like my lung was collapsing again. I ingested much dirt and more epic glory than any ol dog could ever dream of. What a blast!!!

I am so fortunate to be around the quality people I am surrounded with and can not even begin to thank them enough for their generosity, allowing me to pilot amazing bikes and just spend time together picking up dust. Much!

Looking back moving forward

 I am at the age where I am becoming aware of how much I talk about the way things used to be. "Back in the good ol days I used to race the Baja 1000 with bare feet both ways without a chase truck and eat only doughnuts! You little whipper snappers with electric start and 'I EAT ASS' bumper stickers couldn't eat your way through a wet tortilla!"

1st Annual May Day Meow Meow Massacre

 As I came out of the CT scan tube I jokingly asked the doctor if I had a broken neck. She didn't laugh. I was instead told that the reason my breathing was labored was because my spleen was extremely enlarged and it was trying to collapse my left lung. Huh, interesting. I had spent the two days after my little crash out in the desert drinking beer and whiskey and it took until monday morning for my lung to want to give out. Must have been all the fun I had out in the desert for the Meow Meow May Day Massacre that kept me going. It has been over two weeks since then and I feel a little ashamed to tell what happened but I sure as hell aint one who never makes mistakes.

The morning of the first day of the Meow Massacre was a huge clusterfuck for me. Trying to organize a big ride and and having it start and stop at two different locations with shuttle vans and almost all of us on illegal dirtbikes leaving my shop in a mob of thumpers and smokey two strokes through and out of town. It all ended up working out flawlessly. Out in the desert we finally got to the start of some single track and I was happy. Feeling free after days of preparation. My wife and her parents had our fuel jugs waiting for us out in the desert along with cookies.... and an ice chest full of beer... It felt so good out in the summer sun and everyone was digging it... I popped a top again. We thanked our gracious pit crew, put our helmets back on and I took off like a pinball full of liquid courage. I remember my back wheel dancing off prairie dog mounds as I grabbed gears across the flats and approached a ditch. The next thing I remember was being back at the gas stop and having a discussion about why I should stop putting my helmet back on. I kept apologizing and finally agreed that it was best to take my helmet off and retire for the day because I had no memory of a good five minutes in time. Apparently I was found snoring in the middle of the trail nowhere near my bike. Super great way to impress your in-laws when your wife is pregnant! I gave some instructions best I could to the riders and told them my sketchy hand drawn map would get them to the camp. And it did! And we all had a super fun weekend. 

I am a very lucky person to be surrounded by the people that choose to be near me. My reckless ways are something worth much of my attention for I can border on the edge of being an asshole vs who I aspire to be. Despite my injured spleen, sternum, clavicle, AC shoulder joint, knee, ankle, finger, whiplash, and scambled egg grey matter, the worst part of my crash is the feeling of letting my people down. I don't think I will let that happen again.

Don't forget to put it on your calendar for next year. You wont want to miss it. Not even 5 minutes of it.