Thomas E Dorrell - The Cosmic Cowboy

The first time I ever met him it was actually one of his many Triumph motorcycles that I met. I saw it parked in front of a Café in the middle of Kansas while hopping from one small town to another during the Kansas fair flattrack series. The ratty street tracker was a few years ahead of it's time in terms of Internet trends. The bike struck me so much that I had to turn around and take a photo with my camera. Later on in that same county fair flattrack series I saw the bike again in the pits at Norton Kansas after the races were over. It was weaving wildly through the grassy paddock. It's pilot, wearing sandals, a Hawaiian shirt, and large cowboy hat while handing out cans of PBR from a milk crate with reckless grace. From that moment on we were friends. Good friends. Best friends. He frequented often on this blog. The Cosmic Cowboy was his handle. Cowboy. A former Dodge City gun fighter. Stunts, movies, Vietnam helicopter gunner, Preacher, Skateboard shop owner, Family man, and of course Tommy's Triumph Shop. He sponsored me and many other racers. He would fill up my van with gas using his veteran assistance credit card. While visiting his shop he would send me home with a van load of five or six motorcycles to sell for race money. He brought a bunch of pampers diapers to Davey Durelle's Pits when his little ones were all over. He would bring back a tire for me from Davey's Pits when my tire was as bald as them little one's backsides. His Tommy's Triumph Shop shirts are worn by many, even Chris Carr. Never could I have ever had a better crew chief. He kept me fed, informed, and well hydrated... especially after the racing was over. For nearly ten years we had a lot of fun meeting up at the races in Kansas, Nebraska, Las Vegas and even driving together to Dirt Quake USA in Washington State. What a road trip that was. The dropped ice cream cones covered in Baja hair he ate while cursing. The whiskey. The Women. The party. And of course every flea market, swap meet, garage sale and antique store from Denver to Portland. Every single one of them. He knew how important Pikes Peak was to me and even though he hated the place, especially after Carl's death, he made sure to be there and to look after me with his blessings. He was preacher at my wedding and damn was he top notch. That god damned son of a bitch could dance! The stories are far too many to tell and some just far to fuct up to explain. Dealing with his passing is painful for sure as it must be to so many others in his huge network. He had some big boots. Very big and no one or nothing will ever come close to filling them but we all must do our best to keep alive the spirit of the greatest outlaw motorcycle cowboy the cosmos have ever known.
Ride on old amigo.

04-26-14 Flat Track 30+ Main @IMI with Bangin Bars

Good old Banging Bar days at IMI with Michael Neal all over my 6

Phone Dump (Hemorrhoid blood corn kernels)

Drinking in Vegas

500 cc of FUCK YOU!

I finally went and rode the half liter skeeter eater green dragon with a paddle tire and it was like listening to Slayer with the volume on ten through head phones. More violent than an Arnold Schwarzenegger fight scene. As much fun as Wonka's Oompa Loompa party at the strip club. I can now die happy. Or at least I am completely satisfied and ready to sell this PCP hopped Unicorn. If you or somebody you know would fancy the S&M pleasure and have $7k then take her. Please.

Moped Dick at Bonneville World Finals 2019 - 50cc Two Stroke Landspeed Bike

Moped Dick

There I was perched on another exotic motorcycle. I am not sure why I am so lucky or maybe it is just my lack of concern for my well being. But I'd like to call it my life's destiny. As I applied throttle and lifted my feet up and way back to the pegs the bike began to lean over more than the forward momentum and 14 degrees of steering lock could compensate for and my first ride on the special 50cc land speed bike from Norway ended in a crash not more than ten feet from where it started. Luckily there were no major damages. I felt a bit sheepish but my ego is able to take much worse. We re-started the engine and off I went down the old abandoned pot hole riddled highway behind my shop. As the engine revved up to 15,000 rpm it started to really move me. At 16,500 I was in my happy place; That precious rare place, as narrow as the power band on the little home made engine. So rare and precious. Yes! A feeling I was not expecting as the days prior we had made the trek to the holy salt flats only to find that over night rain had turned them into a giant lake. SCTA World Finals was canceled. All was not lost though as a good attitude of the crew was upheld despite Jim and Don driving all the way from Arkansas and Alex the amazing Norwegian two stroke stuffer flying half way around the world after building the entire bike in a few months. The quality of the crew was top notch. So I offered my shop and the back roads of western Colorado for our own speed trials week and it was a great way to break and repair parts. The bike should be a real contender for some record setting next season. Viva "Moped Dick"!

The Vicious Cycles - "High Noon Scramble" (Official Music Video)

I keep saying it but someday I really do hope I end up at the High Noon Scramble!

Devil Duck

By Sam Turner.
I hope to make some t-shirts

Lands End 2019

Wallace kills it with his camera as usual:

Im working on a report of sorts but for now lets just say I really like this bike.

Been working on my tan

I did it. I finally built an XR650R tracker. After talking about it for over ten years now. I got the lead out of my ass and whipped it together in less than two weeks. Also got a wicked welding sun burn. The aluminum welding on the frame was a mother fucker as my old Coors keg ice box sized tig machine don't work so good on anything thicker than a bottle cap. As my arms and crazed Tupac expression can tell you, I was holding that torch to her like a last ditch crack head trying to burn out that last bit of resin from a twilight tweeker light bulb crank pipe. Thug life beotch. No seriously though this bike is a loud mouthed mean mother with a devine tendency to leave nasty ass sideways rear tire marks into, around and right on the fuck out of corners. The front end off of my old SV with caliper, over sized rotor, and R1 17mm master cylinder pound my pud into the XL350 tank with an authority to be cautious of. And a squeal like a poor baby seal getting clubbed by a commercial fur trader. Strictly commercial.  Though I started from the bare frame last week I did already have the steering mocked onto another frame and I started building the engine one piece at a time as money would allow through out this year.  The organ donor engine came into my possession via major transmission carnage. The doner frame came into my possession via customer loosing his "Fat Samantha" (Beloved trusty XR650R) to a Moab flash flood that filed the engine with so much mud and sand I have yet to tackle the resurrection. But if Jesus can do it... I have faith in the big red pigs. Dr. Frankenstien creates a true monster on this one. This weekend I will flog her up the Lands End Hill Climb. New Record? ... I hope. And like last year I will load up after sunday's race and drive through the night to race the Stockton 1/2 mile monday and tuesday night. Hopefully my welder tan blisters are done peeling before I cram my carcass into them pink and purple leathers....

All eyes on me

Hi Mom

First test ride went pretty well other than the post adrenaline Michael J Fox shacking hands and a weeping kick starter seal

Im getting better at fab work but it is still farm boy fab at best. Exhaust was mainly built from my VW bug's old steering column shaft (way too big). The out-put tips are stock car inspired.
If it's too loud - you'r too... what? .... WHAT?

Cockpit is just that. 

Note: I love these bikes so much, even in stock form. So the only things I did to this bike that can't be undone or brought back to complete stock form was the drilling of two holes in the subframe crossmember for the seat and the tank mounts witch could be cut and ground off if I ever turn into some old wrinkled assed metamucil farting preservationist twat. ( Im already all except the preservationist.)

The Run to Raton with Cookie and Willy

Felefold cycles

Half way through the year 2019. Really? No doubt. Still here. Still racing for the win. Here, there, anywhere that feels right. Not on that mountain this year, though I felt it’s pull all spring. Springs pull and push as all forces have flow that goes both ways. But after the waves come in and out I am happy to find myself constant. With or without the race to the clouds, I am still here.  Another will never return from those clouds and due to his prolific stature I reckon the motorcycle’s days on the hill may be done. The vintage motocross did end up taking me full circle of sorts. Turns out the friendly fellow I pitted next to at the Dick Mann dream race offered me a spot on a dream team joy ride in having a go at a 50cc record in Bonneville. Hell yeah, why not! The engineer bike/engine builder form Norway seems a real ace and if nothing else I look forward to sharing a cocktail or two. Been about ten years since I went my first and only time to the salt, inspired by ol’ Joe the hairy old pikes peak racer that  not only got me to the salt that year but also gave me light to build an xs 650 flattracker and have a go at roundy round racing. Thanks Joe.  How the hell? One thing leads to another. I sure am sure about one thing and that is my luck. I am not sure how I end up with the rides I do but I ride them like I do. If that makes any sense. Still, my luck is amazing and if the collection police come to take me know that I am satisfied with it all. Old dog, Love lady, Precious plain old van and all. Any hoo, Rambles shmambles. I won another race or two since last post and I am still doing my best to finish the 4 wheeled cage Subaru vw bug racer car named: Adolf Wusabee. Fucking spell check fail. I feel stronger and stronger about giving up on the artificial life that computers have become but here I find inspiration and hope to spread to others. Keep dreams conscious, don’t wait until tomorrow, love your loves, and for fuck’s sake keep it pinned wide fucking open,

Bull Hollow raceway was a perfect day for a street bike shred. As captured on camera by good old Brother Mick

Last weekend I drug Baja out of retirement and raced a 2.5 mile hill climb on the old XR600 that had not been raced since Pikes Peak 1996.
Keep on Keeping on.

Head Waters

Like a single drop of water making it's way through the water table, I have found my self back at my origination. The head waters of my life. I have come from nil and have pondered the potential of world class, I have been beaten down, pissed out, and remained moist all along. So far.
When I was a boy about 10 years of age my single mother knew I needed something so she let me ditch school, gave me some money to ride the bus, and spectate the first motorcycle event of my life; The Steamboat Springs Colorado Vintage motocross. All I remember is being awe struck at the noise. speed and dirt flying in the air. I wanted to catch a chunk of the flying roost and bring it home with me. So I did. Later that week I clipped the newspaper's account of the races and started a scrap book. I started to save money to buy DIRT BIKE and Dirt Rider magazines. I was completely fuct for life. Some 25 years later I found my self strung out on racing motorbikes. trying to deceiver the role of a true racer from an ego gladiator. The day and age of self promotion and corporate sponsorship clouds our feeds and like the dust from a stampede of fad following Fonzie look -a-likes. I sometimes wonder if there is a reality. If my dream is real or just another product of a consumer based society hungry for a hero; tragic, ugly, and flawed. The only thing I know is that when I am twisting the fucker, I feel alive and ready to smash anything and everyone. This drive has left me near ruin, near great, and always seeking the true righteous racer's path to glory.
For the last 12 years the month of June has been occupied by Pikes Peak. Not this year. The June before I started racing to the clouds I flagged for the Steamboat Vintage Motocross. Dick Mann, the one and only beat everybody with ease and style. He then came over to me and asked me to remove the decal on my mini bike that said: FUCK THE DRAUMA- ROLL A BOMBA. I obliged. That is my one and only conversation with the legend even though he gave me his autograph yesterday. This year I was invited to partake and none the less on a Dick Mann build BSA 441 Victor in a Dick Mann frame. I won all four of my motos and was told that Dick Mann commented on my riding. It involved a nod of approval. My first motorcycle race in my home town brought me the feeling of full circle. Back to my head waters. At peace, and ready to do it again.