PIKE'S PEAK race - Team RONIN 2015 Travis Newbold

Some entertainment after the race footage so grab some popcorn. Bosozoku style. pause at 35:16 and you can see the deer I dodge at 100+mph. What a good time I had last year!

Thanks Mom.

 When I was a boy my mom thought I needed some tools. Maybe it was because the dirt bike that she had bought me for $400 from a newspaper classifieds add was only serviced once a year. It was serviced by a shop called Z’s Motorsports and only brought to them in a horse trailer with my other dilapidated old motorcycles that neighbors had donated to me, the hopeless motorcycle want-a-be. I never did get any of those bikes to even so much as burp a flame induced spark and neither did Z’s. They were old junk but, the Prized $400 CR80 would run after they did their carb clean or top end replacement. For, I had yet to learn of such things as cleaning and oiling an air filter. I just rode when I could. Sometimes I could not get it started. Sometimes, many times, It ran out of gas and I would push it home though farm fields. There it would sit until the next time gas, oil, and the stars aligned for me to try again. Once I rode until it would not go. The sprocket teeth were all worn smooth.  Every time the shop fixed my bike they must have thought what a complete oblivious spoiled kid I was. But nobody had taught me how to maintain something other than airing up my bmx tires. My mom would pay the repair bill and I rode until the air filter would again suck dirt and seize the engine. Maybe it was after one of these repair bills that Mom thought I needed some tools. Since we were in town, we could have gone to the department store or the farm supply store for some nice complete tool set with sharp screw drivers and metric wrenches to fit my Honda. But no, we went to a store that was a place that interested me: The pawn shop. I remember all the pneumatic ½” impact guns, the cross bows, and Nintendo games. We decided on a near complete set of ½” sockets; 3/8” all the way to 1 ¼”. A breaker bar, extension, and even a universal swivel. Why my mom thought I needed this I had no idea. But I liked the hard metal case and the idea of something I was to be responsible for. I didn’t know what to use these sockets for on my CR80 but I somehow did learn the  process of keeping a clean and oiled air filter. I can remember using the ½” ratchet to hammer my jet needle straight after fucking it all up trying to cram it into the carburetor. That socket set was the beginning of a life long quest for tools. I now have more tools for working on motorbikes than I would trade for a complete furnished casa in Bali with gold capped banisters. Somehow, from that insignificant little case my mom bought me, I have evolved a life long craft of riding, wrenching, and loving the bikes I craft with my wrenches. Thank you Mom. I am forever grateful for your patience, your foresight,  and, your unconditional love and understanding.

Life goes fast… Have a blast

Days pass so fast

   Youth and talent never last

Just a kid bombing hills

   Eventually growing gills

His mongoose evolves

   Mechanical speed equations he solves

Becoming internal combustion led sled

   Orbiting into cosmic death bed

A rainbow oil drip

   The puddle reflection eclipse

Gone tomorrow, yet here today

I race my ghost

   To roost the most

I want to play

   Every god damned day

For berms that bounce

   And tyres that grip

A crank shaved ten ounce

   A clutch disc transferring perfect slip

I offer up this toast

   To make the most

Live large and never lift

   Winning is hard, but live the gift.

TWIST THAT FUCKING THING YOU PUSSY!

The Magpul Ronin - DAM

Return to Moto

The vibes on the starting line engulf me like an old itchy wool sweater. My leg is twitching with a bounce comparable to a jackhammer on the concrete starting pad. I worry it will lock and hyper extend my twice operated on knee. All the racers around me have a mechanic sweeping clean their start gate. I leave mine covered in the dirt clods left by it’s former tenant. The board goes sideways and my eyes lock on the gate awaiting the first sign of movement. It drops and I launch, shifting my weight and feathering the clutch. I elbow the racer on my left and grab 3rd gear. I find the high line in corner one and make my new knobblies work hard to hold. Back on the gas hard, I leave the corner in the lead. As I hit the first jump I imagine being landed on be some 17-year-old foot peg dragging, Bubbu scrubbing, rev limiter leaper. But my old school straight up and down style gets me over the jump as fast as any of the new school style and I hold the lead. I hear engines revving behind me and see a wheel in my peripheral. I hold my line and charge onward. I bobble in a rut and am overtaken but the intruder carries to much speed into the next turn and I dive down to a loamy rut on the inside and re-take my lead. I hold it as I complete the first lap but see waiving red cross flags as I approach turn one. I pass bodies in heaps at the sight of my glorious hole-shot. As I pass the spectator area I see fancy Redbull KTM jackets frantically waving on who ever is on my six. It makes me dig deeper and find more speed. After the first four or five laps I feel my strength leave me. I am tired and have not raced motocross in many, many years. My hands struggle to keep grip and my legs do little to keep the bike weighted as I wheelie through loamy rollers. This is the last moto of the day and I tell my self to just hold strong. The white flag is out and seeing it gives me a boost of strength and courage. Just one more lap. I can. The cheering for who ever is behind me is intense. Whoever they are, with their glamour Oakley wrap around sunglasses, they don’t want to see their rider finish behind some old clapped out Honda with a head light number plate. Fuck them, I am here to prove a point with my 20 year old pink riding pants and beat to shit image. There is a cold Popsicle waiting at the van and I want it. I earned it.

Good bye cold winter

All the snow has turned to water. Christmas days have come and past. Broken toys and faded colors, are all that's left to linger on. - John Prine

True, a lot of the good shit has all ready happened, but tomorrow is what we make it! The snow is all melting! The traction is aplenty. New races, new faces! It is looking to be a fun spin around the old calender this year. Shredding!!!

Open: 12-3 on Sunday. Bring an empty van and some cash.

"Let me tell the difference between personal property and a corporation: a corporation is chicken shit! If anyone tells me what to do with my personal property, they can fuck right off!" It is nice to find a place that still does business the honorable way these days. Especially when that business involves GT550 engines, RD350 tanks, Near new XS650 cranks, Red CR engines on the bottom of a shelf behind shopping carts overflowing with shocks, and stacks, piles, heaps, shelves, lofts, sumps, rafters full of what ever treasure you seek.

6 days on the road. (Bunch of great fucking people!)

One van. Four dudes. Portland. The show and then the race. You can guess which one I was there for. Having never been to a real motorcycle show before I was surprised at nothing. It was actually more fun than I thought but with so many friends that I don't get to see often, of course it was a shit ton of fun. It was cool for me to be around the pikes peak Ronin and the crew again. The fucking bike is super special and evokes many emotions from me. It is hard to put into words what racing that bike was like and I reckon what it comes down to is that the guys at Ronin are top notch people. It is hard to feel proud sometimes and they know what it is all about and with out the people that bike would not mean much to me. But it does and it was cool to refresh my memory as to why. It is a rare thing when people can go through shit like we have and not loose any respect for each other. Not even loose cool. Shit we as cool as James Brown. Though many high lights like; Getting reefer headed and going into a truck stop that sold everything known to the critter world, getting kicked out of the titty bar with Jeff Wright, walking the city in big circles trying to find our lost way, or taking a 200 mile detour or the van flatulence. But the best part for me of course was the racing on the last day. When the helmet and leathers go on. I get it on. Had a blast winning the Vintage twins class and the Hooligan race... well that's a whole story for another time. Lets just say: If you ain't first, your last!

Sugar, spice, and all that is nice

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Jonesing for some summer pretty bad. Snow is a coming down hard right now. The sofa is not lonesome for hiney. But the days are getting longer and the thaw is infiltrating the cold and wet. Shit, saturday was a beauty day at the tarmac track on the SV. Finally getting the suspension sorted and looking forward to thrashing the back sides off of the bikes that were in front of us last year. If we can just make it through a couple more months of frozen fucking water droplets mixed with sunny warm strip tease days we are sure to see good times. The quality stuff; Racing, camping, and shitting in the woods. welp, as Doc Watson said: Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side.

COC

Some people don't give a fuck. They are interesting yet scary people but a few of them still respect others. They don't give two shits but are intertwined with the cosmos enough to know respect to others as expected in return is and always will be the golden rule. Jeff Wright is one of those. One of the people who help me be as strong as I can at what I do. Glad to know him. It is all a web and we are all in it so make something of it when ever you can. So much good stuff over at:Church of Choppers

Chunks is my dog

This is Baja'a happy face. Seriously. She looks at me like this when she is trying to be charming. Back before I was a flattracker, I was a want-a-be flattracker and between bouncing over whoops and hitting dude booters on my dirtbike I liked to slide her as sideways as I could on the transfer roads. Like so many flattracker want-a-be dirt bikers, I thought it was all about getting more sideways than a horizontal line traveling through space. One time I got it past the comfort zone. I saved it but not expecting it I, it went the other way and we all know how tank slapping catapulting over the high side is a lot like getting shot out of a fucking canon. Result: Spinal hematoma requiring three large syringes of fluid to be drained. I love the feeling of hypodermic needles in my spine. Not really. Fast forward many years of back aches and I just had these tumors (the peach cobbler looking dessert jar) removed from the spot of the former injury. My favorite part of the operation was laying on my stomach and feeling the doc's fingers fishing around under my skin. No dirty talking or forplay, he just went three knuckle deep on me and when I turned around to see his face he was sweating and started to curse. apperantly what he thought was a little lipoma turned out to be a ping pong ball sized rock hard nugget and four other little tumors for a nice platter of chunk stew. yummy. That's about all the story time I have now. Reckon my back will feel better but I just have to make sure not to rip my stitches out and all I want to do is get on a bike and shred some fucking gnar godamitall!

Throws of addiction

At 3:55 in the A.M. on the first Sunday of the year my alarm awoke me to more pain than I awoke to today on Monday. And that is saying something because yesterday at full speed on the end of the front stretch I hit the ice hard and slid at 60mph like a ninja turtle into a snow bank. As I type this I feel like my chair is giving me a Mike Tyson charley horse. Ice racing in Colorado means waking up so damn early just to get to the track in the dark, find a sketchy place to park that will require a tow strap to get out of and then freezing your little piggies off all day. If I were not a full blown motorcycle racing junky I sure as hell would be doing something warm and involving more booze than this but there I was. Nothing like sriping off your one pice long underwear in a dark porta-potty and trying to un-clench captain sphincter enough to let the horse out of the barn when it is near zero degrees. After trying out my XS twin in the vintage class once a few years ago I swore it off. It was like Lane Frost riding a greased up bull on pcp. But the buzz has been big this year with many friends and since I still had the tires I figured I would mount em up on my proper 450 race bike and give it a modern effort. (Thanks for the fenders Garrett!) And of course I mind as well throw myself into the A class cause Momma didn't raise to powder pony piss ant. Just a dumb, numb, throttle twisting, high octane huffing, conversion van gypsy jockey. In my heat race I went for the holeshot like I have trained myself to always own like a mule. I may have taken it had I not lost the back end like a slug of lead leaves its shell casing in the first turn. Ice is hard and it slides a body a very long ways. In the main I led the first two laps and dropped to 4th. Not bad but I am looking forward to round 2 this weekend after I sort out my suspension some. Maybe I may win or maybe I may swear off this January sunday addiction for good. Peace, grease, and polar fleece. -Uncle Newbold

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.