Ol'89r
LIFETIME SPONSOR
- Jan 27, 2000
- 6,961
- 45
This one's by request from fatcat.
The lights of Las Vegas.
The year was somewhere around 1970, give or take a year or two…..
I had just come over a rise and I could see the lights of Las Vegas in the distance. I thought to myself, ‘thank God I’m almost there.’ I was experiencing the worst leg cramps I had ever experienced. It hurt to try and keep my feet on the pegs and it hurt to let them dangle. Thoughts about stopping and getting off of the bike ran through my mind but I knew if I stopped and got off, I wouldn’t be able to stand-up or get back on. So I kept trudging forward. I was openly and loudly cursing my so-called friends that talked me into doing this race but nobody could hear me except the jackrabbits, coyotes and rattlesnakes along the trail. I think I even saw one rabbit laughing at me. It sounded like a good idea when we were sitting in my bud’s garage and someone said, “lets do Barstow to Vegas.” Of course adult beverages were involved and maybe that clouded our good judgement. Now, what sounded like a good idea wasn’t such a good idea anymore. What started out as a race was now simply a matter of survival. I had come over 150 miles of some of the most unfriendly and treacherous terrain in the world and I was in excruciating pain and still had 20 or 30 miles to go. Little did I know, the worst was yet to come.
It all started about a month sooner when we decided to ride the B to V race. My very good friends Ike and Clay rode the desert quite a bit and Clay was a very accomplished desert racer. I, on the other hand, was a smooth track rider. Rode mostly TT’s and scrambles on groomed tracks. I had trail ridden in the desert but had never raced the desert. I figured, what could be so hard? Did I mention, there was alcohol involved. So we pre-entered the race and prepped our bikes and went out to race the infamous Barstow to Vegas desert race.
Driving out to the starting line just on the other side of Barstow California on the grounds of Fort Erwin was a big wide graded road leading into Fort Erwin. There were thousands of riders lined up ready to go. About 3,500 plus lined up and waiting for the banner and smoke bomb. The smoke bomb was usually a pile of old tires set on fire to signal the start of the race and told the riders what direction to go. Waiting on the line was quite an experience. Almost dead silence with the occasional engine being warmed up and then shut down.
Motorcycles as far as you could see from left to right. Standing there in the midst of all of those anxious racers getting ready to go was overwhelming. The enormity of it all was just starting to hit me and my heart was in my throat. My breakfast that consisted of sausage and eggs eaten at a little greasy spoon on the way to the race was starting to move. It just hadn’t decided which direction to move.
When the banner dropped, the noise was deafening with over 3,500 motorcycles all starting up and taking off at the same time. We all headed towards the smoke bomb in a huge thundering herd. What started out as a line of racers over a mile long, soon narrowed down to a sand wash wide enough for maybe 4 or 5 riders side-by-side. The sand wash narrowed into a single-track trail and we started climbing up a mountain. The mountain was several thousand feet high and when we got to the top we looked almost straight down to the desert floor below on the other side. The decent down the other side was a rocky stair-step with no defined trail. There was a two to three foot drop from one rock to another and there were bikes and bodies strewn everywhere. We stopped to help one young guy that had his bike lodged in between two big rocks and he was almost in tears thinking about having to spend the night in the California desert. The California desert is a land of extremes. Very unforgiving! It can reach temperatures of over 120 degrees in the daytime and get below freezing at night. All in the same day! Not the place you would want to spend the night with your motorcycle.
After we wrestled our bikes down the stair-step we came out on the desert floor to a big dry lake. Under the paint at 100 + mph across the dry lake was a real treat after what we had come through so far. Those of us on the bigger bikes were able to pass many of the smaller bikes that had gotten by us in the tight stuff. I rode a Triumph 650cc twin. It was a 395 pound motorcycle that I had carved and whittled on and got it down to a 350 pound racer. Lifting a 350 pound motorcycle over rocks and ledges was quite a chore. You had to do it one end at a time unless someone would stop to help you. The suspension on those bikes left a lot to be desired. Under, four inches of travel front and rear with a very short swingarm that made the bike want to swap ends in the whoops. No adjustable dampening, in fact, very little dampening at all. Much like a pogo stick on steroids. They had spindly little forks that tweaked and bent every time you crashed. Fortunately, they were so spindly that you could usually bend them back straight and keep on going. The lighting and ignition systems were designed by a guy named Joe Lucas. He was also known as the ‘Prince of darkness’. The chances of your bike finishing a long race like this without having to stop and clean your points or repair your wiring was slim to none. That was, if your stator didn’t burn up first. It was once said; “If Joe Lucas made guns there would never be any wars.”
When we left the first gas check we were still together but we were having a hard time keeping up with Clay. We came to a bottleneck where we had to go under the highway through a very narrow bridge. There were hundreds of riders lined up waiting to get to the other side of the highway. This is where we got split up. Clay was gone. Way ahead of Ike and I. After I got through the bridge, I wasn’t sure if Ike was in front of me or behind me. I waited for a long time for him to catch up all the while he was waiting for me. We never saw each other again until we got into Vegas.
On the other side of the bridge, we went back into a sand wash. The sand was soft and my bike was swapping back and forth and then I saw a little single-track trail just up out of the sand wash. I jumped up on the single-track trail and found it to be much more to my liking. The little trail started to wander away from the sand wash and began to get narrower and narrower. At one point I saw another rider coming towards me. I thought to myself, “what an idiot, doesn’t he know your not supposed to go backwards on the course?” We passed each other and he waved. Well, kind of a wave. More like, stop. I didn’t stop. I figured, what does he know, he’s going the wrong way on the course. I kept on going and the trail became very narrow and soon disappeared into a rabbit trail. At that time I realized I was off-course and if I continued to go this way I could easily get lost and wind up as a pile of buzzard poop. I turned around and started back to find the course. On the way back I saw another rider coming my way. I tried to wave him down to let him know he was going the wrong way but he probably figured, what the hell does that guy know, he’s going the wrong way on the course. My little off-course excursion took me several miles out of my way.
The course was a variety of terrain. From big flat sand washes to narrow single-track trails. Mountains several thousand feet high to smooth as glass dry lakes. Soft sand, with miles and miles of whoop-de-doo’s. Big rocks that would pitch you far into the air, if you happened to be one of the unlucky ones, that didn’t see them. Dust so thick at times you couldn’t breath or see where you were going. Pucker bushes that would sneak up on you and grab your front wheel and make you pucker as you were flying through the air. I biffed it pretty good in one of the sand washes and broke off the visor on my helmet. Bent my forks and handlebars but was able to tweak them back fairly straight. I had some pretty bad blisters on my hands and most of them had already burst. My legs were starting to feel the mileage and were cramping up. I had arm pump like I had never experienced and had to keep looking at my hands to be sure they were still on the bars. I was starting to realize I was completely out of my element. This was starting to look like not such a good idea.
At the next gas stop, I was able to tape up my broken helmet visor and get some much needed water. We didn’t have drink systems then and we thought nothing of heading out in the desert without water. Never said motorcycle racers were smart. They told me Clay was hauling ass and Ike was a little bit ahead of me. I felt a bit rejuvenated after leaving the stop and had somewhat of a second wind. Everything went well and I was able to make up a little ground on Ike coming into the next gas stop. The next section was much of the same with climbing over mountains and dropping into the valleys. We went through an area where an old volcano once spewed volcanic rock and ash all over the ground. On the volcanic cinders, the bike would move around under you like you were on marbles. Only they weren’t smooth like marbles they very rough and abrasive. You wouldn’t want to fall on those. The course was pretty rough and raw back then. Little more than a goat trail in some areas and it was easy to get lost. There were markings but it was easy to miss them if you were mired in the dust. Over the years the trail has widened and the sand washes are now like freeways. Many of the good, technical sections are closed to the public. Most of the trails are now two-track roads due to the BLM and the environmentalists exploring the area with their four-wheel-drive vehicles and then blaming the damage on the ohv’ers..
Much of the same into the next gas stop except my lack of conditioning and the weight of the big ol’ Triumph was starting to get the best of me. In those days we trained for a race by not smoking an extra pack of cigarettes the week before. Not very many racers trained at all and a lot of them smoked. That section provided me with a very close call when I caught a rock with the rear wheel that almost pitched me over the bars. It was a classic flying ‘W’. You-know, the kind where everything slows down into slow motion and you have enough time to think about how bad this is going to hurt. After spending several yards doing a handstand on the bars, wondering if I should abandon ship or hang on, I finally came down on the correct side of the bars. Phew! That was a close one.
We didn’t have all of the trick safety gear that is available today. We wore open-faced helmets and goggles or flat shields with thin nylon jerseys and Levies or leather riding pants. Boots were lace-up lineman’s boots. Not much protection and when you went down you usually skinned yourself up pretty good. Bell had just come out with a full-face helmet and a few riders wore them.
By the time I left the last gas stop I was in bad shape. I was in survival mode and was only thinking about finishing this thing before dark. Too late! It was already starting to get dark and I still had 30 or 40 miles to go. All of the fast guys had already finished and most of the slow guys too. There were many riders parked along side of the course waiting for someone to pick them up. They were either broke or broken or just plain gave up. I kept thinking to myself, how the hell did I get myself into this? What was I thinking? Where the hell is that &($(^^@#$^$)) Ike and Clay. I just kept thinking, “I gotta’ finish this thing”.
It seemed like it was never going to end when I finally topped a small hill and could see the lights of Vegas. “Yahoo!” I said to myself, “Thank God I’m almost there.” I almost started to hoot and holler except I didn’t have the energy to even hoot, much less holler.
My joy soon turned to sorrow when I noticed the sand was getting softer and softer and deeper and deeper. I was having trouble keeping the big twin pointed in the right direction. It was like I was paddling a rowboat with only one oar. At first I thought I was getting a flat front tire and then maybe a flat rear tire. But no, it was the sand. The sand was turning to a very, fine talcum powder like consistency. I tried clicking up a gear and getting on top of the sand but the trail was so whooped out, I couldn’t. The bike just kept swapping ends and I couldn’t hang on to the bars. By that time my arms and legs were like spaghetti noodles. My legs were burning from the cramps and several cactus needles that I had picked up along the way. My arms were there… I could see them, but I couldn’t feel them. That was good since it masked the arm-pump. My blisters had blisters. I was freezing cold from wearing a wet, sweaty jersey and now it was dark and very, very, cold. I was bloodied and bruised from my get-off in the sand wash and I had sand stuck in every crevice, acting like sandpaper against my skin. I thought, maybe I would just fall off and lay in the sand until a chase truck picked me up or a pack of coyotes ate me. Either option sounded good at the time. This went on for what seemed like forever. The whoops got deeper and the sand got softer. It was getting darker and colder and the Triumph was going in every direction except where I was pointing it. I was starting to hallucinate. I’m pretty sure I saw Elvis…
When all seemed hopeless, just then, I saw the finish line. Not like you would think of a finish line with a big crowd of people standing there, jumping up and down cheering and waving banners. Just a few people, shivering in the cold and darkness, waiting for the stragglers. I limped in like a whipped puppy, found my worried wife and my so-called friends. We stood around for a while comparing our war wounds and then we packed up the bikes and headed for our hotel in Vegas. There were still quite a few people waiting for their riders when we left. After a shower and something to eat, oh yeah, and a few barley pops, we were ready to go out on the town. It wasn’t long before we forgot about the pain and misery we had just gone through and we were already talking about how much fun we had and doing it again next year. Motorcycle racers are a little twisted ya’ know and yes, there was alcohol involved.
We partied early into the morning and then left the next day for Los Angeles. On the way home, driving along the highway that ran next to the racecourse, it seemed surreal that we had done what we had done just the day before. I tried to imagine running through the rough terrain and pucker bushes at the same speed I was driving down the highway in my truck and it seemed impossible. I had gained a whole new respect for desert racers after my experience.
My trusty Triumph never missed a beat. There were times when I was wishing something would break or the Lucas curse would rear it’s ugly head and give me an excuse to quit. But, it wasn’t to be and with the exception of being a little bent, the bike ran flawlessly.
We did wind up doing it again. Several times, including the B to V protest rides. We found out that there were only 600 finishers of the original 3,500 that started the race that year. So just finishing turned out to be a pretty good accomplishment after all.
Oh, youth and exuberance, I do miss thee.
The lights of Las Vegas.
The year was somewhere around 1970, give or take a year or two…..
I had just come over a rise and I could see the lights of Las Vegas in the distance. I thought to myself, ‘thank God I’m almost there.’ I was experiencing the worst leg cramps I had ever experienced. It hurt to try and keep my feet on the pegs and it hurt to let them dangle. Thoughts about stopping and getting off of the bike ran through my mind but I knew if I stopped and got off, I wouldn’t be able to stand-up or get back on. So I kept trudging forward. I was openly and loudly cursing my so-called friends that talked me into doing this race but nobody could hear me except the jackrabbits, coyotes and rattlesnakes along the trail. I think I even saw one rabbit laughing at me. It sounded like a good idea when we were sitting in my bud’s garage and someone said, “lets do Barstow to Vegas.” Of course adult beverages were involved and maybe that clouded our good judgement. Now, what sounded like a good idea wasn’t such a good idea anymore. What started out as a race was now simply a matter of survival. I had come over 150 miles of some of the most unfriendly and treacherous terrain in the world and I was in excruciating pain and still had 20 or 30 miles to go. Little did I know, the worst was yet to come.
It all started about a month sooner when we decided to ride the B to V race. My very good friends Ike and Clay rode the desert quite a bit and Clay was a very accomplished desert racer. I, on the other hand, was a smooth track rider. Rode mostly TT’s and scrambles on groomed tracks. I had trail ridden in the desert but had never raced the desert. I figured, what could be so hard? Did I mention, there was alcohol involved. So we pre-entered the race and prepped our bikes and went out to race the infamous Barstow to Vegas desert race.
Driving out to the starting line just on the other side of Barstow California on the grounds of Fort Erwin was a big wide graded road leading into Fort Erwin. There were thousands of riders lined up ready to go. About 3,500 plus lined up and waiting for the banner and smoke bomb. The smoke bomb was usually a pile of old tires set on fire to signal the start of the race and told the riders what direction to go. Waiting on the line was quite an experience. Almost dead silence with the occasional engine being warmed up and then shut down.
Motorcycles as far as you could see from left to right. Standing there in the midst of all of those anxious racers getting ready to go was overwhelming. The enormity of it all was just starting to hit me and my heart was in my throat. My breakfast that consisted of sausage and eggs eaten at a little greasy spoon on the way to the race was starting to move. It just hadn’t decided which direction to move.
When the banner dropped, the noise was deafening with over 3,500 motorcycles all starting up and taking off at the same time. We all headed towards the smoke bomb in a huge thundering herd. What started out as a line of racers over a mile long, soon narrowed down to a sand wash wide enough for maybe 4 or 5 riders side-by-side. The sand wash narrowed into a single-track trail and we started climbing up a mountain. The mountain was several thousand feet high and when we got to the top we looked almost straight down to the desert floor below on the other side. The decent down the other side was a rocky stair-step with no defined trail. There was a two to three foot drop from one rock to another and there were bikes and bodies strewn everywhere. We stopped to help one young guy that had his bike lodged in between two big rocks and he was almost in tears thinking about having to spend the night in the California desert. The California desert is a land of extremes. Very unforgiving! It can reach temperatures of over 120 degrees in the daytime and get below freezing at night. All in the same day! Not the place you would want to spend the night with your motorcycle.
After we wrestled our bikes down the stair-step we came out on the desert floor to a big dry lake. Under the paint at 100 + mph across the dry lake was a real treat after what we had come through so far. Those of us on the bigger bikes were able to pass many of the smaller bikes that had gotten by us in the tight stuff. I rode a Triumph 650cc twin. It was a 395 pound motorcycle that I had carved and whittled on and got it down to a 350 pound racer. Lifting a 350 pound motorcycle over rocks and ledges was quite a chore. You had to do it one end at a time unless someone would stop to help you. The suspension on those bikes left a lot to be desired. Under, four inches of travel front and rear with a very short swingarm that made the bike want to swap ends in the whoops. No adjustable dampening, in fact, very little dampening at all. Much like a pogo stick on steroids. They had spindly little forks that tweaked and bent every time you crashed. Fortunately, they were so spindly that you could usually bend them back straight and keep on going. The lighting and ignition systems were designed by a guy named Joe Lucas. He was also known as the ‘Prince of darkness’. The chances of your bike finishing a long race like this without having to stop and clean your points or repair your wiring was slim to none. That was, if your stator didn’t burn up first. It was once said; “If Joe Lucas made guns there would never be any wars.”
When we left the first gas check we were still together but we were having a hard time keeping up with Clay. We came to a bottleneck where we had to go under the highway through a very narrow bridge. There were hundreds of riders lined up waiting to get to the other side of the highway. This is where we got split up. Clay was gone. Way ahead of Ike and I. After I got through the bridge, I wasn’t sure if Ike was in front of me or behind me. I waited for a long time for him to catch up all the while he was waiting for me. We never saw each other again until we got into Vegas.
On the other side of the bridge, we went back into a sand wash. The sand was soft and my bike was swapping back and forth and then I saw a little single-track trail just up out of the sand wash. I jumped up on the single-track trail and found it to be much more to my liking. The little trail started to wander away from the sand wash and began to get narrower and narrower. At one point I saw another rider coming towards me. I thought to myself, “what an idiot, doesn’t he know your not supposed to go backwards on the course?” We passed each other and he waved. Well, kind of a wave. More like, stop. I didn’t stop. I figured, what does he know, he’s going the wrong way on the course. I kept on going and the trail became very narrow and soon disappeared into a rabbit trail. At that time I realized I was off-course and if I continued to go this way I could easily get lost and wind up as a pile of buzzard poop. I turned around and started back to find the course. On the way back I saw another rider coming my way. I tried to wave him down to let him know he was going the wrong way but he probably figured, what the hell does that guy know, he’s going the wrong way on the course. My little off-course excursion took me several miles out of my way.
The course was a variety of terrain. From big flat sand washes to narrow single-track trails. Mountains several thousand feet high to smooth as glass dry lakes. Soft sand, with miles and miles of whoop-de-doo’s. Big rocks that would pitch you far into the air, if you happened to be one of the unlucky ones, that didn’t see them. Dust so thick at times you couldn’t breath or see where you were going. Pucker bushes that would sneak up on you and grab your front wheel and make you pucker as you were flying through the air. I biffed it pretty good in one of the sand washes and broke off the visor on my helmet. Bent my forks and handlebars but was able to tweak them back fairly straight. I had some pretty bad blisters on my hands and most of them had already burst. My legs were starting to feel the mileage and were cramping up. I had arm pump like I had never experienced and had to keep looking at my hands to be sure they were still on the bars. I was starting to realize I was completely out of my element. This was starting to look like not such a good idea.
At the next gas stop, I was able to tape up my broken helmet visor and get some much needed water. We didn’t have drink systems then and we thought nothing of heading out in the desert without water. Never said motorcycle racers were smart. They told me Clay was hauling ass and Ike was a little bit ahead of me. I felt a bit rejuvenated after leaving the stop and had somewhat of a second wind. Everything went well and I was able to make up a little ground on Ike coming into the next gas stop. The next section was much of the same with climbing over mountains and dropping into the valleys. We went through an area where an old volcano once spewed volcanic rock and ash all over the ground. On the volcanic cinders, the bike would move around under you like you were on marbles. Only they weren’t smooth like marbles they very rough and abrasive. You wouldn’t want to fall on those. The course was pretty rough and raw back then. Little more than a goat trail in some areas and it was easy to get lost. There were markings but it was easy to miss them if you were mired in the dust. Over the years the trail has widened and the sand washes are now like freeways. Many of the good, technical sections are closed to the public. Most of the trails are now two-track roads due to the BLM and the environmentalists exploring the area with their four-wheel-drive vehicles and then blaming the damage on the ohv’ers..
Much of the same into the next gas stop except my lack of conditioning and the weight of the big ol’ Triumph was starting to get the best of me. In those days we trained for a race by not smoking an extra pack of cigarettes the week before. Not very many racers trained at all and a lot of them smoked. That section provided me with a very close call when I caught a rock with the rear wheel that almost pitched me over the bars. It was a classic flying ‘W’. You-know, the kind where everything slows down into slow motion and you have enough time to think about how bad this is going to hurt. After spending several yards doing a handstand on the bars, wondering if I should abandon ship or hang on, I finally came down on the correct side of the bars. Phew! That was a close one.
We didn’t have all of the trick safety gear that is available today. We wore open-faced helmets and goggles or flat shields with thin nylon jerseys and Levies or leather riding pants. Boots were lace-up lineman’s boots. Not much protection and when you went down you usually skinned yourself up pretty good. Bell had just come out with a full-face helmet and a few riders wore them.
By the time I left the last gas stop I was in bad shape. I was in survival mode and was only thinking about finishing this thing before dark. Too late! It was already starting to get dark and I still had 30 or 40 miles to go. All of the fast guys had already finished and most of the slow guys too. There were many riders parked along side of the course waiting for someone to pick them up. They were either broke or broken or just plain gave up. I kept thinking to myself, how the hell did I get myself into this? What was I thinking? Where the hell is that &($(^^@#$^$)) Ike and Clay. I just kept thinking, “I gotta’ finish this thing”.
It seemed like it was never going to end when I finally topped a small hill and could see the lights of Vegas. “Yahoo!” I said to myself, “Thank God I’m almost there.” I almost started to hoot and holler except I didn’t have the energy to even hoot, much less holler.
My joy soon turned to sorrow when I noticed the sand was getting softer and softer and deeper and deeper. I was having trouble keeping the big twin pointed in the right direction. It was like I was paddling a rowboat with only one oar. At first I thought I was getting a flat front tire and then maybe a flat rear tire. But no, it was the sand. The sand was turning to a very, fine talcum powder like consistency. I tried clicking up a gear and getting on top of the sand but the trail was so whooped out, I couldn’t. The bike just kept swapping ends and I couldn’t hang on to the bars. By that time my arms and legs were like spaghetti noodles. My legs were burning from the cramps and several cactus needles that I had picked up along the way. My arms were there… I could see them, but I couldn’t feel them. That was good since it masked the arm-pump. My blisters had blisters. I was freezing cold from wearing a wet, sweaty jersey and now it was dark and very, very, cold. I was bloodied and bruised from my get-off in the sand wash and I had sand stuck in every crevice, acting like sandpaper against my skin. I thought, maybe I would just fall off and lay in the sand until a chase truck picked me up or a pack of coyotes ate me. Either option sounded good at the time. This went on for what seemed like forever. The whoops got deeper and the sand got softer. It was getting darker and colder and the Triumph was going in every direction except where I was pointing it. I was starting to hallucinate. I’m pretty sure I saw Elvis…
When all seemed hopeless, just then, I saw the finish line. Not like you would think of a finish line with a big crowd of people standing there, jumping up and down cheering and waving banners. Just a few people, shivering in the cold and darkness, waiting for the stragglers. I limped in like a whipped puppy, found my worried wife and my so-called friends. We stood around for a while comparing our war wounds and then we packed up the bikes and headed for our hotel in Vegas. There were still quite a few people waiting for their riders when we left. After a shower and something to eat, oh yeah, and a few barley pops, we were ready to go out on the town. It wasn’t long before we forgot about the pain and misery we had just gone through and we were already talking about how much fun we had and doing it again next year. Motorcycle racers are a little twisted ya’ know and yes, there was alcohol involved.
We partied early into the morning and then left the next day for Los Angeles. On the way home, driving along the highway that ran next to the racecourse, it seemed surreal that we had done what we had done just the day before. I tried to imagine running through the rough terrain and pucker bushes at the same speed I was driving down the highway in my truck and it seemed impossible. I had gained a whole new respect for desert racers after my experience.
My trusty Triumph never missed a beat. There were times when I was wishing something would break or the Lucas curse would rear it’s ugly head and give me an excuse to quit. But, it wasn’t to be and with the exception of being a little bent, the bike ran flawlessly.
We did wind up doing it again. Several times, including the B to V protest rides. We found out that there were only 600 finishers of the original 3,500 that started the race that year. So just finishing turned out to be a pretty good accomplishment after all.
Oh, youth and exuberance, I do miss thee.
