Posts
8
Joined
4/30/2011
Location
Milton, FL, USA
Edited Date/Time
10/31/2012 11:52am
In 1976 I was 13 and had been racing around southern CA for a couple years. I was riding a new YZ80C but was starting to grow and felt like I had done my time on the 80s and was hounding dad to move up to a 100. Dad finally conceded and told me we were going to meet a guy down from our house on Edwards AFB in the desert. He said he really didn't think I was ready to move up but would let me ride this guys bike before making a decision to buy. We arrived at the stretch of desert along side the highway and the guy was already there unloading the bike. Dad had been very elusive as to what type bike we would be looking at that day, but as soon as we pulled up I could tell it was a Hodaka 100. It had that unmistakable chrome tank and it just looked like a beast. Now dad considered himself an expert at buying cars and motorcycles and I had learned early rule #1, which is "never let them think you have to have what they are selling". So when the guy asked what I thought, I casually replied, "its okay". Inside, my heart was racing, I had to have this bike and I hadn't even been on it yet. I had a hard time starting it as I could barely reach the ground with one leg, and eventually had to lean it up against the van so I could stand on the pegs and give it a good kick. The bike roared to life and as I rode away dad told me to take it easy. Right away I could tell this was no stock bike, the throttle response was instant and every upshift brought the front wheel higher off the ground. I was doing as I was told and "taking easy". I hit a few of the smaller jumps, down in and out of the ditch, made a couple turns and headed back toward my dad and the guy. I decided I would show dad how much I wanted this bike and started up shifting to make a high speed pass by them. Just as I was getting close to them I hit high gear and pinned the throttle. Unfortunately that is where it stayed, the throttle stuck wide open. I was hanging on for dear life, dodging bushes and trying to avoid any big bumps. If Bob Hannah had been racing on that stretch of desert that day, I would have passed him like he was standing still! A few hundred yards down the desert I finally got the bright idea to hit the kill switch and as the bike began to die the throttle released. Before the bike came to a complete stop, I popped the clutch and it was running. I eased the bike back toward my dad, being very careful not to turn the throttle to far. As I got closer I could see dad handing the guy money and he waved me to the back of the van. I was still shaking as we loaded the Hodaka in the back of dads van. As he shut the doors dad looked at me and said he wasn't planning on buying the bike until I had made that wide open pass showing just how bad I wanted it. It was obvious dad had no idea the throttle was stuck and really thought I could ride that well. So I had to make a decision right then, did I let dad continue to think I a was a bad ass or did I fess up. All I could think was he was going to have to fix the throttle issue so I had tell him. So I said "dad, when I came by you the throttle was stuck wide open, I was just hanging on", he just got a big shit eaten grin, shook his head and got in the van.
Now the best part of this story is to here my dad's version which he still recounts now, some 35 years later. In the interest of time I will only hit the highlights of his version. He starts by saying that I had progressed well on my 80s but I was by no means an expert and still had a lot of room to improve. he was growing tired of hearing how I just had to have a 100 so he decided to teach me a lesson. He had met a guy who had bought his son a Hodaka 100 that had been worked over for some pro that had moved up to a 125. The guy said it was just to much for his son and was looking to get rid of it. Dad thought I would take one ride and be scared to death and that would be the end of the my begging for a 100. So that day in the desert as I rode off the guy turned to dad and ask if he was sure I was good enough to ride that bike. Dad's pride got the better of him and he told the guy not to worry, my son knows how to ride! Dad says it was like slow motion as I came screaming past them. The guy looked at my dad and with his eyes as big as saucers said " you're right, your boy sure can ride!". He says he thought maybe the 80 had been holding me back and he had a vision of sponsors, and a room full of trophies. At this point of the story you know the punch line is coming, and every time he tells it, he gets that same shit eaten grin he had 35 years ago, " the throttle was stuck wide open, he was justing hanging on for dear life!".
Now the best part of this story is to here my dad's version which he still recounts now, some 35 years later. In the interest of time I will only hit the highlights of his version. He starts by saying that I had progressed well on my 80s but I was by no means an expert and still had a lot of room to improve. he was growing tired of hearing how I just had to have a 100 so he decided to teach me a lesson. He had met a guy who had bought his son a Hodaka 100 that had been worked over for some pro that had moved up to a 125. The guy said it was just to much for his son and was looking to get rid of it. Dad thought I would take one ride and be scared to death and that would be the end of the my begging for a 100. So that day in the desert as I rode off the guy turned to dad and ask if he was sure I was good enough to ride that bike. Dad's pride got the better of him and he told the guy not to worry, my son knows how to ride! Dad says it was like slow motion as I came screaming past them. The guy looked at my dad and with his eyes as big as saucers said " you're right, your boy sure can ride!". He says he thought maybe the 80 had been holding me back and he had a vision of sponsors, and a room full of trophies. At this point of the story you know the punch line is coming, and every time he tells it, he gets that same shit eaten grin he had 35 years ago, " the throttle was stuck wide open, he was justing hanging on for dear life!".
S
I remember when you and I were about 14-15 years of age and after the CMC Saddleback races we would go to the Pizza Hut as a big group (I think that was the name of the pizza place) off Chapman Ave. (actually you and I have so many stories from back then we could write a book LOL)
One Sunday night it got so out of control with your dad, Payton, Troy, Ted, the Wheelsmith guys, etc.... they were doing burn-outs off Troy's trailer with Dean Cate's KTM if I could recall. Maki had little Billy Keefer as his mechanic which is another story in itself. Jennings had that big ol' St. Barnard dog too. I just remember as a 14 year old driving Ted back to my house and he was passed out cold. Mind you driving age in CA is 16. My mom never laughed so hard in her life watching me drive up the driveway. I don't know if she was in shock or actually thought it was funny to this day.
EB-
S
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Those stories... Crazy times, the parties (still have the pics from a few of those adventures and finishing T-shirts... you know which ones
S
Daytona '74 and spending the last night bailing my buddy out of jail including the fact he's now a born again preacher in Montana.
Houston Astrodome in '76 and approaching DeCoster after too many Texas beers and only managing to blurt out totally incoherent babble.
Elkhorn Wisc Trans-Am in '73 and pitting next to Bengt Aberg or the Inter-Am in '72 when I wondered why the Yamaha mechanics were letting the fat kid lean on the new YZ until I realized it was Tripes.
St. Peters Mo Trans-Am "72 when my buddies decided it was a good idea to hide their coats in the woods with the car keys in the pocket until somebody stole the coats.
Got to Saddleback late, missed practice. Sent my brother to sign up for me while I got dressed. Someone said I was in race 3 or whatever. Hit the line as the gate dropped and wondered how the hell everyone got so fast and aggressive in 1 week. Well 2 turns later realized I was in the wrong class. So that was my experience in the intermediate class.
a 74 TM125 heading to my friend Joey`s so we could go to our practice track about 2
miles away. When I arrived he told me we needed to wait on his dad and Jack as they
wanted to go ride with us. Joey did`nt know where they had gone and even though I
was ready to ride I waited with him. After about an hour they pulled up with a new
Ossa 250 Phatom, blue with the fluorescent orange stripe down the middle.
It was a beautiful work art compared to my TM and Joey`s starting to rag out 74 YZ125.
Jack was a 45 year old pharmacist who owned a drugstore and was not the most
athletic looking person in the world. He had about 4 dirt bikes and had just added
another to his collection but he loved motocross although I had never seen him ride.
As we helped unload it I whispered to Joey, can he ride? Joey assured me Jack was ok
and we would have a better time with more people on the track. Joey, his dad on his
MX250 Yam, his little brother Dusty on his Yam MX100, Jack on the Phantom and myself.
We took off through the woods, crossed two creeks and down the power line for a
half mile to get there. The track was an abondoned apartment development that was
tied up in court because it was a scam. They had came in and graded for the roads
and then filed bacruptcy. It was better than some tracks we raced at in those days.
Joey and myself took off as soon as our front tires touched it knowing we would
leave everyone. We had one big jump on the track and as we approched it I had pulled
up beside Joey and we lauched side by side. We jumped about 30ft on our 125`s and it
was a hard landing that you had to be prepared for. When I landed I thought something
was wrong with my bike as it sounded funny. At that moment I realized it was Jack on
the Phantom I was hearing. His rear tire went over my head as he jumped another
20ft passed us. When he landed the dirt and rocks he was throughing hurt really bad
at the age of 15. I was really pissed this 45 year old man had just blew me away on
a track I knew like the back of my hand. There was a long straight after that jump
into sweeping right hander and Jack was using a lot of body english moving around
on the bike. I said to myself he looks like a pro as I was ringing out my 125 to
just try and keep him insight, man that Jack can ride the shit out of that thing.
He pulled us bad down the straight as I watched him lean for the right hand sweeper
throwing the biggest rooster tail of dust I had ever seen. As I started into the
sweeper I could not see for the dust and it pissed me off even worse, then I saw Jack
and the Phantom and they weren`t together anymore. Both were cutting cartwheel`s mixed
in with some flips of some kind. I had never seen anything like it and knew he was dead.
As I stoped Joey pulled up, and after laying there for about 10 min`s Jack got up
but could hardly move. He said when he came out of the turn before the big jump the
throttle had stuck wide open and he could not get the kill switch to work down the
straight. We picked the bike up and checked it out but it would not stick for us.
Joey`s dad wanted us to follow them back to there house to be sure and get Jack home
and then we would come back and ride. On the way back as we crossed the second creek
there was a trail to the left that rode along the edge of the creek. I don`t know why
but Joey took the left after crossing the creek. This trail was about 12 inches wide
and you are riding on the side of a steep bank. If you booger to the left you are in
the creek unless you catch a tree on the 20ft way down. There is nothing you can do if you
go right because a dirtbike could not climb it, so I thought.
You know when your riding a 2 stroke on tight trail`s you are continually revving the
engine and using the clutch a lot. About that time I heard that noise again ( remember
when I thought something was wrong with my motor) it was Jack. During one of the clutch
engagements the throttle had stuck again. Luckily he did not go left into the water, he
went right with the Ossa up the bank no other bike could climb. I thought he was doing
pretty good making it about 40ft. untill an 8 inch oak stoped his forward and vertical momentum,
almost killing him again.
Jack was ok, the hardest thing was Joey and myself getting it back down and when
we did the throttle worked perfect. I had never seen Jack ride before then and never saw
him ride after that. Even though he was not trying to go that fast I could tell in his
day he was a bad dude on a bike. Jack died of cancer in the mid 80`s, Joey`s brother Dusty
was killed in a car crash about that time also.
About 1990 I went to do some work on a man`s race car, as I walked into this big shop
I saw something sitting in the corner and I stoped. Looking at him I said, an Ossa
Phantom. His jaw dropped as he could not believe i even knew what it was. After telling
him the story of Jack I bought it for $300. I called a good friend Robbie Neeley and
told him what I had and needed his trailer to go get it. Robbie rode with me and on the
way back and ask what was I going to do with it. So I told him the story of Jack and said I
am not riding it because I had seen what it did to Jack 15 years ago. The Vintage stuff was
just getting started so I let him take it knowing he would take care of it. He raced it for several
years then just had it on display in his dealership, Neeley Racing, Spartanburg,S.C.
Robbie had done so much for our kids in the early days of there racing and the money he put into
the Ossa, after a few years I told him he was the new owner of the Phantom.
I am not sure if that was Jack`s bike but I do know there were only two of them in
Spartanburg, and this one looked like it had not been ridden much.
If you are going to LL this year look for Robbie, he will be with his grandson
Cole Mattison #31 (12-14 stk) KTM85 and ask him about the Ossa Phantom.
In '76 I was racing a '76 YZ250C, my best friend and race wrench Ronny would always take the bike to the line for me, where he'd pick out a good spot on the line, then after I got there he would build a little ramp of dirt over the PVC pipe, and just generally make sure everything was good to go.
This particular week-end we were racing at Clewiston MX in Clewiston, Florida. Best I can remember Ronny had gotten tied up helping someone else with their bike and I took the bike to the line myself, which shouldn't have been a big deal, but...
I was in the 250 expert class, and that particular day there weren't enough of us to fill the gate so the 200 experts were run at the same time, but in a staggered start, 250's first, then the 200's. I lined up, warmed the bike up, and got ready for the start. The card went sideways, I dropped the hammer and the mighty Y-zed lept to the front. Holeshot! I dove into the first turn way ahead of the pack, pivoted in the turn and nailed the throttle. The front end lifted a bit as the Yokohoma Super-Digger dug into the sandy loam. It was freaking epic!
Just then, as you might guess, something went terribly wrong. The bike lost power and then died, I quickly pulled off to the side of the track as the 250 class screamed past. I reached down for the kick starter, fully expecting to find that it wouldn't budge because the engine had siezed, but when I booted it the engine spun over. So I reached down to see if the spark plug cap had come off, just as the 200's went flying by. As I was reaching for the plug cap I bent down to look under the tank to find THE FUEL VALVE WAS STILL OFF!!!!!! AAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!
I twisted the lever and saw gas fill the clear filter, then started kicking in earnest on the starter lever, it took three or four quick kicks for the carb to fill and then charge the cylinder before the engine fired. Once it lit clouds of blue smoke filled the air as the piston port engine stumbled and burped before finally clearing out with a shreek. By this time the leaders of the 250 class were on the back side of the course making me nearly 3/4's of a lap down. Dammit, dammit, dammit! I had to go!!!!
We always pitted between the two jumps that made up the infamous Clewiston double jump and as I lined up down the straight for it I could see my Dad leaning over the fence clapping and hollaring, and Ronny on the other side of the track holding up the pit board with "TRY" written on it. As I rounded the left turn after the double I looked over at Ronny again and on the other side of the board was written "U CAN DO IT!" and he was holding his right hand in a classic WFO position. Something clicked inside me at that moment and I immediately went into the zone.
That 1st moto is, and always has been a blur for me, I truely don't remember much about it at all. I do remember litterally jumping over the top of another rider going over the big jump in the middle of the track, and I also remember Joey Gratton standing at the base of the scoring tower twirling a towel over his head and whistling as I went by a time or two. I also remember seeing Ronny finally holding out the pit board with "1 MORE LAP - EZ" and it was like I came back to reality. The checked flag waved the next time by and I ended up placing 3rd in the moto.
You all have no idea how much I dreaded telling Dad and Ronny what I had, or really, hadn't done. Yikes. Ronny had it figured out, Dad didn't know any better until I told him, then he just shook his head and walked back to his lawn chair beside the van.
2nd moto comes around, this time Ronny's got the bike and takes it to the line. I walk out to him before the start of the race and he's got this cheesy assed grin on his face for some reason. I swing a leg over the bike and notice a piece of duct tape stuck across the top of the tank, on it in black magic marker is written "TURN THE GAS ON DUMMY" in what looks suspeciously like my Dads hand writing.
FWIW, and at this point for the purposes of this story it really doesn't matter, I did holeshot the 2nd moto and won it going away, which netted me a 2nd overall for the day. But more importantly it became one of my fondest memories and something that makes me smile to this very day.
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