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12/7/2017
Location
San Luis Obispo, CA, USA
Edited Date/Time
3/16/2020 2:47pm
I still remember the story written by Super Hunky in Dirt Bike about the future and how the rider goes to the facility where there is a giant turntable that spins and changes the terrain. He leaves there and finds an empty lot and unloads his electric bike to ride in real dirt. I'll leave then ending out.
Anyway, does anyone have a link to that original story or can post a copy. Thanks. I always thought it was a great story.
Anyway, does anyone have a link to that original story or can post a copy. Thanks. I always thought it was a great story.
DC
Racer X
The Shop
DeCal Works Huge Plastic Inventory of UFO and Polisport kits.
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$189.95 - $239.95
I bought a copy a year or so ago , great read.
http://www.off-road.com/dirtbike/voice/checkpoint-exit-15679.html
Copied here....
***
It was the pain deep inside his chest that forced him to see a doctor Oh sure, he knew something was wrong, but, like most people, he put it off, And put it off. How long had that pain been gnawing away? Two years? Three? At least three. It'd been there so long it was almost taken for granted.
But, lately, it had worsened. It was affecting his riding, walking, eating, sleeping, and his work. Motorcycle racers don't like to go to doctors, even though they are forced to seek their services now and then. The occasional trip into the Twilight Zone, the harsh crack of bone against rock and it's Plaster City. Frank had been there before. Not too often, but enough to keep a healthy respect for just how far he would let it all hang out now.
He raced a bit more cautiously now days. Still fairly fast and competent, but the years and the close calls and the bumps and the bruises had all taken a tiny bit off that racer's edge. Still racing was fun and that's what counted, right?
Frank sat in the doctor's office idly flipping through a tattered copy of National Geographic, wishing he'd had the foresight to bring a bike magazine with him to help pass the time. He'd been in this cold, white office too many times in the last month what with all the check-ups, X-rays blood tests and other mysterious things they did to his body. The pain was still there. Always the pain.
The white-haired doctor called him in to his private office and closed the door quietly behind them. Frank knew at that moment that something was desperately wrong.
The doctor told him very quietly, patiently and calmly what was up. He did it so professionally that Frank listened in an almost detached manner, as the white-haired physician told him he had only a few months to live ... perhaps five or six at the most.
What got Frank upset was that he'd never even heard of the disease. A lot of Latin words strung together. Why didn't they just call it a ball of pain in the chest?
With more calm in his voice than he could believe, Frank asked the good doctor about operations and alternatives. With an obvious tremble in his hands, the doctor explained the whynots and the where-fors of the situation. He took a long time and ignored the blinking light on his phone.
When he stopped talking, Frank fairly well understood the mechanics behind his doom. The doctor wrote out a prescription "for the pain" and told him to use it as needed and to call any time the pain got too intense. There were stronger things available for stronger pain.
They shook hands and parted. Frank drove his pickup truck home, head whirling with thoughts. He stopped off at a drive-through, ordered some burgers and junk food and ate as he put in the 22 miles that separated his home from the medical center.
By the time he got home, Frank knew exactly what he wanted to do. He grabbed a beer and sat down at his wobbly old desk. A yellow-lined pad and a felt-tipped pen were extracted from the center drawer, along with his savings account and checkbooks.
Very slowly and with much thought, Frank made a list on that clean yellow pad. After each item, he put a price. Frank knew just about what things cost. Nine hundred bucks for the trick frame. Twenty-five hundred for the bike. Exotic forks, special shock, aluminum this, magnesium that, chromoly goodies, lightweight plastic, special parts for the engine, the best tires money could buy... in fact, the best of everything.
When he completed the list and added it up, he gave a low whistle. The total came to over eight thousand dollars. A check of his bank and checkbooks showed that he had more than enough to cover the cost. He slowly savored three more beers that evening and made page after page of notes on the yellow-lined legal pad. Sleep came easy, in spite of that ever-present pain in the chest.
The next morning was spent cleaning out his garage. He shaped it up to perfection, then made a trip to the bank and withdrew a tidy sum of cash. Frank then stopped off at his favorite place and spent a considerable amount of that cash on new tools. The good stuff. Snap-On, S-K, top-of-the-line sockets, and wrenches. And then he bought a shiny new red Craftsman two-piece roll-around toolbox.
It gave him an odd feeling of pleasure to peel off the twenty-dollar bills to pay for the tools. The salesman helped him load everything in the back of the pickup and Frank then headed down to the bike shop.
The man behind the counter knew him by his first name and they exchanged the usual pleasantries. Casually, with a slight smile of glee, Frank told the man to load that bike-that one over there-in the back of his truck, and started counting out one hundred dollar bills on the counter to drive the message home.
After the paperwork, Frank placed an order for some special parts and goodies. The man totaled it up and Frank once more proceeded to count out bills on the glass top of the display case. He was offered a discount, but refused it. His only request was that everything be delivered to his home before the end of the week.
Frank made two more stops before he headed home to his garage ... one to order a special frame and another to pick up a cardboard box full of speed parts for the engine.
He spent that night sorting every thing out on his workbench and checking off items on that yellow legal pad. Sleep came hard.
Early the next morning, Frank rolled the new bike into the center of the garage and put it up on a milk crate. Parts were carefully removed with the shiny new tools and placed in various cardboard boxes that were marked with a thick felt pen; then he placed them on shelves.
By noon, only the engine sat there. Frank opened the thick workshop manual and proceeded to tear the big four-stroke engine down. He made notes, put nuts and bolts into small boxes and, at four o'clock, took the barrel down to his local machine shop with instructions to bore it out to match the new, huge piston.
The days went by slowly and pleasantly. Frank did not answer the telephone and did not open any mail. He only left the garage to make trips to the machine shop, or to the bike shop for needed odds and ends.
With the arrival of the frame and forks, the bike started to take shape. Parts started to fall into place. Some things required drilling, bending, shaping and fitting. Frank carefully fitted each and every piece with patience until he was satisfied that it was perfect.
By the time two weeks had passed, Frank was forced to stop by the pharmacy and get that prescription filled. The pharmacist looked a bit startled when he read the doctor's scrawl and placed a call to check it out. Frank took a double-dose of painkillers to sleep that night, but he woke up so fuzzy-headed the next morning that he flushed the remaining pills down the toilet.
It took one more week before the bike was completed. Naturally enough, the last two bolts were snubbed in place well into the wee hours of the morning. Frank poured some straight gas in the tank, twisted on the petcock and depressed the choke lever.
It took three kicks for the big bike to light off, but when it did, the sound from the megaphone was pure music. Frank ran the bike for three minutes, ignoring the blue haze filling up the garage, then shut off the lights and went to sleep.
Early the next morning, he rose and went out to the garage. An hour was spent checking all of the nuts and bolts with a torque wrench. Frank then loaded the bike up into the back of his truck with all of his riding gear and headed out the Interstate.
He stopped off at his favorite restaurant and had steak and eggs and several cups of scalding-hot black coffee. The waitress smiled from ear to ear when he left the whole twenty-dollar bill with the check.
Twenty minutes later, Frank arrived at his favorite riding area and unloaded the bike. He fired it up and let it idle comfortably while he put on his riding gear. Frank slipped the goggles in place, then swung a leg over the bike and blipped the throttle a few times. The engine responded cleanly and instantly with a rapping snarl. Good.
Frank nudged the shift lever into low and eased away. The bike pulled strongly, satisfyingly, through the gears. Not a hint of a flat spot, or even a burble, as the revs rose.
Frank followed the two-track road through the valley and then caught the old fire road heading up the mountain side. The smoothly graded road had just the perfect surface for letting it all hang out.
Once he got the feel of the bike, Frank started to stuff it into the turns with the rear end hanging out, the exhaust note wailing off the steep canyon walls.
As the road climbed, Frank was forced to use a lower gear and rev the engine harder to maintain his speed. A thin sheen of perspiration covered his forehead and face. He breathed harder, worked the bike deeper into the turns.
As Frank neared the summit, he saw the last wide sweeping corner before the road ended and the narrow trails began. It was clearly marked with white barriers to keep wayward vehicles from plummeting off the vertical drop.
Frank smiled, took a deep breath, let the revs rise, and aimed the front wheel directly at the flimsy barriers. The white wood snapped cleanly and the bike sailed out into the clear blue air.
Frank held tightly onto the bars and sailed and sailed and sailed. He had always wondered what it might be like.
And now he knew.
Pit Row
Thanks for posting that.
I had scoured my old dirt bikes looking for that.
I was thinking it was Paul clipper that wrote it and even bought one of his books hoping it was in it.
SUNDAY MORNING RIDE … 1984
By Rick Sieman/April 1973
(Notes: Consider the fact that this story was written in 1973. It was so prophetic that it's frightening. Not only was it way ahead of its time back then, it rings hard and true today. Over the years, I've drawn literally thousands of letters regarding this chilling little piece. Its purpose was to scare the off-roading community to get off its dead ass. Clearly, even though the story had impact, it failed in that respect.)
We hear a lot of talk about what riding will be like in the future, you know, 20 years from now. From The Saddle tries to mirror the way it is today—but what would a story in From The Saddle be like in 1984? It might be more of a nightmare than a story...
A narrow slit of sunlight knifed through a gap in the curtains. It was this that caused Adam Spence to wake up.
When he did awake, he snapped his eyes open in excitement. This was Sunday morning. And that meant one thing—today was riding day. Today that good old dirt bike gets fired up and it's ride, ride, ride. Hot damn!
Let's see … time for a quick breakfast? Nope. It's almost 7:15. Time's a-wastin'.
Adam descended the shaft leading to the communal garage—his machine was stored in cubicle 14. There it was. Sleek, purposeful and mean looking. Jagged knobs bristled on the tires and the hydro-pneumatic suspension valves reflected light off their stainless chrome surfaces.
The machine was a 125cc Yamaha AT-27-MX and was the finest money could buy. It handled like a dream and put out the maximum horsepower allowable under current government regulations—8½ at the rear wheel. And it was all paid for—that was the best part.
Loading up took little time—eagerness helped. Adam hadn't been riding for over three months and was more eager than usual.
OK. Helmet, boots, gloves, goggles, protective clothing, mandatory wrist identification … hmmmmm. Forget anything? Oh Christ—almost forgot the permit!!! Let's see, where was it last? Near the dresser by the bed? Yeh, here it is. Man, you don't want to lose one of those permits— they're too hard to come by.
As Adam drove out to the main road, it was hard to restrain the excitement. Thoughts flickered through his mind, fun thoughts. “I wonder what I should ride first today? An enduro, or maybe a few hot laps around the motocross course? Or maybe I should spend most of the day in the desert. I've always loved to ride the desert. Oh well, I'll just make up my mind when I get there—that's what always happens anyway.”
An hour and a half later, he arrived at the Multi-Track. It was hard to miss that giant building, covering nearly three city blocks. And that sign—wow! Almost 80 feet high, showing a rider doing a wheelie. Sent shivers up your back and sure made you want to get in there and do some dirt riding.
Adam presented his identification and permit at the window and was given his Class 4 badge—something very difficult to earn these days. This meant he was allowed to ride all types of tracks, except the roundy-round stuff, which he didn't care for anyway.
The lift/hoist removed his machine from the truck and the lady gave him an assigned number. Section 34B. Hot dog! The best section in the house! This was going to be a good day. Adam could just tell.
He entered the transporter tube and punched 34B on the console panel. Moments later, the doors whispered open and there he was. Section 34B, a favorite among riders all over the nation. Some people even drove hundreds of miles just to ride this beauty.
And there his machine was, sitting patiently with the energy cord plugged in to the powerplant. Was it fully charged yet? Nope. The red light on the tank was still blinking. Adam buckled on all of his gear, the sound of the Velcro strips music in his ears. Just as the last glove was locked into the sleeve, the red light on the tank went out. Ready—the machine was fully charged and set for a full ride.
Adam disconnected the power cord and pushed the machine over to the Section Entrance. Unsmiling, the attendant demanded to see his permit. A mild moment of panic hit Adam, but the permit was right there in his pocket where it was supposed to be. A selector was clipped to his handlebar and the attendant opened the door and let man and machine into the riding area.
It was beautiful! The large turntable-like platform measured nearly 100 yards around at the outer circumference, possibly the biggest and most demanding course in the country. Oh sure, there was one bigger in Belgium, but that one had been built years ago and was nowhere near as elaborate as this beauty.
The texture of the dirt was perfect—as always. Loamy and soft, with no rocks. Bumps, 10-foot slopes and several heart-stopping jumps made this a rider's track. Not one of those nothing tracks in the smaller towns. This one was a test—a real test—of the suspension.
Adam checked everything over carefully. Sixty pounds of pressure in the suspension, power unit fully charged, all ready. Now, what kind of riding?
How's about a little desert—start the day off right. He flipped the selector to Desert and almost immediately the platform started moving, like a giant record.
The walls and the ceiling came alive as cameras projected the proper image. Joshua trees flashed by, the sky was an incredibly eye-hurting blue and the mountains in the distance loomed up high and proud.
Adam was so caught up with the beauty that he almost fell. Whuuup! Better pay attention to the business at hand. Those bumps will getcha if you're not watching.
A series of whoopdies rippled ahead, but the suspension did most of the work of soaking up the harsher jolts. Standing on the pegs did the rest.
Deep sand loomed up, the rutted wheel-grabbing kind. Adam got his weight back and rolled on the throttle. The bars waggled. some—not bad—but enough to demand no errors on the part of the rider.
Perspiration broke out on his brow and breathing became deeper. Dirt riding was hard work, indeed.
A smooth section came up and Adam reached down to the Selector and deftly flicked the sound switch to 112 decibels on the “A” scale. Almost immediately, the sound of a crackling expansion chamber saturated the platform, raping his eardrums in the process.
But the assault on his ears was music. Good music. It was amazing how the sound of the chamber synched perfectly with every nuance of his throttle hand. Tweak the throttle, and the crescendo blitzed upward—back off and the sound muted and popped. Bitchen'.
Time was fleeting, so Adam once again reached for the selector and this time hit the Enduro button. The desert background vanished and was instantaneously replaced with deep, black-soiled woods. Flickers of sunlight filtered through the overhead branches. Adam drew a deep breath. Mygawd, that's beautiful, he thought.
Obstacles flashed up in front of him and he got up on the pegs to work the bike around them. Going was gnarly and all of his skill was required to keep from making contact with the 3-D images of trees, rocks and the like.
A buzzer snarled at Adam, warning him that the last tree hazard had not been missed. More concentration was required and he settled down to the business at hand. This slow riding was even tougher than the fast stuff—really took a lot out of a rider. Whew.
Adam glanced at his watch. Not much time left—better get in some motocross before his riding period expired.
Click.
Bodies hurtled by and slammed the gate right in front of him. Even though he knew they were just images, it was still frightening. Adam scrambled for the first turn, passing several of the images and making contact with several more. Angrily, the buzzer warned him of his clumsiness. He made a mental note to be more careful—too many buzzer violations and that old riding permit would get yanked for six months or so.
The platform speeded up, as it always did for the motocross action. Bumps that had previously been average suddenly took on a new, more vicious character.
He had to ride wider and wider to make the turns, using all of the available platform and coming perilously close to leaving the platform at times.
Adam got caught up in the frenzy of competition and worked the machine for all it was worth—thrust, slide, jump, pass, weave in and Out of traffic until his forearms were burning.
But he still pushed harder and harder. And the harder he pushed, the better he rode. No buzzers snarled at him, even though he was riding right in the thick of all the action. Adam was completely caught up in the heat of competition ...then...
…then, everything stopped. All of the images disappeared. Motion ceased. The platform no longer moved. And the little red light on his tank flashed accusingly that his time was, indeed, up.
Reality was brought back with sudden harshness. Being yanked back to earth this quickly was always depressing. It always seemed to happen during motocross. Adam made a mental note to try and ride enduros towards the last on his next ride.
As he was pushing his machine out of 34B, another eager rider was waiting at the entrance. Adam envied him—but, three months from now, he'd be back. Just show some patience.
When he got to his vehicle, his machine was already loaded on the carriers for him, just one of the many niceties of this Multi-Track. An undefinable feeling of depression settled over Adam as he headed for his apartment. It sure would have been nice to ride a bit longer. Oh well.
Then he saw it. Among all the buildings by the Main Way, there was a section of open ground. Obviously, several older buildings had been torn down and the land was awaiting construction of the new buildings. But there it was—several acres of dirt. Real dirt. And it wasn't fenced in.
Adam pulled off at the next Loop and worked his way back to the construction site. No one was around. He was tempted … hell, why not? What could they do to him, anyway?
He was sure that at least 20 minutes of power was left on the reserve units in his machine.
A few moments later, the bike was unloaded and he flipped the lever to reserve. Sure enough. Nearly a half hour left. He fired the powerplant up and checked everything over—mostly out of force of habit.
A dab on the left side engaged the converter and the bike moved off. Hey, this is really neat, thought Adam. He pitched the machine down and threw a rooster tail high into the air.
Grinning like a man possessed, he slithered and slid all over the cobby construction site. At the end of a very few minutes, Adam had a homemade track laid out. He was panting so hard that he was forced to take a short breather. Wow, this was real work! Sweat coursed down his brow and the salt stung his eyes. But he was happy.
Leaning forward on the bars, he surveyed the area about him. All these buildings and, right in the middle, my own personal dirt riding area, thought Adam.
These were his last thoughts.
A milli-second later, the sharp sound of a firearm cracked and echoed. The bullet entered Adam's forehead and passed through his brain. He was dead before his head slammed against the crossbar.
The little red light on his tank blinked. The Sunday morning ride was over.
Wow.
Crazy that nearly 5 decades later, we are inching ever so closer to that kind of society....
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