Should Super Hunky be in the AMA Hall of Fame?

Thanks for that. I think it's already been submitted as he is on the ballot this year as he was last year. We just need to make sure that the word gets out far and wide

Haven't been a member of the AMA in years. I just (re)joined so I could resubmit that ballot form.

How about one of them right here?! Issue #1, Dirt Bike Magazine! 

NOT IF, BUT WHEN YOU BREAK DOWN

By Rick Sieman/June 1971/Dirt Bike

(Notes: This was the very first column ever written in Dirt Bike magazine, and was the first time I ever used the column headline, From The Saddle. Since this was the first issue of DB to hit the stands, I had no idea of what to write about. Luckily (?) I broke down in an enduro a few days before, and was lucky enough to have a fellow Dirt Diggers club member help me get back to the pits. The column sure wasn't funny, but it seemed like something worth writing about at the time. So, for what it's worth …)

Dirt riders are basically very independent, and our independence is causing us an unnecessary amount of pressure from law enforcement types. In this case. I'm specifically referring to the problem of stranded or lost riders. An ever-increasing number of Enduros and Hare and Hounds/Hare Scrambles are being cancelled be­cause a sour taste is left in the mouth of the authorities who may have spent many frustrating hours searching for some inexperienced kid in the middle of the Mojave.

We all break down out in the boonies at one time or another, and it's not fun no matter where it happens. It's even less fun 28 miles from nowhere.

There's not much you can do if you lunch an engine or destroy a gearbox, but a lot of riders are stranded because of lack of prepara­tion, ninth rate equipment, or insufficient spares carried along for the machine.

There is absolutely no excuse for not taping a spare throttle cable to your existing unit as a back up on a long run. Things like plugs, plug tools, assorted wrenches, safety wire, spare links, chain breakers, cables, levers and such should be on your machine before the banner drops. Even if you belong to a club that will search for you if you don't show up after an event, bear in mind that it's sure as hell no fun for them to wet nurse you all the way back at the end of a tow rope.

Enduro riders should have the above gear, plus basic vital compo­nents back in the truck, such as clutch plates, pistons, rings, etc. In real En­duro country, more often than not, towing a bike is completely out of the question. A recent enduro comes readily to mind. My DT1 clutch gave up the ghost completely 26 miles from the pits and the many rock-filled rivers and streams precluded towing.

A little foresight enabled me, after bumming a ride back to the pits, to pick up the plates and tools needed, have a fellow Dirt Digger pack me double to the machine, rebuild it quickly, and get back in time to see my last beer being consumed by yet another club member. Such is the penalty for untimely breakage. Hav­ing the right items available saved untold grief, time lost from work, and maybe even prevented a lost or stolen bike.

You might think that it's unreason­able to expect the average dirt rider to be a mechanical whiz. Well friend, if you want to ride the big toughies, you had better be prepared for almost any­thing. It's really not all that hard to do most of the common breakage work yourself, especially on today's uncomplicated two-strokes. Anyone, no matter how fumble-fingered, can put a piston or rings in a two-stroke single. The majority of clutches re­quire a twenty to thirty minute job to replace plates, even with the most elementary tools.

Take the time to learn these procedures and prepare yourself for any reasonable break­down. Naturally you can't be expected to carry $900.00 worth of spares and a tracer lathe for emergencies, but common sense should tell you what is likely to fail.

Have you ever spent a night in the desert or back country, next to your “never-lets-me-down” machine? If you don't mind it, fine. But what about the people who have to look for you and risk their machines, while spending hours searching? Dirt riders understand and accept this to some extent, but I'm sure that the local sheriff, who would rather be at home resting, is less than enthusiastic about searching about in the boonies for missing riders after almost every major desert race or enduro.

A recent enduro, in which over 600 riders were stranded overnight, really brought the wrath of the authorities down on dirt riding in that particular area. What do you think of the chances of local approval for that run again?

Something must be done, and done quickly. What about some sort of tech inspection for enduros and desert races? Sure, it's inconvenient and a lot of extra work, but it beats not being allowed to ride at all in an ever increasing number of areas.

It is absolutely criminal to let an inex­perienced rider and totally unprepared machine even start something like the 147 mile Barstow-to-Vegas Hare and Hound race. Yet, it is done every year. You could start the ma­jority of desert races on a stock Vespa scooter, and nothing would be said.

How many times have you seen riders take off at their assigned time at an enduro, with a street bike complete with mirrors, center stands and street tires? Generally, everyone shakes their head and thinks what a fool he is, but that is all that hap­pens. Nothing is done by the people in charge to discourage this. If we don't do something to police ourselves, someone will do it for us, in spades.

Wake up, race organ­izers and club officials. Is it worth the extra few dollars in entry fees to have to go out and rescue these guys who should have spent more time learning what it's all about, be­fore they wade in with both eyes firmly closed?

There are plenty of races where a novice rider can develop much needed skills and accumulate knowledge about machine preparation. Shorter events, such as European Scrambles, where you don't have to stray too far from help, are ideal. Most European Scrambles are between 5 and 10 miles in length, so you are never out of walking distance, unless you're injured.

Which brings up another point. Would you pay a few extra bucks for an entry fee, knowing that a helicopter was scanning the course, keeping an eye out for injured riders? Even the best dirt riders bite the dust now and then, and it sure would be comforting to know you didn't have to lay there with a broken stem or two pinned under your machine. This is being done by a few clubs in some of the larger events, but not nearly enough. The few overworked organizations like the International Racing Radio Crew and Rescue Three, simply do not have the funds or personnel at present to handle it all.

Dirt riding is big enough to de­serve the best possible treatment for the thousands of competing riders. In order to help in some small way, this magazine is including, in the next few issues, a Dirt Riders' Check List, to enable everyone to have a fighting chance at proper machine preparation.

This list, prepared by Steve Hurd (one of the finest long-distance riders in the game), is simi­lar to an aircraft pre-flight sheet, in that all critical, stressed components are given priority. Use this sheet. Keep it near your machine and go over your bike and spares before you enter a long, tough event, or if you're smart, before every ride. This check sheet will be made available to any clubs or race organizers upon request, and we hope you use it as a guideline for some sort of inspection setup and preparing your own bike. Race spon­sors are the key to success.

There really is no choice. We help our own, or get helped right out of the dirt forever by some politician who couldn't care less about riding, but doesn't want the sheriff's patrol tied up. Think it over.

Believe it or not there are probably a generation or two that came along after Rick stopped publishing FTS. We should try to fix that.

Good news. Heard from DC this morning. I had DM'ed him about being certain that Rick was still on the AMA HOF ballot for this year and he said he thought so, but would call in to AMA to make sure.

G Man posted 'The Last Ride' column. It's a must-read: 

https://www.vitalmx.com/forums/moto-related/last-ride

Another Hunky gem from the archives...

I'M NOT IN THIS FOR THE MONEY, YOU KNOW

By Rick Sieman/January 1980/Dirt Bike

(Notes: I love this column! Mostly, because it's sort of reality-based. While the real story didn't happen quite the way I related it, I did have a horrific crash with a fellow racer way back in the early days, and we did play cards to kill the time waiting for help and a tow rope. Naturally, the “winnings” of our card game were tongue in cheek.)

Hey, I don't have to do all this stuff for a living. I mean, I am a very rich man. So how come I still drive around in a vomit-colored Mazda pickup with about 300 thou on the odometer? And how come my wardrobe looks like leftover Let's Make A Deal costumes?

Perhaps an explanation is in order. You see, all this money that I have, is not in my possession. Some guy who used to ride a rat 1968 Maico owes it to me. All I have to do is collect. Let me tell you how it all went down.

Right around the year of 1970 (or was it '69? Who cares and so what?) , I was racing a lot of desert. This was the glory period for desert racing, where it was not uncommon for 900-plus riders to show up on an ordinary Sunday.

I was piloting a noble 360 Greeves with an incredibly ugly springer front end. The bike was a tasteful shade of British racing green with British flags over most everything.

My old buddy Tom had entered the two of us in a European Scrambles out near Red Mountain. It was a fantastic day; bright, clear and just cool enough to make desert racing a pure and dis­tinct pleasure.

Our race, the 500 Novice event, was scheduled to go off the line at 11:00 sharp. The course was about seven miles long and the race was to run one full hour; a true test of man and machine.

At exactly 11:02, the banner dropped and about 120 fear-crazed Novices sprinted across the long dirt road to their bikes (Le Mans start) and booted away at their machines. Most of them fired on the first kick. Some took several kicks to get the fire lit.

Others, like myself, were booting their brains out a good three minutes after every­one else had gone and departed. Final­ly, the big green Greeves burbled, coughed, burped, hiccupped, belched and eventually snorted into life.

I looked around the starting line and was amazed that only one other bike was still there. It was a rider on a ratty blue 360 Maico. Just as I slipped the Greeves into gear (no easy task), the Maico came to life and rolled off the line at the same time as I did.

We both blazed off across the desert, catching gears and dodging pucker-bushes. For some unknown reason, we both headed for the same trail to the smoke bomb, even though there must have been a dozen decent trails.

As the Maico rider lurched for the lead on the narrow trail, I cut him off at the pass, as it were, and spewed dust in his face. The trail split into a "Y" sometime later, and here, the Maico rider slipped by me.

Infuriated, I went out into the weeds and underbrush, and, in a banzai charge with big eyes, passed him back. I sneered under my $9.95 metalflake helmet.

A moment later, the satisfaction was wiped off my face as he roared by me, with both feet waving above his head and not even remotely in control. With fierce determination and not much common sense, I slipped the Greeves into top gear and screwed it on to the stops, even though I was in dust thicker than an explosion at the Pillsbury Bake-Off.

Somehow, someway, I edged past the Maico rider in a very advanced state of fear.

Our personal battle continued. I passed him and he passed me. We clanged bars and jabbed elbows into each other's ribs. I cut him off and he slammed a shoulder into my throttle hand. It was brutal, vicious, underhanded, low-life, disgusting, degrading, swine-like behavior... and I was loving every minute of it!

For a moment, reality almost took hold. I briefly considered the fact two grown males were beating their alleged brains out for last place and next to last place in an unimportant desert race.

I thought momentarily of the fact that with all the massive area of the desert to race in, why we chose to battle over the same trail. Then I dismissed those cowardly thoughts and rammed that sucker once again. Who needs peaceful thoughts and rational behavior when you're racing?

The battle raged on. We fought bitterly for every inch in front of us. The trail wove in and out, out and in. We narrowly missed spectacular T-bones time after time. Our lips were curled back in animal-like snarls. Spittle dribbled off our chins like rabid cattle.

Then, the trail split into a “Y” once again and we raced side by side, giving hateful glances at each other and urging our bikes to reach for yet more revs. A few hundred yards up ahead, the trail came back together: I looked at him. He looked at me. No way was this chump going to beat me to that single trail! No doubt, he felt the same way, as neither one of us shut off.

It probably wouldn't have been too bad if there hadn't been a jump right where that "Y" joined together. We hit the juncture together and both launched up into the air. Our bars locked together, like two rutting mooses (meese?) and we both started kicking at each other to free the bikes.

Fat chance.

We hit the ground still tangled together. The sound of impact was deafening .. the pain intense … the thunder of bikes and bodies grim … heaven and earth moved … time stood still … it was feeding time at the zoo!

The impact was horrendous. I careened over and over through the air, making contact with the ground in a random pattern. Finally, the earth and the sky stopped reeling and I got up on all fours and opened my eyes. Arrrgh! I was blind! No. Wait! Sand slowly drained out of my goggles and I could see a little bit. Then I heard the sound of my poor Greeves, screaming at full throttle.

I staggered to my feet in the general direction of the bike, still half-blinded by the sand. As I neared the sound of the tortured engine, I stepped with the full weight of my right leg on that churning wheel and it sent me reeling off into the desert like a demented dust devil. Eventually, I slammed into the ground, fighting off a nasty case of vertigo. As I held my wobbling head in my hands, I heard the Greeves seize up tight as the proverbial drum. EEEeeeeeeeeeee-urp!

Off in the distance, I heard another engine in similar death scream It must be the Maico, I thought some­what gleefully. It too went EEEeeeeeeeeeee-urp! and became a one-piece motor.

I staggered to my feet and fixed my gaze in the general direction of the Maico. Its rider was on all fours, pant­ing and heaving like a diseased race horse.

I looked at him. He looked at me. We locked evil stares, each trying to appear more macho than the other. Then we both broke out in laughter. We couldn't help it. The ridiculousness of the situation was unavoidable. We walked toward each other like zombies and shook hands, clapping backs like long-lost brothers.

After some post-crash jabbering, we settled down to study the damage to the bikes. Oh-oh. Grim. Decidedly grim. The Greeves had the tank crushed on the left side and the saddle was torn off. One shock pointed off like a divining rod. Several fins looked like potato chips. The forks curved like a set of cheap skis... none of the cables were connected... the bars dropped over the wrecked tank and an ugly hole in the cases let a steady drip-drip-drip of dank oil in the sand. The bike was a total mess. I hated to think of the cost of repairs.

I looked over at the Maico. Whoops. It was even worse off than my bike. The frame was broken right where the saddle met the gas tank... a hefty 14-inch gap confirmed that to even the most casual onlooker. Only one spoke was left intact in the front wheel. Apparently, my bars had entered the spokes and had done a first-rate cleaning job on the wheel. His fiber­glass tank was also a disaster... the entire top was ripped off and the edges of the glass looked like cotton candy.

The carb dangled about four feet away from the bike on the end of the cable, gurgling gas in the white sand. There was no head on the bike. It appeared that the head had blown off and taken most of the tank with it, ending up wedged between the rear wheel and swingarm. Don't ask me how it got there. The pipe was sitting straight up in the sand, with smoke curling out of the stinger. Little flies buzzed around it, but never settled on the hot metal.

The bike was a total mess. I ran a quick calculation in my battered mind and figured that between the two bikes, we did close to $3000 worth of damage. All for the glory of battling for last place. Gak!

I looked at the Maico rider and shook my head sadly. He did the same.

“Well," I said, ''it'll be three or four hours before they come looking for us. We might as well relax."

He walked over to his Preston Petty Toolbox/Number Plate and pulled out a deck of cards. "You play poker? ”

I nodded yes.

We used Joshua tree spikes for poker chips and assigned a value of $100,000

for the short needles and a quarter of a million for the long ones. At the end of

three hours of playing some very serious desert poker, my buddy Tom showed up with a tow rope. The guy on the Maico owed me 5.6 million dollars, give or take a few hundred thousand.

We shook hands and I said, "I'll expect your check within the next few days. Right?" He nodded and started playing a game of solitaire.

Well, as you can see, I'm more or less set for life. All I have to do is collect on that poker game and it's Fat City.

In the meantime, I might just as well keep pounding out these columns. After all, you never can trust those Maico riders to pay off a bet.

That's HoF material there. All by itself!