Cycle World Staff Blogs, 2006

THE KENTUCKY KING
10.30.2006

Well, how satisfying was Nicky Hayden's title-winning ride at Valencia this past weekend? Pretty damn, I'd say. It was the right outcome, too. Rossi had his problems throughout the season—uncharacteristic DNFs due to engine failure—and Nicky had some sub-par rides, but to have the title torpedoed out from underneath you by a teammate…well, that could have doomed Team Repsol Honda to two years of finger-pointing and intra-squad bickering. Hayden may never have recovered.

Instead, he took the high road, pulled things together and took a “win-or-die-I'm-going-down-swingin'” approach to the final GP of the year. Muckraking Euro-scribes predicted Hayden would choke under the pressure, but the comments simply cemented his resolve. It was Rossi who folded.

After the checkers, Valentino rode up beside the new champ and congratulated him. Later, Rossi had this to say: “It has been a very emotional season, with some great moments, some bad luck and now some mistakes. But this is racing. All I can say now is a big 'congratulations' to Nicky because he is a great guy, a great rider and he is the world champion because he has been the best this year. I have known him a long time, I know his family well and even though I am disappointed, I am also very happy for them.”

That, friends, is a class move.

An epic end to an epic season, then, with the promise of more to come in 2007 on the new MotoGP 800s. Will Nicky, with his newfound speed, mental toughness and confidence, keep the crown? Can Rossi come back and be the first and only man to win world titles on 125s, 250s, 500 two-strokes, 990 four-strokes and now the 800 versions?

Heck, it's enough to drive grown men to poetry—or at least John Sage, a quality research analyst at American Suzuki, who sent us the following ode:

GUILTY AS CHARGED
10.26.2006

I don't own a motorcycle. There, I said it. And yes, I'm embarrassed. After all, I'm now an editor at the largest motorcycle magazine in the world and my personal garage is full of motorcycles I don't own. Of course, there is something to be said for having a garage full of bikes that you don't have to pay insurance on. The biggest benefit is that often the motorcycles I ride are completely out of my league, like the $60,000 Bimota Tesi that I developed a fondness for—simply too expensive for me to consider purchasing. Ever!

This was the last motorcycle I actually owned, a 2001 Yamaha R6 race bike. I never should have sold it.

Earlier this year I sold my 2001 Yamaha R6 racebike—which of course I totally regret—but the idea was to get a new one. Unfortunately, property taxes, house repairs and other lame excuses, mean my “bike money” went somewhere else. How the hell did that happen? One thing I know that I'll remedy in the near future is the lack of a race/track-day racebike, most likely with the purchase of something in the middleweight category. But just to clear my name, I would like to own a streetbike again. It's just that I have no idea what I would buy. There really isn't a reason to own any of the current bikes on the market as there is a garage full of them right here at CW. This is exactly why Edwards, Hoyer, Miles, Dean, Egan, Cameron and the crew all own a vintage something or other (bearing in mind that “vintage” to me is anything before 1985).

I guess I have an interest in weathered bikes as well; something like a Suzuki RG500 Gamma or a Yamaha RZ500. I love two-strokes and both meet my tastes, but do I really have time to jump into that fire? I can't even answer that question. I mentioned to Hoyer the other day that the Ducati SportClassics met all my ownership requirements: cool, functional and stylish and not hemorrhaging oil onto my garage floor. But I guess I would be missing part of the “experience” of tinkering and problem solving, but do I need those hassles? Another question I can't answer.

Another bike I never should have gotten rid of, my custom-painted 1993 Honda CBR900RR.

The way I see it there are three choices: A) Buy a vintage bike that I know very little about and enjoy the experience of ownership, including being stranded on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere on occasion; B) throw the money towards hot-rodding that new racebike, which in my head makes a whole lot of sense; or C) buy something like the Ducati Sport 1000 and watch it become vintage as it collects dust in the corner because I'm always testing something else.

I don't know which route I will wander, but one thing I promise is that in the next few months I will become a bike owner again. After all, it's my duty.

BLAME MALCOLM
10.24.2006

New motorcycles are so cool. They start and stop, handle amazingly, make gobs of power—why would anyone want an old bike? Yes, classic old crocks are beautiful to look at, but owning one seems like a major headache. Much like wooden boats, admiring the old bikes of others has to be the wiser way to go.

Certainly not new, but definitely a good time. Corey's recently acquired steed poses by the recently restored cottages of Crystal Cove on the SoCal coastline just south of the CW offices.

Blame the grinning Malcolm Smith for my recent change of attitude. It happened at the Honda Hoot this summer, where I was doing my marketing director bit at the Cycle World Rolling Concours. Malcolm was our honorary judge, and after an 80-mile ride through the Tennessee back country, everyone in attendance seemed to be enjoying kicking tires and admiring great old bikes that ran every bit as well as they looked. At some point, Malcolm—who has a pretty good classic bike collection—pointed out a purple 1970 Triumph Trophy 500 glistening in the sun, resplendent with high-pipes and just enough bluing to show that its owner enjoyed riding it often.

"Now that's an old bike you can really ride and enjoy," stated Malcolm. I nodded in agreement and muttered, "I've always wanted an old scrambler…my wife tells me to buy one anytime I bring it up." Malcolm said nothing; the look was enough. When the wife tells you to buy a motorcycle, you buy a motorcycle.

In a shockingly short amount of time, I found a Triumph nearly identical to the one Malcolm and I had admired in Knoxville. It was even close to home. The ad said: "Does not leak, smoke or do any other weird things." Perfect! But an English motorcycle that doesn't leak oil? Questionable description aside, the pictures and other information seemed to indicate a great little motorcycle. Before I knew what hit me, the seller even agreed to deliver the steed.

With the Trophy now in my driveway, I questioned the "doesn't leak" claim again. The seller explained that the bike truly did not leak—however, it would occasionally "seep" a little oil from various joints. Lesson in English motorcycle semantics learned, I bought the bike. A little cleaning, a new set of Dunlop K-70s, a bit of tuning and everything just keeps getting better. New bikes are still better in virtually every sensible, measurable way. But sometimes being a bit unwise can be even more fun.

YAMA-WHATZIT?
10.23.2006

Seen at the El Camino vintage bike show and swapmeet a few weekends ago was this Yamaha-based prototype that nobody seems to know much about. Frame and running gear are obviously late-1970s Yamaha TT500. A C&J swingarm has been fitted, with longer shocks, a common desert-racing mod, though the bike paradoxically wears full street rubber.

Look familiar? Anybody know Davis or Gregg? Has the engine been repurposed from another bike or is it a sand-cast special?

The real oddity is the engine, definitely not from Hamamatsu, looking more like a tool-room special. Only clue to its heritage is the “Davis-Gregg” cast into the timing cover. El Camino promoter and classic-bike broker Glenn Bator (www.batorinternational.com) owns the bike but knows little of its history, other than it was some sort of development hack rescued from the crusher. He's offering a free T-shirt and hat to the first person with the answers.

Not that I need the gear, but curiosity drove me to the Internet, where a Goggle of “Davis-Gregg” led to a promising find. Davis Gregg Enterprises, my computer told me, is a Santee, California, company that specializes in custom fabrication for aerospace, marine and industrial businesses. Was this Yama-Whatzit a past project? I e-mailed these photos and an inquiry.

A week went by with no reply so I assume my missive was dumped along with all the penis-enlargement/weight-loss/balding-remedy e-mails. Besides, perusing the company website revealed a 1996 founding date, obviously way too late for this project. Next, I sent the pictures over to Yamaha U.S., hoping that some graybeard in the building might remember details about the mystery Thumper—if indeed Yamaha was involved at all. No dice there, either.

So I'm turning the investigation over to the assembled might and collective wisdom of the Cycle World online family. Have you crossed paths with this bike in the past? Do you know who built it and why? If so, first contact Bator at his website to claim your swag, then click on over to the CW Forums, Online Feedback and let the rest of us in on the secret.

From dirtbike to R&D mule: Street tires and smaller rear sprocket were probably fitted so development miles could be piled on, but to what end?

THE AFRICAN QUEEN RIDES AGAIN
10.19.2006

Must admit I was feeling major guilt. Could it really have been almost a year since I last rode my R80 G/S Beemer, the well-burnished 1982 model I inherited from my brother? It had been Kevin's favorite bike and I promised him I'd take care of it and keep it on the road.

The state of California was making things a little difficult in that regard. The bike was originally a German- or French-market bike, then spent time in Africa, including a crossing of the Sahara Desert. It had “RB64” hand-painted on the rear fender (some kind Dark Continent license plate?) but none of the proper EPA/DOT stickers.

Kevin with another of his oddball fleet, a Moto Morini Camel dual-purpose bike, powered by 501cc V-Twin. Typically, he once traded a perfectly reliable, if boring, K75 BMW for a Laverda Triple with electrical problems.

The DMV inspector frowned and tapped his clipboard, never a good sign, then sent me back to the clerks.

It didn't get any better inside. After its African adventures, the G/S somehow made its way to Texas. There it changed hands and was pressed into service as a rental hack for a company running tours of the Mexican mainland. After a decade or more of shuttling gringos south of the border, and showing six figures on the odo, something bad happened. Blown motor? Run of a cliff? Prang with a tourist bus?

Whatever it was, the Beemer ended up at a Fort Worth bike shop, nominally refurbished and with a salvage title. Which is where the bike's life took a turn for the better when my brother came along and purchased it. Kevin was a big fan of odd and eccentric motorcycles (MZ 250, Moto Morini Camel 501, Laverda RGS1000), and the scruffy G/S fit right in.

Which is more than I can say for it here in the Golden State. Never mind the legit Texas license plate, with a salvage title and missing the required Fed stickers, I'd have to schedule a special inspection at a California Highway Patrol station 20 miles away. I felt lucky they didn't impound the bike on the spot!

Things being things—and the license plate being valid—I let the inspection slide and just rode the G/S, including on the 2005 Cycle World Trek, the magazine's annual dual-purpose weekend ride for bike-industry types. With a nice new Progressive Suspension shock replacing the leaky stock unit, the old girl acquitted herself well, even scaling a loose, rocky hillclimb that had several newer, lighter bikes upside-down. The G/S series started the whole “adventure-bike” category, and almost a quarter-century and 106,000 miles later, this example was once again proving itself a great motorcycle.

The G/S on the road during last year's “Grand Tour” feature story. With small windscreen and soft luggage, the Beemer was a perfect traveling partner for a leisurely jaunt up the California coastline. Bags of ground clearance, stout midrange and roomy riding position always appreciated.

But as the departure date for the 2006 Trek approached, the Beemer still wasn't Cal-legal; in fact with the plate now out of date, I hadn't ridden it in nearly a year. The day before the Trek I threw some electrons into the battery, aired up the DOT knobbies, and the bike started up on the third revolution of the crank, stale gas be damned! It sounded a little loud, though. Apparently the rocky uphill had claimed a lower muffler exhaust clamp. A quick rummage in the Official Cycle World Parts Bin located a suitable hose-clamp and we were good to go.

My only other concern was a weepy final gear case, which had allowed some of its contents to migrate into the rear drum brake. No worries, that would burn off after a few stops, right? Well, no, but there are worse things than riding in the High Sierras with just a front brake. At least the local mounties had no issues with an expired plate from the Lone Star State—well, not one with some strategically placed mud splatter.

Last Sunday was Kevin's birthday. He would have been 49. I rode into work and slotted the BMW onto the shop lift to investigate the rear oil leak. Should be an easy fix. I may need a little help from above, though, to resolve matters with the DMV…

CRASH BAM BOOM
10.17.2006

And they walked away! Gear-maker Alpinestars' prolific PR frontman Malcolm McCassy and his passenger's night came to a crashing halt on the southbound 405 Freeway last week.

En route home after leaving the Jeremy McGrath Invitational Supercross, McCassy's Range Rover flipped three or four times before ending up on the passenger side. The front wheels were jettisoned so far from the scene they were never found!

Driver and passenger each had slight concussions but were otherwise uninjured, major props to the Brit SUV's safety features. “This only happens in movies” said McCassy of the spectacular rollover, of which he remembers nothing. “I can't tell you how lucky I feel.”

Lucky is way better than dead, kids, wear your seat belts. Besides, do you know how hard it is to break-in a new PR guy?

THE MEASURE OF PROGRESS
10.14.2006

Above most else, we seek Order, a universe where we can measure, quantify and predict outcomes and futures. For we of the Tribe of Motorcyclists this is more true than for others, those who don't, even can't, understand.

The sun regularly sets on this mechanical piece of the British Empire, but when luck is present the fire inside never goes out, although the 6-volt electrical system's weak zap means it is impossible to read the speedo at night.

When I wander outside to kick life into my '58 Triumph Trophy, the first thing I do is look at the ground beneath the bike. I wish to see the degree to which the floor has been marked, and further that there is not some inordinate amount of the three different possible weights of lubricating oil that can make their way out of the many not-very-well-sealed seams in all that lovely old cast aluminum. The kick-to-start should be singular, and if it is not, causes the worry of disorder.

But it is once under way when, for me, the greatest measure of progress is the functioning of the Smiths Chronometric speedometer, whose slow-to-twitch needle (if you know how it goes, you know what I'm talking about) updates me with my velocity information, at the very least, every few seconds. It is a fine instrument, beautifully mechanical, and really quite informative that all things with my ancient ride are as they should be. It tells me everything is working and every mile I put on the odometer suggests there will be more.

It may not be true, because while we seek perfect Order, we cannot attain it. I will continue to pretend to have it at 60 miles per hour. Just don't ask me about the ammeter…

HOSPITALITY, SIERRA-STYLE
10.12.2006

I was, you could say, “directionally challenged in an unfamiliar forested environment.” Lost in the woods, in other words. I had a topographical map, but it was a photocopy with such poor resolution that the small type was unreadable, and the battery in my cell phone was flashing its I'm-about-to-go-dead signal.

Didn't really matter anyway, since there was no cell service out here in Smokey The Bearville, and most of the trails and dirt roads I was navigating were unmarked. The sun had set quite a while earlier, and it was getting dark fast. I had a rough idea of the basic heading I needed to take, but I couldn't seem to find a trail that would go in that direction. And if I kept riding around aimlessly, I would soon run out of gas. I've never minded “roughing it,” but the thought of spending the night huddled next to my Husqvarna in the Sierra Nevadas was less than appealing. At least I had a good supply of drinking water in my CamelBak.

Miscommunication had gotten me into this fix. I was one of three sweep riders for the Cycle World Trek, an industry dual-sport ride our magazine hosts every year in the mountains near Yosemite National Park. Sweep riders, in case you don't know, are the last to ride a planned route to ensure that no stragglers are left behind. After helping another rider fix a flat rear tire, the three of us discussed which route we would take to the end of the day's ride—the hard “A” loop or the easier “B” section. One said he would sweep the A route, while the other indicated he had been feeling a little sick and would prefer to take the easier loop. I said I would ride with him just in case his nausea worsened.

Dual-sports as far as the eye can see.

We then took off on a paved road that continued for a few miles before the route turned onto the dirt. The A and B loops both began on the same dirt road, so once we left the tarmac, I turned my roll chart (a handlebar-mounted case that contains a turn-by-turn printout of the course's route) to the B section. There hadn't been any rain in the area for weeks, making the ground bone-dry and silty, so the other two sweepers began riding side-by-side—a common practice that allows them to avoid having to ride in each other's dust. You can't do three-wide, though, and the dust cloud they were kicking up was so thick that I had no choice but to stop until I could see farther than the end of my TE450's front fender. After a couple of minutes, the dust cleared and I took off in hot pursuit, trying to follow the roll chart's B loop directions.

Problem was, the sweeper who'd originally planned to ride the B route had, at the last minute, opted for the A route, assuming I was following right behind. And during the brief period in which I had been riding in their dust, I unknowingly passed the turnoff for the B loop. After the dust cleared and I could maintain a good pace, I came to a trail intersection that, by pure coincidence, was at the exact mileage for a turn marked on the B loop route chart. Thinking I was right on course, I headed down that trail. I saw no dust ahead, so I began riding as fast as I could, hoping to catch up to the other two sweepers.

No such luck. As I bombed along the trail, I began to have the sinking feeling that I was way off course. I saw not the faintest wisp of dust anywhere, and the number of knobby tracks in the dirt gradually went from two or three to none. So I stopped, got out the map and...well, that was where the word “lost” began to clunk around in my head.

I tried backtracking, but by then, it had gotten so dark that everything looked entirely different than it had when I was going the other way. I missed the turnoff I had made earlier and ended up riding several miles down a dead-end trail. I turned around and headed back, but now it was really dark. I decided to stop and collect my thoughts.

Usually, I have a pretty good sense of direction, so I just sat on a big rock and ran all of the previous turns and trails through my head. After a few contemplative minutes, I decided. “I need to go that way,” I said out loud, pointing into the blackness.

At the head of the dead-end trail, I turned right, made a left at the first opportunity and just kept riding…and after about five miles came to a paved road. Cool!

I didn't want to waste any more time or fuel, so when I spotted a little house alongside the road with lights on inside, I rode into the driveway, dismounted and rang the doorbell. An elderly woman answered, and when she opened the door and saw me standing there in full off-road get-up—helmet, gloves, enduro jacket, MX pants, fanny-pack toolkit and backpack, with my goggles perched above my helmet's visor instead of over my eyes—she momentarily had one of those deer-in-the-headlights looks, then quickly moved backward a couple of steps and, with her hand over her mouth, exclaimed, “Oh my God!” At that moment, she surely thought there had been an alien invasion and I was one of the advance party.

“Uh, I apologize for bothering you, but I seem to have gotten lost,” I said in my softest, most unthreatening voice. “Could you please tell me where this road goes?”

Camaraderie between industry people is one thing, but between complete strangers is something else.

She seemed relieved. I had spoken English and hadn't asked her to take me to her leader. “It goes to Auberry in this direction,” she said, pointing to her right, “and Highway 168 in the other.”

“Highway 168?” I eagerly asked, recognizing that road as the one that would take me directly to my intended destination.

“Yes,” she replied. “It's only about a half-mile from here. Just go to the stop sign and turn left.”

“Thank you very much,” I said. “That's exactly the road I was looking for. Sorry to have interrupted whatever you were doing.”

“Oh, no bother at all,” she said pleasantly. “You look very tired and hungry. Would you like to come in for something to eat or drink?”

For a moment, I was speechless. After a lifetime of frequently having strangers treat me like some kind of sub-human species just because I was riding a motorcycle—combined with 33 years of living in the urban caldron of selfishness and distrust called Los Angeles—I was caught off-guard by this woman's gesture of pure kindness. She had known me for all of 15 or 20 seconds and I was still wearing my helmet, so she had no idea what I looked like, what my true intentions might be or what I was carrying in all those dirty containers lashed to my body, yet she had invited me into her home for a bit of nourishment. And since there was a well-dressed younger man standing in the background—her son, perhaps—I was fairly confident that there was nothing perverse about her offer.

“Thank you very much,” I finally said. “That's unbelievably kind of you, but there are quite a few people either looking for me or concerned about my whereabouts, and I need to connect with them as soon as possible. But I genuinely appreciate your kind offer.”

“Well, have a safe ride, then,” she said. “Remember, just turn left at the stop sign.”

“Thank you again,” I said, then turned and walked back to my bike as she slowly closed her door.

It was a cold, 30-some-odd-mile ride to the lodge where all of the Trek participants would be spending the night, but I enjoyed a very pleasant feeling of warmth the entire way.

OLD MOTOCROSS GOLD
10.10.2006

Just got back from the big Motorcycle Hall of Fame Museum shindig on the grounds of the AMA headquarters in Pickerington, Ohio. I was there to see former Cycle editor (and, lucky for us all, sometime CW contributor) Cook Neilson get inducted into the Hall of Fame's class of 2006, an honor long overdue.

I was also asked to help judge the 100-bike concours d'elegance that precedes the HoF dinner. I volunteered for the Competition class, which turned out to be the toughest of the show. Among the hard decisions was what to do with one of those proverbial “bikes in a box,” in this case a pristine, never-seen-gas 1974 Yamaha YZ125 that had been uncrated just for the show. Only age-cracked tires and handgrips let on that this otherwise showroom-fresh YZ was 32 years old. The dilemma: What's more impressive, an authentic, historically accurate machine that has simply been bought and unboxed, or one that has been brought back from a basketcase, with all the toil, trouble and parts-shagging that entails?

Zemla started with a complete but scruffy MX125. You may remember another example of his work, a Roberts-replica YSR50 that was featured in “American Flyers,” June, 2004.

In the end, we went for a restored Harley XR750 flat-tracker that also had some provenance, at one time raced by national champ Mert Lawwill. Our group of judges recommended the Yamaha for the show's Preservation award but that was given, quite rightly, to an original-paint 1913 Flying Merkel.

My thinking in nominating the more mundane YZ was that a mid-1970s Japanese motocrosser, especially a relatively unimportant model like this pre-Monoshock 125, is not exactly high on most restorers' wish lists. After all, labor for a spokes-up total rebuild is the same whether the bike in question is run-of-the-mill or a works racebike—and sometimes finding parts for an unsung production bike is actually harder!

“What makes this bike so important,” I told one of my fellow scrutineers, “is that nobody in their right minds would ever restore one of these things to this level. It just doesn't make sense.”

Of course, I should have known better. Waiting in my e-mail inbox when I got home by happy coincidence was a message from David Zemla, friend of the magazine and director of marketing for Performance Machine. Attached were photos of his latest restoration, a 1974 Yamaha MX125, the more pedestrian version of the aluminum-tanked YZ.

“As I am sure you are acutely aware, finishing a bike is considerably more difficult than starting one,” David wrote. “Therefore, I believe each and every completed project to be something of a milestone in one's life. After a year on my bench, the MX125 finally saw the light of day. What most sensible folk would have tossed in the trash now looks and sounds like it fell out of 1974.”

Not making the Competition-class judges' job any easier in Ohio was this immaculate Penton. Entry into the Hall of Fame Concours is by invitation only, so the level of machines was unusually high.

David then went on to point out something I knew but overlooked in my Ohio analysis of the YZ125. The best restorations are about more than nuts and bolts—or dollars and “sense.”

“Some day we should analyze exactly why it is we do this. Some sort of issue compounded since childhood? I can't seem to fix people, so I fix motorcycles…? The obvious escape from the complexity of modern life and byzantine machinery? Perhaps we are profoundly and emotionally linked to a previous milestone and therefore destined to repeat it? (My childhood pillow rested on a secret stash of mid-'70s Yamaha brochures.) I tend to see it as therapeutic. Restoring something just might do a little of the same for one's soul.”

Well said, David. Nice job on the Yamaha.

Benefit Bultaco is ready to roost, with Progressive shocks, new paint, reupholstered seat, fresh tires and a dialed-in Mikuni. If it were ours, we'd get Jamie Lee to sign the front numberplate. POMEROY BENEFIT PURSANG A Bultaco worth bidding on Speaking of mid-'70s motocrossers, here's a Bultaco from the past that has a chance to make a difference in a little girl's future. This 1975 Pursang 250 is being auctioned online with proceeds going to a trust fund set up for Jamie Lee Pomeroy, 9-year-old daughter of late MX great Jim Pomeroy. He died in a Jeep accident last August. The freshly restored Bultaco is AHRMA-legal and race-ready, and has matching frame and engine numbers. It was donated by Dan and Susan D'Amico of Utah. Dan competes in vintage motocross and the 250 was his backup machine, never raced. As of last Friday, bidding was up to $5200. If you'd like in on the action, go to www.ahrma.org/auction. Hurry, 'cause the auction ends Monday, October 16 at 5 p.m. Eastern time. Those simply wishing to make a donation to the trust fund can send checks to the Jim Pomeroy Memorial Fund Benefiting Jamie Lee Pomeroy, c/o Banner Bank, 5005 Summitview Ave., Yakima, WA 98908.

IN SEARCH OF ASCOT PARK
10.06.2006

I was chuffing around aimlessly on our 2007 H-D Fat Boy testbike last week when I found myself in Gardena, “where the Harbor, San Diego and 91 Freeways collide,” as the old ads for Ascot Park speedway used to say.

Full grandstand, full field: Spectators take to their feet as 1966 Ascot TT is flagged off and the leaders hit Turn 1. It's all Triumphs up front.

Wow. I hadn't thought of Ascot in years. The legendary Southern California dirt-track, sadly, was shut down in 1990, supposedly to make way for a real estate project. Hard to believe it's been almost 17 years since Harleys and Hondas and Triumphs did battle on the tacky clay half-mile or flew over the TT grandstand jump.

Ascot Park opened in 1958, built on a former city dump. Appropriate, then, that the promoter most closely associated with the track was J.C. Agajanian, son of Armenian immigrants, who made a fortune in garbage collection. “Aggie” died in 1984, but not before he had fixed Ascot indelibly on the motorcycle map. In 1966, ABC-TV's “Wide World of Sports” showed up to film some nutbag calling himself Evel Knievel fly over 16 cars. The network's cameras would return several times over the years to capture the national TT race, focusing on the track's palm trees and infield pond—especially when some unfortunate ran off course and immersed himself in the latter! Motocross historians point out that supercross in America can be traced to Ascot, where in 1968 Agajanian hired a young Gary Bailey to sculpt an MX track in the infield. It would take the AMA another few years to acknowledge the new sport.

Ascot today. Auction company's main office sits in approximately the same location as the racetrack's turnstiles. They're not much on publicity at IAA; this photo was taken from the public sidewalk after I was chased off the parking lot by a security guard short on history appreciation but long on stares and grunts.

But it was the regular Friday-night half-miles for which Ascot is best remembered, playing to full bleachers throughout the 1960s. The 7500 screaming fans in attendance saw some of the best racing in the U.S., featuring Ascot specialists like Sammy “The Flying Flea” Tanner (#7 above), who used a hopped-to-hell BSA Gold Star to devastating effect, embarrassing the visiting factory-backed stars.

Careers were made at Ascot, championships won, legends burnished. Men died there, too. I was at Ascot in May of 1988 when Ted Boody lost his life. Tragic to think that such hallowed ground had been scraped flat for something as mundane as condos.

I turned onto the street almost by memory and pulled up to the spot, 18300 S. Vermont Ave. Apparently the condos never got built. Occupying Ascot's 40 acres is Insurance Auto Auctions, an outfit that sells total-loss and theft-recovery cars. The former garbage dump is now a junkyard.

What's that they say about ashes to ashes?

Overhead view of Ascot Park's location (gray area, middle), now paved over and occupied by hundreds of wrecked cars awaiting auction. Apparently one of the secrets to Ascot's excellent traction was fill-dirt imported from the Roosevelt Park Memorial Cemetery, conveniently located just across the street. Photo by the U. S. Geological Survey

PIECES
10.04.2006

As one of my friendly staffers recently pointed out, I've got more than a few projects going on. One of the longest running not-running projects (and one he forgot about!) is the 1973 Yamaha RD350 I picked up for our cheap-bike ride a couple of years ago (“Grand Tour,” CW, August, 2005). It was ratted out pretty badly when I got it, and took a fair bit of work just to get running for the big flogging we gave those old dogs around northern California. By the end of that trip, though, I could hear the bearings making death noises at high revs, and I was smart enough to run the oil tank dry and give the pistons a light seizing. Smarter men would have put a bullet in the beast and left it for dead, but I was the one whose intelligence allowed the oil tank to run dry, so… I commenced a restoration.

Alloy rims are cool, but only when they are attached to a motorcycle. Tank, fenders, seat, wiring, wheels and engine...each piece is part of the whole, just don't let the whole get stopped by a piece.

Things have gone on pretty well, and I got my fuel tank and sidepanels back from the painter; even the custom Excel alloy rims and polished hubs finally arrived a few weeks ago after I wrote the check for them last December.

In the garage is a pair of S&W shocks I took off my old Laverda, as well as the custom aluminum swingarm to which these will mount. The engine is ported, giant reed blocks are ready to install and a pair of 34mm Mikuni flatslides are waiting to let this fully rebuilt engine sing that popcorn-making song two-stroke lovers love. But right now, it's all in pieces, scattered about my house and work and even a shop on the East Coast. And there are so many other projects going on it is hard to imagine when this thing will ever become whole again. There are so many pieces, it is hard to keep the vision that these things can make up a complete motorcycle once more. These shiny painted bits are inspiring, though, so hopefully I will be kick-starting a freshly assembled RD350 soon.

BIKE HAULERS
10.01.2006

Mark Hoyer has a contagious disease. Unfortunately, now I've got it too. It's not a disease that is caught from contact (no, we've never even stood that close together) and it doesn't linger on the handle of the coffee pot. Actually it's very similar to a computer virus, except it infected my brain, not my desktop's CPU. It's called buy-stuff-you-don't-needitis; an affliction which has taken up permanent residence in Hoyer.

You see, Mark has bigger house than me, with considerably more parking. What good is an empty parking space? God knows that MH doesn't want any surprise visitors up in his rustic back-woods canyon. Jaguars (x3), a Thames van, Triumph and Velocette motorcycles. His buddy Ray and I recently talked him out of purchasing a 1950's flat-bed truck with a straight-Six (we think we did anyway).

Back to that virus thing. Hoyer is determined to pressure me into purchasing something impractically charismatic of my own. He knows my weak spot for Alfa Romeos, so he emails me photos of beautiful cars all the time. My defense against these attacks is that I live in a condo and both of my garages are F-U-L-L, full. Another excuse is that I have a perfectly good Toyota Tundra to haul motocross, roadrace and mountain bikes.

But when he started sending me photos of vehicles that not only fulfill my two-wheeled hauling requirements, but my new internal-combustion malady; I knew I was doomed. It's only a matter of time.

	An Alfa Romeo ambulance not only defines cool, but would eat up my ZX-6R racebike with ease. I need this van! Photo courtesy of www.fantasyjunction.com
	This Austrian Army Pinzgauer 712M is perhaps the coolest vehicle I've ever seen. Did I mention what a great bike hauler it would make? Photo courtesy of www.expedition-imports.com