THE WANDERERS #30
CARL PUTS ON HIS MOTOCROSS RACE-FACE
By Rick Sieman
We we last left Carl and Emma, they had just arrived at a motorcycle dealership in St. Louis to look up an old friend, Fat Jack Splinkowitz. Fat Jack owned "MOTORCYCLES R US," a modern fancy facility that was a far cry from the old grubby bike shop Carl remembered with great fondness. More than twenty years ago, Carl used to race dirt bikes out of Fat Jack's shop.
Carl was surprised to see the huge facility, and was pleasantly surprised to see that Fat Jack had not changed much in the last two decades. Even though he was over 80 years old, he was still huge, with a large nose and three chins. We pick them up as they greet each other:
"Carl! Old Crash and Burn Carl! As I live and breath. Thought I'd never see you again, not after you blew up up three of my bikes in one day, and set a fourth one on fire when you took out the hot dog stand and nearly killed the ambulance driver.
"What brings you here? Wait. Don't tell me... let me guess? You're here for the Old Timers Motocross Nationals this weekend. Wow! I am impressed. Didn't think you had it in you anymore."
Carl smiled weakly, and answered: "Uhh, yeah... that's what I'm here for all right. Can't stay away from racing, you know."
Fat Jack beamed, and Emma let out a low moan and started pounding her head against the counter.
"She Ok?" Fat Jack was genuinely concerned.
"Uhhh, yeah. This here's Emma, and when she gets hungry, she gets cranky."
Fat Jack smiled. "Well, then, hells-fire, man. Let's catch a meal. It's on me."
While Fat Jack was up at the bar ordering drinks and sandwiches, Emma ripped into Carl with a vengeance. "You big boob, what do you mean that you're going to enter a dirt bike race? You have haven't raced a bike in over 20 years!"
"Yeah, honey-pot, that's true, but I ride our trail bike all the time."
"What? If you count riding down to the store for a six pack and a bag of chips off-roading, then you're in great shape for racing. The last time you even got those tires in the dirt was when we ran out of gas and you rode across that farmers field with a gas can on your lap. And you're going to race a bunch of kids? Hah!"
"Well, now, Emma... they ain't exactly kids. Old Timers are over 40, ya know."
"Carl, compared to you, they ARE kids."
"C'mon, Emma. You really shouldn't worry. After all, like they say, once you learn how to swim or ride a bicycle, you never forget."
Emma remained unimpressed.
"Hmmmph. Carl, I've seen you swim, and it looks like you're trying to ride a bicycle in the water. If you think that you're going to race..."
Fat Jack wallowed up to the table, with three pitchers of beer in each hand, and a waitress behind him with a huge tray of hamburgers and fries. "Here we go folks. A little snack to hold us over 'till dinner."
Both Carl and Emma were stunned! There were are least two dozen burgers and fries on the huge tray. Emma's eyes bugged out. "Is all of this for us, Mr. Splinkowitz?"
"Heck no, little lady. We got some cole slaw, onion rings and fried zucchini coming up. By the way, just call me Fat Jack. Everybody else does."
With that, Fat Jack proceeded to show why he was not skinny, as he quickly ate six double burgers and washed them down with two full pitchers of suds, before he relaxed and leaned forward to chat. "There, that takes the edge off. Now then, Carl. What class you want to race in?"
"Uhhh, whataya got? I don't want to take advantage of anyone, ya know."
"Well, we got Beginner, Novice, Amateur, Expert and Master. Then we also got these divided into over 40 and over 50 years old. I know you're over 50, but you might not want to run with the Experts. Some of those old guys are pretty quick. How about signing up as an amateur?"
Carl started on his third burger and answered: “ggdddoo ppppprrepp slluuuup szooodd...”
Emma cut in. "Carl, how many times have I asked you not to talk with your mouth full?"
Carl grunted and swallowed a mouthful the size of a grapefruit. "Sorry. But these are great burgers. Anyways, I usta be an Expert, and I say once an expert, always an Expert. Anyways, more important than that, what kind of bike are you gonna line me up with, Fat Jack? You know I don't like 125s and 250s. They just don't have enough beans to pull a real man around the old course. You got a decent open class bike around, like a nice 360, or a 400?"
Fat Jack laughed. "Where you been, boy? Them days are gone forever. Nowadays, we got full 500 cc bikes and even bigger four strokes. But I'll tell you what. If you want some horsepower, sling a leg over a 540 KTM. It's got plenty of beans and it's the biggest two stroke around."
Carl beamed. "That's for me! Serious horsepower. Yup."
Fat Jack leaned over and whispered in Carls ear. "Boy, your missus is sure putting the suds away. She's on her third pitcher already!"
Carl scratched his chin and looked puzzled. "Odd. She hardly ever drinks more than one or two glasses of Boones Farm Strawberry Delight. Must be the excitement of the upcoming racing."
***
Three days later, Carl drove The Whale down the dirt road leading into Chicken Licks Raceway, paid the gate fee and found a nice level place to park and set up camp. The scene around him brought back many wonderful old memories: people were cooking breakfast and warming up coffee over small campfire stoves, tents and motor homes were everywhere, and a seemingly endless wall of trucks and vans of every type and size filled in the gaps.
And the bikes! Long, tall and lean, the new dirt bikes were brutal-looking, singular-purpose machines with one thought dominating their design: to go as fast as possible off-road. Carl found Fat Jack next to an impressive-looking display of bikes and ATVs under a huge tent with a MOTORCYCLES R US sign on the front. Beautiful young ladies with string bikinis and great tans were handing out brochures to goggle-eyed potential customers.
Fat Jack dragged Carl under the tent and pointed. "There she is! One nearly brand new KTM 540. It's a demo model." Fat Jack leaned over and whispered in Carls ear: "Don't say anything, Carl, but this one here is sorta special. It's got a ported barrel, a special pipe and a trick over-size carb. I mean, the stock one is plenty fast, but when a customer slings a leg over this beauty, it scares the livin' hell out of him, and he's got to have it! Anyway, you're already signed up, so why don't you get your gear on and get some practice laps in."
An hour later, Carl had his riding gear on and was trying to figure how to get his leg over the saddle of the ultra-tall bike. With the aid of a stout milk crate, Carl eventually got seated and fired up the big Austrian mount.
His first few laps were a study in terror. Every time he cracked the throttle on the 540, a huge rooster tail would spurt out from the rear wheel and the front end would point up to the sky. Before Carl had gone ten minutes, his forearms were cramped up and he was breathing like a rabbit being pursued by the hounds of hell.
A humbled Carl pulled into the pits and leaned the KTM against the side of The Whale. Emma was sitting in a lawn chair, reading a Harlequin romance thriller, and looked up from underneath her large straw hat. "Still alive, I see. Well, champ, do you still have all your old moves?"
Carl shook his head. "Boy, this may have been a big mistake, Emma. This thing is so powerful that I can barely hang on. Oh well, at least I only have to ride one 30 minute race, instead of the usual two race format. Meanwhile, I'm gonna lay here in the shade like a beached carp and try to rest up before the start. Jeez, Emma... I sorta forgot how tough this sport was."
***
Two hours later, they called Carl's class to the starting line. Forty riders lined up, revving their engines, with puffs of light blue smoke burping out of the exhaust pipes. Carl figured he would play it safe and not try for a good start. No sense getting tangled up in first turn traffic.
To play it safe, Carl slipped the big KTM bike into third gear, instead of taking off in first like he normally would. Carl assumed that the 540 would ease off the line in third, instead of digging trenches.
The gate dropped and the pack roared off the line. The 540 hesitated a moment as Carl slipped the clutch, then came to life and thundered off the line like a top fueler.
Sooner than he expected, Carl approached the first turn with the motor howling, only to find the turn full of bikes.
In an advanced state of panic, Carl did what many old time riders used to do out of bad habit. He laid it down. Or at least he tried to. The KTM went into a full lock slide at full throttle, and blasted into the cluster of bikes.
Both tires knocked bikes down like pins in a bowling alley, and Carl was frozen at the controls, and left the throttle on. Perhaps it was this that lent the bike a semblance of control, as the fierce gyro effect of the spinning rear wheel literally flipped other bikes out of the way, and kept the chassis from flopping over on its side.
Carl closed his eyes and figured death was near. What a way to go! Flat out, in the first turn at a motocross race! Well, at least Emma would have something to talk about after the funeral.
A moment later, Carl opened his eyes, mostly because all of the crashing and sounds of impact had stopped. He squeezed the clutch in and rolled to a stop about 25 feet past the first turn, then looked back to see what had happened.
Good Lord! There were exactly 39 bikes in a giant pile-up, and Carl was not part of the carnage. Well, he figured, better lucky than skillful, so he slipped the clutch and darted off down the course.
It was a full two laps before they got the mass of bikes untangled, and Carl used the time to circulate around the course, using as little energy as possible. Even so, his arms started pumping up, his hands turned into claws and his legs started to burn like he was running a marathon with Kate Smith strapped to his back. Little red dots danced in front of his eyes, and his breath got more and more ragged. His mouth felt like someone had stuffed a bag full of dog hair inside.
Emma gave him a signal with a chalk board. Whoa! Someone was closing fast. His lead had dropped from two laps, to less than 20 seconds. Carl picked up the pace a bit, but this just made things worse. The bike was now literally an out-of-control projectile. All Carl could do was hang on and hope that the rider behind would not catch him.
With a half lap left to go, Carl heard the sound of the pursuing rider behind him and gave it everything he had. A long section of sandy bumps separated him from the checkered flag, but the rider darted past Carl on the outside, and wheelied by to take the checkered flag and the win.
Carl slowly rode to the pits, let the bike lean against The Whale, and slumped to the ground, heaving and gasping. Emma ran up, removed his helmet and gave him a big hug.
"Well, dear. At least you got second. I'm very proud of you!"
Carl groaned. "Man, that guy got me right at the end. I thought I had the win. Well, the guy earned it, coming back from two laps down. Who was he, anyways?"
Emma beamed "Oh, that was your friend, Fat Jack. Isn't it wonderful that a man his age could ride that fast? And on a little 125 cc bike, to boot!"
Carl moaned. "Emma, get me a beer. No. Make that about 14 beers. I think I have just officially retired from motocross forever."
