On the Road To Houston

On The Road To Houston

D. Randy Riggs

IT COULD HAVE been so ridiculously simple. Two round-trip tickets to Houston would have done the trick. With those stapled, punched and otherwise marked pieces of paper, Bob and I could have relaxed in the firstclass splendiferousness of a DC-10 most of the way to the Astrodome. The view, either out the window or down the aisle, would have been pleasing. The drinks and meals would have satisfied our simple tastes. And it all would have happened so quickly. . .whisked to Houston at 37,000 ft. and 550 mph. But apparently, it was all too simple. . . and dear ol’ Robert had other ideas.

“Hey,” he says, “why don’t we drive the CYCLE WORLD van to Houston? That way we can really get a feel for what so many of the racers go through on their trips to the Nationals. Whadaya think?”

I reel around in my chair, glance at the racing posters decorating the office to see if my eyes still focus, pinch myself on the thigh and shake my head. . .yeah, I’m awake. . .and not dreaming. Atkinson wants to drive the CW van to Houston? Yes, that’s what I just heard him say.

“You want to DRIVE to Houston. . .in the VAN?” I exclaim.

“Sure,” he says, “think of the possibilities.”

“I am, I am. . .that’s why I want to know if anyone has taken your temperature lately. . .or, just exactly what do you have up your sleeve besides this getting the feel of it stuff? Hell, I’ve driven and ridden across country enough to know the feel of a 2000-mile trip.”

And then he comes back with this sneaky, not-telling-it-all sort of look and says, “Just think of the advertisement we’ll get from just driving that thing across the country. You seem to be forgetting that it says ‘CYCLE WORLD’ three feet high on both sides of the truck. Think of the advertising!”

“Sure Bob, sure. Now tell me the truth. You’ve got an old girl friend who lives just the other side of Tucson. . . right?”

“Gimme a break, Riggo,” he muses with a smile. “We’ve worked together too long. . .you’re getting to know me too well.” He hesitates a bit and then: “Yeah, you’re right. I’ve been thinking about a little sidetrip. Won’t take us out of our way more than a couple of days.”

“A couple of days! I figured you had a girl stuffed away in some little town, but a couple of days off the beaten track?”

“Don’t get excited. . .it’s got nothing to do with girls.”

“Then what good is it?”

“Just listen a minute. . .1 figure that > Taos, New Mexico is almost right on the way of a slightly different route than would normally take. . .and it’s one the neatest ski areas around.”

“Did you say ski?”

“That’s what I said. What’cha think?”

“Should I pack the van now or wait about an hour?”

“Relax Riggo, Houston is still another month away.”

“Right. . .you’re right, but you know how prompt I always like to be.”

“Yeah, except around deadline.”

Now you can see how innocently it all began. We were ready to get on the road to Houston, but there were a couple of considerations we hadn’t yet thought of.

First, there loomed the possibility of a gasoline shortage in our travels; and second, many of the states that we would be driving through had adopted a 55 mph speed law for you know whB reason. To save gas. . .remember? Sure bet. But, disregarding the phony, misconstrued reasoning behind the new laws, they were still laws, and the Officer Friendlys of America would be out in force with sharpened pencils.

So, we took along our best set of binoculars, the guy riding shotgun stayed ever alert, and we hooked it down the highway.

Bob promised he’d be by my place at 9 A.M. sharp the Sunday morning we were to leave. He was there promptly — at 1 1:30 —and we actually got going by 12:30.

“Neat, Bob. At this rate we’ll be in Barstow by nightfall.”

“Not with a 55 mph speed limit we

won’t.”

“Oh yeah, forgot about that.”

But, once out on the highway, it w;^^ easy to remember. There was a CFn^ black-and-white about every mile down the road; and every last one of the otticers was practicing his penmanship.

Our route was more northerly than we normally would have gone—thanks to the side excursion planned. That’s why the Barstow city limit signs rolled into view. To be frank, we didn’t expect much in Barstow, but we got an unusually good meal at a Denny’s and a foxy waitress to boot. Other than that, all Barstow had that particular day was lots of wind.

We kept looking at the map and trying to measure the mileage from whatever point we were at to Flagstaff; all the while wondering what Arizona patrol cars looked like. Seems as though they are all different; some have bubble gum machines on the roof, some do not, and they come in every color of th^^ rainbow.

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A waitress at one stop warned us: ^Rfhey love to snag people with California plates. If they stop you, they haul you right down to the nearest judge and you pay your fine right then.”

“What if you didn’t do what he said you did and you wanted to fight it. . . what then?” I interjected. Boy did she laugh.

Let it be said that we were very careful in Arizona. And, when it comes time for a vacation, we will look for a state with police who have a nicer attitude. It’s better to spend your money in hotels and restaurants, rather than in some local judge’s office.

The weather became cold as the altitude got high; it was 1 1 above when we arrived in Flag. And the room in the Holiday Inn there was not much warmer. We were tired, it was painfully cold and the hunger pangs were calling, ^fiut there is nothing open at 2 A.M. in ^^'lagstaff, and if there was, it was too cold to go looking. 1 resorted to raiding Holiday Inn’s ice machine and sucked a few cubes. It reminded me of being in a hospital.

“Nurse, I’m hungry.”

“There, there, Mr. Riggs. The doctor says you can’t have anything solid, but why not try some of these nice ice cubes.”

That’s how I felt in Flagstaff. Tired, hungry. . .and sucking on ice cubes to relieve the hunger pangs. In a 45-degree motel room. And we could’ve flown. . . and we could’ve flown.

Driving in New Mexico was beautiful. The speed limit was 70, the scenery spiffy, and Taos lay not that far ahead. We had steak in Albuquerque, drifted through Santa Fe at sunset, and climbed

ëhe mountain to the Taos ski resort ^ter dark.

“Hey, Robert! Is that snow I see falling?”

“Well, we’re not going sideways down the road because I like to drive that way. It’s really gettin’ slippery.” “Glad we brought the chains. Might have to use ‘em. Just feel the windows if you want to feel something cold. Must be zero out there.”

After winding up the mountain for what seemed like an eternity, Bob had the presence of mind to ask if I thought we were on the right road.

“Boy, I hope so. We don’t have that much gas and I’m not walking anywhere out in that weather.”

“I think you took a wrong turn back there Riggo, before you let me drive.” “Naw. . .if anyone took a wrong turn it was you down at the bottom of the ^^hill. Turn on the light so I can read this ^Rrochure on the ski places up here.”

“If I turn on the inside light I can’t > see out the windshield.”

“It’s snowing so hard we can’t see out anyway. Leave it on, okay?”

“Instead of reading ski pamphlets, you should be reading road maps. . .1 think we’re lost.”

“Just keep driving and listen to this. Ummm, here’s one that sounds good. ‘Hotel St. Bernard, a few steps from the number one lift, was picked by Ski magazine as one of the 12 hottest, brightest, suavest for your coast-to-coast apres-ski fling!’ Boy, that’s for us all right!”

“Yeah, if we’re not lost that is. . .you sure we’re on the right road?”

“Relax, will ya? Where else could a road like this be going?”

“I don’t even like to think about it. . .hey. . .what’d that sign say?”

“What sign?”

“Never mind, Riggo. Let’s back up and see if it was a mirage or something. Hey! We’re on the right road afterall. . . only five more miles.”

“I hate to say I told ya so. . .but I told ya so.”

After we got the van stuck in the parking lot near the Sierra Del Sol Lodge, we decided that perhaps it was best if we checked in there. The snow was coming down pretty good, it was near zero and we didn’t know our way around.

“Hope we don’t have to chain up in the morning,” Bob said glumly as he stared blankly at the stuck truck.

“Aw, let’s worry about that later. . . we gotta see what the night life’s like around here.”

Atkinson’s pre-trip predictions proved to be correct. He had mentioned that Taos was not known for its rousing night life: “Either you bring your own or forget it.” Since we hadn’t brought our own, we did just that. We forgot it.

“Hey Bob, was that a St. Bernard or a girl?”

“Your second guess was right, Riggo.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. But maybe the female ski instructors are better.”

“That was a female ski instructor.” “Oh.”

Actually, we were exaggerating a bit. Things weren’t that bad, but Taos is no Sun Valley, either. Bringing your own is the answer.

As for the skiing. . .ah, lovely. But one day just isn’t long enough on those neat slopes, and leaving is a whole lot more difficult than staying. So long Taos. . .here we come Houston.

Back on the road in Texas, we again had to hassle restrictive speeds. But, like everyone else, it was only when we had to. And, on top of everything, Texas uses radar. Boo! :

We managed to truck into Houston H last. And, with the aid of nine maps, "che Astrodome was located. Then the hotel had to be found, the various press passes secured (they were at another hotel), and we had to run down a few people who were expecting us.

Most of the racers had popped into town a day or so ahead of us. John Hateley had to be towed in by another van with some motorcycle tie-down straps. His own van had apparently thrown a rod, or something equally devastating, in the middle of Texas. Tom White and his brother Dan spent hours driving around Phoenix looking for gas; a few others had similar problems. But they all managed to get there, by hook or by crook. Afterall, nobody wants to miss Houston, except maybe Jim Rice.

Traditionally, the Astrodome has ^always been the place where new Experts debut, new equipment gets sorted out, fresh leathers are shown off and riders try brands they may not yet have ridden.

Houston crouches in racers’ minds with sweating anticipation. The hurried fury usually revolves around getting a ride on a new mount for the kickoff event. As late as a week before the National, riders are still hectically involved in machine preparation; some finish the job in the Astrodome’s parking lot before they wheel their mounts down the ramp and into the pits.

Asking several riders how their machines were working, I received a stock answer from many of them. “Don’t know, haven’t run it yet.” Or, “Well, just had time to fire it up back in California; all I know is that it starts!” Factory teams are considerably more íethodical. The bikes and engines are fresh, but details and design are products of years of racing. Perhaps a few items remain untried, but if they don’t work out in practice, it’s no problem to switch back. Spares are usually in abundance.

Walk into the Dome a few days before the events are slated to get underway, and a peculiar emptiness prevails. The air-conditioning system rumbles while custodial people make sure all is tidy. A handful of security guards amble around the perimeter; racers busy themselves by getting their pit areas in order.

Much of that emptiness disappears the moment the first machine is fired up and blasted onto the track. The empty Dome echoes loudly; other riders, hearing the revving engines in the pits, scurry for their leathers. The time has lome. Butterflies build in stomachs; ^awns appear on the most wide-awake (Continued on page 87)

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^hnan beings in Texas. All Winter they have waited. . .and now it’s time.

The track was changed this year; Astrodome management imported Harold Murrell from California to do the prepping. What they wound up with was a surface with nary a ripple, but the cushion of the past was turned into a groove situation. This affected the short trackers more than the TT riders, and it may have ruled out a chance at better racing later in the going, since passing off the groove was just about impossible.

Guessing who will win at the Astrodome is like trying to predict who will run in the presidential elections. But, as hard as it is to come up with an answer, everyone tries just the same. The trick is to casually cruise the pits, listening intently for idle chatter. It’s best to do

Ø~ is just after practice. . .before alifying.

By this time you should have the fastest rider pegged; then you watch qualifying. This is generally when you see the rider you picked wind up as an alternate. . .or not make the program at all. Back to the pits for more listening. MM Then you discover that the reason ^R-and-so didn’t make it was because the cotter pin on his framus fell out and he was so worried about it that he forgot to wave off his run. And Charlie Watson said, “NO, one chance is all you get. . . and don’t ask me again!”

So you listen some more and you snoop around and you give up. What’s the use? Guessing the winner is impossible. . .unless this year you happened to have picked Dave Hansen and Mike Gerald.

Hansen, a Northern Californian, is basically what one would term a privateer; his TT Triumph is partially sponsored by Champion frames. And, for a few selected, specific short track races this year, Hansen has a factory-backed 350 Honda thumper, again equipped with a Champion frame.

Hansen has always been a big threat ^Mi indoor racing; TTs seem to work well ^Tor him also. And, it was obvious from the first minute he rode his Triumph (Continued on page 88) Continued from page 87 out under the Dome’s giant roof, that he was out to do some pretty fierce riding. Hansen simply swept qualifying, his heat race, and yes, Virginia, even the main event. Was he happy? Oh brother, was he! But, towards the last laps he began to tire, and a fast-closing Ken Roberts had the 30,000 fans thinking that a position change was shortly in order. But Ken’s charge was too late, and factory Triumph rider Mike Kidd filed in for 3rd.

Back in the remaining field of the National were some talent-laden riders. Rick Hocking on a Yamaha, and John Gennai on a Harley are two quick first-year Experts who finished 5th and 11th, respectively. Gary Scott, in his first ride in black-and-orange leathers for the H-D team, captured 4th after a few hair-raising landings off the jump. Eddie Mulder rode an eight-year-old machine with a stock Triumph frame to 7th. Tom White, who works as a Yamaha mechanic when he’s not racing, spilled his Triumph and wound up 13th after looking like he was about to do quite a bit better.

And, one of the nicest sights was Mark Breisford, back and running strong in the main for the first time since his bad crash last season.

The jumpers were all through; now it was time for a little partying, some rest and a few thoughts about short tracking.

What can be said about Expert short track prowess when many of the Juniors in town for an invitational race are clocking nearly half-a-second faster around the grooved Dome oval? And then, one of these same Juniors, Guy McClure, sets an absolute short track record for the Astrodome of 14.91 sec. on a stock-framed Bultaco Astro. What can you say then?

And what do you say when Honda’s superbly-prepared new four-stroke 350 Singles turn in dismal qualifying times; and when one of their riders, Rick Hocking, who is one of the finest short track riders in the country, doesn’t even make the program? And are there words enough to tell how these same Hondas pull a 1-2 sweep in the main event, and how the remaining one wins the Trophy final? How does one explain these things?

Perhaps the only way is to explain that it happened in the Astrodome. People who have been there will know that this is where the most improbable, the most unlikely things happen.

Hansen, by virtue of his 2nd place finish on the Honda in the short track, came as close as any have come to completing a sweep of the two-day program; but he still didn’t do it. ^

Mike Gerald, whose army of followers from Louisiana wouldn’t have accepted anything but first place, simply gave them what they wanted for 20

entire laps. . .1st place.

I And 3rd was grabbed by likable second-year Expert, Tom Horton, who rode a Shell Thuett-prepared Yamaha.

For many, the oval racing was exciting because of the Honda/Gerald/Louisiana victory. But, for equally as many, it was disappointing, because the track condition only permitted single-file racing, and very little passing was possible.

Also disappointing, but not surprising, was the AMA’s choice of a few particular individuals as track officials.

An AMA district starter, Phil Dyson, made several clumsy attempts to get Junior racing underway. It was obvious that, aside from a fancy watch for timekeeping purposes, he had few qualifications for the job. Though it was amusing to watch him get cues from the more-experienced Duke Pennell, it was miserable to watch the Juniors wait while their clutches went up in smoke.

I Another ringer came in the form of a Dick Courtney, whose purpose for being in the infield we have yet to discover. He succeeded in hassling much of the infield press, for no given or apparent reason, until most were fuming; including the AMA’s Rusty Rae. All the while, of course, unauthorized individuals roamed with abandon. Great work, Courtney.

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Usually, after the TT and Short Track Nationals have been run, it’s time to pack up and head for home. But not this year.

Instead, World Class speedway racing was brought into the Dome and to American fans by none other than World Champs Barry Briggs and Ivan Mauger.

Even though timing for the event (noon on a Sunday) wasn’t appropriate, and very little advance publicity was done, nearly 10,000 fans turned out to see some really good scratching. Thanks to announcer Larry Huffman, the delays and problems incurred were not noticed by the fans. He kept things moving right along.

The presence of a dozen of the best > (Continued on page 92) speedway racers around did not go unappreciated by the layman crowd. Next year the program should have quite a following.

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It takes some time to unwind froiü^r the Houston spectacle. After being “up” > for three solid days, people do not simply walk away and forget. No sir. The Astrodome happenings will be discussed, argued and spilled out over many months to come.

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For Bob and myself, it’s exactly the same. We talked about it the entire way back to California, satisfied that we had gotten what we had come for. . .some

good racing. . .and lots of America. We’d sure as hell do it again, right Bob? Whadaya mean. . .“Only in an airplane!”? |§

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