The Cheaters And the Sponsorship
The Cheaters and the Sponsorship
Michael J. Phillips
THERE WERE, once upon a sunny central California weekend, two motocrossing buddies who chanced upon an exceptional opportunity.
They were Clayton Martin and Ruben Tasco by names, and usually in that order. Clay was quick into everything by his nature...including falling flat on his face at times. And Ruben was happy to follow in the wake of his friend’s impetuous lead, helping him up when necessary. A strong and loyal friendship bound the two, as it had for years and, strangely enough, as it would for many more.
“You know,” Ruben said to Clayton, who was driving the truck, “I have chanced upon an exceptional opportunity.”
Early Sunday morning they drove toward the familiar motocross track to race, still 15 miles away, near Santa Maria. The seat in the littered cab of the old pickup was draped with an outused blanket, tucked firmly at points and pulled loose at others, revealing cotton and springs and the remains of the original covering. Paper wrappings that had never made it out a window patched the floor as they were kicked. Leaning forward against the steering wheel, Clay curiously rubbed a small blurred spot of something on the windshield, which turned out to be sticky. It would not come off, but spread with his efforts. He sat back, carefully wiped his fingers on the seam of his Levi’s, and told himself that it wasn’t really in his way anyhow, accelerating the truck slightly.
“Now what is that supposed to mean?” he asked, still cleaning his fingers absently.
“It pays to increase your word power. . .didn’t you know that? And besides, I have.”
“Have what?”
“Chanced upon an exceptional opportunity,” Ruben said.
“Oh. . .well what?”
“You know the Kawasaki dealer in town, don’t you?” Ruben began, reaching into the open glove box before him and producing out of the confusion a small, dilapidated box of candy.” Harvey or Henry or something Anderson?. . .here, want one?”
“Yeah, thanks,” Clay answered, accepting a piece of candy. “I know him. And it’s Henry, I think, but he likes to be called Mister Anderson, from what I can tell.”
“Yeah, well he’s gonna be sponsoring a rider pretty soon, and. . . .”
“I know that. Everybody knows that. Kawasaki gave him one of their factory bikes, and he’s supposed to sponsor a top rider in this district. And I’m his man, too,” Clay said optimistically.
Ruben popped one of the red chews into his mouth. “Yuh. . .,” he said, “bu wn. . .thing. . .ev’rybdy dznt. . . know. . . .”
“What? I can’t understand you.”
He gulped the sweet glob down and tried again. “I said,” he swallowed heavily once more, “one thing that everybody doesn’t know. Anderson is going to be down there at the track, our track, today, and probably make his list. He____”
“How do you know this?” Clay demanded.
“You know that skinny sort of guy that works the counter at the Kawasaki shop? Well he told me yesterday when I went in to get those plugs. Owes me a couple of favors. But it’s all on the sly though. . .nobody is supposed to know.” Ruben lowered his voice consciously as he spoke.
“Do you mean to say that Anderson is going to be at the track, today, and pick the guy that he’s going to sponsor?”
“No. But you can bet that he’s going to have some kind of idea as to who the best riders are around here before he leaves. He doesn’t go to the races often.”
Both knew well the wondrous implications of a sponsorship. A sponsored ride meant, at least, no more financial hassles, and potentially a shot at the big-time.
“So the guy that puts on the show today is going to be the guy that Anderson looks at. . . .” Clay said, grinning widely.
“You got it.”
“. . .And maybe the same guy who gets the first shot at that sponsorship!”
“Yeah,” Ruben agreed, dreaming.
“Yeah,” Clay repeated.
One half of the crystal blue sky above the thin highway was still night; the other hinted of the morning yet behind the rolling mountains and of the bright day to come. They drove on, mud-grip tires whirring against the asphalt.
Mr. Harold Anderson was a business man (not businessman), and he thought of himself in just that way; a man of business, the words apart. Mr. Anderson knew more about selling motorcycles than he did of their art, and it showed. Even though the Kawasaki shop was a thriving franchise and purely motorcycle, he was out of his element at the motocross track, and he didn’t notice when an old pickup truck, laden with the usual MX stuff and riding high on sadly abused mud-grip tires, pulled through the gate and into the pits behind him. Not so much because he was out of his element (a hefty pot-gut evidenced this), but more because he was busy with something else, more important.
The pit area was filled with roaring dirt bikes and laughing, enjoying people. Pretty girls and shiny machines and the rapping sounds of two-stroke racers, cracking the cool morning after dawn. Beside the refreshment stand and away, in a sense, from the breakfast rush for coffee and donuts, Mr. Anderson was interested in a typed sheet of paper stapled at eye-level to the doubtful plywood wall of that structure. Across its top in capital letters was the heading “POINT STANDINGS DIST. 33,” and below that ran two columns of names and corresponding numbers. He puzzled over the page a moment, then drew a notebook and pencil from his shirt pocket and began writing down some of the first names that were at the top of the list, with the highest corresponding numbers. Clayton Martin and Ruben Tasco were two, out of seven, of the names on his list of possibilities to watch that day.
He looked again at his notebook and then to the long list on the wall and turned to walk off into the bustling confusion of the motocross track. Ruben, it seemed, had been rightly informed.
In the time it had taken the two friends to find a pit space, park, and unload, the sun had inched into full glory over the mountains. And after a little while, including time enough for coffee and donuts, the track was officially opened for practice.
Ruben’s Maico fired on the third and started on the fifth kick, and he rode off toward the track entrance to practice, followed shortly by Clayton.
Dust and soil flew, and the noise of many MX machines was increased by that of two more. Some raced, some practiced, and others rode as it pleased them for showing off or fun. Each type cursed the others. They rode by and around again, trying the eardrums of the few spectators scattered about the coarse terrain. Sliding, falling, jumping, braking and screaming down the back straight, they practiced.
Ruben completed three easy laps and then exited gracefully back to the pickup. There he parked the bike and took off his riding gear, happy with a good ride. There was nothing quite like three laps of motocross first thing on a cold morning, at least as far as he was concerned, to hype one thoroughly. He noticed now, however, that things were warming up, and he pulled a full jug of Gatorade from a cooler resting between tools and spare parts in the bed of the truck, and took a deep, refreshing swig. “Ah, nothing like it!” he said to himself, looking forward to the day.
Clayton pushed his bike up beside Ruben and leaned it against the truck with an ominous clank, rocking the whole pickup. “Give me some of that.” he said.
“Here.” Ruben shoved the bottle at him, “Why are you pushing?”
“Hard machine to ride without no rear wheel.”
“What?” Ruben looked down at the back of the motorcycle. The wheel there was noticeably bent, and many of the spokes were twisted or broken. A real mess, Ruben decided, and by no means fixable before the races.
“And I wasn’t pushing. It was more what you might call dragging, sort of.” Clay dropped his helmet into the back of the truck with a loud, unfriendly noise.
“Well what happened?”
“I fell down, and that jack-ass Marty ran over the tail end of my bike, that’s what happened. Him and a few other idiots.” Clay had become angry, dropping his guise of nonchalance.
“Marty Webster? Does he know he did it?”
“I’d bet money he does. He may not have known that it was my bike he ran over, but he sure as hell knew he was running over somebody’s pride ’n joy. And so did all those others.”
“Damn,” Ruben said, appropriately.
“Hey!” Marty Webster, another of the track’s weekly patrons, had strolled idly to within hailing distance of Clay’s truck. Marty was, in fact, careless and irresponsible, and had all the intricate makings of an absolute nobody. With him, more or less, were three others, basically from the same mold. They were casual friends forced upon each other somewhat by mutual success at the small track.
“Hey!” Marty called, walking over. He knelt beside the bent machine. “Wow man,” he said with feigned innocence, “What happened?”
“Don’t give me any of that crap, Marty. You know damn well what happened,” Clay snapped.
Ruben could see trouble coming, and knowing his friend. . .and Marty. . .he wanted to stop it. Or at least slow it down.
“Looks like you busted up his wheel pretty bad,” he said, suddenly feeling as if he hadn’t accomplished much.
“Oh, well. . .yeah. Yeah, I guess I did,” Marty confessed, turning to glance at his friends for support. “Gosh Clay, you know I’m really sorry about that. But I couldn’t really see that good out there and the sun was right in my eyes, you know? Well, I guess that’s just motocross for ya. Heck, it’s not any real important race or anything today anyway.”
Clayton fired a knowing glance at Ruben, who avoided it by quickly taking another drink of the Gatorade. Clay was waiting. . .hoping. . .for Marty to provoke him enough and then for the satisfaction of landing a few good ones before Ruben broke it up, as he always did. He stood closer to Marty, revealing a basic equality in their sizes.
“The hell if that’s motocross for you!” he started loudly. “Motocross is having enough sense to damn well know when to race and when not to. Who did you think you were out there? You knew what you were doing, and where you were leading those idiots. And you should have known that they would follow, too, and you probably did. Was it so important for you to stay in front of those dopes that you thought I wouldn’t mind if you used my bike for traction?
“You just couldn’t wait for the real race, could you? Had to get it all out at practice. Couldn’t have slowed down or gone around. . .hell no! Bunch of damned. . .”
A pit racer roared by the truck, letting Clay’s words drift momentarily into probability. He took advantage of the moment to let things settle for a clincher.
“You’re a damn jack-ass Marty, and so are those screw-ups,” he said, motioning towards the befuddled others backing Marty. “A damn, dumb jackass.”
Ruben realized that his friend was no longer angry with and offending just one careless and irresponsible idiot (which were his sentiments towards Marty), but four of them. And with that in mind he also realized, of course, that he would be idiotically compelled to save Clayton’s life once those four became that insulted, which would be soon.
“Here,” he said, handing Marty the jug, “have some Gatorade.”
Marty Webster took it hastily and set it in the back of the truck.
“Look buddy,” he said to Clay, “don’t go getting on my case just because you fell down and broke your bike. If you can’t keep your feet out there, then maybe you had better take up ping-pong or something.”
“It may have been me that fell down, but it was you. . .and them. . .who broke my bike. And you know it.”
Other voices entered into the dialogue. “Aw, c’mon Marty, what difference does it make? He’s just talking. Let’s go. He can’t do anything about it anyway.”
“Yeah, c’mon Marty.”
“Let’s go.”
“You just see if I can’t.” Clay said definitively.
“The hell with you,” Marty shot, parting.
Clayton sat heavily on the truck’s tailgate and began unlacing his motocross boots slowly. Ruben put the lid on the half empty jar of Gatorade, and placed it back in the cooler, between the tools and spare parts. The sun was well up now, and cold drink later would be good. All around them the motocross track raced busily about it’s business, and somewhere out there, Mr. Anderson lurked fatly with his selective list and unmade-up mind. Ruben knew that his pal’s chances at impressing Anderson for the sponsorship were gone. But somehow, he felt sure that whatever chances Marty Webster—and the others—might have had, they were going to be something less than what they might have otherwise been.
And that left only himself to dominate the Open class.
On the line, waiting for the end of the race already running and then for the starter, Ruben was heartily attacking his throttle cable, which refused to stay perpendicular to the handlebars. He had, by way of arriving early (not difficult, as Clay had left the track with the truck “for a while” and Ruben had little better to do), gotten a good starting position on the line. Some 15 quiet, shiny machines would be lined up there, and some 15 Expert class riders.
Looking down the line, he could see Marty and friends waiting also. He was as fast or faster than a lot of them, and the rest would be mostly luck anyway. Except for Marty. Marty Webster was, admittedly, a fast person to deal with on a motocross course, and if Ruben were to outdo him today, it wouldn’t be luck at all. Ruben also knew who would be watching, and why.
He was doing battle with the rebellious cable again, when Clayton walked up beside him.
“Hey, buddy!” Clay called out, striding toward him across the soft, riverbed sand.
“Hey! Say, where did you go, anyhow?” Ruben answered, wary of his friend’s mood.
“Oh, just into town for a minute. Ready for the race?”
“Sure. Bike’s running fine. You know, you might still try for that sponsorship, once you get your scooter fixed. Heck, all you have to do is go see Anderson and. . . .”
“Yeah, I know. But listen. There’s one thing about the race. . .you know that mudhole by that oak tree with all those bushes?”
“Yeah, if you want to call it that. It’s not too much of a mudhole.”
“Well listen. There’s something about that section of track that I can’t figure. A lot of guys have been crashing there, and maybe you’d better go sorta slow around it until you see what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that it’s a tricky spot, that’s all.”
“It’s no trickier than it’s ever been. It’s not hardly what you would call a regulation mudhole anyway. More like a puddle. And I didn’t notice anything about it at practice. Nobody hardly ever crashes there,” Ruben replied, oddly aware of a faint twist in his friend’s voice. Probably just disappointment, he thought.
“Look,” Clay said, “who’s the best rider between me and you? Who’s the guy with all the trophies, huh?”
“Me.”
“Yeah, well I’ve got as many as you and I’m more experienced than you and I say go slow around that mudhole. Just take my word for it, would you?”
“All right, sure. If you really think so. But I sure don’t see. . . .”
“I really think so. Take it real easy right there for a couple of laps. I’ll see you after the race back at the truck. Good luck,” Clay said hurriedly, and started back towards the pit area.
And before Ruben could say doggone-did-I-e ver-tigh ten-tha t-swingarm-bolt? twice, the flag dropped and the gate became a bump and they were off!
Hurtling into the first turn, wrestling with 200-plus pounds of powering motorcycle, and crowding and sliding and almost falling beneath wildly grappling knobbies digging hard into the earthy soil and lurching. . .through the first corner and into the straight. Every one of them pushing for the lead, and only one getting in. Ruben fell into 6th place, pushing for 5th.
The wailing, tin-can-full-of-mad-bees pack began to thin. Riders settled into their momentary places to pass or to be passed. Around the twisting course they went, switching back and pressing huge berms, flying the jumps and crashing hard across the drop-offs, sliding and shifting and screaming the guts out of all the tremendous engines could give.
“Excuse me, Miss,” Mr. Anderson said loudly over the roar of the spectacular machines.
“Yes?”
“Uh, who is that in the lead right now?”
“Wait a minute, I’ll check the scoring sheet.” “That’s number 67P. . .uh, Marty Webster.”
“Thank you. Could you do me one other favor?”
A nod.
“Would you please get me the names and numbers for these riders,” he handed her the notebook, “right here that I have written down.”
“Okay. It’ll be a minute.”
Ruben threw all of his weight toward the appropriate part of his bike, losing enough traction for that moment so that he stayed upright. The rear wheel spun freely and uncontrolled, shooting rocks and clumps of dirt far behind him. He yanked the motocrosser into a more correct position, he judged, and powered ahead, pulling back heavily.
He had 5th place now and was working on 4th, which proposed to be a more difficult conquest. More than half a lap gone, as he whipped through the well bermed S-turns nearer the backside of the course, he realized the mentioned mudhole only seconds ahead.
The question was pertinacious in his mind as he rode; what to do with Clay’s warning. Clayton must have had some sort of reason for cautioning him so, Ruben supposed, but it eluded him and he wanted to win. Especially today. However, more time would be lost in a fall than in a little slackening. An ounce of prevention. . .? His speed demanded a reaction.
As he came upon the bush-shrouded puddle, he slowed and downshifted one gear in anticipation, though he didn’t know what of. He lolled by. The mudhole was unchanged; simply a wetted hollow in an otherwise unhindered abbreviation of a straight, leading quickly into a considerable sand sweeper. Nothing happened.
And as soon as it didn’t, the 6thplace rider blasted by him across the muddy side of the track, roaring through the shallow muck. Make that the 5th-place rider.
“Damn it,” Ruben muttered lowly. He punched the throttle hard, raising the front wheel in the air and entering once again into the chase for 5th place.
By the time he came around to the mudhole for the second time, the 6th-place rider was well behind him, and he’d closed some on 4th. The race continued loudly, the big bikes tearing up the track.
Burning into the S-turns again, Ruben had no intention of noticing the mudhole as anything more than a blur as he rode by. He didn’t even think about landing in it.
Shooting into the small straight, a rider two bikes ahead began to falter dangerously, wobbling unsteered for a split second and then laying it down easily through the watery slime, sliding to a stop just outside the mudhole itself. The speeding motorcyclist behind him struggled frantically to adjust his course around the downed bike, but overreacted, slipping through the mud nearly on top of the other machine.
Ruben almost didn’t have time to compensate his line for the sudden pile-up and skimmed past the two closely. He cruised into the large, sandy sweeper turn, and into 2nd place.
“Second place, huh?” Clay said after the race.
“Yup. Not bad, but I might have done better,” Ruben said, though he knew that the winning position, this time, had been far out of his reach. And he might not have gotten 2nd if not for the strange crash. “You know,” he said, “you’re not supposed to bring any kind of alcohol into the pits. . .wine included.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“But give me some of it anyway.”
They sat in the cab of the truck and each had a cupful.
(Continued on page 123)
Continued from page 93
Later that day, at the outcome of Ruben’s second moto, he had again taken 2nd. And, largely, by the same means. Twice during the heat, there would be an unexpected crash near or in the enigmatic mudhole, and somebody would pile up onto the downed rider. Whereupon Ruben, convinced now and cautious, would gain a place. Or two.
Harold Anderson noted the name in the small, green, spiral stenographer’s notebook that he had bought that morning at an all-night drugstore for just this purpose. All very businesslike and to the point: M. Webster 1, 3 and R. Tasco 2, 2. . . .
After that second race, Clayton and Ruben sat easily on a withered haybale, sipping coke and more or less watching the 250 Junior class. By that time of the day everything at the undersized motocross track was sun-withered, and everyone attacked the enjoyment of the sport with less passion.
“All right, Clay,” Ruben said, “what’s going on?”
“What?” Clay replied.
“Now I’ve been watching these races and you tell me; what is it about that mudhole?”
“What is what about the mudhole?” “I dunno. . .but I think you do.” “Who? Me? I haven’t ridden more than three laps today. How the hell could I know anything you don’t?” Clay retorted.
“All I know is that nobody in any of the races that I’ve seen has fallen by the mudhole. Except during my races. I’ve been right behind something like five guys already, three separate times, when all of a sudden they’d fall all over each other.”
“So what? Three crashes in the same place. What does that mean?”
“Not just three crashes in the same place,” Ruben said, “All during the Open Expert class. And each time right in front of me. And how did you know to warn me about it this morning?”
“I told you I was more experienced than you. I can tell about these things.” Ruben drank the last of his coke. “And that,” he said, “is a bunch of bull too.” He crumpled the paper cup and threw it toward a nearby trash can, missing by a large margin.
The public address system blurted on: Has anyone got a pair. . .an extra pair of goggles for lend. That's an extra pair of goggles. For, uh. . .Bill Frederickson, Mart Webster and Greg Stone, and they all need goggles for some reason, so. . .
“Come on.” Clay said quickly, “We had better get back to the truck and get ready for your race.”
(Continued on page 124)
Continued from page 123
“Yeah. An extra pair of goggles, huh? Have you got. . . .”
“No. Did you ever tighten up that swingarm bolt? You’d be having a lot of fun if she decides to come loose while you’re racing. C’mon, we better hurry it up.” Clay started toward the truck.
“Yeah. I. . .1 guess so,” Ruben said.
The third, last, and deciding moto started as the sun was setting. They sped out of the hole with a beginning-of-theend roar of relief. Slower than usual, tiredly, they still burst into the rutted first turn, roostertails sprouting 20 feet behind them.
Ruben, it seemed, was tired also, but still trying. He rode (rather than raced), into a hindered 10th place. Coasting into berms and riding around the rim hardly on the power, where he could be squaring off the corners in a furious obsession with the win, and sliding through, leaping and bounding on a spirited beast breathing fiery fumes and snorting flames to frighten the competition, ready for the next turn. He tried, but it wasn’t there. He found himself almost depending on his incredible fortune. Certainly whatever it was about the mudhole, it wasn’t bad.
The first laps went easily, and he passed a slower rider, by his own skills. And after those first laps, the mudhole began systematically drawing unwary victims into its muck, lap after lap. All of the riders were as tired as Ruben, reflexes were slower, muscles less responsive, longing for the hot shower waiting at home; and they would fall one, two, three at a time, into the mud. It took only one rider down to fell another and another. Ruben, however, was in the know, and soon discovered himself in a startling, unchallenged 2nd place.
In the space of five laps he had gained eight places. The race couldn’t last much longer. He rode easily, ahead only. . .Marty Webster. . .and past him, perhaps, a sponsorship. . . .
He stood up on the pegs, leaning back for traction; he twisted his right hand and tensed himself for what he knew was there. He intended to close the gap on Marty, pass him. He intended to win.
They chased around the sandy, knotted course. A burning new energy pulsed through Ruben and he raced harder, even knowing that this final obstacle was more than he had overcome before. Marty Webster was simply the better rider, stronger and with more endurance.
The two began to race closer, either Ruben closing or Marty dropping back. They passed slower riders in a flash of speed and a blast of rumbling power. Channeling through the S-turns, Marty then Ruben, the former began to feel the latter’s push. They raced at the mysterious mudhole, and in one furious moment, both lost.
As they flung their machines into the short decisive straight before the mudhole, Ruben grabbed both brakes tensely. But not quick enough.
For suddenly, Marty began to waver precariously ahead of him on the delicate edge of two-wheeled uprightness. Vacillating, uncontrolled for an instant, his flying motorcycle buckled violently, and threw Marty directly into the mud, sloshing to a defeated rest beside him.
Ruben maneuvered frantically, but couldn’t stop in time.
Stripped of his jersey and leathers, which were intolerably muddy, Ruben sat in quiet disgust beside Clayton in the littered cab of the truck, finishing the wine. Clay had been sympathetic throughout, pushing the soggied bike back to the truck after the crash and generally staying silent. It was too bad, both agreed, but at least Marty Webster had not won either.
Ruben opened the glove box, asking Clay if there were any of the red candies left as he did so. Out fell four pairs of soiled goggles and a yellow, clear plastic squirt gun, half filled with what appeared to be muddy water.
“What is this?” he asked coldly.
“Nothing. . .,” Clay replied out of desperation. “I mean, it’s just some stuff that I. . .uh, that is. . . .”
Ruben began to piece together the mystery. He stuffed the goggles back into the glove compartment slowly and held the squirt gun in his hand. “A water pistol full of muddy water? A bunch of goggles, and could they be somebody else’s goggles? Might they be stolen goggles? The dregs of a rather shady plot, eh, Watson? Mayhaps even some underhanded attempt at. . .” Ruben paused, “. . .at reuenge? Clayton, I would have thought it beneath you.”
“Well, not quite old buddy,” Clayton said, almost proudly. “But you gotta admit, it worked pretty damn well for awhile there. One healthy squirt right between the eyes and down they’d go, muddy as hell. Heck, they deserved it anyway. What do you think it’s going to cost to fix that wheel of mine? A little bit, you can be sure. If you hadn’t been so close behind Webster that last time, everything would have worked perfect. You’ve gotta admit, it worked pretty well.”
So now Marty Webster, Clayton Martin and Ruben Tasco were back where they had started from, and each had as good (or as bad) a chance as the others for the sponsorship.
“It worked just a little too well, old buddy,” Ruben said. He then raised the gun easily at Clayton’s face, and fired point blank. 0
