The Bullet That Bites Back
The Bullet that Bites Back
by Ron Griewe
The test ride began with a two-man riders' meeting. For Jay and me. He spoke, I listened.
I didn’t take it personally, because even the reigning national champ lives within his budget. That means living in a van with three race bikes as roommates and that means Jay has something of a personal fondness for his mounts. True, the season was over and the machines will be completely rebuilt before they’re ridden again in anger. Even so, Springer was not eager for a stranger, especially one who'd never ridden flattrack before, to wring out his (stress that, his) XR750.
As tested, the XR had the normal 4speed gearbox and was set to run the halfmile in fourth. This engine was tuned for maybe 85 bhp at the rear wheel. It comes on the cam at 5500, Jay said and Hey, don’t put it into the wall.
“I’ll warm it up,” he added. “Give me a push.”
We gave a push and the engine came to life. He took a few laps, getting what seemed more sideways than it does when the onlooker isn’t going to ride the bike, and slid to a stop on target.
I threw a leg over and settled in.
Being a rated expert in the desert for six years hadn’t prepared me one bit.
My first impression was one of wideness. More like straddling a desk than a desert or motocross bike. I took the bars in hand and blipped the throttle while I looked the beast over. Shift lever and brake pedal are on the right side—the shift lever above the brake. Left footpeg . . . oh, there it is, back at least a foot farther than the right one!
I blipped the throttle again and pulled in the clutch. It pulled even harder than the H-D MXer we recently tested.
Fear became known. What if I crash and hurt myself with the Baja 1000 just a month away? Sure would waste a lot of preparation. “Forget it and let the clutch out, dummy,” I thought. I was instantly moving. An awkward shift to second and the first corner is upon me. I’m going too slow and shift to third with a heavy clunk.
The motor comes on the cam and throws the bike sideways instantly on the slippery granite. Wow! I feel like I have never been on a bike before.
I exit the corner and try to shift without using the hard pulling clutch. No dice. It has to be pulled to shift. Well, he said to run it in fourth so maybe I won’t have to shift it again. I twist the throttle on and the rear wheel starts to spin. The power is very deceptive. The motor doesn’t sound like
it’s turning fast but it is on the cam so it must be above 5500 rpm (no tach was used). Turn three is upon me already. Put on the rear brake, squeeze the front brake. Front brake? There isn’t one, of course. Trackers don’t use them. A few years ago they didn’t use rear ones either. Jay’s warning, “don’t put it into the wall” is in my mind about this time. I turn the throttle back on, get it on the pipe and hope.
Instantly the beast is sideways and maybe I’ll live after all. Whew, made it. I try in vain to look like I know what I’m doing and make another lap before the engine misfires and dies.
After coasting into the pits the back-up ignition was hooked up and the bike started up again. If the previous night’s race had been four laps longer, Springsteen would not have finished.
A couple more laps and I start experimenting. I find I have much more control in the corners when in third gear. Yeah, this is fun. Shoot down the straights, brake and downshift into third, and slide a little.
I might even start to feel a little bit comfortable in another 500 laps or so.
What’s this? Jay is waving at me. Wonder what he wanted. Next lap he waves again . . . no, he is showing me four fingers. The message registers. I’m buzzing the motor. I shift to fourth and wobble around a few more laps. A half-mile track looks really big until you crawl aboard a bullet like Springsteen’s. Then the size of the track seems to shrink to about the size of a short track.
This time they are waving me in and the ride is over. Sure was fun, didn’t even fall down. We talk a while, take pictures and Jay hands out No. 1 pins before he leaves. A day to remember.
