Mad Max & the Valley of Death
Mad Max & the Valley of Death
UP FRONT
David Edwards
IT WAS THE BEST KIND OF WAKE-UP CALL. My Indian bob-job special, part of the Guggenheim Museum’s “Art of the Motorcycle” collection, had been resting quietly in Bilbao, Spain, as something like a million show-goers filed past. With several months of downtime before the show’s next opening at the new Guggenheim facility in Las Vegas, the Sport Scout had been crated up and shipped home.
Just in time for Max Bubeck’s annual October ride in Death Valley.
Bubeck has hosted the informal three-day event for 14 years, based out of Furnace Creek Ranch in the heart of the Mojave Desert’s most famous park. About 50 bikes took part in this year’s rally, pre-1964 per Max’s rules, mostly Harleys and Indians with a few Britbikes thrown in for spice. Concours queens need not apply-Bubeck includes several dirt sections on each day’s ride to keep the hand-wringing mamby-pams at bay. Typical of the Death Valley bikes was “Red Fred’s” ancient Chief complete with tartanmotif fender accents and an Indianhead running light sporting sunglasses and a little goatee. Very cool.
Mr. Bubeck himself is quite the piece of work. Now 83 years old, he’s been riding in the Mojave Desert since the 1930s, mostly on Indians. You’re familiar with Indian Fours, the 550pound highway cruisers that go for about $50,000 these days? In 1947, Max rode one to victory in the grueling Greenhorn Enduro, admittedly with some of the street stuff stripped off and a Vard telescopic fork replacing the stock girder arrangement. That 1939 model, bought new by Bubeck, is still in his possession some 175,000 miles later. It’s the bike he rode on this year’s run, 12-year-old grandson Erik pulling pillion duty.
“I love it in the dirt,” says Max, and seeing the old guy expertly wheeling the thing through sand, gravel and rocks was a joy. There’s a certain smoothness to Bubeck’s riding, an economy of input, a confidence and sureness that comes from almost seven decades behind the handlebars. I hope I’m riding as well in my 80s. Hell, I’ll be happy if I can still swing a kickstarter.
You may know Max from his exploits on SoCal’s dry lakebeds. Back in ’48, he and partner Frank Chase persuaded an 80-cubic-inch Chief motor into a 101 Scout frame. Running twin carbs and a four-lobe cam setup fettled by tuner Pop Shunk, the resultant “Chout” sped across Rosamond Dry Lake at 135.58 mph, a record for unstreamlined Indians that stands today, 52 years later.
It was Bubeck’s prowess in the dirt (as late as age 55, he held the Number One Trailbike plate in District 37 desert racing) that irrevocably linked him to Death Valley. Starting in the mid-’50s, there was a big AMA road rally in the park attracting hundreds of riders. The organizers asked Max to lay out an accompanying off-road ride, which became the long-running Jackass Enduro.
After retiring in 1981, Bubeck had time on his hands, which he filled with restoration projects (including his old Four, which had been parked since ’53 in favor of a lighter Indian verticalTwin and then Hodaka trailbikes) and cross-country runs. To date, Max has done three coast-to-coasters on Indians, the oldest being a 1914 threespeed V-Twin! By the mid-’80s, both the Death Valley road rally and enduro were no more, so Max figured a revival of sorts was in order. All of seven people showed up for the first running in 1986, but it’s grown steadily since.
Dale Walksler, proprietor of Mt. Vernon, Illinois’ Wheels Through Time Museum, has been coming on Bubeck’s ride for eight years now-in fact, he
likes the wide-open Mojave so much he arrives a few days early with friends and pre-runs the place for about 1500 miles. This year, Walksler’s ride was a nicely bobbed 1937 UL Harley, armed with 80 inches of Flathead power, a heavy-duty military-bike fork and a transmission raised an inch-and-half for better ground clearance. Basically, an old-style TT bike.
“You don’t bring a slow motorcycle to Death Valley,” Dale says.
Gus Karnes, restoration ace at the museum, drove that point home on a twisting dirt section. I’d let the leading group of dust-raisers get a respectful distance ahead so as to not overwhelm my Indian’s few square inches of Brillo Pad air-cleaner, when Gus comes powersliding around me on the outside, bars at full lock, toe stylishly dragging behind just like Jay Springsteen. Well, if Springer raced in farmer’s overalls and a black half-helmet, and rode an old Knucklehead Hog with some sorta strange, homebrewed four-shock swingarm, that is.
Then there was the 13-mile run up to Dante’s View, at 5500 feet the highest point in the park. Almost too late I realized this was a full-bore, elbows-out, draft-and-pass blitz to the top of the hill. My stroker Scout managed to reel in everything except a particularly well-ridden Chief, I’m not ashamed to say. Following a politically incorrect session of driving golf balls off the ridgetop, we lined up for the yearly engine-off race from Dante’s. Participants ante up $5 each, the pot going to the rider who coasts the farthest. Twentysix miles later (!), it was Dee Cameron aboard his trusty Velocette who won the $65. Despite my best efforts at reducing frontal area (hey, you try staying tucked-in for 40 minutes), I came up about 50 yards short. Next year, I’m lubin’ the chain like there’s no tomorrow and airing up the tires to 60 psi.
Speaking of next year, the “Art of the Motorcycle” inaugurates the Guggenheim Las Vegas in June of 2001 and runs through November. Housed at the Venetian Hotel in a new 64,000-square-foot exhibition hall, it should be spectacular. Look for my bobber among the 120 bikes on display-though I may have to pull it from the lineup for a certain three days in October...
