Well, I suppose it had to happen. An unexpected turn of events presaged the annual grudgefest known as the True Grits Fun Run in beautiful downtown Suches GA last Oct 31st. We were preparing like mad, the shop was a beehive of activity and various iron like the Hodgson Malaguti, Butler Racing TZR (don’t laugh too much, John won about 5 WERA mini championships with the thing), a special one-off Vespa P50, and legions of trick YSR50’s and NS50’s and even an NPS50 were torn apart, put back together, tuned, torn apart again and put back together correctly this time, and lots of boasting and mean-spirited texting occurred with the younger crowd. Some were sent off to specialists with crates of money (oh yeah you know who you are!) Some were fettled carefully in clean rooms by tuners powered by bacon, custom trick carbs caressed into place with promises of BIG (well, relatively) horses. Some were rescued from anonymity, their hiding places in OEM warehouses no longer sufficient camoflage against the incessant search of the hopeful for the Perfect Pit Scooter. Some were less-than-Ruckusey in their turn-the-other-cheek-I’m-too-good-for-your-tomfoolery aka my parts to get the Ruckus running again haven’t arrived yet. Some had teeth gnashed over. Some were causes of concern.

I went home and drank a beer, moved the piles of bikes, parts, and boxes for an hour to get the Secret Weapon (not that one, the other, legal one) out of its 24 month hole and on the bench. I felt a little silly putting a 50cc motorcycle (as in, actually 50cc not a cheater bike) on the bench, but I was anticipating a late night after so much neglect! I kicked the lever through three or four times to make sure it moved and then looked at it for awhile. Jim watched with curiosity. I said, “You know, if I was smart, I drained the gas out of the carb when I put it up two years ago.” I peered at the clear plastic fuel filter. It was absolutely clean and, more importantly, dry. Smelled the gas in the tank, could be worse. Turned the choke on, turned the gas tap on, and kicked it over. Ang nanga nananan  nagga anag a aaa an nang nang. Victory just got one step closer! Icalled the Ruckus owner and held the cel phone in the general direction of the pipe. Didn’t say anything, just held it there and warmed the engine. Finally put the phone to my ear and he said, “Awesome. I’m going to dream about that noise all night.” I fixed the frozen front caliper and debated putting air in the tires. That could wait til the next day, we were approximately 48 hours ahead of schedule! Various texts were sent promising the destruction of all my co-racers dreams and crushing of their hopes. Most, wisely, declined to respond.

Raceday dawned and we started loading up on the much-vaunted orange crush trailer. It was a hoot seeing a 19 foot trailer with two scooters and a fitty on it behind B-Rad’s BigAss diesel. Phone calls were made asking if we were still doing it, despite the pouring rain. I affirmed, noting that we were heading northwest currently. Directions were given and ignored, and then corrections were given and ignored, and then complained about despite the vehicle operator growing up less than 25 miles from the transport hub. We were now getting into the spirit of things!

Pulling into the nerve center of the whole expedition, Two Wheels Only Motorcycle Resort in Suches GA (stop by if you’re ever in the area, good place to hang out and do bikes!) we eased onto the shoulder. “Hey, that’s a No Parking Sign” B-Rad worries. “Ah, don’t worry about it, the truck is in front of the sign. Can’t give you a ticket for parking just the trailer behind it” I say, intent on getting into race-prep  rally-on-minature-bikes mode. “But, it’s still attached to the truck” he says with a doubtful look. “There’s Elmer the Baconista and Webmaster Rusty. Come on” I say and welcomed old friends. The rookies were introduced, and I announced I had already won grudge matches as, surprise, four of the loudest squeaky wheels had failed to show. I’m sure the incesssant, late fall rain had no effect on the no-showers. I attributed their nonappearance to the massive intimidation campaign I had waged. First step in battle is good preparation. I’m kind of glad Paula talked me out of the the air-dropped leaflets, though. That would have escalated the expense to unacceptable levels. Tying the anonymous derogatory note to the dog’s collar of the one opponent was a stroke of brilliance though, if I say so myself. No TZR, no Ruckus, no Parts Unlimited Hodgson Malaguti. They were cowering in claims of parts unavailability, bogus brake BS, and inadequate interest. The sweetest was the scooter no-show after a lot of talk. I thought about painting scooters and minis with X’s through them on the tank of the Secret Weapon to promote the vista of invincibility, but the rain dissuaded me. Otherwise, it was a pantheon of punishment.

Soon enough, it was time to race  rally. Instructions were given, last minute tweaks were made to engines and suspension, weather checked on cel phones-surprise, no coverage. The wisest of us checked when crossing the last county line! I put air in the tires. Topped off the oil too, which gave me a moment’s pause since I slopped a bit and it ended up running out the overflow and putting rainbow spots on the wet pavement-so much for my greentitude. Luckily I figured it out and kept it to myself. Eyebrows were raised when I told the onlookers it was nothing to worry about. Ledfoot has dountfully discarded his MX boots on my claim that “For God’s sake, those things weight ten pounds! That’s Horsepower baby!” He retains the rainsuit though, and receives doubtful looks from other racers road rallyists.

Strangely, we were on the second row, preceded only by the jet black Yamaha of a south of I20 type (peotic license Ron . Usually we start near the back and pass everyone. He motored off in the staged, Isle of Man style start. And we were off! We made it at least 40 feet before two of our cadre pulled to the side of the road with quizzical looks on their helmets. I looked over Rusty, and yelled something indecipherable at him, and he yelled back equally indecipherably. We opened the throttles and hauled ass gently accelerated up the hill. Arcing through the tiny town of Suches we drew on into the twisties and saw almost no one on the road. Race Director  Rallymeister Ben had cautioned us in the rider’s meeting about the debris on the road due to the weather, and he wasn’t kidding. We had about a two inch clear-ish strip and the rest was all slippery stuff. Luckily, my tires on the Secret Weapon are about an inch and a half wide, so I had a pretty good choice of lines to take in the corners. A few miles up, the road widened and we began to experience the full thrust of our magnificent machines. Literally. I found my mount had lost a good 3 or 4 mph, while Webmaster Rusty with his cheatin’ calamari YSR! had not only made it further than he usually manages, but easily pulled me on any straight, hill, downhill, or whatever. I did pull one stuff on him in a right-hander and didn’t see anything except the back of his leathers for the rest of the run up the mountain. Hmmm. Time to revaluate. But we passed the inky black racer of the Floridian (Hey Ron) going into a particularly hair-raising banked left-hander. Funny, it looked like he was sitting straight up in the seat, not tucking in at all. Must’ve been the rain on my faceshield refracting the image. Out of the way Nissan! We were in the lead exceeding the calculated rally speed!

Of course, our route sheets and timesheets were immediately soaked into uselessness by the rain, which then mercifully slackened by the time were started back for the home stretch. He’s getting pretty far away, I wonder when it’ll break. He hasn’t finished in years. Nothing that fast and legal could sustain such a pace! (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.) Ah, ok, slowing and pulling over. Turns out his pipe has fallen off. He crawls under the bike in a pale imitation of Al Ludington (except Rusty would never talk like that), and proceeds to fumble with the exhaust pipe and gasket. “Happens all the time,” he says. B-Rad looks doubtful, again. I help him straighten it out and thread the pipe on, including the gasket this time. I’m getting nervous, and we can hear other bikes coming up the hill. B-Rad comes out of the woods with a log, “Hold on, I’ll get this” he says with a confident look on his face. Two more bikes go by. I’m beginning to sweat. Team unity is one thing, but the awesome horsepower of his cheaterbike has begun unraveling me. I wonder if I’ll be able to catch the others now steaming by with frightening regularity. I had counted on the thing not being able to make the distance, no worries there-that happened no problem. But what if, this year, he actually fixes it? And what are you doing helping him, stupid? “Uh, I’m gonna take off, ok?” I stammer as I ease back to the saddle. “Huh? yeah whatever, go ahead” he says from between the front wheel and the fairing as B-rad pounds on the bike with the log.

Ha-ha! Off we go. Slowly. I swear the Secret Weapon is slower up the hill than it was prior. Can’t be too bad as I reel the raven YSR of the Costa Rican (Hey Ron!) in and pass him easily in a flurry of two-stroke rattle. Thank god I think it’ll make it!  Just like Schwantz passing Doohan with a lap to go! Wait, what the hell? There’s a blue cheaterbike and another-there they go! Make that 5 or 6 mph dofference now. Time to grit teeth and get down to it. Pass those next two cheater dirt bikes-almost looked like those guys were just tooling along, I swear they were talking to each other. I guess it was just the dim lighting under the trees through the twisty bit. I remember this part, arc left, then right and bend it in gently on the wet pavement-holy shite! Grab the front brake! I know it’s hear somewhere but I haven’t used it in so long it might, no, there it is. Down three gears to regain powerband, shake my head and remember no, that’s where Elmer the Baconator crashed two years ago. Commit that to memory (again) for next year, arc left, then right, then hard effing left, NOT bend it in gently. Anybody see it? No, thank god. Last checkpoint, still haven’t seen Rusty’s bike on the side of the road. Maybe he pushed it out of sight, that would be a masterful psychological stroke! Pass the guy on the Aprilia, no worries. Almost looked like he had his hand in his pocket, must’ve been down on the opposite fork tube, Mile-style. Wait, is that a naked woman crouching down behind that white Cadillac on the side of the road? No, it’s two women, but only one is naked. Rusty must’ve hired them to sidetrack me and give him time to repair his cheaterbike. Hah! Little did he know a nekkid woman and a helper chick ain’t enough, baby. Gonna take two nudies at least to make me get off the thottle!

Finally pull in to Race Headquarters  the lodge at TWO, and dismount in disbelief. I’m third. The blue YSR and the cheater P200E are tinkling softlyas the rain, which has started again, hits their red hot pipes. Dismay falls over me like Pedrosa at Indy as I realize that I will have to protest Rusty and his cheaterbike in order to maintain my streak of success. Mull that over and look for an ATM machine. Ben looks at me funny when I hand him my soaked timesheet. None of the checkpoints scribbling is still there except the first and the last. Remembering that I had asked him if he wanted us to put them in plastic, and the stupid look he gave me then, he gives me another one now, and mutters something. I drink hot chocolate and try to join in the glorious conversation of the circle. “You know Rusty, you could probably go a tooth smaller on the countershaft” B-Rad is saying. Hands out in a defensive posture, Rusty replies “I don’t know what that means!” I spit my hot chocolate on my lap, and explain to B-Rad that Rusty is a WERA champion, yes, but that he is non-technical. Elmer has now arrived, after making a slow start, and offers affirmation.

We load up, the other racers road rallyists finally having arrived. the awards ceremony is subdued, all chance of glory having passed as I was looking for loose change in my gearbox for the protest fee and ran out of time. Ben announces something about the $5000 race contingency charitable donation to the Union County Volunteer Fire Dept, and my name is announced well down the order in the trophy presentation. Wait, what’s this? The fella handing out the plaques hands a 1st place! Did someone file the protest for me? And why aren’t they tearing the Cheaterbike down? Do they have of those things to measure the bore through the spark plug hole? They must, how else is this possible? Plaque-guy gives me a knowing look. All faith restored, we get in the truck sans Ledfoot who is riding home with his fan club. Truck gunned, then stopped, after a slight but perceptable tangent motion. We’re now dangerously close to that No Parking sign, which has become the demarcation between the truck and trailer-a good 6 inches inboard of the trailer’s outside edge. Brad, southern gentlemand that he is looks at the 6 feet of squished mud and refrains from mentioning that he didn’t want to park there so I help him unhitch the trailer and guide him back at an angle so we can keep the truck on pavement. That was close.

As we get in cel range the phone starts beeping with calls from Vegas, facebook postings, and other announcements of victory, regret, counterclaims, and trophy waving. A pretty girl half my age promises me champagne on my return. 

Next year’s race Fun Run is the last Saturday in October. Mark your calendar!

 

 

 

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