West Coast Rain

April 8, 2005

By Pete Mapants

BMG SPORTS 800.661.9632

“This track sucks,” I said to the ref as I watched him build a two-foot-high hump on the inside of an already one lined corner.

I was just trying to help. I had driven seven hours to the track, slept in my van and I hadn’t had any coffee yet since the track was an hour from the nearest 7-Eleven. I don’t care if his kid won every beginner moto last fall and he loves the track. The kid is a trucker hat wearing, pants below the butt, aviator Chips glasses, listening to rap at 7:15 in the morning, no talent, elbow dropping, arched back SPODE! Maybe we would all love the track if we dropped down two gears and stood on the rear brake half the time!

The ref didn’t need to yell at me like he did! He wasn’t the one who built the track so I thought he would listen to my concerns. I did not need any negative vibes thrown my way on the morning of the “Big Race.”

I kept on walking the track until I ran into one of the local Mini Dads. “What do you think of the new track Pete?” he asked. “This track sucks!" I responded in a rather snarky tone. “The jumps are too small, the corners are too tight, it’s one lined, barely groomed and all but one of the straightaways are too short—and that one is too long,” I explained.

He didn’t need to yell at me like he did, either. I don’t care if little Johnny is jumping all the jumps now. He’s on a 60!!

About three quarters of the way down the fifth-gear straight, I lost my left boot in a mud hole—which was strange since 80% of the track was a dust bowl. Hugh from the local Race shop was there in the Bobcat. “What are you doing Mr. Jorgan?” I asked, even though the answer was quite obvious. “I’m digging out the face of the landing on the big double,” Hugh clarified. “The landing is too round and everyone is jumping it.”

“Also,” he continued with a big smile on his face. “We want to peak up the landing so it looks better for pictures.” It took me 18 months to jump that thing, I thought to myself. Now if I don’t make it, I’ll break at least two limbs for sure! I only have one good ankle left … these are bad odds. Needing an assistant to wipe my butt was not pleasant the first time around—and I don’t mean as an infant. I don’t need to go through that again. “What do you think of the track Pete?” Hugh asked. “This track sucks,” I told him.

The yelling again! I have to race in a couple of hours! Are these people trying to upset me or something?

Photo: Brett Dailey

 

I started to slide and tumble out of control down the big hill and I didn’t stop ‘till I got to the bottom. I lifted my eyebrow up by the flap of skin it was attached to and standing there was the track owner, Mahatma Coat. “Whad do jew tink of da drack Bete? I pud in a rock segtion on da hill ‘cause I heard Ricky and Bubba say dat sometibes dracks are doo loamy and dey should add more rocks.” I’m very confident that NEVER in the history of motocross have these seven words been spoken: we need more rocks on this track. “Your track sucks!” I yelled at him, because it seemed that I had lost some hearing in my left ear from my fall.

He lost it. Did he give birth to this track? If I spent 250 hours of my time making something—and it sucked—I would hope someone would let me know.

I was trying to get back to the pits but my new limp was slowing me down. I started to think that maybe I should try to change my approach when I talk to these guys if I want to get some track changes made. Aren’t we all on the same team? I shouldn’t have to sugar coat anything, ever! I know not a single one of these guys has tried to hit a two and a half foot high pop-up jump, fourth gear wide open, with 35 125 Intermediates right behind him! I’m paying a lot of money to be here and the track is terrible!

I looked up and I saw the track builder, Skip. “Hey Pete, how do you like the track?” he asked. “Your track sucks," I told him. He screamed at me for a while until the ref came over and DQ’d me for the day for not having my name and number on my jersey.

After a short tantrum, I picked up all of my tools—except for my new torque wrench, which I threw into the ravine next to the track during my tantrum. There’s another $200 added to my day. I turned around to get my duct tape to fix my eyebrow as I saw the 50’s get on the track. They rode by me, almost all of them smiling under their helmets, purposely hammering through 10-inch square edges and loving it. I sat and watched them for the whole moto. Sometimes when we get old and jaded we forget why we started racing motocross in the first place: Because it’s so damn FUN!

I’m already looking forward to coming back to this track. I have a whole new outlook on things and I can’t wait to bust out some laps. I sat down in the “Honey Bucket” porta-can to collect my thoughts. The sun had come up over the trees so after about 45 minutes it was getting pretty hot in there. I put my magazine down in the little trough-shaped magazine rack on the right. (That is a magazine rack, isn’t it?) I turned around to grab some toilet paper. Arrghh … no paper! THIS TRACK SUCKS!

Well, at least the track food was good ... Ride Hard, Take Chances!