Author: Joe Gresh

Deserts Past: Part I

 

Baja in 79, riding across the Gobi desert 37 years later. Check out the hair!

There comes a moment in every man’s life when he will be required to delve deep into the reservoir of his character and choose if he is a hero, or a goat.  My opportunity occurred at 1:30 AM on a cool November back in 1979. Body sprawled upon the unforgiving Baja soil, mouth full of dust and knuckles swollen from spiny cactus punctures, the abyss of my soul required sounding.

Enlightenment was not my original goal in entering the Baja 1000 desert race. After several years of a truncated, 1000-kilometer Ensenada-to-Ensenada Baja Lite version, the legendary race was restored to its original full-strength, 1000 statute-mile distance in 1979. Ensenada-to-La Paz was the race I’d dreamed about riding since I was a child. Being twenty-two years old and having never entered a motorcycle competition at any level did nothing to shake my confidence. Unlike the seasoned pros, I had a plan.

The plan was genius: In 1979 there were only five entrants in the 250cc class. With a historical attrition rate of at least 50%, the Baja desert would do the dirty work. All we had to do was stay together and keep moving. A podium finish was assured. SCORE, the event organizers, made it even easier by allowing a maximum of 41 hours to complete the course. Hell, a 25 mile-per-hour average would do the trick.

The motorcycle question was solved when a used C&J Honda frame was found. The C&J was a chromemoly assembly that was half the weight of Honda’s construct. Rear suspension was long-travel controlled by two Curnett shock absorbers. Front suspension was from an unknown Yamaha. Topped with a 3-gallon plastic fuel tank, the bike looked every bit the $475 paid.

Peebles Thunder Machines of Point Loma, California provided an endurance-prepped 1973 Honda XL 250cc single cylinder, four-valve engine. P.T.M. removed several thousandths of an inch off the top and valve pockets of a forged Venolia piston, the idea being to lower the compression of the engine enough to use the notoriously low-octane Mexican gasoline. The intake ports were cleaned up, while the exhaust ports received a violent going over. Peebles Jr. spent several days hogging out aluminum to the point of cutting down and faring in the valve guides.

Heavy clutch springs and new plates completed the otherwise stock engine. The bike topped out at 70 miles per hour and could run on donkey urine. Peebles Sr. encouraged me to run the bike flat out all the time. “You cannot blow this engine.”

Between the bike needing assembly and testing, our team having full time jobs, and beer not being capable of consuming itself, the days passed without any actual off road practice by either me or my co-rider Len. We were philosophic about training and agreed that the 1000 miles made available during the race would be plenty of time to get the hang of it.

Our team joined one of the pit crew troupes formed specifically to assist desert racers. The Magnificent Seven provided several pit stops along the course. Welding machines, generators, air compressors, water, food, and any gasoline or spare parts you gave them would be delivered to the stops. We had various sized cans of high-test and one rear wheel shod with a used trials tire dispersed throughout the 1000 miles of brutal desert terrain.

Far left is Lynn Gasser, the guy in the middle is Dick Bridges (my boss at the time), and me. Photo by Greg Smith.

Final preparations were made only hours before we left for Mexico. The bike needed a chain and I had to borrow leathers. With no time to stop and reflect on what we were attempting, Team Leader Greg, Lenny, several cases of beer, the C&J and I made for our Ensenada motel.

Part II to follow soon…

Welcome to the Show

I’ve been so busy with home-nesting projects my motorcycles have succumbed to time’s crumbling embrace. I parked the ZRX1100 Kawasaki after the carburetors clogged up and it began running on three cylinders. Since it has been sitting a few years naturally the brake pistons seized. Followed by fluid leaking out of the calipers. Followed by me robbing the battery to start the generator that powers the nest. In any event, it needed tires, a chain and sprockets and the throttle cable repaired. So the big green Eddie Lawson lookalike has suffered the indignity of being dragged across the countryside on a two-hundred-dollar Harbor Freight trailer.

Even worse, the mini bike my pops built for me when I was a wee lad is on the injured reserve list. Forty-eight years idle, Mini has untold issues although the Briggs and Stratton engine still turns over. I’ve lost a few critical, hand-made parts and since the Old Man has shuffled off I’ll have to re-make the stuff myself. It’s not easy handling such a precious thing. The mini is lousy with my father’s engineering and artistic skills. The welds and frame geometry are a direct, tangible link to happy times working together in the garage.

The 1965 Honda 50cc went under water in one of Florida’s many hurricanes so I took it apart and threw everything into boxes and plastic tubs. It’s been apart so long the tubs have crystalized into the finest, most fragile parts bins in existence. The slightest touch turns them to dust. Dry, chalky plastic oxide mingles with 4mm JIC screws and yellowed wings. The sheet-metal swing arm rusted completely in half so I’ll have to rig something in aluminum to secure the rear wheel to the frame and lower shock eyes. I do have a good engine for the Honda: a fire breathing 140cc Lifan clone that clears the front fender by a quarter-inch.

The newest dead-bike I own is a Husqvarna. On the last, long-ish motorcycle ride I took to Big Bend Park way down in south Texas the Husqvarna SMR510 lost its clutch release. Bit by bit, little by little the clutch action faded away until finally pulling the clutch lever had no effect on events. The headlight also broke off but on a dirt bike that’s hardly worth mentioning. We were doing some trail riding down there and the Husky did ok shifting motocross style. Starting out was the main problem as you had to push the thing, jump on, and pop it into first. The bike would either stall or roar off on a wheelie. On the ride home I would circle the backfield waiting for traffic lights to change. Sorry, everyone in El Paso.

At least the Z1 Kawasaki never ran for me. I bought it from the owner of the property we now live on. I had to get it out of there because things were disappearing and I felt someone was going to pilfer the Z before I could. The Z needs all sorts of stuff but I get the feeling this bike will be a keeper. The lines are so clean and simple compared to modern bikes. It sits damn near perfect, doesn’t feel heavy and I know from following David Howell through the Everglades, Z’s do well in the dirt.

Which leaves us with the only motorcycle I own that works: a 360cc, 1971 Yamaha RT1B. Fondly known as Godzilla to dirt riders far and wide, the old Yamaha just keeps popping along. Analog everything, smoky, noisy, sweating petroleum from every pore, this is the bike that will not die. Even with me maintaining it.

Everything around us is constantly falling apart. Even the Great Pyramid in Egypt will be a sand dune one day. I just hope that when it finally falls to the ground replacement parts will still be available on Ebay.