You’re going to like this. It’s an endurance event, but not the kind you might be thinking of. No BMW GS ADV monsters, no Gold Wings, no Harleys, in fact, no motorcycles. It’s scooter time, folks!
Alan Spears, MSILSF honcho and motor scooter madman…my kind of guy!
First, let’s wind back the clock about 8 years. Let’s see, that would put us at about 2011, and that would be the Hell’s Loop scooter run, organized by the Motor Scooter International Land Speed Federation, and in particular, my good buddy Alan Spears. Alan, you see, is a bit different than the rest of the children. He’s an attorney by day, but at night he becomes a superhero dedicated to fighting villains and standing for Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Well, sort of. Alan, you see, organizes motor scooter endurance events. I know this because the one I entered was the aforementioned Hell’s Loop, and it was a hoot.
‘Twas a dark and stormy night…nah, not really. The sun was shining but it was freezing as the three of us rode our California Scooters into Death Valley back in 2011 during the Hell’s Loop event. That’s good buddies TK and Arlene out in front of me.
There were three of us, and we were on California Scooters. Those were the little 150cc Mustang replicas you’ve been reading about on the ExhaustNotes blog, the very same ones we rode to Cabo and back. The event was a hoot, and we might have won it, but one of our group forgot their gloves and then we got lost, and then…well, you get the idea. But we did finish, and we did 400 miles in a single day on our 150cc Mustangs. We froze our butts off, too, but what’s an adventure ride without a little loss of creature comforts? You say you want proof? It didn’t happen if there are no pictures? Hey, there’s that one above and here are a couple more…
Flat out on my 150 somewhere in Death Valley. Note the Baja decal on the windshield.Filling up in Panamint, at $5.19 a gallon. Those little bikes got nearly 100 mpg, so I didn’t care.
All right, so where am I going with this story?
You can’t keep a good man down, and Alan is a good man. His next adventure is the Route 66 X-Treme Endurance 400-Mile run. It’s going to be the 21st of April in 2019, it’s going to be in Arizona, and you know what? I’m working real hard to scare me up a scooter. I want to play in this one, folks. Alan, you be my witness…I’m casting about to find a scoot. Contingent on that, Amigo, count me in.
The Route 66 MSILSF route, scheduled for April 2019. I have got to find a ride…because I want to play in this game!Part of the Route 66 itinerary for the April endurance event. I’m guessing this is somewhere near Oatman, Arizona.
If you would like more information, you can contact Alan directly at msilsf@yahoo.com. Hopefully, I’ll see you in Arizona next April!
A 1974 T150V Triumph, as they looked when brand new 44 years ago!
I think ol’ Gresh is on to something with his Dream Bike concept, or as I call these features, the Ones That Got Away. We all have at least one…a bike we lusted after but didn’t buy.
Good buddy Tom on his Triumph Tiger on a ride through the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
Well, as it turns out, my good buddy and riding compadre Tom had a dream bike, too, but he did something (a big something) about his dream. He made it come true, and then some. Tom wrote and asked if he could contribute to the ExNotes blog, and the answer, of course, was a resounding yes. Read on, my friends…this is a great story.
Over to you, Tom!
Hello, Tom here. By way of a quick bio, I have been riding for 56 years. My first motorcycle in high school was a “motorcycle,” not a scooter, from Sears Roebuck. My current bikes are a well-used Triumph 1050 Tiger and a well-equipped Honda XR650L dual sport.
In 1975 I was riding a 1969 Honda CB 750 four. I rode it everywhere including numerous runs at the local Irwindale drag strip on Wednesday night. Straight line performance was the only thing I was interested in.
My riding partner bought a new Kawasaki Z900 and all of a sudden I was seeing more of his taillight than I was used to. It was time for more horsepower.
I had previously owned two Triumph twins, a T100 500cc and a T120 650. I always loved the Triumphs so I went looking for a new Triumph T150 750cc pushrod triple. My riding partner and I went to the two Triumph dealers in the area. We ended up at Ed Kretz Triumph in Monterey Park, California. It was well into 1975 and they only had 1974 models.
The boys at Kretz had no idea when the ‘75s would arrive. The magazines said the new 750 triples had 5 speed transmissions and disc brakes front and rear, plus electric starters. The ‘74 only had 4 speeds and the ugliest single iron disc front brake I ever saw. The electric starter was of no interest at the time but the 5 speed could have been the deal breaker. But deep in my gut, this bike had “something” that no stinking Honda had.
The next day, two of my buddies and I went back to the dealer to look again. They both were totally against the Triumph. They pointed out the huge, cast, oversized hand controls (they were about twice the size of those on the Honda or Kawi). The front brake reservoir (crudely marked with “Girling”) looked like the boys in metal shop sandcast it for a high school project. I listened to my friends and walked away from a bike I would always admire, Lucas electrics and all. For me, this was the one that got away.
I bought a new Honda CB 750 from Dick & Walt’s Honda-BMW on Whittier Blvd in Montebello, California for $1648, which was about $900 cheaper than the Triumph. Remember my trips to Irwindale drag strip with the old ’69 750 Honda? It ran about 14 seconds flat in the quarter. I had to put more than $500 into the 1975 CB 750 to equal those times. The red line on the tach was 8500 rpm. It took me about three or four trips to the strip to figure out it ran out of steam at 7000 rpm. It was a pig compared to my 1969. I kept it about a year.
Epilogue
On September 14, 2011 my good friend and riding buddy Joe and I drove up the 99 to Lodi, California. We dug out a 1974 Triumph Trident 750cc pushrod triple from behind a 1936 rear-engined Allis Chalmers tractor. They were in a white wood barn.
The real deal…a barn-find 1974 T150V 750cc Triumph. I didn’t let this one get away! This is the “before” photo.
Yes, that Triumph was a real barn find. It was in terrible shape but it did run. I happily paid $2500 for a rusted relic, and I smiled all the way home. I converted that bike into a Land Speed Racer and raced at the El Mirage dry lake for three seasons.
This is the “after” photo. I ran 133 mph on this motorcycle at El Mirage!
And, as I mentioned earlier, I still ride a Triumph today.
That’s an awesome story, Tom. Thanks very much for sharing it with us!
So, how about the rest of you guys and gals? Do you have a dream bike, one that you let get away? Hey, tell us about it. Send your story to info@ExhaustNotes.us, and we’ll publish it!
I liked that Dream Bike piece Gresh did over the weekend about his fantasy bike, the Kawasaki 350cc Avenger. I like the concept: Articles on the ones that got away.
And as is always the case, if Gresh wrote it, I like it.
Can I say that on this blog? You know, Gresh and I do most of the writing, so am I allowed to say that about his stuff? Hey, I don’t care.
I’m guessing if you’re reading this, you have a dream bike. You know, one you didn’t buy but wish you had. We’d like to hear about it. Do a short piece on it with a photo or two and we’ll publish it here.
In the meantime, and because I like “the one that got away” concept so much, I’m going to do a short bit on my dream bike. One of them, anyway. It’s the 1983 Harley XR1000. Yeah, I know, I’m a guy who made his bones writing about small bikes (the CSC RX3, in particular), and the XR1000 is anything but small. But I like it.
The 1983 Harley XR1000. Check out the massive Dellortos and the K&N air filters. All business. I like it.A view from the other side. I’m not a guy who normally leans left or listens to folks who do, but the XR1000’s asymmetry and leftist tendencies are oddly appealing.
The magazines of the era all panned the XR1000, and every once in a while one of them does a retrospective (and they still don’t like it). You know what? I don’t give a rat’s rear end about some magazine weenie’s opinion. I like the look, the concept, and the sound of the XR1000, and one of my few regrets in life is that I didn’t buy one new in ’83.
Not that I didn’t have good reason back then. I had bought a Harley Electra-Glide Classic, new, in 1979. It was the worst vehicle of any type I’d ever owned, and I swore I’d never buy another Harley. That was the principal thing that kept me from pulling the trigger on a new XR1000 in ’83 (I sold the Electra-Glide in ‘82, and the reliability reputation injuries it left hadn’t healed yet). But time heals all wounds (I wish I had that Electra-Glide now), and if I could find a clean XR1000 I’d be on it in a New York minute.
The magazines said the XR1000 vibrated (they actually paid folks to point that out on a Harley?), you could burn your left leg on the exhaust (duh), and the twin Dellortos hit your knee on the right side of the bike (seriously?). Not content with stating the obvious, one of the magazines actually wrote the bike had a predilection for turning left. A bike based on a flat tracker? A predilection for turning left? And folks wonder why the motorcycle magazine business fell on hard times.
Everything the magazines hated about the XR1000 made me want one more. It was a raw, muscular, asymmetric, no passenger, no compromises, in-your-face motorcycle. I still want one.
It’s March in central Florida, cool and clear. I get the call from Ed in the late afternoon. A couple of his California friends are racing motorcycles in the 600cc class. He wants me to help them out. The sun is setting low over Lake Schimmerhorn, the sky a blood-orange deepening to cobalt blue high overhead. White, high-persistence contrails cross the sky in an Atlanta-Orlando direction. The scene outside the Love Shack looks like a flag from The Republic of Kodachrome. “Yeah” I say, gently pulling the wrapper of a grape Jolly Rancher. The candy rotates clockwise between my fingers. “I’ll go.”
“Cool, you met Jeff and Beaver at the retirement party held after the anniversary party,” Ed said. “Remember Torrance?” In the background I hear a machine scraping metal: another of Ed’s big-block Moto-Guzzis. The man can’t leave motorcycles alone.
“Torrance? Yeah, I remember, my wife said Jeff seemed kind of depressed. Happily married, good corporate job; didn’t he give up racing?”
“He did, then he didn’t,” said Ed. “Look for the Baby Appleseed pits. Get there early tomorrow, I told them you’re coming.”
It’s 38 degrees in the morning. My Italian-era Husqvarna 510 stumbles and stalls, then lights off on the fourth push of the button. I rev the engine and slip the clutch on the Husky’s tall first gear. A sloppy, brapp-brapp snarls out of the pipe and ricochets from aluminum singlewide trailers to sway-backed modular homes. I turn right onto Highway 40. Open the throttle and the Husky’s tachometer rips past 9000 rpm, front wheel climbing on the surge. Two, three, four, five, six, shift as fast as you can, man.
I’ve got to keep the front down. It’s dark. Highway 40 is damp with morning dew. The headlamp flickers intermittently between low beam and parking light, low beam and parking light. It’s a random problem and one I can’t solve. Oncoming cars dip their headlights, thinking I’m flashing them. I wish I could stop and explain Italian motorcycle electrical systems but there’s no time. It’s cold. My hands hurt.
At the very end of Pit Row the black, the white and red Baby Appleseed logo is splashed across two huge gazebo tents. I guess with Ed involved I expected one rusty Craftsman toolbox and a mid-eighties Moto-Guzzi Alfresco. I’d find Jeff and Beaver slumped over, gently sobbing. Beaver’s greasy jeans would have holes in both knees.
Pit row, Daytona.
“What’s the problem, boys?” My confident tone would instantly buck them up. “The bike has a high rpm miss, Gresh, we’ve been trouble shooting the damn thing for days.” I’d get in there and clean the fuel filter, maybe straighten a bent metering needle and the bike would run perfect, you know, save the day.
Baby Appleseed’s pit has two mechanics, electric tire warmers and a second rider, Neils, owner of the high-end baby furniture company sponsoring the team. There’re computers to track lap times, 120 volt AC generators and air compressors.
Both Appleseed motorcycles are decked out in Baby Appleseed racing colors. Back in the dry pits there’s a motorhome with a full-body Baby Appleseed wrap parked in front of a dual-axle Baby Appleseed trailer stocked with Baby Appleseed race parts. The mechanics wear Baby Appleseed logoed race shirts. Jeff has qualified in the front row for race one. To the untrained observer it appears they’re doing ok without me.
“My wife was worried about you.” I tell Jeff, “At that party in Torrance she said you seemed unhappy, settling for security.”
Jeff looks at me, grins, “I’m down to 140 pounds, I’ve been training every day, running. You’ve got to be light to keep up with these kids.”
“She’s sort of an Empath.” I explain, “Like Deanna Troy on Star Trek. When I told her you were racing again she got a little teary-eyed.” Jeff nods, unsure of the protocol. I better close it out. “Anyway, people tell her everything, man. I mean, people she’s never met spill their life story within two minutes.”
“Um,” Jeff says, “Tell her I’m ok. Tell her I’m happy.”
We’re watching the race feed one of the pit monitors. Jeff’s dicing for the lead, the crew is wound up tight. Two laps in, the front tire pushes and Jeff wads the Baby Appleseed bike, a hundred mile per hour get-off. Mostly we see a cloud of dust as the bike tumbles through the infield. It’s hard to tell what’s going on with the monitor. There’s Jeff walking away. Collective relief: “That’s all right then, we can fix the bike.” I think that was Neils’ dad.
By the time I get to the dry pits the bodywork on Jeff’s bike is already gone. Every part that sticks out is either broken, bent, or ground off. One mechanic is removing forks, the other removes the mangled sub-frame then goes back to pit row. Neils is still racing. Jeff surveys the damaged bike, “Damn. We don’t need this extra work.” The bike has to be fixed by 7 PM, when the dry pits close. I better help sort things out.
The bike is down to the frame and motor. “Can I do anything to help?”
The mechanic stops wrenching on the triple clamps, thinks three beats. “Uh, yeah, drain the gas from the wrecked tank.” I grab the tank, “What do you want me to put it into?”
The mechanic looks up again, “What?”
I hold the tank up, “The gas. Where you want it?”
He looks around the pits, “ Um, I don’t know, see if you can find an empty can in the trailer.” He goes back to the triple clamps. Jeff is sweeping the work area, picking up small bits of motorcycle. The mechanics dodge around us to work on the bike.
The trailer is locked. I go back to the pits. “Sorry to bug you again, man, the trailer is locked. Do you have a key?” Water runs from a radiator hose into a plastic, 5 gallon bucket.
“The key? It’s locked?” Hands dripping, “Lemme see if it’s in here.” He searches the top tray of his rollaway toolbox. “Damn, it was here.” He scans the pit area, “I don’t know where it went. Listen, I got to get this radiator off.”
I find Neils, still in his leathers. He just pulled in after a solid race, finishing 20-something out of 60 bikes. I ask him if he has a key to the trailer.
“What?” Sweat runs down his face, “Find my dad, I think he has one.” I wander past the trailer. The door is open. Beaver is inside. There’s an assortment of cans.
“Which can should I use to drain the gas from the smashed tank?” I ask.
“What?” Beaver replies, putting down two replacement wheels.
“I need to drain the gas from the old tank.”
“Oh, um…take this one.” Beaver hands me a can.
“You got a funnel?” The other mechanic is back. He’s sliding a new fork leg into new a new set of triple clamps.
“What?” He stops sliding the leg.
“A funnel, to pour the gas into this can.” I hold up the can Beaver gave me.
“Don’t use that can. Use the one under that pile of bodywork. I don’t want it mixed up.” I move a broken plastic tailpiece and there’s a can underneath. The fill opening is one inch wide.
“Man, I hate to bug you, I need a funnel.”
The mechanic stops working on the forks and gives a hunted look around the pit area, “Jeff, find this guy a funnel.”
“Look in that box on the rolling tray.” Jeff says. I find three big, red funnels. I fit the funnel and begin to pour the gas from the bent tank into the can.
“Hey! Put a sock on that funnel!” The first mechanic yells at me, putting down the handle bar he was about to install.
“A sock?” I have no idea what he is talking about. Jeff hands me a cloth filter with a sewn-in elastic edge to stretch over the wide end of the funnel. I fit the filter and pour the gas.
“Watch what you’re doing!” There’s a puddle of gas on the floor. I’m so intent on not missing the funnel mouth I don’t notice that the tank’s internal vent tube is pissing gas. It’s a like a frigging geyser, man. Tipping the tank upright increases the flow, broadcasting a liberal dose of high-octane race fuel around the pit area. Both mechanics drop their tools and run over with rags. They start mopping up the spill.
“We got to clean this up! If the AMA guys see this they’ll freak out, you can’t have pools of gas laying around in here!”
Beaver appears beside me and guides me by the elbow away from the spill. “Can you give me a hand moving the gear from pit row?” We walk out to the Baby Appleseed tents on pit row, a distance of some 300 yards. Beaver hands me two cartons of water, I walk back to the trailer. Next trip Beaver hands me three tires to carry, I take them back to the trailer, then a big stack of sprockets.
There’s one of those folding carts parked at the tents. Beaver hands me the portable generator. The damn thing is heavy. “Can I use that cart?”
“No.” Beaver says, “It’s easier to carry the stuff.” I move gear back and forth from pit row to the trailer. Late in the afternoon I glance over at the pits, Jeff’s bike is rebuilt and has passed tech inspection.
The next day Jeff’s rebuilt bike runs near the front all day long and in a photo finish misses the podium by inches. I call my wife with the results. She’s happy, she tells me Jeff is doing what he’s supposed to be doing. The sky turns blood-orange deepening into cobalt-blue high overhead. The Baby Appleseed team is upbeat, they’ve got an entire racing season ahead of them. I only hope they can do as well when I’m not around.
