Dirt Track!

DIRT TRACK!

GEORGE WEATHERS

THE SHOT-UP grey speaker cones ring and whistle as Pappy Grocket blows into the mike. "First heat you thirty-fifty class riders. Let's get your motors out here on the track so's we can start up on time."

Yours. You buckle the steel sandal onto your left boot and butt your head into a scratched-up yellow crash helmet that matches the Triumph's dented-up yellow tank. The skid shoe's weight makes you swing your left foot like a pendulum bob. You unlean the bike from against the pickup and push it out where you can start it.

Some of the red stain comes off the paint-spattered fuel tap onto your fingers as you turn on the gas. Triumph's a '57; awful low on beans but handles like gangbusters. One stab at the kickstarter still starts it. The engine chatters and spats around at low revs; lots of valve noise. It's set up loose. You settle yourself on the thin black leather seat and rock the twistgrip throttle back and forth with your right hand. The engine coughs, clears its throat, and begins to sound good up where it'll be running in the race. The transmission goes in gear with a grrrp that makes you flinch. Adjust the clutch again next week. You hike your steel-bottomed foot on the footpeg and head out, dodging through the other bikes and the guys that just stand around.

When you roll up to the line, ol' whatzisname who flags for the Wingfoots thumbs you the go-ahead for a practice lap. You squeeze the clutch, get the revs up, and set sail. The surface is a little loose but the bike still tries to yank your elbows straight. You toe second gear and the front end comes up in a little hop. A dark spot on the track flashes underneath and you can feel the rear tire bite the wetter surface. Remember to use that after the start if you can.

You stab third gear going into the south turn. The track is real rough down low in the groove of the corner. The bike feels slack and loose as the big, spidery wheels stutter over the holes. You add some throttle and slide the machine up the face of the turn nearer the fence. Too much loose stuff up here. It shovels dirt nice, but the groove will be faster even if it is bumpy.

You hang a real deep crossways slide just for doing it and Stan Kendall comes chuffing by down on the rough groove, that old red Hog of his bouncing and howling and hanging right in there. You shouldn't have slowed down. You correct the slide and aim across his front end, moving back up on him. Even though he's got the inside, you hold your own all through the turn. This old Triumph will flatly handle. He comes out in front of you though and you chase him down the short chute and up the hump into the infield dogleg. He's pulling you. His exhaust megaphone fills your helmet with machine gun. Get your chin down on the tank. You just don't have the ponies. He's pulling it out. Maybe if you geared down a couple of teeth on the rear wheel sprocket before the final it'd help. A good ol' Trumpet should eat a banger any day! Shut off as you pass the pit gate. You sail into the south turn sliding, give it a touch of throttle to steady it, and then pick up the powerslide again in third gear.

The green grass along here is wet and slick and everybody is all elbows just staying on top of things. The descent back to the track has a ridge halfway down that damn near pitches Stan off. Anybody but Stanley would have been on his tail. The Trumpet just gives you one jarring shock as it bounces along sideways to say it doesn't like it.

Two BSA single-cylinders hammer by as you power out of the dogleg. They stayed on the oval. Their dust stings your eyes. You should have put on your goggles already. The sound from their exhaust megaphones comes at you in waves, throbbing quickly at first, then more slowly as the engines reach almost the same speed.

You coast up in front of the judging stand in neutral, sliding the rear wheel to a stop. There's a clean flour line newly dribbled across the track. Somebody's already run over it, leaving a couple of white smudges on the dust down a ways where that spot on their tire came around again. Now that you're stopped, the scuffed black leather shirt and pants bake against your shoulders and thighs. A cold drop of sweat drips from your armpit and runs down your ribs. You want to rub the dust in your eye, but the engine's set up to die if the throttle snaps closed. Your hands are too dusty anyway. You fumble your goggles into place from the back of your left hand. The scene around you glows hellish hot through the orange dust lens.

The exhausts stir up a dust cloud that hangs around the starting line like a rusty fog. Hal Doble ties a purple dust scarf across his nose and mouth, the long end tossed over his shoulder. You yank the helmet strap tight with your free hand and take three or four deep breaths. Come on, people.

Ol' whatzisname who flags for the Wingfoots is a thin mouse with too much slick hair and a cigarette hanging out from under his nose. He wags the tip of the rolled-up white flag in a circle as he backs toward the judges' stand. You grab the clutch, jam the bike into first, and pump the throttle. The mouse wags the flag faster as the Triumph quivers between your legs. Get that wet spot up there. Jump Doble's Matchless for it. Come on flagman you little dried-up Quick Doble jumps away, the Matchless clawing chunks from the surface and spraying them back. The mouse throws the flag on the ground "no start." Now there's a big gap torn in the flour line. Doble's blue Matchless idles back to the penalty line behind and you haul the Triumph into place again by the handlebars.

The mouse gives you the slow look again and brings the flag whipping down. You let go the clutch and grab a big handful of throttle. The rear end gets to hopping. Hang out on the rear fender for traction. You're in line for the wet spot. Grab second. The tire gets the traction and the machine rears back on its hind wheel. Scoot up toward the tank and 'it settles down again. Grab third and head for that rough low groove. Somebody's trying to move by on the outside. You can see the front wheel, but you've got the inside and he's in all that loose stuff. If he gets it, he'll have to earn it. Use your steel shoe as an outrigger. The ruts keep trying to stand the sliding bike up straight and pitch you off. Your own rear wheel tries to pull even with the front on the outside, but speed and a knee dug into the gas tank hold it back. You're in front? Where's ol' Stanley? Who cares? Feather the throttle a little and let the bike come up. The rear tire catches hold again and flips you down the short chute toward the dogleg.

You're maybe too fast up the hump onto the grass. Grab second, lay it into the turnaround and turn up the juice. JEE-sus! It goes down quick both wheels at once and you find yourself slithering crazily over the grass on your side, trying to kick free of the damned motorcycle. Stanley about runs over your elbow. You're sliding faster! Get a hand on the clutch lever. Red something marker flagpole. Never be the same but slowed us down. Keep it running now let's go now come on get on. There goes that sick black Harley which puts you oh like fifth. Come on come on come on come on come ON!

Jab for low and go. The Harley gets crossed up on that rough descent and you out-dig him coming out for fourth. You will need third or better to make the final from this heat. You go high into the north turn, shaking off the shuddering weakness that hits your arms now. Doble's Matchless is down in the groove, but you sail by like he was planted there. Third. You're in the final. One of those BSA bangers is next. Really not a thing to gain from here. Stay wide and keep chewing him up. Keep eating that gap. Move in on him now. Here it comes yes? NO ran out of turn. What the hell, first through third makes the final so you don't stand to gain. Gotta sack him down the straight. As you come out and catch fourth gear, his rear fender nudges your left leg.

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Stay in the groove this time. See if the humps will shake the banger out. 01' Stanley's bound for China, but you can get this guy. Get in under him if you can. If he goes, he'll go to the outside. Your shins sting through the leather from the dirt his rear wheel is throwing. A chunk hits you in the cheek. You're bouncing crazily along the rough, insideedge ruts, always picking up the slide where you left off. What a helluva way to spend Sunday afternoon. He's going wide, coming out of the groove. Careful now, Triumph. Hold the inside. Don't hit him, now. Get under him. Go, go on, come on Trumpet, a little more. You're running out of turn again. Come ON, dammit. Slide on out, now. Don't fall down again. Carry the slide a little longer. You got him; you got him! Get your line for the dogleg. Make him go out with you. Make him go out and around if he wants it back. Now catch second and hold him through the dogleg.

Take it easy now. No quick stuff with the controls. Smooth and easy now — hold it with your knee. Oh hey that grass is slick. Don't fall in front of him. Get turned and EASY! And get out.

His front wheel beside your leg. Can't be slow on that descent. You sail off the lip and haul back on the bars hard to make the rear wheel hit first. Whoops throw sideways oh damn throw sideways please Trumpet the fence! Dig in, come on. you bent-up, catch traction, burrow, come on, that's it, curve off, that's it. Third gear now. You're in the turn. No sweat. That's it. You got it made. Talk about shaking all over. Next time jump a little easier and start sliding sooner, maybe let the rear wheel kind of walk down the descent. You could sure use some margin for error back there.

OF Stanley's only about three bikelengths up there. He thinks he's got it in the sack. Maybe you can sneak up on him if he doesn't look back. Just don't bust your butt again. How many laps to go? That little jump's a real peach. Maybe you could hold third gear in here till you get to that post and gain a little, if the engine will hang together. Catch fourth — NOW. One more lap says the yellow flag. Well okay mouse we'll fly a little.

You leave it on past the end of the bleachers this time instead of shutting off past the pit gate. 01' Stan is up in the loose stuff to avoid the rough track, but he's still underway; moving right along. You sail into the groove too fast, hanging the rear wheel out and keeping the power on to wedge you on the track. Both wheels are drifting, bouncing, and trying to hang on by their fingernails. The rear wheel hits a hole and really hangs out. and for an instant you're flying almost crossways to the flow of dusty clay chopping under the wheels. The steel shoe on your left boot cooks from its friction against the track. Down for third or you won't have any power for the short chute. You're sliding wide too now. You're going too high on the curve, but you can't shut off in the middle of a powerslide and stay aboard. The corner's behind you now and you're sliding toward the outside of the chute. Stanley nips inside into the dogleg. Damn he went by close.

He's on the grass too fast, going all crossed up and out of shape. Anybody but ol' Stan would've been on his tail, but even so he hands you the lead. You feel, a little better about losing it on that grass if ol' Stanley gets crossed up too. Get squared away and over the little jump. OW oh damn the front wheel hit first. The shock snaps your head forward and pounds your wrists. Got real good shape on the slide, but you'll have to try harder next time. Got it cinched now. Just open up a little cushion over ol' Stan. Ride the groove and let him eat the dirt for a while.

Sliding in the last turn and a set of red front forks begins pushing a wheel around you. Stan. He's high on the turn way out of the groove. How? Turn up the fire. You've got the shortest path. That old Harley will really need ponies to get past that far out. You out-handle him. Either that or he's found a faster groove out there. The Triumph bounces over a rut and snaps sideways and when you get it back, he's got half a wheel on you.

Don't hang the rear end out too far coming out. One mistake and you're out of it. Stan nips in front coming off his high line. You let third gear wind and get your chin on the gas tank and you find yourself beside the BSA. That boy must have been in that fast outside groove on Stan's rear wheel. He sure learns quick from others. You brush the kill button and get fourth gear. The bike snakes and you and the banger go by Stan on the inside. Damn that banger's acceleration. He's loud too; tell me he's loud. Stanley's wheel's there again. He must have shifted. What the heck, first three places make the final. Hold him for twenty lousy feet. That banger's a lot closer. Get lower on the tank. Come ON, T rumpeC.

You glimpse the checkers on the flag. You breathe the throttle once again and Stan gains half a bike-length which you gain back when he backs off his. All of you turn on the power in the turn so you won't slide up off the edge, but you're slowed down when you come out onto the short chute. You hold your left hand up to signal you're slowing down and flip your goggles back behind your helmet. The day looks very white without the dust lens on your eyes. The three of you cut between the marker flags on the back straight and bypass the dogleg. Your teeth grind dusty grit and you're breathing hard.

Stan pulls up alongside. "Who won it?" he shouts over the noise the bikes are making.

You look at him and shake your head. You figure you did, but this isn't the place to say.

"I think you had about a half a wheel on me," the guy on the BSA shouts at you. He's being gallant.

"It don't make any difference," you yell. "We all go to the final anyhow."

"Let's go find out who won it," shouts ol' Stan.