The Perfect Day
UP FRONT
Allan Girdler
THE PERFECT DAY
Our Resident Guru doesn't actually live here. Herb Gunnison contributes to this magazine by mail, from his (honest) hand-built log cabin somewhere near Horsethief Creek. British Columbia. Before he embarked on a self-sustaining lifestyle. he was a college teacher. Before that, a successful businessman, while during all the above he's been riding and racing and touring on motorcycles. His qualifications for the job of Staff Sage are obvious.
He comes to visit every so often. Last time Herb dropped in we rode down to the hamburger stand. When 1 asked What is the meaning of life? Herb said we should let our readers know more about the people who produce this magazine. Why? Because, he explained, when you know something about the writer, you get more from the writing. He added that w hen he read little things I've said about Henrv Mannev. he went back and re-read Henry’s work and enjoyed it all the more.
Fine. 1 agreed, but v'knovv. it's always sort of awkward introducing various people. Seems to come out like a high school yearbook or a job application.
Anyway, telling readers that the editor is 40. married and likes bluegrass music while the tech ed is 30. married and likes jazz doesn't tell anybody a lot about anything. What we need here is a format.
Right, said the Guru, that's vour job because you're the editor. Then he sw ung aboard his BMW and rode off to Mexico. Last thing I saw was his tennis racket handle jutting from his bedroll.
The informal format works. With this underlying theme in mind. I propose to report on an atypical dav. 1 call it The Perfect Day.
The dav began a few days earlier, w hen it struck me that most of our monthly work was done and that to get it done we hadn't been riding for weeks. Plus, not everybody had ridden the Maico 400 and the Suzuki
RM250. Best of all. Tony needed to meet the dirt. Hav ing given myself all the good reasons I needed. 1 announced that come next Tuesdav we'd all go riding in the desert.
Time to meet Tony, who during office hours is one of the British Tw ins. He owns a vintage BSA and such is his devotion to it and motorcycles in general that for a time it was the only motor vehicle he owned. Right, every dav became a challenge. Not that he minded. What he did instead was somehow miss the Dirt Revolution. For all his time in the saddle he'd never ridden off-road. Nor was he sure he wanted to. “All you guvs ever talk about." he hesitated. "is near misses and non-misses. A guv could fall down out there."
Part of the job. I reassured him. Not to worry. You w ill be with me. the Chicken of the Woods. This ain't gonna be a Snipe Hunt.
Explanation: When 1 first came to work here. I didn't know how to ride in the dirt. I thought I did. on account for years I'd been out there on secondhand bikes, wearing mv surplus fatigues, lace-up boots and rugbv jersey, going putt-putt-putt along dirt roads w hilst smelling the wild flowers.
1 was told I should learn better, so two of the old hands gave me a foo-foo 175 and took me into the wilderness, the kind of place where a sensible Sherpa guide would call for helicopter support. They fired up their full-race 400s. shouted “Follow us"
. . . and left me to crash and flounder mv wav home as best I could. Nothing personal. They did the same to Len. the other British Twin. We were not amused.
We didn't figure Tone should go through that particular rite. So 1 asked Ron to lead the ride.
Rim is our newest man. You've seen his picture many times, as he's been our offroad consultant. Ron raced in the desert every weekend for years, as did his wife and sons. He's also a skilled analyst, the best I know at being able to tell what works on a bike, what doesn't and how it can be fixed. Jim (The Desert Crazy) Hansen, our western ad guv. told me once that no matter how incredible the adventure was. if Mrs. Jim knew Ron would be there, she relaxed. Ron can cope with anything.
Except lack of challenge. He had a good government job. securitv and nothing to look forward to except the gold watch and pension. When a vacancy appeared within the staff. I offered Ron the job and he took it. We were both so pleased that when the personnel office asked about salary, we realized we'd forgotten to negotiate.
I inv ited Dan to come on the ride. Dan is the publisher and a rare example. Most magazine publishers get there through the ranks of ad sales or accounting, because those are the languages they must speak when they are in charge of a magazine. Dan is glib with accounting terms. He has some sales technique, witness that both Henrv and 1 have bought used motorcycles from the man. (In his defense, they were even better than he said thev'd be. to the extent that he sometimes wants to buv mine back.)
This aside. Dan began his career as a CYCLE WORLD contributor some 12 or so years ago. In his spare time he raced TT. Fine chap to have for a boss, even though on this occasion he had to go back to New York to solve corporate problems. So 1 got him to lend his old TT leathers to Tony. (Don’t tell ’em that the waist has shrunk since I retired, Dan said. Relax, I said, Tony can’t breathe in them either.)
Henry had to come. The rest of the world knows HM3 as the best and bestknown car racing reporter working in the English language, the mainstay of companion publication Road & Track all these years. What only we bikers know is that in private life, Henry owns two rather dull motor cars and six bikes; Honda 750, Yamaha XT500. small Yamaha Twin of undetermined age, Honda TL125, Bultaco Alpina and the evergreen Triumph Trophy 500 ISDT team bike. What tugs Henry’s heartstrings is obvious.
Great flap over which bikes to use. Tony deserved the PE250, the best novice machine in the shop except for mine which I kept because I wanted to see how my latest fork mod would work. Len got the RM250. Ron brought his TT500 to check on tuning for the upcoming Baja 1000, Henry brought the Alpina and Jim got the Maico 400. Being a member of the ad department Jim really isn’t supposed to come on these rides but we are kind. Also, he once managed to pass Ron in a corner and he keeps asking for a chance to do it again. Never happen.
Anyw'ay, Len got the job of rounding up all the bikes and transportation. Len is something of a showboat. He’s the fancy chap in all the test pictures. He has I don’t know' how many riding outfits, in fact Len has the biggest office because he needs room for his photo gear, his pinball machine (No Play During Office Hours, the sign says) and his rack of custom apparel. Len is a terrible worrywart and stickler for detail and work. We have to drag him away except that we don’t, because if left to his own compulsions Len will prepare our bikes for us.
He’s also turned out to be a good rider now he’s calmed down. On our last group road ride we passed the spot where he and his Triumph went over the cliff more-orless together. I suggested a brass plaque but Len said 30 seconds of silence would be more appropriate. What Len does now is the dragstrip times and the spectacular road photography. If the bike is on the rear wheel or a peg and the rider has a beard, that’s Len (or Peter, whom you’ll meet later).
Len got all the machines together, we met at the appointed hour plus or minus half an hour depending on the habits of the people involved. And we went to the high desert and rode.
Ron is so good he doesn’t have to prove anything, an admirable trait in a ride leader. We went up hills, along mining roads, across the desert floor and up a sand wash. A wet sand wash. It does rain in the desert. We'd just had a frog-strangler so traction was perfect. No dust, 75 degrees, sun overhead and thunderstorms in the distance. Couldn’t be better.
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Ron said there have been guys riding the desert for 20 years who’ve never managed to find a wet sand wash. Tony felt vaguely flattered. Also, he enjoyed himself. Nobody fell, nothing broke. We all went as fast as we liked, everybody got an “Oh, S**** ! moment every half hour or so. The guys who had to get home to dinner did so, and the guys who didn’t rode until it was dark.
I said it was a perfect day. Only for us. When I got back to the office Peter was waiting. Peter is the art director. They are volatile people. Peter raced minicycles until he tired of being the only racer in class old enough to vote. He rides our roadracing Honda, because he is light, brave and has no dependents.
Oh, was he mad. I don't mind working nights and weekends, he thundered, as long as everybody else takes their work seriously. He waved a list. It was a list of work not quite done yet.
I understood perfectly. Next month. I said, we won’t go riding until the art department is through with the issue. Next time, you can come, too.
I think I’ll let Peter have first choice of bike.
Everybody deserves a perfect day. 0
