Force of Habit
FORCE OF HABIT
UP FRONT
Allan Girdler
Two of our dirt guys went to the road races. Skill and bravery are a universal language so they came home aware that they had seen good riding. They had a good time. And their inexperienced eyes turned up a puzzle:
“Why are road racing bikes so tacky?” The question gave me more trouble than the answer. “Uh,” I stammered, “well, uh, road racing bikes are tacky because ... er, well because they are.”
And they are. With the exceptions of the world class factory teams where there are crew members with nothing to do but polish, and excepting one or two private teams who’ll be ticked if I say all road racers, competition machines at road courses tend toward faded paint beneath an overall layer of grunge.
Why this is so, I didn’t know, and I didn’t know because it’s been that way for so long I don’t remember ever seeing road racers in any other way.
But our dirt guys did. They come from motocross, and motocross racers are vain as high school cheerleaders. Soon as practice is over they rush off to give the bikes a wash. Our motocross guys not only have their own jerseys, with team writing and all, they have them in red, green, yellow and white, so they can coordinate colors with whatever bike it is they’re riding, and they even have sets of jerseys, so if one gets muddy during a race or photo session, they can change into clean togs and not suffer the abuse of their peers.
Quite a contrast. I began thinking about this and made sort of a list; our various forms of sport, racing and otherwise, and how they dress up or down for it.
Drag racers are neat, as clean and colorcoordinated as motocrossers. Speedway guys are flashy but battered, because they have garish colors quickly covered with dirt. Flattrackers are mostly the same, that is, they like color and they appreciate the showmanship of dazzling leathers, but the nature of their trade, i.e. riding through each other’s rooster tails, makes the bright equipment fade.
Enduro riders come closest to wearing what conditions call for. Sturdy stuff, Belstaff suits or jackets, bright boots and pants, not much emphasis on contrast and naturally the gear gets cleaned once per week. Can’t do it more often, and putting muddy pants back on is too uncomfortable to bear.
Trials riders are eccentric. Deliberately so. Helmets are now part of the rules, but when they weren’t, the tradition was you wore a funny hat.
Outlaws wear jeans, with the sleeves cut off the jackets. Club road riders have matching trousers and jackets, indescribably cleaner than the outlaws. Canyon commandos have leather suits; serious touring riders have leather outfits or jumpsuits or both. Play dirt riders use lineman’s boots and whatever is hanging in the garage. Casual road riders wear whatever they have on when they decide to go for a ride.
Our own John Ulrich has duct tape on his racing leathers. He’s young and takes everything seriously and John never could figure why I kid him about his “Kennÿ Roberts Go-Fast Kit.” Then he went to Europe and was swamped by guys whö wanted to know where they could get “Kenny Roberts tape” for the knees o? their leathers. ^
What all this amounts to, I think, is Force of Habit.
Each one of us was once a novice motorcycle nut. We got our first ride, bought that, first bike, struck up a conversation with the guys who knew How To Do It. Being new^ we hated to have anybody know we were^ new, so we carefully, consciously or not, equipped ourselves just like the guys wç admired and wished to be like.
I hasten to say here, none of the habit# are wrong. Different, is all.
I further suspect that there is a philoso^ phy underlying our fashions. Two genera^ tions ago some great roadrace tuner decreed that time spent on looks was time better spent on the engine, so today road racers rebuild the crank three times befor^ they wipe chain lube off the rear wheel.
Motocross is new. It began with kids, on* the west coast and it began at a time when the male half of the population suddenly was allowed to have plumage. And surfing was big. hence the motocross riders decked themselves out in bright red and yellow. Bob Hannah fairly sparkles in the sunlight, so all the kids who want to ride like Hannah change their jerseys at the first splop of mud.
Outlaws look terrible because they wan] the world to know they don’t care what the world thinks. Club riders are carefully wej¿ dressed because not long ago—and to an extent still—riding a bike meant you were, up to no good and responsible riders needed to look, well, respectable. +
In my own case, I am neat. Comes from my first racing, which was at the drags. Wtf didn’t have racing suits then, but the uni; form was white duck pants and shirt. The> message. I think now. was that we wen¿ such good wrenches we could wear spotless whites. We weren't good wrenches and we usually went home looking as if we had on a week's worth of shop rags, but dea» work pants easily became clean fireproof suits and custom leathers because the tra^ dition of neat was already there.
Or so it seems to me. Since coming to this conclusion I have been entertained watching it work. Ron Griewe is not a fashion plate, indeed the tie we persuade^ him to wear for the annual Ten Best dinner lasted until the salad was served. But now > know whv he gets so upset if Steve or John show up for dirt testing without jersey? that match their machines. Riders of English machines years ago decided that proper motorcyclists dress with no regard^ for fashion, so that explains why Henry Mannev. who is cultured and cosmopolitan. shows up for any riding in outfits the Salvation Army would reject.
Having worked this all out, I think road riders should dress better.
Wait! I am not going to give the lecture about acting like goody-two-shoes so the non-riding public will like us. Thev an* never going to like us. not while we have a good time and thev are trapped in theis. wretched little boxes or pinned to their chairs bv television sets.
I have something else in mind.
True story:
A bunch of us rode to a company meeting. We came rumbling up to the lobbv of the hotel, parked in a line and went to thi^ desk, boots clattering on the floor, talking loud the wav vou do when your ears am still full of engine.
A ladv from the company's headquai* ters came w ith us. skipping along, chirping and fluttering. “Oh. you made so much noise, oh. I'm surprised thev let you in. oh.^ I hope thev didn't call the police!”
One of the guys didn’t care for that. W$ are. after all. employees of the company, we had reservations, motorcycle magazine guys naturally ride, etc. Why was she so down on us? Who did she think she was*,
What I have in mind is who she thinks she is.
She's a nice lady, lives a sheltered life in the big city. She comes west, and what doe*s she see? Guys in pastel slacks hanging around the swimming pool bar. Guys in white shorts, leaping about and shouting “40-Love” at one another.
Then, the rolling thunder review. We* come roaring up the road. We've been out there on the edge, we’re dressed for adven* ture, we're covered with dust and oil and we smell like . . . men.
We gave that nice lady enough rav^ material to fuel her fantasy life for at least a \ ear. 4
If you're gonna flaunt it. dress for it.
