The Miracle Mile
The Miracle Mile
Dirt-track dinosaurs
"IT’S LIKE SEX AND RIDING A BICYCLE,” SAID BILL Milburn, “you never forget how to do it.” Easy for him to say. I was the one about to compete in my first dirt-track race in more than 20 years, not him. I was the one who had never even seen the bike I was going to ride until minutes before the start of practice. I was the one making this one-time-only return to dirt-tracking not on some dinky little quarter-mile but on Del Mar’s ultra-high-speed, mile-and-an-eighth oval. Didn’t sound like any sex or bicycle riding I had ever done.
He was, however, the one responsible for getting me into this predicament. By day, Milburn is advertising manager for Tucker-Rocky Distributing, one of the country’s largest aftermarket groups. But every other waking moment, apparently, he collects vintage and historic dirt-track bikes. Has 80 of them at last inventory, most having been owned or raced by one famous rider or another.
Months earlier, Milbum had asked me to ride one of his collection, a Champion-framed Triumph 750, in the Vintage Dirt Track Racers Association (VDTRA) meet at Del Mar. “It’s a
full-on racer,” he said, “with all the good equipment, just like the fast guys rode back in the early ’70s. No strings attached; I just want you to have fun.”
An offer I couldn’t refuse. So, there I was on that cool fall morning, lining up for practice alongside the likes of Eddie Mulder, John Hateley and Neil Keen, dirttrack heroes who retired from the Grand National wars years ago but who’ve kept their skills honed by competing in vintage events. Seems Milbum had entered me in the Masters Pro (polite-speak for professional racers over the age of
50) class, the new stomping grounds for living legends such as theseexactly where I didn 7 belong.
As I wobbled onto the track for practice, the very thought of tossing a 300-pound motorcycle into a flat, slick, dirt turn at
120 mph suddenly seemed completely insane for a 55-year-old who hadn’t strapped on a steel shoe since the Nixon (Richard, not Gary) administration. But somehow, I got through practice, a whole six laps of it, without incident-without a lot of speed, as well, but without incident. Even more miraculously,
I finished fifth in the four-lap heat race that followed, thanks mostly to several riders who had been running ahead of me but were thoughtful enough to drop out.
That fifth place earned me a front-row start in the 12-lap main, but any holeshot musings vanished when I blew the first-to-second shift on the Triumph’s sluggish gearbox. By the time I exited the second tum, I was languishing in the shadow of last place-where I remained until lap three. That’s when I unintentionally dove into the first turn waaaay too hard, resulting in...nothing. Absolutely nothing. The Triumph simply tracked through the turn like a slot car and pointed me down Del Mar’s long back straight.
At the next turn I did it again, with the same outcome. Then a little harder into the next turn, and even harder yet into the next...and it all started coming back to me.
And more important, it started being fun, too. I passed a few riders, I don’t remember how many, while going faster and faster each lap. Before I knew it, the checkered flag came down and it was all over.
“Hey, man, nice work,” beamed Milburn as I pulled off my helmet in the pits. “You got third place.” “You’re kidding,” I replied. “Third?” “Yep.” “Who won?” I asked.
“Mulder-of course. And Gerald (as in Jessup, Milburn’s friend, tuner and the fastest one-eyed, nine-fingered, 61year-old XR750 rider in the galaxy) got second.”
That I had to be told who finished ahead of me gives you some idea how far I was behind second place. But I didn’t care; getting a third was fantastic. It had been way better than riding a bicycle, maybe even better than sex. Well, on second thought... -Paul Dean
