Ron recounts one of his early desert race days through relentless dust and scorching heat while en route to international competition.
Palmdale, California, the middle of the Mojave Desert at the Prospector Desert Race. It’s nine o’clock on a February morning in the winter of 1970, and the intense southern sun is just beginning its ascent into the deep blue sky. They say it’s a dry heat, but it still burns through my jersey. My thighs sizzle inside my leather pants. I try to relax, but my palms are sweaty and tense as I grip the handlebars in anticipation. Every nerve ending is on fire with the connection between eye and limb, in harmony, awaiting that moment when the vying of one man with another will culminate in a resounding explosion of sound and a collision of energies. It is another of those precious memories – moments in the past, never to be forgotten. One hundred percent focus is the order of the day.
I quickly glance left and then right, muscles taut in anticipation. As far as I can see in both directions, men stand beside silent motorcycles, waiting for the moment. I wonder if they all feel what I feel, and again I wrestle my senses back to the present. I must focus on that man standing in the back of a pickup truck a mile away, beside the oily black smoke rising into the crystal-clear morning air, holding an American flag to signal the start. I zero in on the man with the flag, trying to catch the slightest movement to give me an edge over the competition.
Suddenly the arm moves slightly, and before the flag waves completely, I’m mounted and kick-starting my stock Jawa CZ motocross bike. The engine responds, sucking a gulp of high-test gas through its side-float Jikov carburetor and roaring to life. I leap aboard, jam it into first gear and release the clutch, all in a single, fluid motion. The huge knobby rear tire bores a deep groove into the hard gravel desert floor as I lean my chest over the handlebars to stay on that razor edge between maximum traction and wheel standing. Like a man on a tightrope, I balance on the edge and shift up, clutchless, through the gears until I’m in top gear. My experience riding in the green forests of Ontario provides no advantage here. With the throttle twisted full on, I careen in death-defying, reckless abandon across the desert, shifting my weight from one foot peg to the other, weaving left and right, avoiding the death-trap sagebrush and Joshua trees that grow everywhere.
With only one rider ahead of me, I follow the telltale white ribbon markers that show me I’m on the course. I slide sideways around a left-hander and accelerate toward a series of lime lines across the trail, indicating danger ahead. I have 998 riders behind me and one ahead as I launch the bike into a dry riverbed. I make a sharp turn in the riverbed, right into the fallen motorcycle of the number-one desert racer, Whitey Martino. Almost on top of him, I have to wait until he picks his bike up before I can get by. A precious lost moment, as in my peripheral vision I can see far too many riders blazing by. Of all things, he yells an apology for blocking my way. What etiquette, Whitey! What a way to start my first desert race!
By now I’m in the middle of a dustbowl with only one way out: ride like hell to get the lead back again. Accelerating hard, I take foolhardy chances, riding blind in the dust and dirt, only able to see a few feet in front of me, when suddenly and without warning, I’m over the handlebars, hurtling through the air, not knowing which body part is going to make contact with Mother Earth first. My life passes before me, and I hope upon hope that this won’t hurt too much. The air in my lungs gushes out, leaving me breathless as I slam into a huge rock, landing right in the middle of my back, where my kidney belt provides minimal cushioning.
I gingerly get to my feet, dust myself off, and check to see that all my body parts are where they are supposed to be and functioning properly. It’s a miracle, but it seems that nothing is broken on the bike or on me. This must be what it feels like to be in the eye of a tornado: I’m surrounded by a cyclone of swirling dust, so I stay behind the rock, my zone of safety against the onslaught of hundreds more racers. One kick and the bike starts, and off I go again, this time determined that discretion is the better part of valour. It is always better to finish in one piece than to go out in flames of glory.
Striking off at a more sane speed, I methodically pick off one rider at a time while assessing my battered and bruised body along the way. I inherited a high tolerance for pain, and the adrenalin rush does its bit for me, too. Although the CZ is a great motocross bike, it has many serious shortfalls when it comes to desert racing. One is the rigid foot pegs, which before the day is out, will be my enemy.
The route takes me up dry riverbeds and across sandy wastelands, with the desert’s mountains looming in the distance. Steep, rocky inclines are littered with riders who had failed to approach with gusto. Their timidity has left them scattered about by virtue of gravity and a lack of traction. They slide unceremoniously downward to their demise. Under full power, I stand on my foot pegs, which are now quite bent from bouncing off of unseen rocks. They dig into the soles of my boots as I move my feet on them to spread the pain. I easily pass several riders and grind mercilessly onward. With little room to pass, I finally reach the summit. I follow the single-track trail along the ridge of the mountain. The route is easy to follow when I’m not in first place. Suddenly the trail bears right, and I’m skidding left and sliding downward. Bouncing off rocks with the back wheel locked, I try to stay within the confines of the trail.
Parked vehicles come into view in the distance, and I see my friends, Peter and Tom, waving frantically at me to stop. Gas cans in hand, they fill the bike and give me a drink of much-needed water. By now the temperature is in the mid-nineties as I accelerate off into the lonely world of my desert race. The riders have spread out now, and running along at full speed, sweeping left and right, much time is spent quite alone. Passing the occasional rider, I see that many have fallen by the wayside, their proud ambitions dashed by the unequalled demands of the desert and this strength-sapping test pitting man and machine against nature.
My rigid foot pegs are now pointing upward at a 45-degree angle. I try to move my boots to a new spot, only to have them slip back again into the corresponding holes in my soles. My feet are hurting from standing on the upward-facing pegs, but I grind on, invoking that high pain tolerance and the need to finish the race. I cannot – must not – be just “that Canadian,” another also-ran. This race and my finish position is not just for me: my Canadian pride is at stake and no matter the hurt, I must finish.
I crest a large hill, and below, I see line upon line of waiting vehicles: The finish is in sight. Passing a few more slower riders, I stop at the official finish line and my number is duly noted. Fifty-seventh, they say.
All things considered, not a bad day for my first desert race. That means that 943 riders finished behind me – or not at all. My aching feet thank me as I remove my ruined boots and Peter hammers my foot pegs back into their original positions.
It has been a great day, one I shall never forget. I came; I saw; I conquered. Well – almost, anyway. Not bad for a young man from the green forests of Ontario.
