Scrambles

Many of you have never heard the term, but Scrambles was my first try at organized (sort of) motorcycle racing. Back in the mid-60's the tiny town of Pinehurst Idaho held a Scrambles race most Saturday afternoons. We couldn't do it on Sunday because Smelterville held the Hillclimb on Sunday. You did not need to join anything, or sign anything; all you had to do was show up. There were two classes, 250cc and below, and the open class. I finally wore my dad down and he let me enter. He rode the Yamaha 100 Twin, (yes, it was street legal, from our house to the "track"). Mom hauled all of us kids, dogs, and beer in the Scout.

The riders meeting was total chaos with kids chasing dogs, dogs chasing kids, and moms swatting kids, but essentially the rules were simple. Cross the hayfield, hit the old skid trail into the woods, ride the ridge to the top and back down the draw to the hayfield and the finish line. 5 times. The tricky part was staying on the right side of the ribbons across the field so that fast and slow riders were not racing head on. The riders ranged in age from 7 to 70. Just to make it interesting, sporting, or perhaps more deadly, anyone over 16 started in a second row, facing the wrong way with engines off.

There were perhaps 10 of us under 16 and twice that many over 16. So, we young'uns lined up, sort of, behind a rope held by two volunteers who would drop the rope on signal from the starter. Fathers scurried up and down the line, making last minute checks to see if a kids bike was running, dogs darted across the field, I saw the rope twitch and all hell broke loose. Being on the outside of the front row, when I prematurely popped the clutch, the guy holding the rope was yanked into my bike because he had the rope wound around his hand and it was now between my fender and front tire. I fell down, he fell down, the kid beside me fell down, most of the rest tore across the field while the starter yelled "WAIT, WAIT, GODDAMNIT WAIT!!!!!!!".

They managed to get the kids back in line, Dad picked up me and the bike, the rope holder glared at me, Dad put the left side mirror in his pocket and said , "Give 'em hell, kid". I stood on tiptoe revving the 2 stroke, teeth clenched in grim determination.

The flag dropped, the rope holder beside me threw his end of the rope and ran backward. Bikes rocketed from the line, I stood on tiptoe revving the 2 stroke, mouth open in confusion because the bike wasn't moving. As the first of the senior riders whipped past me, I slammed the bike into first gear. In retrospect, I should have used the clutch, this would have given me a bit more control but with the throttle wide open and no clutch engaged, the Yamaha launched upward like a missile, my death grip on the handlebars giving it a pivot point as it stood up, twirled to my right and chased the rope holder into the crowd of lawn chairs, beer coolers and spectators scrambling for their lives. The rope holder shrieked as he grabbed the handlebars from the opposite side, tripped over a cooler and held on to wrestle the bike to the ground.

I pushed the helmet up off my eyes in time to see Dad put down his beer and lift the bike off the hysterical rope guy. He set the bike upright, pointed it across the hayfield, kicked it into life, stepped off and leaned the bike toward me. "Give 'em hell, kid", he said as I crawled back on. The other riders were disappearing in a cloud of blue smoke as I roared onto the field, clinging to that bike for dear life. Halfway across the field, I speed shifted into 3rd, holding the throttle wide open with my right hand, trying to push the helmet up off my eyes with my left just in time to see a small creek disappear beneath the front wheel. The front wheel cleared the ditch but the rear hit hard, catapulting me over the bars and the bike tumbled backward into the 3 foot deep ditch. I rolled and then scrambled back to my feet, pushing the helmet back, looking for the bike, finally spotting it in the water. I squirted into the creek to find the bike mostly upright, leaning against the bank enough that I could right it and jump on the kickstart. It fired and I popped it into gear, moving down the creek looking for an exit.

The helmet bounced up in time for me to spot a shallow bank and I turned hard right, flogging that engine as hard as a 9 year old could. I felt the front tire loft and then I was in the field, throttle wide open, speed shifting, pushing the helmet up with my left hand, grinning as the ribbons flashed by on my right! ON MY RIGHT?????? This is probably the first time in my riding career, though certainly not the last, that I remember thinking, "Oh shit, this is gonna hurt!"

The leading riders were returning across the hayfield, mere yards away, aimed directly at me! I could see the grin of the lead rider turn to a grimace as he realized he was playing chicken with a 9 year old with absolutely nothing left to lose, least of all my dignity. He hurled his bike sideways, slamming into the front wheel of his nearest follower as I tried to pull myself up on to the seat enough to roll my right wrist forward and SLOW THIS DAMNED THING DOWN. I leaned hard right, trying to get back on my side of the field as the thundering herd began to gather around me, metal screaming as riders gaped at the mud covered apparition cutting across their bows. Alas, my side of the field was no sanctuary as many of the riders detoured to avoid the growing pile of twisted metal. Motorcycles were flung to the side as riders dove into the dirt and at last I had a clear shot to the end of the field and the skid road.

I roared from the scene of the battle into the coolness of the jackpines, bouncing from kelly hump to kelly hump, juggling my helmet. The little two-stroke screamed as I gave it no mercy, twisting and turning, jumping, not with grace, but shear desperation as I topped the hill and turned downward toward the hayfield. A long straight beaverslide led into the field, allowing me to hit 4th gear and the helmet bounced upward enough so that I could see the speedometer needle twitching spasmodically over the 60. I screamed across the field, catching glimpses of men and machines lying about, as if resting from a day spent bucking hay bales. I downshifted hard as I saw the Ford pickup that was the turn at the end of the field, sliding up toward the tank, blipping the throttle, hitting the brakes hard, preparing to powerslide around and begin my second lap.

I blame the crash on my helmet. I truly believe that if I could have actually seen where I was going that I would have slowed sufficiently to make the turn. I went into that slide a bit hot. Around the back of the Ford I was in good shape, but it began drifting on me. I rolled on the throttle to straighten the bike and pull me out of the slide. I might have used a bit too much throttle. The Yamaha began to scream. So did the spectators.

The first beer cooler exploded in a shower of ice and glass as bottles were hurled into the air. An aluminum lawn chair crumpled as an over-sized lady threw herself backward. The back wheel slid out more and I knew I was going down. I blame the dog for the highside that followed although I can understand his inability to flee. He was blinded by beer; his tail was trapped beneath the fat woman and the lawn chair. The rear wheel struck him, the bike flipped and I flew through the air.

As I sat up amid the moaning aftermath and pushed the helmet up off my eyes, I could see the rope guy glaring at me and hear my father's drawl, "You gave 'em hell, kid".



July 31, 2007