I've Been Published! Eight Years Ago Though

ESO scrambler

Back in the year 2000 I was still fooling around with vintage motocross stuff and my wanderings took me to California to shoot some pictures and do a bit of web page content for for Rick Doughty at Vintage Iron. The web page thing didn't work out well in the long run but I did get some nice pictures at the 2000 edition of the Vintage Iron World Championship races at Glen Helen Raceway. There were lots of vintage bikes and a who's who of famous Yamaha racing stars of the past where there to compete on identically prepared Yamaha YZ250 motocross bikes in the Yamaha Race of Champions.

Back then I was shooting a Nikon CoolPix 950 with a whopping 2.1 mega pixel image sensor. The 950 was and still is a nice camera although I no longer have it. Worth noting is that the little Nikon was anything but a pro quality camera and 2.1 mega pixels may not seem like much these days but I think a look at the photos does illustrate that you don't need a camera with an 80 bazillion mega pixel sensor to get decent pictures, you just need a good quality camera.

Howerton Husky

Sometime after my pictures appeared on the Vintage Iron web page I received an e-mail from the folks at White Brothers Performance, a motorcycle performance parts company in California, asking about using some of my pictures in their upcoming catalog. Shucks, if it was ok with Vintage Iron it was certainly ok with me so I sent them some higher-than-web-quality picture files for their use. Someone was supposed to send me a copy of the catalog when it came out so I could see my handiwork on the printed page but it never happened. No biggie but it would have been nice.

"Rocket Rex" Staten image shot through a chain link fence

Over the years when yakking about pictures with other photography enthusiasts I have mentioned that I had some pictures used in the White Bros. catalog. For an amateur photographer getting anything published that doesn't include nekid ladies is a rarity and a big deal. Now, as far as I knew I wasn't fibbing to anyone these past eight years; White Bros. said they were going to use the pictures but then I'd not actually ever seen the pictures in print. My dear ol' mum taught me not to lie so it was a close call for my conscience. When it got right down to it, a life of photographic obscurity meant I was willing to snarf up a tiny molecule photo geek glory while hoping I wasn't full of hot air or worse.

Fast forward to this week and I'm in my favorite bike accessory shop, the Motorcycle Accessory Shop in Mesa, AZ. MAS is a great place, even a very cool place if you know what you're looking at bike-wise. Stop in and visit and mention vintage motocross and you'll have a good time. I mentioned the White Brothers pictures to Bill, the owner of MAS, and he reckoned he might still have that 2001 catalog issue around as he is one who never throws away motorcycle related stuff. Visit his store, you'll understand. Anyway, some poking around turned up the 2001 edition of the White Brothers catalog and thereby brought me to my eight-years-in-the-making moment of truth.

A quick thumb through the pages to the vintage bike section and sure enough, there were my three photos. Semi-sadly they were attributed only to the Vintage Iron World Championships and not yours truly but I did take them for the VI folks as much as myself so I can't complain too much even if it wasn't a paid gig. As always, fame and fortune eluded me but at least I could boast now with a clear conscience. Mom probably taught me something about not boasting along with not lying but let's face it, you have to be something less than humble to start a public blog about yourself and what interests you personally.

The catalog pages are below and more of the original batch of pictures on Webshots.com. I post these at this late date eight years after the fact not because anyone accused me of stretching the truth -- Heaven forbid that I would ever do such a thing! -- rather, I simply wanted to make myself feel less guilty about almost stretching the truth a few times over the years. There are lots of stories in here the blog, most of them are still true.

Legal Ruckus

The Mighty Ruckus has left the building. For the fair and lovely Debbie and her 50cc Ruckus there will be no more midnight rides burning up the country roads surrounding our little town. No more edging ever closer to being a 1%er and blasting down another stretch of lonely highway with 'Born To Be Wild" raging from her I-Pod headphones as the Ruckus engine thunders it's menacing four stroke music at the still night. No more infuriating local farmers with a moonlight cow tipping raid. The Ruckus truly brought out Debbie's wilder, darker side. I liked it. >wink, wink, nudge, nudge<

Since Debbie got her M endorsement on her drivers license and can now Helix 250 on down the road in a sedate, almost Gold Wing-esque manner, it was time for the Ruckus to go, time for it to drag another innocent down to it's heathen, murdersickle level.

In days gone by I have sold bikes to some interesting characters including a dark, menacing, fellow who bought my Harley, paid for it all in wrinkled $20 bills, and told me he was a professional magician. "I make things disappear" he said looking me straight in the eye. Uh..yeah...ride safe...

'86 H-D FXST-C Softail Custom brought a big stack of 20's

Today the Ruckus sale hit the other end of the public spectrum; we sold it to a judge. No, not a beauty contest judge or county fair livestock judge, or even someone as lofty as a vintage bike show judge. Mark is the kind of judge who you get to see when you've transgressed in some fashion that got you noticed by da cops. I'd never had a conversation with a judge on my turf before. Interesting experience. In the course of trading greenbacks and paperwork for the Ruckus our conversation turned to you rascals out there who like to exceed the posted speed limit in some flagrant and excessive fashion and thereby wind up in court. I was shocked, shocked I tell you, to find out how fast some of you ride on public roads! (...he said glancing around watching for an incoming lightning bolt).

I cannot divulge the privileged communication between His Honor and I or anything I may have admitted to now that the statue of limitations have run out except to say that he takes a dim view of traveling at "warp factor 5" on the public roads. Dim as in dim like a poorly lit jail cell. Word to the wise: The fact that you race on the track and your sport bike is safe and stable at 135 mph will not be a winning argument in his court.

After the Ruckus left to begin it's new life on the straight and narrow path I began to ponder how to once again shuffle things around in the garage. With the way bikes come and go here at the palatial 40on2 estate I feel sometimes like my real hobby is rearranging the garage to make more room for whatever comes next or cleaning up the mess from the last adventure. This afternoon I moved the TW200 into the slot vacated by the Ruckus so once again I can walk directly through the garage and open the garage door without squeezing by anything or tearing a good shirt or pair of pants on sharp metal. Hopefully the garage will stay in it's present configuration for a while although I do have this unseemly urge to buy a clapped out Yamaha XS650 and build a bobber.

Say what?

I know, it's not a Yamaha 650

I've never built a custom bike of any sort before, it would be a new experience and who knows, I could even take up smoking unfiltered cigarettes, get a tattoo, slick back my hair, get a 60's vintage metal flake helmet, and fully embrace the raw edged bobber kulture that has emerged on the motorcycle scene in the last couple of years. It appeals to my sense of rebellion, of non-conformity, and there is no way to run at 135 mph on a hard tail bobber as my spine and kidneys would disintegrate long before that speed was reached.

Debbie was going to spend the Ruckus money on motorhome stuff but the money is just sitting there on the counter tonight gathering dust and I saw a Yamaha 650 on Craig'sList the other day. A real bad boy would go for it and hope for forgiveness later or maybe just laugh a careless, devil-may-care laugh and take off down the highway on his new bobber to go tip cows or whatever it is that wild men do these days.

Kit Carson Park Scrambles Race - 1969

Really turned up the dial my personal "Way-Back Machine" with this bit of film.

I was in my senior year of high school at Orange Glen High School in Escondido, California and mad for motorcycles, probably much more than I am now. I belonged to one of those Rotary Club sponsored student clubs at school. As a charitable activity for the school club I suggested that we work with the Brush Barons Motorcycle Club to put on a scrambles race at large, undeveloped piece of land south of town. The land, already known as Kit Carson Park, was to become a developed city park eventually. Cool idea, Doug! Way better than a Saturday car wash! From hanging around motorcycle shops I already knew some guys in the Brush Barons and I tossed the race idea to them and they in turn sold it to the City Council as a fund raiser for the first playground slated to be built at the park. Off we went.

The Brush Barons would do the organization and run the race, of course, and our school club members would act as corner workers and such. It was all a grand plan except for the part where I neglected to clear any of this with the school officials. Did not even occur to me to do that. It was all about doing a good deed and who could find fault with that?

When news of the race made it into the local paper as "When 200 motorcyclists roar into town..." I got yanked to the high school Principal's office, which was not familiar territory for me, and was told in no uncertain terms that the school club would immediately disassociate itself from the event. Our dear school principal, Mr. R., who probably knew little of motorcycles beyond watching the old Marlon Brando movie "The Wild One", really thought that two hundred men were going to ride their bikes into our little town of Escondido and hold a motorcycle race. Shades of the Hollister Massacre!

"When we're done here, boys, we'll hit Escondido next!"

Nothing I could say to Mr. R. about expensive and specialized racing bikes, the American Motorcycle Association, AMA sanctioned motorcycle clubs, or raising money for charity made any difference. Orange Glen High School would not be associated with possible the sacking and pillaging of the city by a motorcycle club, period. I was devastated to find my hopes and plans cast in the worst possible light. Not the last time that would happen in my life, either.

So officially our school club was out but I and all my fellow members still showed up on race day and did our job as corner workers and we had a blast! It was a hundred times better and louder and less responsible than a stupid car wash!

It was a fine motorcycle event with an interesting course that had some super sticky water crossings and fast flat hard pack dirt sections. The race had a great turn out of riders and spectators too. One Escondido City Councilman at the race was heard to say "This is great!! We need more events like this!" Of course that never came to be; the Kit Carson Park scrambles race was arranged as a one time only deal and it stayed that way.

On their way to do who knows what evil deeds!

A month or so later when the bills from the race were paid the Brush Barons went to the next city council meeting and presented the Council with a check for $500, not a small amount in those days, in fact equal to a month's pay for lots of folks. The Council was astonished at the amount and one member told the Brush Barons club president after the meeting "We thought you guys were going to show up and give us fifty bucks!"

In due course the kids playground was built and a plaque was put up noting all the civic groups that donated money to the building of the playground. There was no mention of the Brush Barons M/C or the 200 riders who had roared into to town to hold a motorcycle race and raise some money for little kids.

Typical uptight "citizen" that he was, the school Principal never called me back into his office and said "Oops, sorry. You were right." Or maybe I wasn't right? Maybe I should have asked for permission first but I have always understood from that time on that motorcyclists, regardless of who we were, what type of bike we rode, or what we did, would always be outside the mainstream just a little and sometimes a lot. After forty years I prefer it that way. And I have learned, as the old say goes "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission."

Here ya go:

1969 Kit Carson Park European Scrambles Race, Escondido, CA