The Crash Report; Wieners Go Moto, Lakewood, Co. 2012
The ringing phone wakes me from my grande nacho induced siesta. It’s JT and he is telling me that Team Honda is calling him to the majors and letting him rock Canards bike for the weekend in Colorado. It should go without saying that JT is in the twilight of what even a novice class vintage rider would call a mediocre racing career, but he wouldn’t lie to me, and I wouldn’t lie to you either. He tells me that he needs a suspension tuner and since I’ve been working in a suspension shop for a half a day so far I might as well go up there and show them boys how twist a clicker. Just like that we’re throwing beer, gear bags, the dog, beer, a tent, some chairs and more beer into the rally focus and headed to Colorado.
Of course we stopped at Sonic on the way out of town, ain’t no pussies on this trip. 4 rt 44 Dr Peppers in the cooler and 2 in the cup holders will do for the first day of the trip.
Now I was recently introduced to karaoke and I never knew it before, but the last 30 years have been empty and meaningless until now. I have a large collection of karaoke cd’s and as we headed towards the Kansas state line I was belting out hits like Bolton and shakin it like Jagger. JT finally cracked just north of Wichita and threw the CDs out the window. I shed a few tears and belched out a lot of curse worse watching the shimmery treasures shatter and bounce down the slow lane into the ditch.
We spend the rest of the way to Salina driving in near silence, counting down the miles to the wild wild west strip club, and the next Sonic. Mesmerized by wind farms, discussion soon turns brutal. JT ponders who has a bigger dick, Jessica Patterson or himself. I’ve seen the Adams apple on Patterson and I’m pretty sure “she” has him covered by a good 2 inches. I bring up Casa Bonita in Denver and JT spends the next half hour searching for every Southpark Casa Bonita scene on YouTube. We plan to eat dinner there and he vows to reenact every Cartman scene and jump off the water fall. Like a boss.
With the sun setting road stare is immanent and we break out the pickle jars. Because real mean can’t piss in gatorade bottles and it’s hard to hold it in after 2 rt 44 Dr Peppers. Once again the conversation turns to the WMA and we laugh hysterically at video of Balbi’s crash at Freestone while really getting into the physics and legality of Paterson’s eligibility. At this point I am confused. I haven’t seen a rock, tree or trail arrow for a long time and finally JT drops the bomb on me. We are going to a motocross race and they don’t use that stuff. Apparently the laps are so short they can just banner both sides and people pay to watch. I call BS but the wiki search proves him correct. He informs me that this is what most people refer to as a real race where people go heads up against each other. I don’t fathom why anyone would race without an odometer and a wrist watch but to each their own. He informs me that no mx rider has ever ridden with a fanny pack, and furthermore he has never even seen a straight man outside of an enduro wearing a fanny pack. I realize i have no argument because i too wear a fanny pack, and just as he predicted, i stash my cigs in there on raceday. I laugh at the harsh reality as its fitting.
JT has been driving for about 2 hours when he finally accelerates past the speed limit. The sight of the Colorado state line excites him more than free tickets to a Justin Beiber concert and he is in full scuba mode and snorkeling snot like a 4th grader. I’m itchy to the point of annoyance and I am betting that Dennis Hotson gave me fleas by now.
At 1am we roll into the pits. The man at the gate says that there is no JT Powersports race team on his list and neither is Wieners in the Woods. We peel out of there with authority and go directly across the street from the factory Suzuki rig and stake our claim. 2 men a tent and a dog. And a lot of beer that needs to be drank fast because it’s 6 point and we forgot to get ice. We settle into the tent and it’s pretty comfortable for 2 guys on a queen size air mattress, with a 30 lb dog that just sits and stares at you while you sleep.
The next morning we Got up early and realized we had gotten into the industry parking area. Right up front, large and in charge… Free. We got into the pits just in time to watch riders getting ready for their practice. JT swears he saw Paterson tuck “her” dick into “her” boot. We watched practice and visited the Dunlop tent to get our daily lecture of how inadequate we are as humans and how we butcher everything we do from our favorite Canadian.
Upon entering the Honda hospitality rig we find the new crf450, crf250l, and crf110s on display. Kind of disappointed in the their lack of preparation for our arrival and not having the bikes ready for us to ride we wander off in search of buffalo burgers and turkey legs.
Pre Motos we check out Geoff Aaron’s trials show, who by the way is hard to the core and probably has a 3rd leg for a shlong. We ooggle vintage bikes and sneak into VIP sections. JT smuggled a bottle of vodka into the redbull tent and spent an hour being fanned by the hospitality girls. I don’t have time for that, I made a date with the sunless tan people and got my spray on jersey style, like a boss.
The first wma Moto was pretty lame. 1 and 2 ran away with it and are about 20 seconds a lap slower than the leading men on 250fs. The 450 race is promising until lap 4 when Stewart proved everyone right and pretended he was getting a star on the Hollywood walk of fame. Here’s your championship plate KTM.
Upon sneaking back into the pits and hanging out by the podium, we were in utter dismay and shock to find that the riders weren’t drinking their sponsors energy drinks. Lame.
After the 450 Moto they put a hold on the race. We took shelter in the Honda hospitality rig and watched as hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of ez-ups, umbrellas, and track banners buckled like Villipoto’s knee and bitch slapped spectators during their wind blown exit from the track.
Sideways rain, 50+ mph winds and mini dust tornadoes across the track were good amusement until we decided to head for the car and more beer. My umbrella died at this point, it was destined for failure from the start as it had Harley Davidson printed on it.
Finally we get word from our Canadian friend that the 1st moto of the 250s were about to run. We bum rush Security and watch that Moto from the pits. JT decides that going to watch Stewart give an interview is a good idea and we end up getting kicked out. JT listens to security While i just keep walking like I own the place and only stop because JT starts calling me by name like we’re together or something. Back to the loser viewing positions for the second 450 moto.
Aftwards we watched the podium interviews and decided to leave before the crowds and the final 250 and hermaphrodite Motos. Of course we snuck back into the pits. Only a loser would walk all the way around the track. When we ask Dungey for his helmet, Dungey was all “dudes I’m going to Casa Bonita, come slam some beers and pound some sluts with me!” Bosses get helmets, and pick up chicks at Casa Bonita with the dunge.
On the way to our car we pass the suzuki rig, Stewart’s bike is stripped down to the frame like its about to be parted out by JT Powersports.
The smell of death in the parking lot finally makes sense when I run over at least 3 prairie dogs on the way out of the parking field on our way to Casa Bonita. After filling our bellies with 2 star Mexican food at 4 star prices and being mildly entertained at best we get completely lost inside the restaurant while reenacting southpark scenes. The Dunge never shows, maybe he showed up later, but we don’t have hired drivers and there is shit to do in Oklahoma.
The dog in the car parked next to the rally focus scares us. It is 75% pitbull and 100% eat your childrens faces off and is none to happy with our presence.
As we make an exodus from Denver, asses hanging out the window because of the toxic casa bonita fumes; JT suddenly poses a startling question. “What the fuck are we doing in Denver Colorado?!”. I offer up some explanations but the general consensus as we stare down another 10 hour drive is that we are the dumbest people that reside in the state of Oklahoma.
We pulled into Limon for gas and caffeine. I have to walk the dog and get away from JT’s screaming at the thunder game on the radio. The grassy area next to the station is filled with fresh dirtbike tracks. Either pros were practicing starts here or this is the local Moto-spode hang out. I’ll take Moto-spodes for $300 Alex.
On the return drive JT powers out the span from Limon to Salina. A nice chunk of the drive. I think he got the sweet side of the drive since it starts seriously raining about 30 minutes after I take the wheel and it doesn’t let up at all until the state line and never totally quits. I’m feeling the effects of the drives and not much sleep. The SARS JT has is starting to infect me and I think and the dog is getting alittle tired of riding in the car too.
5:35am. I roll into my driveway. You know when your night is about to be short and sucky when you get home after the birds have started chirping. The thought crosses my mind to load up my YZ and head to a hare scramble in OKC but I just can’t do it. I’m all out of hard core for the weekend