Cycle News - Archive Issues - 1970's

up until now... " and headed south on Hwy. 17. Re-reading th e directions every five miles, I finally found the turnoff and began to wind my way back into the beautiful, evergreen hills. Names and directions began falling into place and I soon stopped in Iront of a pillared home stashed on the side of a mountain, hoping this was my destination. I rattled the front door and peered inside. "John's here!" yelled Patty as her glance found mine. Somewhere inside I heard Bob's voice, "Hey, Cycle News!" A few left-overs from Thanksgiving dinner and Bob and I were comfortably dabbing into idle conversation. A beautifully warm trre was blazing in the fireplace when the phone rang. It was John Preston, Bob's tuner. "Yeh, ok, in 20 minutes," and he hung up. "Got to go into town", Bob told Patty as he slipped on a heavy shirt. "John's got the bike set up and he wants to test it." As quickly as I had gotten settled on the couch, I just as quickly got unsettled and found myself in Bob's van heading for Santa Cruz. get a chance to say so as Bob laughed out loud and pointed me toward a bumper sticker on the car ahead: '.'Honk if you love Jesus..... "I couldn't figure out why she (the driver) smiled when I honked, that's funny," and Bob ,left the subject and pulled in to Moore's Penton Shop. John Preston (Pres) wasn't around. We mingled about the small, gas station/motorcycle shop waiting. Bob's action pictures were scattered about the shop's walls interspersed with posters of by-gone races and stars. A little bench-racing developed as most of the loiterers apparently knew Bob. Pres fIDalIy showed up and we loaded into his van and headed for Matt Falconer's "private" course to test the Husky. Bob snuck into the rear of the van and began changing into his practice clothes as Preston cruised the Santa Cruz streets. "The place is neat," Bob clued as his heavy, blue shirt slipped over his head. "How's your knee?" John asked. "Feels good." It was a rocky road once we reached "It takes a bit longer if you go that way," he said as we passed th e turnoff I used to get to his home. "It's only about 20 minutes this way." SLIDE AREA, the sign read. A little further on was another one which read ROUGH ROAD. "Good for motocross," Bob mused as his underpowered VW van buzzed through the turns. "You have your own motocross course into town," I jokinl(ly viewed. "Yeh, this is kinda neat. Back near 'home, we've got some great trails. I go trail riding with several of the guys back up into the mountains. Hey, they go fast, 40 miles, through narrow little trails. They got the trails wired but it keeps me in shape and pushes me. J haven't gotten to the top of the mountain yet, whew, it's a long way to ,the top." . Bob backed off the gas pedal as we hit town. HONK, HONK. ''That was "Billy and Dad. Did you see 'em back -'there?" Bob asked. I hadn't but I didn't the "track" entrance. Stopped, John and Bob went to work professionally, removing the bike immediately. Several weekenders were touring the course but when Bob fired up his Husky, the track had mysteriously cleared. He dropped her into gear and thundered off. It is amazing how such a quiet and often somewhat shy person like Bob could look so demanding and forceful once on a machine. He blasted over the parts of the course the others rode like a trials. He flew off the jump with tremendous speed and control. He was back in shape and wailing. r or 20 minutes he cooked the course and wowed his audience of a dozen persons. Even John, who I hadn't seen smile twice since I had met him at Hopetown two weeks earlier, was fighting to keep a solemn face. My camera shutter was blinking as Bob came off that high-speed drop-off. "Hey, did you see him cross up there?" one onlooker excitedly asked. In recent years, you very seldom see Bob crossed up in competition although he says he used to do it a lot in scrambles. One could tell he was having fun. If he hadn't had a rock guard on his mouth he'd have bugs on his teeth. Twenty minutes don't last long when you're having fun so when Bob pulled up with an ear·to-ear grin, he asked John if he could go again. Quiet Preston didn't answer, he had already spotted a sligh t malfunction. I snapped a few shots as the pair worked on the bike and Bob, aware of my presence, closed up and produced a frown. "To keep up the image," I imagined him saying. With the problem corrected, Bob got his second chance and he took it willingly. Twice around the righ t way and he deviated from the track and u-turned. "I was gonna smoke that sweeper," he later recalled. Then he saw it; a hump which was a smooth jump going the right way, was suddenly a foot high wall in the other. He hit it straight on. "I thought I saved it. Really. Hey, wasn't that a neat endo? That's the best crash I've ever had." . - ... '" - "BOB'S DOWN!" came the first shout. The small gathering scurried through the knee high brush to where Bob had struggled to his knees before plopping back down on his back. His Husky laid a few feet away, a jarred mess. "Earthy," Bob said while forcing a smile. "Wasn't that an earthy crash?" He tried to sit up but again fell back. "Did you get a picture of that?" I fumbled with my camera and mentioned I hadn't. The smile evaporated and Bob gave a short moan. "Why me not now, DAMN IT, NO! Not now " ~ w Z W ..J U . . .. . The phone rang. "Maybe it's results," Bob said as he gingerly made it to his feet and over to the phone. Billy had crashed during practice again and had hurt his ankle, but we didn't know how seriously ..."kind of like shades of Mammoth Mountain .. was the way Karl Wealey put, it. "He's ok, just a bad sprain." A bit of the tension was relieved. Mark Blackwell, who had arrived for the weekend the night before, was typically quiet. The crackle of the fire would, it seems, drown out their voices whenev~r either spoke. Bob had had a sleepless \"light and he returned to the couch and half-dozed off. He glanced at his arm and then at me and smiled. "The only thing left in shape is my righ t leg!" UDon't worry, that's going soon, too," came a reply from one of his friends. "Yeh," Bob smiled in return, HEarthy." Bob's favorite word used to be "stoked" until Tom Rockwood was up in the area a few weeks earlier. "That's all he said. He went around saying everything was "Earthy, man, earthy." Mark and Bob picked it up and have gotten into a little contest to see who could get the word spread about frrst. Hit's a North vs. South thing," explains Grossi. The baby, laying on the floor in front of the fire began to cry. "He's having a bad nightmare," said Bob. "He's dreaming Joel Robert just passed him." Bob was taking his pligh t in stride, now. He had experience at it. We had talked several months earlier when he was still recuperating from his last accident and he told me of how he felt then. "It's like a' vacation. The Swedes take time off every year and don't ride they just go skiing. That's how I look at it. It has given me time to get my head straigh t." . "I wanted so much to go to Europe. I'd been there once' but. didn't do too well. Everything was going great until that crash. I really don't know what happened. I was going through the pack trying to make up time when this guy in front of me starts getting all squirrelly. I don't know if it was a different bike or what, but I know I should have moved over but I didn't,have time. I don't even know how my hand got all cut up; someone said_ that they thought I had BeST OF BOTH WORLDS of racing: Dick Mann and Bob Grossi at Carnegie Cycle Park's recent Trans-AMA. gotten it stuck in the spokes. But, all I remember was looking down at my hand and seeing the blood and saying to myself, 'I don't want to die, here; I don't want to die!' I was really scared so I just started running 'cause I didn't want to die." Now, Bob was inactive again, but he wasn't crying aloud or becoming bitter. He was just upset that it had happened. "Bob has really been lucky up to now," Preston says. "I remember several years ago down at Saddleback when Bob was coming down the hill and got into a wobble and high-sided. The whole damn pack seemed to run over him and he just bounced up and wasn't hurt." What's he going to do now? "Plan for '72, I guess. If I can get back into shape, I may be' going over to Europe with Mark to ride the Grand Prix circuit. That's all up in the air right now, l)ut if I can get into shape, then maybe I can go." > U CROSSING UP. Bob says he doesn't do it nowadays in competition and if you've ever tried getting a shot of him doing it you'll know he's right. He flatly stated recently that he believes America can have a World Motocross Champion "in about four years...and I'd like to be the first." At the time of his frrst accident, he believed he was about nine months ahead of his fellow Yanks. Bis forced layoffs . are allowing them to catch up, but he still beats most of them. "If I'm going to win the championship, I figure I'll have to do it before I'm 25. After that, if I haven't done it, then I don't think I ever will. I'll stick to racing but only on a local level. " John DeSoto candidly remarked once about Grossi's style and ability. "Bob isn't the fastest man on a motocross track, but he's the quickest around it. He knows how to spot lines and how to get better ones. I thought he was great the first time I ever saw him when he was riding scrambles." Coming from DeSoto, that's praise. Perhaps Bob's link with continued success is the reliability of his "trusty Husky." In 1970, for example, Bob recalls having mechanical failure only twice - the entire year. That's an immediate edge on the rest of the competition whenever he straddles his machine. Another reason may be his insistence to remain with Husky. "Edison Dye has been good to me. I've got the parts when I need them. Really, it's been a good setup. John Preston is one of the best Husky mechanics you'll find. Pres is the best, really." Bob Grossi has quite a few friends and only a few enemies, "On the track, I don't think I have any enemies. I don't ride that way. I want to win, I'm gonna win, I gotta win. But I try and not make ·enemies. " Many of his friends drop by, even when Bob is out of competition. The nigh t of his most recent crash, at least two dozen friends dropped by to see Bob and just talk. The mood was mellow the entire weekend after the incident, just the way Bob likes it. We went out on the sun porch that the sun seldom, if ever, finds below the high trees. Bob sat down in a thick-strawed chair and tipped it back and leaned against the house. "It's so quiet up here," he said softly, as usual. Then he bellowed out a "Yyeeehhoww" and the echo thundered up through the mountain's valley. It must have felt good because Bob- got a wide grin and relaxed. "Shirley Temple Black lives right over there," he said poin ting toward a sun-bleached wooden house about a hundred yards away. "Every once in awhile she gets out there and sunbathes ...reallyearthy." In his own way, Bob is at the hOme he loves to call home. The day is clear and the air fresh and the silence somewhat deafening. An occasional car slips by down below on the narrow road and disappears around the bend. ''That road leads all the way to the top of the mountain," Bob reflects. "I've never been to the top of the mountain, but I'm gonna get there...someday."

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