Cycle News - Archive Issues - 1970's

i o ... ... .... - Q) ID gi « ~ w Z W ..J U > U (Go lit 'd. from page 8) and nostalgic as hell! Who can forget such epic battles as Springfield '66, with Ralph White edging ou t Bart Markel for the win by only half a wheel and Gary Nixon a mere bike Iengrh back in third after fifty miles of racing. Then there was Sacramento '68, when Fred Nix caught Sammy Tanner righ t at the line to complete his grand slam and end Tanner's hope of becoming the first man to win the Sacramento mile two years in a row; and again Sacramen to '69, when Mann, Romero, Rice and Palmgren wen t the en tire distance tucked beneath the proverbial blanket. Few can· top the dramatics of the following year, Sacramento '70, as the poin t race came down to a battle between Rice and Romero, only to have Rice crash spectacularly at the end of his heat race. He came back to ride the main with a badly broken nose, and who will ever forget that dramatic moment as Rice, being lapped by Romero, waved his fellow competitor on and watched his chances for the number one plate vanish. N ow the San Jose race will go down in history books as continuing in the same tradition with a last tum victory by Rice over Roberts after four different riders had a solid go at the lead. Adding to the incredible list of individual performances turned in on the mile was the fact that Rice rode over half the race with a shoulder separation, an injury incurred when he clipped a guard rail post! Dirt tracking, as we have come to know it, has its roots firmly fixed in the IS THE lAY IT IS! Telling you about Chain Spray won't prove a thing. But you can prove to yourself that Power Slide® won't melt, fly off, squeeze out, drip or run. Seals out dirt! Seals lubricant in! A new concept in non-melting chain lube that works. Ask your dealer if he doesn't know about it tell hi m! MANUFACTURER TORCO OIL COMPANY 12247 Lakeland Road Santa Fe Springs, California 90670 CUSTOM MADE MOTORCYCLE OILS SINCE 1950 REGISTERED [MTcI MEMBER history and tradition of the sport as it blossomed with a growing nation, a nation enthusiastic with life and hungry for challenge. But it didn't come easy for those early pioneers of motorcycling. While across the wide pond the governing authorities allowed the city streets to be blocked off for the staging of races, the town councils stateside were being swamped under a deluge oj protesting citizens who feared for their daugh ter's virtue. The bastions of civic pride reacted by formulating the first anti-motorcycle legislation and banished the first prospective two-wheeled champions from the streets and onto the dirt tracks of the county fairgrounds. Thus, the mold was set early for a diverging path of development, away from the dominating influences of European traditions, for a sport as unique and distinctly American as baseball, free enterprise and mom's apple pie. Today, partly as a result of that early split, we have two major contrasting theaters of racing. The Europeans have remained on the pavement and the Continental Circus flourishes with its delicate, exotic machinery, international flavor and social accent. In our own backyard, we have the AMA's Grand National Championship circuit with its own particular brand of racing, a demanding, rough and tumble business, bared to the essence, and no frills added - or so it has been until recent. Over the years, Americans have considerable poking and received jabbing from our more "sophisticated" brethern about our "lack of said sophistication" and our preoccupation with the crude fundamentals of dirt track racing. But then they never could get use to the idea of shooting from behind trees either. The AMA, now beginning to falter under the pressure of maintaining its image, has decided there just might be more to all this than a severe case of pavement rash and is curren t1y instituting a steadily expanding program to in troduce the American race goer to the streamlined world of road racing. Not being satisfied with a gradual face lifting, the AMA has countered the bantering with an all-out program worthy of the best corporate advances, an "anything you can do, I can do better" effort which has jetted us into the surrealistic age of the SUPER SPEEDWAY immense, steeply banked racing plants which humble men and machines streaking around these paragons of speed at an incredible rate, hitting straightaway speeds of 170 mph! and sticking to the banked turns like flies in a salad bowl as suspensions bottom under the crushing G-Ioad. Everything is there, the money, the famous names and the carnival atmosphere, all done up in a manner of spectucular pagentry, and the fans come. They come by the thousands to see the sideshows, the dealer displays and "The Big Race", drawn like moths to the candle's flame. Come race day, the fan joins the streams of humanity as it is sucked into the cavernous bowls of speedway and he immediately gets caugh t up in the enthusiasm generated by the masses gathering. The tension begins to build as the coun tdown approaches. The man on the PA system begins the rundown on a list of names which reads like the Who's Who of contemporary racing and the fan strives for a glimpse of his favorite hero but finds a facade of concrete walls, cyclone fences and an army of security police. A sharp pain in his side tells him something is wrong, that somewhere along the way the colors were changed and this somehow isn't what he expected. The sigh ts, sounds, and smells become strange and distorted as faces and names are 'blurred by the whirling kaleidoscope of activity. The coun t down starts and his senses are crushed beneath the intensity of the moment. The crescendo of racing machines reaches (or a climax as the clock ticks away, then suddenly the race is on; au that we have waited for erupts in a cloud of smoke and rubber. But just as quickly, silence descends upon a barren scene; the fan stands alone in the empty stands. A foloed program and mu tilated ticket stub tell him he was there, but why? The man on the PA told of 170 plus speeds and a tall monolithic infield structure with glowing ligh ts indicated which number was leading, and somewhere along the way he heard that so and so pulled off in turn eight or nine, trouble undisclosed. He was there, alrigh t, or why would he remember. But, then, what does he remember? Where were the men, the familiar faces and identities with whom he had come to associate? Who were these strangers hidden beneath the cloak of factory teams and product endorsements? What happened to the kind of racing the fan had come to understand, the kind of racing that allows the fan to reach out and touch hi~ hero or catch an acknowledging smile? Unfortunately this story is true. Unfortunate, not because of the appearance of big time road racing, but because of what what it is costing us. The transition to pavemen t as the major form racing in the country seems inevitable if the AMA continues its curren t program. Road racing spells big money no matter how you look at it, and the purse strings control the show. Time generates change. So, too, does it allow us to pause and enjoy a momen ts passing. We can reflect for that moment upon the past, and with a little effort try to hold onto what we have until the very end. The Mile must inevitably fade from the scene as even the strongest traditions weaken under the accelerated pace of a modem society motivated by change. But until it does, "The Mile" will continue to provide the ultimate test oj a man and his machine in the best tradition of American dirt-track racing, continuing to secure the bond between the racers and their following. "The Magic Mile", dirt.tracking at its rmest drama, excitment and thrills, molded together by time, sprinkled with such greats as Bart Markel, J De Leonard, Carrol Resweber and Fred Nix, stirred by the young lions of today to produce the greatest racing in the. sport. And now, the Homewood Mile.

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