Cycle News - Archive Issues - 1970's

I NORTHERN DATELINE e The Oregon "D8y After" WlIS f8m11y fun In the purest form. The time tunnel••• Oregon's "Day After" fun trial By lane Campbell DEXTER, OR, SEPT. 2 Actually, the dateline should be "Somewhere in Oregon." Dexter is just the closest town; and this is more of a "people and places" . 44 travelogue than an organized event report. You see, I was having too much fun to be a "proper" working correspondent. I boogied straight from the Boeing factory gate in Seattle, south for uncharted regions of Oregon. Van was pre-loaded with dry duds, chilled munchies, bike, reserve petrol, and camping gear. Eight hours later, I was turning off 1-5 south of Eugene, fumbling for the small scrap of paper with Bud My1erberg's verbal directions scribbled on it. Up Hwy. 58, past Dexter, alongside the reservoir, all Bud's directions were falling in place; except I'd not yet seen any sign of a trials in progress. I was beginning to think I'd somehow overshot the site, when I glimpsed, in passing, a tiny sign on the right that said "National." I whipped the 01' van around and came back for a second, slower look. Sure enough, the little sign said "National;" and its little arrow pointed up a gravel· paved hole in the surrounding greenery. I nosed 'my cautious way up, coming to a fork in the road and another little sign that said "National." This one pointed down a steep gravelly slope through the trees, with daylight out ahead. Sure enough, after slithering to the bottom, we (van and I) emerged in a narrow meadow - and there was the trials campsite. Lord, I thought, I've been transported back in time. I couJdn't 3 7'7 PI F help recalling an even older van, nearly 10 yean ago, triala-hunting in central Illinois. We nearly missed this one tiny sign that said "trial;" followed it and its cousins for miles up a rutted din road; and discovered a hound dog trial in progress. We found the motorcycle trial on the llecond try. But this was 1979, and this was truly the Oregon National round which has to rank. as the most laid-back National on the circuit. So, I unlimbered my TY250, strapped on my camera case, and went off to join the fun - which had just staned, as the last riden were into Trap One on their fint loop. Hey, this was 01' fashioned woods riding like I remembered from Iowa (only more rocks) - lotsa mud, slick roots, little creeks with mud banks and stony bottoms, tires packing up with goo and wanting to go every which way but straight, feet flailing, huffing and puffmg. It took all day for the old tricks to start coming !Jack; things like rolling through standing water at every opportunity to clean the tires off, keeping some revs up and letting the flywheel effect do the work, favoring rocks over dirt for traction even' though they look nastier. By day's end I was winded, covered with mud, and happier than I'd been for yean. I kept running into one tall, shavenheaded fella with a big movie camera in my travels. It turned out he was Jim Gillette, owner of the 400-acre trials site. After the National, he dropped by my van and invited me to stick around for their club fun trial the next day. Now I'd planned to charcoal my steak, catch a short nap, and split for home to write the National story at leisure. However, Jim was insistent. "Besides," he said with an evil leer and an eye to the renewed rainfall, "you'll never get that thing up the hill tonight." "That thing" was my nose-heavy '67 Chevy van that has precious little directional control and even less traction in Oregon' mud. I knew he had me. I was getting the itch and Gillette was reeling me in... "The' Novice llections are going to be easy, but fun. You'll love it." A word about Jim Gillette. Apparently, he'd had long hair until recently. The shaved dome came from a lost bet (no further details forthcoming ... ). Either way, Gillette was an imposing fi~re, standing well over six feet and ridIDg a Honda TL250 like . it was a kid's toy. He bought into a BMW franchise yean back, when nobody wanted it; grew prosperous, staned a family (two boys), sold the bike shop at just the right time, and bought land. Lots of land, which he is slowly cultivating for all-around motorcycle use. He's also got this dog named Brindle. She's about 15 years old, stands barely ankle high, looks to be pan Boston bull and part Heinz 57. I didn't know she existed until Sunday moming, as I was strolling the camp with Gillette, who was in the process of waking people up. (He has steel-belted lungs hooked up to a voice box salvaged from a steam calliope. Likes to sound off like Tarzan. When he hollers "E-ah·ee·ah·eahl Rider's meetingl," people show up from the next county, rubbing their eyes and mumbling, "Rider's meeting? What rider's meeting?") Anyway, my first notice of Brindle was when something hit my ankle a resounding whack, followed by a muttering growl. I looked dow.n, and there was this short little dog, who had just spit a rather hefty stick at my FE'? ankle and was growling at me. Since I seemed slow on the uptake, she picked up the stick, spit it at me again, and growled more insistently. I was not being invited, I was being commanded to throw the stick for her. I said, "OK, dog," and heaved the stick as far into the deep woods as I could chunk. it. Figured she'd wear herself out just trying to fmd it. No way. In seconds she was back, head high, proudly carrying the stick, which was nearly as big around as her head, and longer than she was. Jim, who had been watching with a kind of sloppy grin, told me, "You'll just waste your time with those little ones. For Brindle, you need a proper stick." He hefted up a five-foot tree branch, balanced it like a javelin, and chucked it into the woods. It bounced off a tree some 20 feet up, and fell to the ground. Brindle was already there, waiting for it to land. "Shucks I was hoping it'd stick up there," Jim was shaking his head. Sure enough, the challenge had proven inadequate. Within lleconds. here came Brindle, threading the long branch between the tree trunks. When she reached clear ground, she found a balance point on that branch, grabbed it, hefted it clear off the ground, and pranced up to our feet with it. She was obviously proud of this one, for she was reluctant to let it go. Jim played tug-of-war gently at fIrst, then finally picked the branch up full height. There was Brindle, still hanging from it by her jaws, growling. One of the visiting riders (obviously from Arizona) gulped, "Gawd, that's not a dog, it's a gila monsterY" Oh, yeah - about tITe trial. It was neat. Jim was right about the Novice sections and I had a ball, dropping threes and fives all over the map to fInish 12th of 15 Novices. They ran Novices in the morning, checked by Intermediate/Advanced/Expert riders; then we turned about and checked for them in the afternoon. I drew Trap One to observe. It was a re·hash of National Trap One from the day before and it was a bear. Easy to score, though. All I had to do was hold up three fingers, then watch to see if the poor devil rolled backwards for a five. I was reaUy giving them the benefit of the doubt. (Lord knows, they'd been lenient with me in the moming.) When it was over, I really hated to leave. For two days, I'd stepped through a time door into a world I barely remembered. A world where people rode any 01' scooter they could get their hands on and did their best; where an old-time dirt-tracker brought his family to watch, and left saying, "So this is a trial. Hey, I've got an old 441 BSA in a 125 Rickman frame that ought to work for this ..." It's a world where the mini class riders are really beginnen. The pocket-size Marland Whaleys get to ride with the adults. However reluctant, though, I had to go, perchance to find an asbestos phone booth from which to call home. I'd promised Mama I'd be in Seattle by noon Sunday. Here it was 4 p.m., already; and from 1969 to 1979, it's a • long way back. . . Results MINI CLASS: 1. Joimie Olson, 13 (Yaml; 2. Scon Scheidt, 32 (Vaml; 3. Andy Scheidt. 36 (Vam). NOV CLASS: 1. Jim Olson. 19 (Yam); 2. Martin Waddet, 21 10001; 3. Gary S.aIfy, 22J'12 fVaml; 4. SllMl 2ohrist, 22118. (Varni; 5. Kavin Krahel, 25 (Vaml; 6. Tom Tuck.., 26 fBuli. INT: 1. Don SUlchin. 10413 fBull; 2. Mike Lorenzen. 10411 (Kawl; 3. Rod Jackson. 118 fBuli. • ADVANCED: 1. Dan Allen. 90 (Kawl; 2. Paul Evans. 104 (Bul). EXPERT: 1. Jim Carlton (Mool. Only Ex finilhar.

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