Cycle News is a weekly magazine that covers all aspects of motorcycling including Supercross, Motocross and MotoGP as well as new motorcycles
Issue link: https://magazine.cyclenews.com/i/128140
Street Racing In Los Angeles of their rev-limiters outside the window is followed by the pounding of ghetto birds (police helicopters), thumping the fume-laden air above, and the excited squeals of the LAPD as they milk the knackers off their patrol cars, in pursuit. Sometimes, however, things work out just right. As you pull onto this broad, featureless street you'll see a kaleidoscopic bloom of Japanese hardware lined up on either side. Many of these are competitors, whilst others are just enthusiasts and spectators - there's a big difference between them, but not in the eyes of the cops. Merely being there - even if you are only watching - is an arrestable offence in the eyes of the LAPD. They reason that illegal racing would be unable to exist without an audience. The attitude of those involved is healthily anti-establishmentarian, though, and that is best explained by quoting the gushing Rhett Butler who once said in the movie masterpiece "Gone with the Wind", "Frankly my dear, I just don't give a damn... " And why might that be? Well, to explain, I can juxtapose this timeless classic with a modern day B-Movie masterpiece starring the er, legendary, um, Vin Diesel, who memorably opines with his most melodramatic baritone in the "Fast and the By JIMARILLO PHOTOS BY BLAKE CONNER t's an unusually cold and murky evening and I have been laying quietly in wait for many hours in a small apartment off Saticoy, a wide deserted street in the business district of North Hollywood, California. Outside the flimsy, aluminum-framed window, silvery fingers of winter fog are feeling their way between the surrounding buildings, and all is quiet. I have a clear view of the street, but my breathing is shallow and my ears are tuned like an AWACS radar system, straining to detect the sound of squealing tires or post-l3,000-rpm overrun in the distance, at which point I am preparing myself to run around the block, through the parking lot and out onto the street with my dog-eared notebook. This stakeout business is no fun. It wouldn't surprise me if I'd seen the last of them in this area. The previous weekends had shown illegal street racing to be a tough pastime to enjoy without disturbance. The cops usually turn up in around 30 minutes, after which a comical pursuit will frequently ensue whereby two or more squad cars attempt to bring 60 or so techno-miracle muscle machines to justice. Not an easy task. Typically the sound of motorcycles banging off I Furious"; "I live my life a quarter-mile at a time.. : There you go, it's simple. It's all about kicks - "Shits and Giggles" as Austin Powers would say. This week, however, it appears that Saticoy is reserved for the trick- (Top) Hollywood's Sunset strip • always hopping, even on a school night. (Left) Bikes galore, and not one of them stock; most of them are dripping with chrome and all sorts of trick bits. Check out the elltendecl swingann on the slammed Hayabun. 22 FEBRUARY 6, 2002' cue I • neVIl's sters. The serious quarter-mile standoffs are presently reserved for other parts of town, and when I eventually hear the sound of strangled rubber and howling transverse boilers, I am disappointed to discover that it's simply the local boys sharpening their Blades on the front and rear wheels. I say disappointed, but that is perhaps the wrong word - they are putting on their own little show, but we are after the real quarter-milers, and it appears that we're fully one step behind. Whilst trying to track down the perpetrators of this mechanized quarter-mile madness, I discovered that there are a couple of favorite pastimes for motorcyclists in L.A. and, just like light cannabis use can eventually lead to heroin fuelled nihilism, canyon racing and street antics can occasionally lead a man up that long and predictable road to sub-lO-second quarters. STREET ANTICS We're on the corner of Venice and Centinela, it's lO p.m. and a great many bikes are collecting. The Billiard inn is bulging with two-wheeled reprobates, psyching each other out, tripping on their own perceived skill the joint is crackling with dark volt-