Well, I Think Bob Hannah is a Good Guy.

Last week I was loaned a copy of The Motocross Files by a good friend of mine. It's highlight was the story of Bob "The Hurricane" Hannah. A man that I completely idolized as a kid. I even tried to copy his moniker for a time, referring to myself as Jonathan "The Heatwave" Hardy. It didn't stick. Not so much because of the name, but because I was not anywhere near fast on a motocross bike. Bob, on the other hand, was fast a all get out. I remember watching him at the Houston Astrodome, duking it out with Broc "The Candy Ass" Glover (nickname given by Jonathan "The Heatwave" Hardy). I put in the DVD with much anticipation, ready to relive the excitement of motocross hero fandom.
Mr. Hannah is still Mr. Hannah. No doubt. The characteristic smile and wise ass attitude all in tact. As he retold the stories of his racing career, I was pleased to see that he was all that I expected him to be in those days. Fast, irreverent, fast, gnarly, fast, rebellious, confident, fast. I laughed out loud several times when he talked about ramming some squid in a corner or how he ran into Jimmy Wienert on purpose because Wienert pissed him off.
"Man, that's racing!", I thought. I guess I should clarify. That WAS racing. That was when you expected to get rammed if you were slow as Christmas. If you were slow, you had no business out there and you needed to be rammed to teach you a lesson. When you came off the track, you were grateful that someone thought enough of you to ram you. Like, "Yeah, I needed that. I'm slow as Christmas".
Bob Hannah's Motocross File DVD was refreshing. It reminded me that motocross racers should be tough, hard hitting, gnarly guys. Too much polish and glamour these days if you ask me. Bob "The Hurricane" Hannah is still an icon to me. He should be to every generation of riders to come. To remind us to trade a little paint in the corners. To remind us to go fast at all cost. To remind us that we are not riders, we are racers.
Thanks Bob. Thanks for all the good memories. Thanks for all the good races. Thanks for setting the tone back in those days. Your a hell of a racer. Jimmy Wienert should thank you too.

Jonathan "The Heatwave" Hardy......C'mon...oh please, oh please, oh please????

This Is Your Heritage

My father passed away last month. Once he was in a better place and  finally at peace, the time came to go through many of his belongings and help my mother organize her new life. Part of that process was to empty out the old house. We did just that last weekend.
We had an estate sale to turn my parents old effects into some use able cash for my mother. I was assigned to work the cash box. I sat in that old garage in Corpus Christi and made change for folks as they bargained on the Hardy family icons. Strangers and old friends alike strolled through the home and picked through stacks of records, old books, furniture, board games, dishes, sheet music, and picture albums.  As these items came out to me and folks made offers on what they would pay, I realized that they were getting a good look at, and purchasing our family heritage. Not the heritage and memories themselves of course, but the icons that represent what we are. Not what we were, but what we are.
We are a family of musicians as evidenced by the sheet music and musical instruments for sale. We are a family of motocross riders, surfers, and music lovers as seen in the pictures of what our family members did on the weekends. We are a family of spiritual people as seen by the books in the library. We are a family of had workers as seen by the construction tools for sale in the shop.

I realized that the people that purchased our old cast offs were getting a look at who we are today and that they liked it. They asked questions about the books and about the images they saw in old albums. People laughed and we laughed with them when one of us told a story about an old baseball bat or funky pair of sunglasses. It is an honor to realize that we are a family of people that other people like. Its a good history. Its good to know that we are a good part of the community.

We still surf. We still ride motorcycles. We still pray. We still work hard. We still laugh. This is our heritage

We are a Sub-Culture but Still a Part of the Culture

Motorcycle riders, surfers, skateboarders, punk rockers, snowboarders, etc. All could be considered sub-cultures and usually are. The folks that participate in such activities are usually driven by the beat of a different drummer. Many times, the beat of their own drummer. They usually take a certain self pride in being independent and sometimes a little different. This is often the case with activities that are defined as lifestyles as well. Still, when we participate in such activities and subscribe to the lifestyle that follows, it does not mean that we can section ourselves off from the rest of our community. As individuals, we must remain a part of it.
Just as we have the freedom to ride our bikes, surf our waves, skate our park benches, and crank our amps, we also have the responsibility to use our influence to the common good. Not just what is best for our little group, but what is best for each of our fellow citizens.
This is why I am so moved when I see things like biker organizations doing toy runs around Christmas time and surfer groups doing beach clean ups. These things help the whole community. It makes our little part of the village important to the whole village. I understand that there may be a little bit of  "hey look at me" involved in these activities. No problem to me. At least its "hey look at me....doing something good" and not "hey look at what crappy thing I just did". Its the kind of recognition I don't mind giving.
I encourage all of my brothers and sisters out there to organize and do something great for your neighbors. Do a ride to raise money for a local charity. Put on a skate contest with the proceeds going to pay for new lockers at the local YMCA. Get your band to do a free concert to raise funds for charity health care.
Use your creativity here. Do something fun that raises money for something good. You will realize that we are not so different from each other. That we are all part of a big culture that could be so much better if we would celebrate our differences and use them for the higher good.

Riding Motorcycles Beats the Hell Outta Dropping Bombs

Hmmm, thats an interesting title there Jonathan. Well, its a little provocative. Sure, I get it. It is however, what I intended to say. Riding motorcycles instead of dropping bombs makes some sense. What do I mean by "dropping bombs"? I mean that if more of us start riding our motorcycles for something other than pleasure, it would make a significant impact on our dependence on foreign oil. Thereby, reducing the need for armed conflict aimed at lining up future oil reserves.
You may say that I am a dreamer. Hey, me and John Lennon right? Whatever man. It may be a small change but it is a do-able one. There are many communities around the world that rely on motorcycles, bicycles, and scooters as major forms of transportation. It could work right here in the good ole USA.
As an example, I need a few groceries this weekend. Not a major haul. A few items for a recipe. So, I grabbed a backpack, cranked up the bonneville and ran up to the market. The items fit nicely in my pack and I was back home in a jif. Probably burned about $1 in gas. Maybe less, and think about the emission reduction from driving my Toyota Tacoma to grab the sweet potatoes, and sour cream ( dont ask).
I understand that we are addicted to our trucks and sports cars here in America. We usually only crank up the bikes to go on a pleasure ride.
Lets re-think that though. Lets work the motorcycles into our everyday transportation needs. It makes sense, and its beats the hell out of having to drop bombs.

"Of Wrenches, Knuckles, and Happiness"

Craig wrapped the box end wrench on the edge of his home built work table in frustration. A short string of curse words followed and the once sleeping pair of Labrador retrievers laying behind him scurried into the corner of the garage. They had spent enough time in that shop to know that expletives were often followed by flying screwdrivers and odd motorcycle parts.

Craig regained his composure before any such explosion. He knew his wife was already asleep and if he woke her up with a temper tantrum he would get a good working over from her. She had text him two hours ago telling him to shut it down and come to bed.

“Not tonight”, he thought. “I’m getting this stupid bike started if I have to work ‘til dawn”.

With that commitment, came the return of that nagging doubt about the bike. He had sank $800 into this rag a few months ago when he saw it on Ebay Motors. A 1973 Husky’ CR 250. “A bargain at any price”, his buddy Pete said when Craig called to ask his opinion of the purchase. Blinded by the original seat cover, perfect paint, and fresh tires, Craig missed the leaking fork seals, frame re-welds and ping of a top end that was on it’s last leg. Now after several weeks of late nights and too many dollar bills, Craig just wanted to get the thing running again so he could off load it on the local Craigslist.

The carburetor had been easy enough to clean up and simple tasks of replacing the chain, handlebars and replacing the fluids had all been knocked out the first weekend. Craig found a NOS cylinder head and stock piston and rings at a vintage metal website. “How hard can it be?” Craig said to his wife when the box of parts arrived on his doorstep.

“No more money on the bike, Craig!” his wife mumbled with a finger poke on his chest.

“It was only a couple hundred bucks. The bike will be work $1500 when I get the work done. Hell, Im makin’ money on this deal” Craig asserted.

“No more!”

“Whatever”

“No more!”

Craig had finally nodded in agreement with his lips pursed tight the way he did when he was a kid and his mom had told him to clean up the garage and get rid of all those old bicycles and skateboard parts in her laundry room.

With renewed passion for the golden age of motocross, Craig had torn the old cylinder head off the bike and even chunked the old, dented expansion chamber in the dumpster.

Without his wife getting wise to him, he had a custom race pipe built and delivered to his office.

That was a fateful few weeks ago now. The cylinder went on fine but the custom pipe would not route through the frame the way the stock pipe did. Busted knuckles and disgusted frustrations ensued.

Craig was determined tonight though. He was drinking coffee, not beer. He had put the Ramones on the shop’s CD player instead of the usual Son Volt. He was in for the haul tonight.

“Oh!, It’s so freaking obvious. Shit! Why didn’t I do this the first time?”, he blurted out in a sudden moment of clarity. He had been trying to fit the pipe with the cylinder head at torque. The angle of the pipe just didn’t allow to be fit that way. Once he loosened the head bolts and could move the cylinder a little, the pipe slipped into the boot easily. Now he could just tighten the cylinder down with pipe already in place. Craig laughed at the revelation and his own stupidity at the same time. “Shit, I’m an idiot” he mumbled.

Now the brackets for the pipe all lined up perfect. The once “stupid jackass” that built the expansion chamber was now a “god damned genius” as Craig torqued the last head bolt down to its spec’ed 15lbs. With quick flick of the petcock and a yank at the choke, Craig flipped out the kick starter.

Craig’s wife woke with a start and stared at the ceiling in anger but quickly resolved to a little bit of relief and happiness. She knew that sound very well and could see it in her mind. Craig in the garage surrounded in a beautiful blue smoke, grinning from ear to ear, twisting on the throttle and dreaming again of starting gates and checkered flags.

“What a great bike. What a great freakin bike. I love this thing”, Craig said out loud.

The dogs tails wagged and they barked back at that machine Craig was sitting on.

All was right in the world again. At least until the next Ebay find.