SuperHunky

Enjoy~ CiCindy SiemanDIAL SOME DIRT!

By Rick Sieman/June 1992/Dirt Bike
(Sort of a stretch on an idea. Well, it almost worked.)


They're everywhere. Weird phone numbers, that is. You can call up some sort of a 900 phone number and talk to a shady lady of the night, or someone from Transylvania who will tell you to beat yourself with large black whips and rub whipped cream all over your body with Ping-Pong paddles.

Strange stuff, but somehow these bizarre pay phone numbers seem to flourish. This, quite naturally, set our minds to wandering. Would it be possible to actually make some bucks from the dirt bike crowd? The mind boggles at the possibilities:

1-900-EXC-USES. $1.99 for the first minute, $1.49 for each additional minute. VISAIMC.

Ring... ring... ring...

“Hello there. You have reached 1-900- Excuses. If you had a terrible race and need some help, press 1. If you need to explain to your boss why you are so banged-up that you can't perform your job properly, press 2. If you need to convince your wife that you must have a new bike in order to win, press 3. If you need excuses for an upcoming event, press 4.”

So I pressed 4.

A sultry voice answered. “Good evening. My name is Linda and I've got what you need, big guy. Now, tell me about your next race.”

“Well, it's an enduro, actually, and you see, I'm really rotten at keeping time. I've got all the trick stuff mounted on my bars, and I barely know how to use it. Plus, I'm sort of on the slow side when it comes to riding in tight woods. So what I need are some really good excuses. I mean, I know up front that I'm gonna drop a zillion points, but I hate looking like a complete loser, so...”

“Say no more, you hard-riding stud. Now listen closely. What you want to do is take advantage of the old ‘injury' ploy. Here's the deal: When you show up, make sure that your arm is in a sling during sign-up and all the time in the pits. Remove the sling right before you ride and people will ask you what the deal is. Tell them that you dislocated your shoulder recently, but you'll still try to ride in spite of the pain. That way, no one will expect anything from you, and if you even finish, you'll look like a hero.”

1-900-HOT-LINE . $5.00 for five minutes, all cards accepted.

Ring... ring… ring...

“Welcome to the Hot-Line action center. Just name the track you'll be racing on, and we will tell you the best lines to take. Now, if your track is west of the Mississippi, press 1. … beep...

“Good. Now if the track is in Texas, press 1. California, press 2 . . . beep . . You will now hear a list of tracks. Simply hit the ‘pound sign' when your track is named. Ready? Begin: Carlsbad, Santa Maria, Perris, Road Kill Raceway . . beep.. . Thank you. An action line expert will now advise you.”

“Hi. My name is Fred and I run in the 250 Expert class, and I guess I've put in a billion laps at Road Kill Raceway. So listen up and take notes.

“The hot setup is to start on the left side right next to where the starter pulls the handle on the gate. There's a hole in the plywood and you can see when the hold pin starts to slide. As soon as you see that pin start to move, drop the clutch and go! You're just about guaranteed a holeshot.

“Take the outside on the first turn. The sun hits there and dries the surface out, but the inside stays in the shade and it's slick all day long.

“On the long uphill, stay to the right and keep as close to the fence as you can without hitting it. On the downhill, get over to the left, and don't jump the first jump too far. Instead, get some drive after it and double the next set. This will drop you right into a turning groove at the bottom, and...”

After listening for a solid 20 minutes, I felt like I had built the track myself. Enthused, I thumbed through the various publications and took advantage of more of the dirt bike phone services:

1-900-EAT-DIRT , a line devoted to crashing.

l-900-BIG-ENDO , a very specialized phone service strictly limited to over-the-bars flips and how to deal with them.

1-900-BAD-FUEL , a service to keep you up to date on which gas stations are selling junk fuel under brand names, which ones have water in the gas, and so forth.

l-900-BIG-RACE . This line tells you what races of note are on the calendar in your area.

1-900-MAG-TEST , for magazine fans, this service tells you what year and month a test on a certain bike appeared. It also rates the various publications on how much the test can be trusted, with Dirt Bike being a ten and everything else downgraded accordingly.

1-900-RAD-WORD A gnarly line that brings you up to speed on all the latest jargon being used by the younger MX crowd. Can't understand your own kid? Call

1-900-RAD-WORD and learn.

1-900-OLD-POOP Vet and Senior riders can exchange information about the graying of motocross and find out crafty and sneaky techniques enabling them to beat younger, faster riders.

Well, after chatting with all of the phone services, I felt like I really had a handle on things. Armed with all this knowledge, I was ready to face the racing season with a new confidence.

Only one thing was wrong. When the bills for all the 900 lines came in, I could no longer afford to go to the races. What's a person to do? Well, I could call 1-900- NO-BUCKS, a financial advice line. It's only $4.99 for the first minute and $3.99 for each minute after that. Sounds like a deal!

Enjoy~ CiCindy SiemanPLAY DAY

By Rick Sieman/July 1985/Dirt Bike
(One of my favorites. Which brings us to the logical question: Just where do you hide your keys when you go trail riding?)


“Look, this weekend we forget racing. Let's head up to the hills and have an old-fashioned trail ride. I'm sick and tired of spending every weekend getting up early in the morning and driving out to one stupid track or another, then spending the whole day sitting around for two lousy motos. A kicked-back trail ride with a few friends will give us a whole fresh outlook on life. Whaddaya say, Marv?”

Marvin spit some to***co from his cheap King Edward cigar tip, sucked down the remnants of his diet soda, scratched his chin and thought about it for a moment. “You know, Ed, you just might have an idea there. You and I are perilously close to getting burned out on racing. A day in the hills will do us some good. I'll go in and give Blackie a call. He'll probably want to go with us.”

Blackie, Ed and Marv loaded up at seven o'clock in the morning instead of their usual 5:30, which seemed like a real luxury. The fact that they were loading up in the daylight was pretty weird, but they quickly adjusted to it.

After gassing up at the 24-hour station, they pointed the big van north and headed for the hills. Thirty minutes later they pulled off the paved road, headed down a chewed- up dirt road, and eventually parked the van under a tree in a small canyon, safe from prying eyes.

The bikes were unloaded, riding gear put on and gas tanks filled. When everyone was ready to go, Marvin held up the van keys for all to see: “Now look, I'm gonna put them under the lip of the rear bumper in case we get separated and one of you other guys gets back first.”

Ed snorted. “That's the stupidest place in the world to hide the keys. That's the first place a thief would look. I always hide mine under the right rear tire. Just tuck it in and cover it with a little bit of dirt.”

Backie laughed. “Boy, that's really stupid. Remember when George did that and the van creeped forward a few inches in the soft dirt? It took us half the day to dig out the keys. The only smart place to hide the keys is inside the gas cap flap.”

Marvin grunted, “I don't have a flap. My cap just sticks right out in the open like a real gas cap should.”

Ed had an idea. “Look, just lay the keys on the ground about ten feet behind the van and cover them with some leaves.”

Blackie shook his head from side to side. “Yeah, I remember the time when you did that. There must have been twenty zillion leaves on the ground. It took six of us two hours to sort through the leaves to find your stupid keys.”

Marvin was disgusted. “Never mind. I'll just stick the keys in the pocket of my pants. Let's go riding.”

“No, no, no!” yelled Ed. You lose those keys on the trail, and we'll be stuck out here for a month before someone drives by. Never, ever take keys with you. Hide them under the lip of the rear quarter panel.”

Blackie raised his eyes skyward. “No, that's genuinely pea-brained. That's the second place any halfway decent thief would look. Boy, are you dumb!”

Ed got off his bike, strode over and butted his helmet up against Blackie's helmet. “Oh yeah, Mr. Know-it-all? Well, where would you put the keys, if the question won't strain your milk?”

“Look, bonehead, smart riders always put the keys up the exhaust pipe. It's darker than your air filter in there, and no one ever thinks that anyone would hide the keys in an exhaust. Pretty clever, eh?”

“Real clever, jerkweed. Ever looked up the exhaust of Marvin's dumb van? It's got enough dripping oil and slime in there to grease a whole railroad.”

Marvin got off his bike and pushed his way between the two yelling men. “Whose van are you calling dumb? At least mine's paid for and I'm not afraid to transport bikes in it, unlike that rolling brothel you call a van.”

“Rolling brothel? Those are some pretty strong words for a guy with two bad knees and the build of a Twinkie.”

No one remembers who pushed whom, or when the first punch was thrown, but they all agree that Blackie got in a pretty good body slam on Ed, and the figure-four leg lock that Marvin put on Blackie was a real class move.

The battle lasted for about a half an hour, until all three men had each other in a slightly modified stranglehold, and they rolled down the hill in an unsightly ball.

Anyway, they sort of just ran out of breath, or energy, or both, and eventually they shook hands and agreed to buy each other a round or three of drinks.

That's when they realized that no one knew where the van keys were. Marvin thought they got knocked out of his belt loop when Ed got him in a flying-suplex-drop-slam.

Just before the sun went down, Ed found the missing keys, halfway down the hill, lying in a small rut.

No one said a whole lot on the drive back, but they all agreed on one thing: No more play riding. It was just too dangerous.