Highways, Byways And Boondocks Made For A Beautiful Bash

Highways, Byways and Boondocks Made For a Beautiful Bash

Elsinore

ED ORR

NOT SINCE the days of the Catalina races has the U.S. seen anything to match the Elsinore Grand Prix. Five hundred bikes raced through the hay bale lined streets, while spectators munched hot dogs or held kids aloft for a look at the flashing machines as they sped through the shady residential district and thundered flat-out across the main street of the town.

The course entered the small California city from a dirt road that circles the low hills east of Elsinore. The freshly graded surface was like freeway to the flat track riders. They bored through the turns in their distinctive, triangulated style that keeps boot makers in business. Before the dust could settle, a pair of desert riders chose their Unes for the same curve, but in their own style. Taking a cue from European motocrossers Roger deCoster and Joel Robert, it was feet on the pegs-even if the cross-up was less than full.

At the bottom of the hill was a 90-degree turn that changed the scene instantly to the type of riding that made this event uniqueroad racing through the streets of town. For a quarter-mile, the riders roared along the paved avenue that pointed down hill past two rows of houses that looked as if they had been imported from the midwest at the turn of the century. At the end of this section, the competitors zigged through a chicane of jogged street ends, and poured it on past the Union Station and Pedro’s Taco Parlor to the pepper trees by the railroad track. Here, the desert riders picked up some time on the short, dusty right-of-way section. Then the flying equipment zagged across the tracks onto an uphill straight that ended in a loop around the city’s baseball diamond. Suddenly a sidehack burst from the corner with the passenger hanging out as though he were a pavement inspector on one turn, then crawling up behind the rider on the next bend. The bikes made the loop in a tight pack and hurtled down the finish line straight at 100 mph for those who could-and less than a ton for those who couldn’t. At the end of the straight, the way led back through town and out to Highway 74. From there, it was purely flat-out and belly-down until the riders reached the turnoff to the rough stuff near the starting point.

Now the back country boys were in their element and began to make up the time that their knobbies had cost them on the street turns.

The start line was in the cracked clay and dried, dusty silt that was once the bottom of Lake Elsinore. It was anything but smooth. It is a bumpy carpet of hummocks, hills and holes. The 100-bike wide line had only 250 yards to squeeze itself into a 20-yard wide pack to go between two small hills that marked the first turn of the course. In almost every wave after the experts had gone off, there appeared, over the dust, a bike or rider tumbling along in the air, but the boys were alert and no serious injuries resulted.

After a short leg across the lake bottom, the riders turned their mounts into a lumpy, sandy wash. It was Uttered with rocks, and, where the boulders thinned out, the ground was cut in deep swells. The unpredictable whoop-de-doos of dirt produced one nasty shunt that put Bobby Winegardner in the hospital, and the rocks took a terrible toll of equipment. Any contestant who harbored ideas of blasting up the side and running along the top found himself eye to eye with a Gripster official. Gripster clubmen, who had spent thousands of hours promoting and organizing the race, maintained excellent surveülance of the course. Getting through the wash was an accomplishment. At speed, it was a miracle. However, a successful traverse of the wash was no cause for celebration. As the route was shghtly over nine miles in length, each rider was required to achieve 12 passes to complete the 100-mile race. At the end of the sand slough, the route picked up the dirt road that led through the mountains, back to town once again.

This much racing is bound to produce its share of heroics and tragicomic happenings. For example, Dave Brewer of Encino, Calif., an open class amateur rider, wasn’t about to give up just because he blew the rear tire on his Triumph. For the last 2.5 laps, he manhandled the machine around the rugged course with the flat flapping behind. The mishap took him out of contention, but there should be a trophy for guts and determination such as Brewer’s. Of course, in competition for this award would be the two sidehack teams of Le Blanc and Soteros and another Le Blanc and Burns. Of 11 teams entered, these were the only two to finish the grueling race.

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George Smith of Tujunga, Calif., turned in a brilliant ride, pictured in a nosewheel landing which he saved, but was taken out mid-race when the bike scattered itself in the sand wash.

Then there were the problems of Jay Wells. Jay, who is the sales manager of Long Beach Honda, was running well to the front of the 250 novice class on his Husky when he reached the starting line straight. As stated, the lake bottom at this point was rough and resembled nothing so much as a high-rise prairiedog town. The stretch itself was a handful, but there also was an ambulance to contend with. While Jay was careening from one hummock to another, the ambulance sat at the side of the track waiting to cross. The driver seemed to think the traffic was thinning out, because he pulled the mercy wagon out a few feet onto the course. Jay saw him and started to go around in front, when the driver decided to acquire another 5 ft. of track. As one bystander put it, when the dust had settled, “Boy, Jay sure had a beautiful slide going there-until he hit.” Jay’s printable comment on the mishap is that he was more damaged in spirit than in body.

When it was all wrapped up, it was Steve Hurd of Montebello, Calif., taking Saturday’s 250-cc-and-under laurels on his Kawasaki. Sunday’s big bike winner was Steve Scott of North Hollywood, Calif., who came up from the 350-500-cc Expert range to sweep the field on a Bultaco.

With 1000 race machines and probably an equal number of pleasure bikes milling around a town of 3500 population, the uninitiated would have predicted all sorts of problems. None materialized. On Saturday morning, a local gas station owner reported he had pumped more gas the night before than in the entire previous week. “I couldn’t even close up till 4 o’clock this morning,” he pretended to complain. When queried on the town’s overall reaction to a road race through its streets, he said the general enthusiasm was high. “Oh, there is one old guy up the street who is squawking, but he is the same guy that calls the fire department every weekend to gripe that he is worried about the skydivers falling on the gophers.” What really cinched it was the fact that Sunday morning the town was happier than it had been on Saturday. Without notable exception, the race crowd had spent the night resting from one day’s race or getting ready for the next. Those who stayed up waiting for the midnight scrambles wasted their time.

Everyone expressed the hope that this would become an annual event. It may well be. It’s got everything going for it-rider support, spectator appeal, and , for two days, the rustic European charm of Elsinore. The people loved it.

RESULTS ELSINORE GRAND PRIX