Archive 4

Danny Laporte

A Life Less Ordinary

Words by Davey Coombs | Photos by Drew Ruiz | Video by FMF


 

Danny LaPorte’s motorcycling odyssey has taken him across the globe and back many times.

“I'LL NEVER FORGET THE DAY MY DAD PULLED UP IN FRONT OF OUR HOUSE WITH A BULTACO IN THE BACK OF HIS TRUCK,” BEGINS LAPORTE, LOOKING BACK ON A LIFE IN MOTORCYCLING. “I JUST SAW THAT BIKE AND THOUGHT, `WOW. THAT IS SO COOL!' I WAS MAYBE NINE YEARS OLD, AND IT BLEW MY MIND.”

 

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LaPorte grew up in Torrance, California, west of Los Angeles, not Yucca Valley, as it says in the AMA record books. 

“Yucca Valley was my parents’ second home, and that’s where we built some tracks once I started racing for Suzuki in ’76,” he explains. “Roger (DeCoster) was with Suzuki, and when he was in the country to race he went out there with a dozer and built some tracks. A lot of teams and racers tested there after that.” 

There were also lots of tracks in the area, which gave LaPorte and everyone else the chance to race two or three times a week at hotspots like Ascot Park, Indian Dunes, Perris Raceway, Carlsbad, Saddleback Park and more.

 

“THAT WAS A REALLY FUN TIME BECAUSE EVERYONE WAS STILL EXPERIMENTING AND LEARNING, AND THE BIKES WERE GOING THROUGH A LOT OF DEVELOPMENT,” HE RECALLS. “NO ONE REALLY THOUGHT MUCH ABOUT THE MONEY—MY FIRST CONTRACT WAS LIKE FIFTEEN OR TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS, AND I THOUGHT I WAS RICH!”

LaPorte rose quickly through the ranks, though his parents made him stay in school so he would have options. He worked with his father, an electrician, after school and during the summer. He wanted to keep his options open, not knowing whether a career as a pro motocrosser would ever pay the bills. And when Suzuki, Yamaha and Kawasaki decided to go all-in in 1976 on their shared goal of knocking off mighty Team Honda rider Marty Smith, LaPorte was in the perfect place.

“There were all of these fast SoCal guys, like (Bob) Hannah, myself, Broc Glover, Jeff Jennings, Danny Turner and more, and the other factories all wanted to beat Marty and his Honda. One day phone rings and it’s Tosh Koyama from Suzuki,” LaPorte says. “He told me that his factory wanted to pay me to go race the 125 Nationals. I said, ‘Okay, but I need to ask my parents first!’” 

LaPorte woundup driving down to Suzuki and negotiating the contract himself. He was 18 years old and still in high school.

“We all knew Marty, and we really looked up to him—he was a SoCal guy who made it, and we all wanted to be just like him,” adds LaPorte. “He really opened the doors for all of us.”

That didn’t stop LaPorte and the others from wanting to beat him. And at the first round of the ’76 AMA 125cc National Championships at Hangtown, someone did beat Smith, but it wasn’t LaPorte. “Hurricane” Hannah erupted that day, reestablishing the American motocross hierarchy in two blindingly fast motos. Smith and LaPorte each had bike troubles in one moto, though they were no match for Hannah in the other. 

How popular had motocross become by that time in California? At the Hangtown 125cc National opener, nine of the ten top finishers hailed from the Golden State. Only eighth-place Steve Wise wasn’t a Californian—Kawasaki had hired him from Texas. 

“Practically the whole industry was in California by that point,” explains LaPorte. “The OEMs were there, the magazines, the aftermarket companies, and there were endless places to ride. Even though we lived in the city, I could just go down the street and ride in any dirt lot. That was why a whole bunch of us in California just kind of emerged all at once.”

By the end of the ’76 series Hannah had dethroned Smith as champion, and LaPorte finished just one point behind Smith in the final rankings—and he won the last two rounds.  

One year later, LaPorte was in position to take the title from Hannah, but at the now infamous finale in San Antonio, team Yamaha’s pit board ordered Hannah to “Let Brock Bye.”

 

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Overlooking both the grammatical errors, the Hurricane grudgingly did, leading to tie in the final championship standings at 240 points each for LaPorte and Hannah’s teammate Broc Glover. Based on tie-breakers, Glover was declared champion. 

“It was a bad deal, though I actually think it was worse for the other guys,” offers the ever-gracious LaPorte. “They didn’t want to do it, but the company wanted to win the title badly and had invested a lot of money. It was just normal team stuff. Suzuki didn’t want to get into a big protest or anything, and neither did I. To me, I lost the championship at some other point. I had won both motos at the opener and had some really good races, but some bad ones, too.

 

“IT SHOULD NOT HAVE COME DOWN TO THAT LAST MOTO, BUT IT DID. I JUST MOVED ON TO THE NEXT THING, WHICH IS WHAT I'VE DONE MY WHOLE LIFE—I NEVER LET THINGS HOLD ME BACK.”

 

Indeed, within two years, LaPorte had his own AMA National Championship, albeit in the 500cc Class. That’s the same class his hero and sometime mentor Roger DeCoster was dominant in, only DeCoster’s five titles were FIM World Championships over in Europe. As a kid LaPorte watched DeCoster on ABC’s Wide World of Sports when they featured the annual 500cc U.S. Grand Prix from Carlsbad, and soon he and his friends were calling every good wheelie or cross-up they could pull on their bicycles a “DeCoster” in his honor. And when DeCoster retired at the end of the 1980 season and went to work at American Honda, LaPorte immediately switched teams to ride for The Man.

Unfortunately, LaPorte had an injury-riddled ’81 season, but it culminated with a life-changing event—two of them, actually. DeCoster talked Honda into sending four of his American riders to Europe to compete in the Trophee and Motocross des Nations, which are basically the Olympics of motocross. The young Americans shocked the world at both races, first on 250cc motorcycles (Trophee) and then 500cc bikes (Motocross), winning each event for the first time ever. It might not have happened if not for a special request DeCoster made of LaPorte.

“The Trophee race was in Lommel, Belgium, which was a sand track, and the week before the race Roger said, ‘I’m not sure our fuel tanks we use in America hold enough gas for 45-minute motos here,’ so he asked me to go out and do a full moto at race speed,” explains LaPorte. “I did it, and sure enough, the bike ran out of gas on me. So, we all switched to our bigger 500cc tanks. If not for that, all of us would have ran out of gas at the end of the race!”

LaPorte, who always had an eye on one day racing Europe, used the unexpected results as a bargaining chip to get him a deal in Europe. DeCoster and Honda had nothing to offer, but Yamaha did, so LaPorte lined up for the 1982 FIM 250cc World Championship in Europe riding a white-works YZ250. 

What transpired over the course of that summer was even more earth-shaking. While LaPorte battled the elegant Belgian legend Georges Jobe for the 250cc title, “Bad” Brad Lackey’s decade-long crusade to win the 500cc world title finally reached a successful conclusion. Yet another Californian, speedway ace Bruce Penhall, was on his way to the FIM World Championship. And DeCoster returned with his American Honda riders to sweep the Trophee and Motocross des Nations again, which meant neither of America’s first world champions, Brad Lackey and Danny LaPorte, were on the team. No matter: The balance of global motocross power has shifted from Europe to the U.S.

 

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The following year LaPorte battled the late Jobe again for the 250cc world crown, but this time the Belgian Suzuki rider got the better of the American Yamaha rider. LaPorte did one more year in Europe, this time in the 500cc class, but by that point Yamaha was in financial trouble. Their bikes had fallen well behind Honda’s exotic-works bikes, and that had a profound effect on LaPorte’s results. He would return to the States at the end of the 1984 season, but even with his diverse resume, he found it hard to get proper support. He didn’t even race until that summer’s 500cc Nationals. LaPorte’s last-ever pro motocross race would be the Six Flags National in Georgia, in which he finished a remarkable fourth overall. What made it so remarkable was the fact that he was on Husqvarna, then a fading Swedish brand on the brink of bankruptcy. That would stand as Husqvarna’s best AMA Motocross finish until the 2015 Hangtown National, when Jason Anderson finished third for the revitalized brand, now owned by Austrian juggernaut KTM.  

LaPorte was done with motocross, but not racing in general. Many top European stars, like Gaston Rahier and Andre Malherbe, transitioned into endurance and desert racing following their MX days, in part because the money transfused into the sport by cigarette brands like Marlboro, Lucky and Gauloises made it more lucrative than racing Grand Prix motocross. LaPorte wanted in, despite the news that Malberbe, a three-time world champion, had suffered a broken neck in a Tunisian race. He was advised by his friend Jean-Claude Olivier of Yamaha France to try U.S. desert racing first, which he did. He teamed up with Kawasaki legend Larry Roeseler. Three Baja 1000 and three Baja 500 wins later, he was ready for even bigger races, like the Paris-Dakar Rally and the Pharaohs race across Egypt. 

“That was a great way to round out my career because that’s how I grew up, going out to the desert and riding with my family,” says LaPorte. Unfortunately, he suffered a big crash of his own in Niger, resulting in a heart contusion.

 

“I NEARLY DIED. IT WAS TWELVE DAYS OF MY LIFE WHERE I DON'T REMEMBER ANYTHING, EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT MY LUNGS WERE SO FULL OF BLOOD THAT THEY STABBED A TUBE IN MY CHEST SO I COULD BREATHE.”

But he did recover, and he would go on to win the Pharaohs Rally as well as finish second in the Paris-Dakar, holding the highest finish for an American to this day. It was enough to allow him closure, and he soon retired altogether from professional racing. In 1997 he was offered a job at FMF Racing by lifelong friend Donny Emler, and he still rides “at least a couple of times a week” as part of his role in research and development.   

It was while racing in Europe that LaPorte met his future wife Georgia, a lovely woman from Paris he was introduced to by Gabriele Mazzarola, of Alpinestars fame. Danny and Georgia have two children: Shane, who lives in Norway, and Estelle, who was in London but now works in Florida with the World Tennis Association. 

 

MOTORCYCLING HAS HAD A PROFOUND EFFECT ON DANNY LAPORTE'S LIFE. IN TURN, LAPORTE HAS HAD A PROFOUND EFFECT ON MOTORCYCLING IN GENERAL.

“I feel extremely fortunate to have lived the life I have so far,” says LaPorte, still rakishly young at the age of 60. “I got to travel, I got to meet wonderful people along the way, and my world is just so large because of all that. And I still get to ride motorcycles pretty much whenever I want. It’s a good living.”

Absolutely. Not to mention a life less ordinary.


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Featured in Volume 009

America Long Gone

Return to Hallowed Ground

Photos by Jimmy Bowron | Words by Andrew Campo


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Sitting just above the stars on The Great Seal of the State of Kansas reads “ad astra per aspera,” a Latin term chosen as the state motto that in translation means “to the stars through difficulties.”

An unusual May storm that produced an abnormal amount of snow had been hammering Denver, Colorado, for days and was now beginning to push east toward Kansas. It was early evening and snow was still falling to the north and to the south of the city, leaving us only two options: get some sleep and head out in the morning like a normal person, or throw on our helmets and hope for the best as we tempted fate and rode east into the unforgiving night. Although covered by clouds, we of course chose to run to the stars, and the word difficult as mentioned in the Kansas state motto would become a bit of an understatement in this case. The snow had turned to rain, and all I could see was a glimpse of red illuminating from the taillight in front of me. We were on a mission, and regardless of the weather, there was simply no turning back. Three hours later, we found ourselves drenched and nearly frozen stiff as we piled into a roadside motel like a pack of drowned rats. 

Fingers slowly thawed and the laughter began to flow as we talked about the many things that could have gone wrong. Distinct and fitting guitar and harmonica offerings soon filled the room, echoed by the voices of Jimbo Darville and Paul Tamburello, who made up the traveling band duo I had pulled together for the ride. Our like-minded crew was in search of the same thing – escaping the urban landscape and daily grind that we know so well and embracing the lonesome road and soul-cleansing wide-open places unique to the Great Plains region. Although brutal and scary as hell, our journey had begun in memorable fashion. With Mother Nature dictating our unknown path the following day, we eventually drifted off to sleep knowing only the destination: Comanche Road.

 

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In an attempt to honor Indian’s brand history, we had set our sights on venturing through the back roads of Kansas en route to hallowed ground, where race history was stamped into the record books by way of Glen Boyd over a century ago. In 1914 Boyd earned the honor of winning the inaugural Dodge City 300 aboard his Hendee Indian in front of a crowd of spectators who had traveled from around the world. The event attendance was estimated to be nearly twenty thousand strong, five times larger than the population of Dodge City at the time. The two-mile dirt oval track just north of Dodge City would later become recognized as home to one of the largest and most iconic races steeped in motorcycle history. 

Morning light was soon upon us, and as we traded turns drying our boots with a hair dryer, I recalled a quote from Kansas author Cheryl Unruh that reads

 

“We who live on the prairie love our sky. It is as much a part of the landscape as the land itself. While the earth gives us roots … the sky gives us flight, imagination ….”

 

I had discovered this quote while doing a little research on Kansas leading into this feature. As we faced the new day, her words would be my inspiration, my simple reminder to live in the now with my eyes wide open. 

We were in search of America long gone and for all the right reasons. The opportunity to be confronted with a glimpse into a simpler life coupled with the ability to escape and somewhat journey back in time was ours for the taking. Small towns can be beautiful that way. They can make you believe that things are simple, things make sense, and remind you that anything is possible. The people can inspire one easily. A simple wave is common; everybody wants to know your story and to tell you theirs. Genuine would best describe most roadside encounters in these parts.

 

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As the day unfolded we ventured south along the Colorado-Kansas border, stopping often along the way to appreciate and explore nearly every town we rolled into. We were in search of aban-doned barns in hopes of discovering fragments of motorcycle history along the way. While resting lakeside under shade trees, friendship bonds were strengthened and memories unique to this ride were etched within the spirit of all of us.  As dusk approached, we found a deserving watering hole just south of Syracuse, Kansas, and decided to tempt our fate with the locals. Outside was a collection of weathered farm trucks, and as we approached the front door we all looked at each other and agreed that we might be in for a good, old-fashioned ass-kicking. 

As we stepped up to the bar, the voices under the looming tall hats among us began to fade to an awkward silence, and wisdom told me that it was time to buy a round for the locals. Spirits were lifted, and we had found what we were looking for: the opportunity to share the gift of music and tales of adventures with strangers. Jimbo fired up “Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground” on the six-string, and Paul soon joined in with some elevated harmonica riffs. You can’t go wrong with a Willie Nelson offering, and that solidified us as legendary strangers with the good ol’ boys in no time. We couldn’t stay long, as promise of a wild night in Dodge City was only a few hours away. The music soon died, we said goodbye to our newfound friends, and once again pushed east and into the night.

Dodge City is best known for its rich frontier history from the days of the Wild West and is recognized by locals as The Wicked Little City.

 

Originally a stop on the Santa Fe Trail, Dodge City was once home to legendary deputies Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp and a long list of outlaws and gunslingers. The lore of the city runs deep.

 

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After enjoying a proper cowtown breakfast and taking in a bit of culture at the Boot Hill Museum, we had finally arrived. The sky had a cold but calming tint to it as we stood along the side of Comanche Road. In the near distance a roadside history marker had been placed in honor of the Dodge City 300. The field was empty, and only a few dilapidated yet beautiful structures remained. One of the buildings had a little side window that looked to be where race entry sign-up might have taken place. I locked eyes with that window and let my imagination fly. As I walkedaimlessly through the field, my mind was filled with images and sounds of period-correct recollection. Racers, including William Harley, Walter Davidson, Bill Brier, Carl Gowdy and Glen Boyd, had gone to battle on this very ground. Exemplary machines brought to life by the Indian, Flying Merkel, Thor, Pope, Harley Davidson and Excelsior manufacturers had once shaken the soil beneath me. The thought of a sea of people traveling across the world in 1914 to witness this race and the mountain of stories their adventured birthed simply overwhelmed me. The thought of twenty thousand spectators roaming this field over one hundred years ago truly made me believe that anything is possible. Monumental in grandeur and influence, this ground was powerful, meaningful, and nearly unfathomable. 

A bit of chill came over me, the kind that comes from inside when moved by something compelling; history had given me goosebumps. I picked up a little rock. It was flat, smooth and perfect for rubbing between your fingers. I played with the rock for a minute or so as I pondered back in time. After putting the rock in my pocket as a keepsake, I turned and glanced over at the Indian parked under the historic marker and smiled as I felt a sense of pride knowing that we had brought her home. We were here to honor the spirit of those who were instrumental in bringing to life the quintessential motorcycle racing history that marked this hallowed ground. In that surreal moment, I felt complete and as if I belonged.


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Featured in Volume 009

Terra Incognita

Into the Unknown

Words by Maggie Gulasey | Photos by Aaron Brimhall


 

PRELUDE

Whether it is dreaming of the mystifying heavenly bodies looming above, experiencing otherworldly terrain here on Earth, or revealing the inner demons hiding deep within oneself, seeking the undiscovered is not for the faint of heart. Delving into those varying degrees of the unexplored, a lone traveler embarks on a quest accompanied only by her motorcycle and imagination. This terrestrial rocketeer will look, listen, and touch in order to obtain a more profound perspective on her place in the universe as she embarks on a personal adventure into the unknown.

 

 

CHAPTER 01 - OPTUEOR

Carving through the utter darkness aboard my earthbound craft, I detect only the glittering freckles populating the black canvas above and the rolling pavement streaking below.  No city lights or headlights impede my perception of the world as it rapidly flashes by.  Though more of a soul ship, my motorcycle is a rocket granting me freedom to navigate through the mysterious landscapes, becoming one with the elements as they whoosh past me.  My eyes focus their gaze on the path ahead as my mind ponders the uncharted far beyond the planet’s gravitational embrace.  A theoretical physicist born precisely 300 years after Galileo’s death and about 75 years before my terrestrial exploration advised, “Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious.”  I will take Stephen Hawking’s guidance and look up.  

However, what if someone was looking down on Earth on July 16th, 1945?  If anything happened to be meandering through the Milky Way on that day, there is a chance it might have witnessed a deadly mushroom cloud emanating from the world’s first atomic bomb detonation, a sort of calling card to the rest of the Universe announcing our presence unlike anything prior had.  As I ride past the White Sands Missile Range, where the initial A-bomb reared its ugly head, I question how this event impacted the space far beyond our current scope of cosmic knowledge and the unforeseen consequences it had or still has.  While we are looking up and pondering, maybe someone or something is looking down and cautiously observing.

   

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After several hours on the road with my head getting lost in space-dweller dreams, I finally dock my motorcycle in the midst of soaring sand drifts glistening so brilliantly I am nearly blinded by the radiant fragments.  I can see endless dunes luring me with the seduction of isolation; for miles upon miles, Iam the lone explorer. My footsteps are the only thing disrupting the blank white canvas ahead of me as I venture outward to investigate what other terrestrial life forms this sandy region might host.  

Aside from a scurrying beetle and an erratic lizard making its way up the rippled slope, I am alone.  Whether on the motorcycle or secluded in solidarity amongst a blizzard of sand, I am confronted with what I see and what I think; there is no running from my environment or myself. I am forced to look.  Or maybe it is those things we simply cannot view that should secure a greater portion of our attention.  The unobservable corners of our universe, black holes, dark matter, gravity, parallel universes, and our deeply buried thoughts are all just waiting to be observed; our eyes are not the only apparatus with which to see.  

It is time to board my motorcycle before these dunes and my thoughts swallow me whole.

 

 

CHAPTER 02 - AUSCULTO

Have you ever experienced a silence so potent that it is nearly deafening?  I am adrift somewhere in the New Mexico desert feeling overwhelmed by the eerily quiet backdrop as the sun begins its breathtaking farewell dance over the horizon.  Helmet and bike off, I listen for any signs of life other than my own biological pulses that quicken the more I acknowledge my desolation.  Back on my motorcycle, the only heartbeat I discern other than my own emanates from the four-stroke flat twin engine rhythmically animating my energetic vessel; her gentle roar provides comfort and grants the illusion that I am not entirely alone.    

I admit that it would be challenging to feel true confinement in the broader extension, even as a solo seeker in an empty desert, when there are more than 7.5 billion Homo sapiens swarming planet Earth.  However, imagining we are the only intelligent life form in an endless universe can be somewhat of a disconcerting contemplation.  Unwilling to accept such a lonely thought, our species continually searches for any possible signs of life hiding among the myriad nameless stars.  One way we theorize to accomplish this is to listen.

 

 

Disrupting the constant form of the vast San Agustin landscape is the impressive sight of the National Radio Astronomy Observatory’s Very Large Array (VLA), our ginormous ear to the cosmos.  I feel infinitely small as I ride up to the spread of 27 radio antennas, each reaching 82 feet in diameter. Utilized by astronomers worldwide for varying objectives, the VLA’s massive structures work together to simulate the resolution of a single antenna stretching 22 miles across.  This satellite array acts as one of our most powerful tools for listening to the songs of our solar system.     

I circle around the observatory on my motorcycle to take in the full breadth of the incredible arrangement.  The antennae are aligned identically and periodically shifting in unison; I speculate about which point they are fixated on in the universe. They could be observing remnants from a supernova, mapping out a potential black hole, or monitoring gamma ray bursts.  Maybe the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI) is taking over this evening in hopes of identifying radio waves sent from intelligent life forms located billions of light years away; whether they are or not, I am certainly glad someone is listening.

 

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CHAPTER 03 - TACTUS

With spring is still in its infancy, the stubborn winter cold has not yet surrendered its icy grip.  I feel the cold air viciously biting at any exposed skin it can sink its teeth into.  I am grateful for the ATWYLD Voyager Suit accompanying me on this adventure, triumphantly shielding me from this harsh environment.  Though I am riding on the edge of my comfort zone, the morning’s icy touch cannot thwart my personal voyage into the unknown.  

Although I was born nearly three decades after the launch of Sputnik, I am still touched by the era that kidnapped the world’s imagination and dared people to dream about the mysteries that lurk beyond our own skies.  Saturated in danger and uncertainty but also optimism and pride, almost a half-century ago we launched ourselves into the great Space Age.   I often fantasize about time traveling back to July 20, 1969, and eagerly watching Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin proudly sporting their cumbersome spacesuits ­— a thin veil cushioning them from the severe conditions in space – as Apollo 11 approaches the patient moon awaiting human contact.  These courageous astronauts were fully aware of the risks and were willing to give their lives to pursue going where no human had gone before.   

Arguably one of the most compelling moments of the 20th century, our connection with the moon was not only significant for having physically touched the lunar surface, but also for the way it touched the hearts and souls of the millions breathlessly watching as Armstrong took his first steps across the cosmically scarred surface.  If we can sail humans to our closest celestial body, it is not so farfetched to envision landing a person on the Red Planet in the not-too-distant future.     

 

 

I feel a distinct flutter of excitement as I approach a hidden gem.  The Paint Mines Interpretive Park is what I imagine the surface of Mars might look like ­— dry, barren, rocky and undeniably beautiful.  As I lightly graze the chalky clay, I pretend I am an astronaut exploring our neighboring planet for the first time.  Searching for signs of alien life, I could almost envision strange Martians hiding in the endless cracks and crevices weaving through the rocks.  

Though we currently have robots collecting data on the surface of the Red Planet, we are expecting to send humans to Mars around 2030.  Maybe I do not have to yearn for a time machine to transport me back to the golden era of the Space Age, when I can just patiently wait for the next chapter of groundbreaking space exploration.  As we continue to expand our boundaries into the unknown, I wonder what sorts of mysteries we will solve or conceive.   

As I take off from these Mars-like grounds, I am in awe of the distance brave humans have traveled and will travel to make physical contact with far-off celestial bodies.  I am equally impressed with the enthusiasm we have exhibited in support of such lofty endeavors – a testament to the innate desire most of us have to explore and understand more about the great mystery that is the Universe.

 


 
 

Featured in Volume 009

AUGUST 1, 1982

The Darkest Day in Motocross

Words by Brett Smith


 

Memories fade. They get foggy or faint; sometimes they fizzle and can be fickle or fleeting. Too often they simply fail. While everyone remembers where they were in a highly emotional occurrence (say, September 11, 2001, or JFK’s assassination), the details surrounding an event can warp over time – even when one was directly involved. There are over a dozen types of memory errors, from false memory to bias, intrusion, misinformation, absentmindedness and transience (forgetting over time). When a memory isn’t periodically reinforced, it gets boxed up, packed away and sent into a mental black hole. 

For those who attended the 1982 NMA Grand National Motocross Championships in Ponca City, Oklahoma, the afternoon of Sunday, August 1, is one of the most unforgettable of their lives. Yet, everyone remembers what happened a little bit differently. Some wildly differently. Nobody at the four-day event witnessed the accident that happened one mile east of the racetrack, which took the lives of three of the sport’s best youth motocross racers: Bruce Bunch (16) Rick Hemme (16) and Kyle Fleming (13). The legend and the rumors about what happened in the Mercury Lynx wagon driven by Oakley’s Dana Duke have grown, and when people discuss it today, it sounds like they think they witnessed… something. With the advent of the internet and social media, those beliefs have only spread. 

What we know for sure is that four exceptional lives were affected at 4:43 pm on August 1. Bunch and Fleming were killed instantly. Hemme died in the hospital nine days later, and Duke spent two months in a coma with slim chances of survival. He lived, but 35 years later is still undergoing surgeries and suffering complications. It’s arguably the darkest day in the history of motocross, and even though these teenagers seem to have become faster with the passing of time, for many there’s no doubt that the motocross record books of the 1980s and 1990s are missing three names: Bruce Bunch, Rick Hemme and Kyle Fleming.

This is the untold story of their lives and deaths.

 

RICK HEMME, LARRY BROOKS & BRUCE BUNCH | Ponca City, 1982 | Photo courtesy Larry Brooks

RICK HEMME, LARRY BROOKS & BRUCE BUNCH | Ponca City, 1982 | Photo courtesy Larry Brooks

BRUCE BUNCH | Saddleback, 1982 | Photo courtesy Tom Corley

BRUCE BUNCH | Saddleback, 1982 | Photo courtesy Tom Corley

KYLE FLEMING | Photo courtesy Fleming family

KYLE FLEMING | Photo courtesy Fleming family

KYLE FLEMING | Ponca City, 1982 | Photo courtesy Fleming family

KYLE FLEMING | Ponca City, 1982 | Photo courtesy Fleming family

RICK HEMME | Quartz Hill, California | Photo courtesy Tom Corley

RICK HEMME | Quartz Hill, California | Photo courtesy Tom Corley

 

Excerpt from the Author

"The idea for this story was brought to me by the team at META and once I dug into it, I could tell it was one that people wanted to know more about. For many people, the deaths of Bruce Bunch, Kyle Fleming and Rick Hemme is still a very fresh memory, 35 years later.  Last October I started the journey of trying to tell the story of what happened in Ponca City, OK on August 1, 1982. 

Maybe my work will only lead to more questions but the promise I made to the Bunch, Fleming and Hemme families was that everyone would know who their boys were and who they wanted to be.

Over 6 months of reporting went into this article, involving interviews with 50 different individuals, which ended up being 8,000 words, an unheard of length in motorcycle magazines. It was a complicated process and not every detail was able to get to print. I also ran into the issue of one person's account completely contradicting the account of another person's and I knew I could only report the stories that was I able to corroborate from multiple sources. 

The family trusted me with this story and that's a very high honor. Word has started to leak about this article's release and I've been getting phone calls from complete strangers, men who were friends of the boys and just wanted to talk about them. I've also been getting messages from young men who are only in their 20s but they want to know more. It let me know that their memory is still very strong and now a younger generation will know who they were as well."


Read the Story in Volume 009

Indigo Child

JETT REYNOLDS

Filmed & edited by Tom Journet | Still photography by Eric Shirk

 

 

In the late ’60s, researcher Nancy Ann Tappe began seeing certain gifted youth with an indigo-colored aura following her Synesthesia diagnosis. She believed that these “Indigo Children” were a bridge to the future, wise beyond their years, born with remarkable creativity and unexplainable gifts that would change the world as we know it. I’m sure if Nancy were to meet thirteen-year-old Jett Reynolds she would see his indigo aura from a mile away, the motorcycle as his muse.

 

READ THE STORY IN VOLUME 008

 

DEPARTMENT OF MOTORCYCLES

RAMBLIN' THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST

Photos by Ray Gordon | Words by Maggie Gulasey

 

 

Featuring Thor Drake, Drake McElroy, Ben Giese & Maggie Gulasey

Soundtrack: "Ramblin' Blues" by Woody Guthrie

Special thanks to Ray Gordon & Food Chain Films

Supported by

 

Amongst the hardships of the “Dirty Thirties” and the suffering inflicted by the black blizzards of the Dust Bowl emerged one of the most influential and controversial American folk musicians to date: Woody Guthrie. In 1941, this “Dust Bowl Troubadour” headed out to Portland, Oregon, hired by the Bonneville Power Administration, who’d been seeking a talented musician with a knack for painting awe-inspiring lyrical imagery. They intended to use Guthrie’s Pacific Northwest–inspired songs to accompany their documentary, which promoted the benefits of constructing dams as a means of producing cheap electricity along the massive swirling fury of the Columbia River. Though the documentary never came to fruition, Guthrie was surely excited by the loveliness he witnessed during his Oregon stay, for he wrote 26 songs in one month, 17 of which were compiled and released decades later as the Columbia River Collection. In Guthrie’s own words from his Columbia River songbook:

“THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE SPOTS IN THIS WORLD, AND I’M ONE WALKER THAT’S STOOD WAY UP AND LOOKED WAY DOWN ACROST APLENTY OF PRETTY SIGHTS IN ALL THEIR VEILED AND NAKEDEST SEASONS. THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST HAS GOT MINERAL MOUNTAINS. IT’S GOT CHEMICAL DESERTS. IT’S GOT ROUGH RUN CANYONS. IT’S GOT SAWBLADE SNOWCAPS. IT’S GOT RIDGES OF NINE KINDS OF BROWN, HILLS OUT OF SIX COLORS OF GREEN, RIDGES FIVE SHADES OF SHADOWS, AND STICKERS THE EIGHT TONES OF HELL.”

 

Moved by Guthrie’s expedition along the Columbia, See See Motorcycles’ Thor Drake, free-spirited two-wheel icon Drake McElroy, and the META crew decided to embark on our own journey to chase Oregon’s boundless natural allure. With Thor and Drake as our guides and steel ponies for our wheels, we saddled up and set about on an adventure that would be an unexpected assortment of weather, history lessons, and unimagined beauty...

READ THE FULL STORY IN VOLUME 008