A Two-Stroke Journey into the Soul of the American Desert
Words by Forrest Minchinton | Photography by Monti Smith & Will Luna
The haze of dust lingered, like a dense fog. The line of trucks and van headlights stretched as far as the eye could see in the morning twilight, all anxiously waiting to stage and unload their race machines in the dry Nevada desert. There was tech inspection, registration, transponders and each vehicle’s tracking units to chase down. It had all been canceled and/or postponed the day prior. The race, however, was on…maybe. No one really knew. This was only the largest and longest off-road desert race in the United States of America, amidst a global pandemic. All of the prerequisites the day before had been raided and shut down by the Las Vegas PD, like a college frat party after one too many people and a few too many keg stands. A lack of social distancing and too few face masks was the probable cause that ended this party. This is 2020, but someone forgot to forward the memo to the wrench-slinging, race fuel-guzzling thrillseekers that are off-road racers.
A last-minute scramble ensued to drill holes in fenders, mount tracking units and find race officials. Just a few hundred racers at the unpleasant hour of 4 a.m. in the dark Nevada desert. With minutes to spare I mounted my hand-numbing, vibration-station of a race bike – a feeling I had grown to love and become accustomed to over the preceding week. I headed toward my place as the 6th open pro motorcycle at the start line. The deep two-stroke rattle and violent power could be tamed only by the sleight of hand. This was followed by silence, until the racers were sent off one by one, with one-minute intervals of separation. The drone of engines disappeared behind the clouds of dust, wide-open throttles, adrenaline pumping. Fifth place was off the line, my two-stroke fiercely purring, waiting for the light to turn green. Green means go…1st, 2nd, 3rd, click it into 4th and still a gear to spare at 90 mph, blind into the lingering fog of dust. Speed-shift into 5th gear – 95, 98, 105 mph, and still pulling for more. Race mile 1, race mile 2 and then…seize. WTF?!
It was somewhere around midnight the day before our scheduled departure to the desert. We were on the edge of the Pacific Coast, a 1950s built garage in the heart of Huntington Beach, California. Scratch that – as a matter of fact, it was roughly a week past our original scheduled departure, sans the necessary motorcycle parts, bits and pieces, all of which were back-ordered, likely stuck on a container ship in the big blue Pacific somewhere between Japan and Los Angeles. Sitting in front of us was a half-built 1996 CR500. A chunk of Japanese aluminum and steel from a bygone era. An unconventional desert race machine, lacking not power, nor handling, but at this point parts. A project that most likely would take years to complete, and we had a month. A new fashionable motocross gear company, State of Ethos, had agreed to help cover our costs and chronicle our journey. Bell Helmets covered our entry fees, and the team consisted of myself, Nick Lapaglia, Ciaran Naran and Anthony Rodriguez. Nonconformists to the status quo racer. A desert racer, vintage racing aficionado, amateur motocross phenom turned scholar, and an unemployed Supercross talent. This bunch values a life well ridden as much as they value winning. That money Bell Helmets gave us? Yeah, we spent all of it on fixing our 24-year-old race machine. So, we had an obligation to wring the throttle and try our best to win the longest nonstop off-road race in America, from Vegas to Reno, for good or ill. We just had to do our best to keep our usual haunts around the roulette table and dance clubs short.
A day late and a dollar short, we all arrived at my desert ranch. The perennial testing grounds for all my ill-conceived ideas and aspirations. The compound is an eclectic culmination of my family’s life, which has always existed beyond the normalcy of southern Californian suburbia. The motorcycle was finished, the team present, all of us excited. There was motorcycle testing to do and high speeds to be experienced. Drawing on my desert racing experience and with the help of Boyko Racing, AHM factory services, and an FMF pipe and silencer, we had a motor built to race and suspension built for comfort. The old Mikuni carburetor tossed out in exchange for Technology Elevated’s Smart Carb, the latest and greatest in carb technology. Boyesen reeds and ignition covers, Thrill Seekers saddle, IMS footpegs and fuel tanks fueling the fun. All rolling on STI off-road rubber and Nitromousse bibs, so as to be 100% flat-proof. The bike was modified by Steecon, Inc., to run 2008 CRF450X forks and 2019 CRF wheels and axles, complemented by updated brakes front and rear. We needed advantages where we could make them, and the package was surprisingly capable. After all we had to conquer 515 miles of Nevada’s roughest desert – high speed and high bumps were on the menu.
We were in Johnson Valley on the edge of the desert when the buzz took hold. The 1996 CR500 hummed along, electric start and the modern comforts of 2020 a thing of the past. It was 100 degrees, but the wind on the face and the beautiful zing of a 500cc two-stroke through the open desert kept it cool. She sang at 112 mph. The fastest any of us had every gone in the dirt. At over 100 mph the vibration was intense compared to a modern race machine, but it was purpose built, and we knew it could be successful. The sheer top speed would be as big of an advantage as any in the long, vast racecourse from Vegas to Reno. So fast and raw that it was almost suicidal, and so it earned the name The Kamikaze. We were a special unit, our machine outdated by our competition, but we were unwilling to surrender, and it would be the death of the machine before any of us would ever admit defeat.
Fast forward to race day, race mile 2, 5:37 a.m., I sat there on the side of the racecourse. The Kamikaze had seized. Compression gone. A five-dollar part had failed, a faulty crank seal. My heart sank. The hours, the days, the weeks, the money scraped together by all involved, the chase crews spread out across the Nevada desert. It was all over, I thought. I grabbed my radio, and we devised a plan. We would take one of the boy’s stock bikes out of the van, slap on our transponder and numbers, and we would finish. It was against the rules, but we have never been very good at those anyway. We would likely be disqualified, but we didn’t mind. At this point, we needed to finish. Regardless of the odds stacked against us, there is always a way. Problem was, I was still 2 miles from the nearest access point to the course. I pushed, I ran, I walked, and I cussed as I struggled to push our race bike the 2 miles through the deep sand to the meet-up point. I arrived winded, and drenched in sweat, but we made quick work of the swap. I hopped onto the replacement bike, at this point an hour and a half down from the last-place bike, but started clicking off miles. The replacement motorcycle was set up for someone nearly a hundred pounds heavier than me, no steering stabilizer or mousse bibs, none of the essentials required to ride a motorcycle 515 miles at race speed. Every bump and rock nearly sending me flying off course.
One hundred and forty miles later, I gladly handed the bike off to Anthony, who made quick work and flawlessly clicked off his 100ish mile section. Ciaran took off from pit 6, and the spirits were high. We were down but not out, and the buzz was flowing, and it was, well, fun! Pit 7, Ciaran rolled in sitting sideways but rolling straight with a rear flat. The stock inner tubes had met their maker. We made quick work and ended up pulling tires and mousses off the Kamikaze’s wheels and began swapping out the tires on the Husky 501 replacement bike. Air-filter change, tightening loose spokes, tighten the handguard that was hanging on by a thread, and off we went. Pits 7, 8, 9, 10 were smooth sailing; Nick was now onboard and having as good a time as anyone, as he tends to do. Pit 11, bummed some gas off a friend, pit 12, and finally pit 13. Nick was wide open, oblivious that his rear mousse had failed. It was the final pit and excitement for the crew. Another tire off and on again. Off we went, the final finishers in the Open Pro division. Not quite legal, but still accomplished. Beers were had, smiles, stories and next year’s plans. These are the moments we live for.
