Grand Funk

Last night, on our way home from another great Tuesday evening MTB ride, B was reading, and I was listening to the classic rock channel on XM.  The easily recognizable drum entrance to "We're an American Band" by Grand Funk came on.  I started pounding on the steering wheel while B looked at me with that "now what" look.  So he got to hear the story again.  I know I've told him about this song and what it reminds me of at least a couple of times.  Sometimes I think he's just humoring his old man by letting me tell it again.

The story starts with  "Dino had this on 8 track".  Which of course gets the question from B "what's an 8 track?".  How do you describe them?  After we get past that I get into the story.  And yes, I had a friend named Dino.

It was 1974, Gatorback Raceway, just outside of Gainesville Fl.  I had a 1972 Kawasaki 175 with a Hooker exhaust, plastic Preston Petty tank, and a 21" front wheel.  The trickiest bike I had ever owned.  Three of us were piled in Dino's green Chevy van, complete with green shag carpet, and of course the 8 track player.  Dino had a brand new Honda CR 125 Elsinore, the bike that would change the face of motocross.  We turned off the paved road onto the entrance to the track and saw the field full of vans and pickups (this was long before the days of motor homes).  Cue the American Band song.

The race was a 4 hour hare scrambles which was run using the MX track and some single track through the woods surrounding it.  The event was set up to be run as a team event.  I didn't learn this until the riders meeting.  Yea, I know, but give me a break, it was my first race.

The exact details of the race are fuzzy, which makes sense when you consider this happened 38 years ago.  I just remember coming through the scoring barrels and Dino (who had quit because he was tired) yelling "all you have to do is finish and you trophy!".  This was my first case of trophy lust.  I am still surprised what I'll do for a shiny piece of plastic.

Well I finished third, got protested by a father who claimed I changed riders (my introduction to moto dads), and could barely walk to trophy presentation.

By this time B was already back to reading his book and the song was over.  But on my side of the truck it was still 1974, I could smell the Castrol oil and the dust.  I still have that trophy on a shelf out in the shed.  "Out on the road for forty days".

Damn it was good to be 18 in 1974.