Stalking Rockets

On a business trip back in 2008, I found myself in a hotel adjacent to a familiar stretch of expressway in my old stompin’ grounds. It soon became apparent, after some sharp-eyed recollectin’, that the overpass outside my window should be memorialized with some significant manner of motorcycle historical marker. Follow me. Flip the ol’ calendar back decades. Harlingen, TX. 1971. Two or three dozen motorcycles convened on the top and sides of the aforementioned Expressway 77/83 overpass, darkness (and no cops) upon us. Our ridin’ party had just departed a monthly meeting of the Tip-O-Tex Cycle Club (see sidebar) held in an old house just across the street from one of the original Kawi dealers in Texas, Danner’s Cycle Sales, Inc. This was the onset of one of our many customary post-meeting activities. The only sounds, other than passin’ traffic, were those recognizable releases: the poppin’ and cracklin’ of just-shut-down, hot, air-cooled, aluminum motorcycle engine castings. All eyes radiated toward the northern sky as the clock slowly crept toward 8 PM. We were anticipating the flash and bang of the first giant-sized bottle rocket which duly signified the official start of the contest. The rocket went off on time and every engine came to life. We blasted off the mound and made our way about a mile or so down a dirt road to ‘75 Acres.’ Guided only by an internal, natural GPS, we were all headed toward one destination: the origin of that rocket. The “Rocket Run” was on! I am sharing these chronicles for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that hardly anyone—outside our little group of ‘rocketeers’—knows what the heck a Rocket Run is/was. Five minutes of noise, two-stroke oil fumes, four-stroke crankcase blowby, dust, thorns and trail-probin’ later, everyone comes to a halt, hits their kill buttons, and watches the sky for the next scheduled bottle rocket, one of normal size, to explode in the sky. The pack of motorcycles (we often had 30-plus) is well-dispersed by now in this gnarly spread of cactus, mesquite and yucca; everyone’s hunch of the launched rocket site being carefully analyzed. 75 Acres is nestled along the side of the Arroyo Colorado (Red Channel). It is a deep riverbed—a maze of seemingly endless trails chock-full of cliffs, hills, crevices and other motorcycle-consuming obstacles. This is where we all learned to ride our old, rudimentary motorcycles, enjoying the lay of the land and challenges of the terrain, nearly every day. Located smack in the middle of town, ‘The Acres’ weathered all these years pretty much unchanged, with neighborhoods invading its periphery, but now seldom used by the local, modern-day, off-road riding population. Motorcycles are so specialized these days, what the heck would you ride on a Rocket Run in this day and age? Ultimately, the second rocket makes itself known against the starry backdrop. All the engines are prodded back to life once again, and the horde of riders head for that elusive location they assume this rocket was launched from. After five more minutes of crisscrossing each other, and blindly searching for the best route to the launchin’ pad of the most recent rocket, all movement and noise cease once again. By now it’s apparent most of us have lost our bearings (not the crankshaft variety). Our sense of orientation, in the

Rider switch during a Team Hare Scrambles on my 250 Elsinore with mentor, Jack Morgan, in 1973 near Rio Hondo, Texas

dark, has taken the night off. Every time another rocket lights up the sky, you swear the rocket launcher-person is changing locations (a serious violation of Rocket Run Rules). All you can do is head toward the last flash and stop every five minutes for the next. Some of us get impatient and choose to watch the sky as we plonk through the trails. It comes at a price. I once lost my motorsickle in a crevice, only the glowing taillight protruding from the edge of the fissure. We snatched bikes from

Lime Run flyer from 1972

holes, trees, creeks and sides of cliffs every night. It was part of the fun? I rode a decent scoot, a 1971 Honda SL350K1. Heavy, but powerful, it was a suitable on/off road ride for the era. Back in those days, you had one motorcycle, and it served many purposes. Ride it to the track on Sunday, strip it, add a number plate, and thrash it and your body for three motos in a “European style motocross” race. And then, put yourself and your iron back together, and ride home. Next morning, ride it to work. We had a mighty fine, close-knit assemblage of enthusiasts in the club, banded together for the purposes of beer drinking, racing, bragging, wrenching and special events. We had a magnificent and legendary racetrack, Botts Park (along another section of the Arroyo), and held MX races monthly. We had Poker Runs, Lime Runs (don’t have the space to elaborate), Field Meets, Short-track, TT and Trials events. All the local dealers were involved and there were any number of different makes and adaptations of motorcycles—from that period or older—used to compete in those contests. No different for these Rocket Runs. You just run-whatchabrung, as long as it had a headlight, functional charging system (not a given ‘back in the day’) and was semi-street legal. There were certainly no particular classes or styles of motorcycles entered in these events. I recall Honda 305, 350 and 450 Scramblers, Triumph Trophy 650s, Beezer 441s, SL90s and SL100s, X6 Hustlers, Suzuki TS185s and Yamaha DT1s, a Cooper or two and Kawasaki Trail Bosses and Big Horns. Occasionally we would wander off too far, get lost, kill our engines and sit and wait for the sounds of other riders to determine which direction to meander. This usually occurred whenever we held these runs in other, unfamiliar locations, just to make it more challenging. We pretty much knew who was missing when the dust and gunpowder settled though. Someone would eventually find them stranded, victims of their own state of dazed-and-confused, or at the mercy of irreparable mechanical termination. Some of our Tip-O-Tex brethren are no longer with us. Larry Danner (Kawasaki Bighorn or Trail Boss, Harley Sprint), Bobby Adair (flattracked a 238 Green Streak), Billy Staton (another Trail Boss rider) and Buddy Tanner were always there. Many are still in the business. Local Honda dealer Leon James would compete on an SL125, with young son, Thomas (RIP), clamped to his back. The most memorable participant had to be Abel Gonzales on his Kawasaki H1, yeah, with street tires. The mental picture of him plowing his way through some hellacious brush one night, cutting new trails in a fit of grit and determination

Leon James, Dale Parker, Thomas James and Glynn Williams at the Astrodome in the early ‘70s (pointed at one o’ those rockets), all three chrome mufflers frying the surrounding prickly pear as he forced forward, endures. Eventually, someone would find the person firing the rockets. This lucky or skilled (that would be decided over beer) rider would be declared the victor. Several bottle rockets were launched in succession, signaling the end of the Rocket Run. The winner would enjoy bragging rights, explore the trails soon after for a new and little-known launching site, and host the next event. I have experienced just about every facet of motorcycle riding or competition over the years, except Ice Racing, and maybe the Globe of Death. (Come to think of it, a buddy of mine recently described his experience not long ago in one of these spheres, and I think I’ll pass.) But the challenges of riding, tuning and maintaining those old, crude (by today’s standards) bikes, and the riders I shared those times with, are treasured, and something I will always cherish. The memories sure make you appreciate the modern motorbike. But the old on/off-road bikes of the ‘60s and ‘70s made you a rider. Barely one third the suspension travel of today’s machines, holding up another hundred, hundred-fifty pounds, they made you work for your riding pleasure. And unlike the modern-tech new stuff, you were also pretty much forced to learn how to keep your mount running by attending the ‘school of hard knocks.’ Back then we had points to gap and timing to set, valves to adjust and throttle cables to synchronize. We had crude electrics with zener diodes. And if you wanted to hop up your motor, you raided the parts bins and trial-and-errored your way through an assortment of pistons, carburetors, pipes and other creative and sometimes fatal modifications. If you had the bucks, you could order up a Powroll big-bore kit, or a Yoshimura cam and slipper piston, or a GYT Kit. In the shops, the four-stroke guys cut valve seats and the two-stroke guys rebuilt cranks. You learned how to wrench, or you found a buddy who could wrench. If that wasn’t an option, the shops and dealerships were well staffed with experience and enthusiasm.

Botts Park flyer from 1973

In retrospect, the Rocket Run must go down as one of the most unforgettable and entertaining two-wheeled activities I have ever had the privilege to participate in. Chasin‘ the origin of bottle rockets launched every five minutes in the dark, in some of the harshest terrain imaginable was quite novel, and a heck of an idea (I guess we’ll never know who thought this one up). I’d do it again tomorrow, but only if I still had my Honda 350. I recently brought a ’69 Honda CB350 back to life as a road racer/café racer. But if this CB350 happened to be the only scoot I owned back in ’71, I’m sure it would’ve been haulin’ me through the cacti, huntin’ that launchin’ pad, and stalkin’ them rockets. T he Tip-O-Tex Cycle Club existed down in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas back in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. I’d heard about the ‘scrambles’ they held before the dawn of motocross prior to acquiring my first motorcycle. I was sitting at a stop sign on my SL350 early in ’71 when James Stevens rode up beside me on his Kawasaki. I think it might have been a B8, or something similar. I’d never met the guy, but he invited me to a Tip-O-Tex club meeting. I was intimidated, but curious. My vague recollection of the old house where the meetings were held: a big dance hall-type room with a wooden floor, a large beer cooler, rowdiness and a ‘we’re glad you’re here’ feel.

My first trophy

Thomas James (32) and Steve Wise at Botts Park in 1971 I fit right in and was soon entering European Style Motocross races at Botts Park. I was hooked. But I first had to learn how to ride trails and race motorcycles. I had known about the miles of treacherous trails and hills of ‘75 Acres’ and sure wanted to ride it from one end to the other. But man, was I ever apprehensive. I’d ride up to the trailhead most every day at lunch, digging deep for the huevos to go on ahead, but never took the plunge. One day, Jack Morgan plonked up beside me and said, “You ever ridden the acres?” He was wearing dress clothes and riding a clean 1970 Honda SL350K0. I didn’t know him from Adam. Not wanting to come off as a wuss, I just told him I was ready. I made it through in one piece. I subsequently wore five or six motorcycles out in that place. My first trophy was collected there, a three-hour Hare ‘n’ Hound in the heat of the summer that nearly killed me. Picking an SL350 up repeatedly for three hours will make a man out of you.

Later that year I became fully involved in track prep on Saturday, competing in all the events (flat track, TT MX and trials) on Sunday and, eventually, race promotion. Botts Park was one of Steve Wise’s home tracks. We all enjoyed watching his racing career develop. When Tip-O-Tex disbanded, it was replaced by the Valley Sport Cycle Association. We had some heydays during the ‘70s when the Elsinores first hit the dirt. We held huge events, only limited by fuel shortages during the oil embargo. Out-of-town racers would call ahead to make sure there were gas stations open so they could refuel and head back home. The VSCA morphed into the Harlingen MX Association, Botts Park was transformed into a golf course, and we built a fantastic new track across the river from 75 Acres, Arroyo MX Park. I was heavily involved in race promotion there until the call came from American Honda in 1983 and I moved to Irving to start another mighty fine chapter in my motorcycle life. And I sadly left a most cherished family of riders, racers and mentors behind only to find a grand replacement in AHRMA decades later.