BEST OF JODY’S BOX: THE QUESTIONS STRANGERS ASK AT THE GAS STATION
By Jody Weisel
“Hey, I saw that guy come up to you and say how much he loves what you have done for the sport. Are you famous?” Asked the guy at the pump next to me at the gas station.
“I’m famous at gas pumps at 6:00 a.m. on Sunday mornings, the rest of the time, not so much,” I said.
“Where are you going to ride at?” He asked while pointing at my truckload of bikes.
“I’m going to Glen Helen for a race,” I replied
“I saw that place on television. They have some really big jumps there, don’t they?” he asked.
“I never noticed the jumps, but the other guys in my class say they are there,” I replied.
“Are you any good?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m good to stray dogs, nice to small children and I play a mean game of Mahjong.”
“I meant on a motorcycle,” he clarified.
“I know what you meant and I pretty sure that you know what I meant.” I said.
“Have you ever been hurt?” He asked kind of tentatively.
“Yes, by my girlfriend in high school, but I got over it,” I replied.
“No, I mean did you ever get hurt on your motorcycle,” he asked.
“Never on it. Under it a couple times,” I said.
“Ever break any bones?” He asked.
“Yes, a few. My left elbow is pinned together. You can see the scars and the hole where the pin went in,” I said.
“Was it a really big crash?” he asked.
“No. I did it pole vaulting at a track meet when I was in High School,” I replied.
“How much does a bike like that red one cost? he asked.
“About $10,400,” I replied.
“Oh, is that some kind of special bike? I thought they cost about $800,” he remarked.
“You have motocross bikes confused with motocross boots,” I answered in response.
“How fast will that red bike go?” He asked while reaching up to turn the GasGas MC350 throttle.
“It doesn’t matter how fast it goes. It’s more important how fast it stops.
“What do all those dials on the forks and shock do?” he asked, while putting fingerprints on the shiny parts of my bike.
“They allow you to adjust the suspension to 20 different settings, but 19 of them are wrong,” I answered.
“No offense, but aren’t you a little too old to be racing motorcycles,” he said in a way that I took offense to.
“I’ll start getting old once I stop racing motorcycles,” I exclaimed.
“Do you ever regret not going to college and getting a high paying job instead of being a vagabond motorcycle racer?” He said while eyeballing my dirty 14-year-old Toyota pickup truck and grease-stained T-shirt.
“Let me get back to you on that after I hop in my Porsche, drive over to the airport, get in my plane and fly to my summer home,” I answered.
“I always wanted to be a motorcycle racer but my parents wouldn’t let me do it when I was young. When did you start?” he asked.
“Not long after my parents told me not to,” I responded.
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