BEST OF JODY’S BOX: SOCAL MOTOCROSS IS THE BREEDING GROUND OF STRANGERS

Jody in 1974 on a Kasson Maico at Lake Whitney.

BY JODY WEISEL

I’m not an apologist for being a SoCal motocross racer. I’m glad to be one. And just like a lot of disgruntled Eastern, Midwestern or Northwestern racers, I don’t care how they do it in California—even though I’m the guy they are blaming when they say that. Surprisingly, I didn’t start out as a SoCal racer. I came from Texas and grew up racing at the Mosier Valley, Lake Whitney, Paradise Valley, Strawberry Hill, Forest Glades, Rio Bravo, Lockhart and Pecan Valley circuits. I loved racing in Texas. In comparison to SoCal, the tracks were better, weather more interesting and people more authentic. But, like it or not, when the time came to get out of Texas—I got out. As with most young guns, I wanted out of the little Texas berg I lived in. SoCal represented a shot at the golden ring of motocross stardom.

In truth, I am a native-born Californian. I was born in San Francisco and lived in Merced, Salinas, Long Beach and Norwalk, Huntington Beach and Placentia, but when I was 15 years old my family moved to Texas. My family, or what’s left of them, still live there today. My roots are there. My high school friends are there. I own a house there, but, ever since I pursued my motocross career, I call California home.

I always planned to return to Texas at some point. However, I’m here and as much asI hate to say it, I’ve been “Californorized.” Perhaps, “Plasticized” would be a better word for it. SoCal and Texas are different worlds—inhabited by different people with completely unique views on life as we know it.

Even going to the races is different. In Texas my friends and I would pile into a Dodge van (with a wall separating the bikes from the bods) the night before the race and drive 100, 200, 300 or 400 miles to that week’s race (Texas is one of the few states were you could drive for 14 straight hours and not cross the state line). Camping overnight was not just a fun thing to do it was a necessity.

Jody at Mosier Valley on his Hodaka Super Combat 125.

In SoCal I can get up at 7:00 in the morning and make it to any one of ten tracks in time for practice (and still have time to stop for breakfast on the way). No need to camp to race in SoCal. Why would I when my luxurious hacienda is within driving distance of Carlsbad, Competition Park, Lake Elsinore, Perris, Starwest, Sunrise, Hungry Valley, Cahuilla Creek and Glen Helen. In fact, the last time I raced at Mammoth Mountain I got up at 3:00 a.m. in the morning and made it to the track before practice started (I averaged 109 mph through the desert). Even more telling, at the end of my second Mammoth moto I drove home and was eating dinner with Lovely Louella before the sun set. That’s over 600 miles of driving with a couple of motos thrown in to break up the gas stops.

Southern Californians never have to take the weather into consideration. If I schedule a test session with Team Yamaha for three months from now, I can guarantee that the day will be sunny, warm and bright. Every day is the same. It’s monotonous. It’s almost artificial. But, perfection means never having to cancel a test because of the weather. Not so in Texas. A Blue Northern could blow through a Texas track without warning and turn it from 100-degrees to 40-degrees in a few minutes (and with it would come rain, sleet, snow and hail). And that is in the summer— the winter is even more unpredictable.

Texas motocross, in my day, had a down-home atmosphere to it. I knew everybody in my class (and their mothers, brothers and Aunt Clara). We shared parts, tales and barbecue on a weekly basis. Nobody was too cool to say hello. Nobody was too famous to lend a hand. Nobody was a stranger. It’s not like that in the land of fruits and nuts. SoCal is the breeding ground of strangers. It is possible to pit between two guys at a SoCal race and never say a word to either one of them—exchanging only glares if they encroach on your 30 square-feet of land.

SoCal is a land of status—where social stratum determines who talks to who. And what determines social strata? Clothes, of course. As rules of thumb, guys who wear Fox clothes don’t talk to guys in Thor. Baggy panters are shunned by all serious racers, while they shun trail riders. Vet racers wear Sinisalo or AXO. Shift guys have to have at least one tattoo. TM, Vertemati and KTM riders wear Wind. And, those on the cutting edge alternate between Troy Lee and No Fear gear. In Southern California, clothes don’t cover your body as much as they assuage your fears of inadequacy.

Jody at Saddleback in 1975. Note the Texas flag on the back of his helmet.