BEST OF JODY’S BOX: THE FACE IN THE MIRROR LOOKS FAMILIAR

BY JODY WEISEL

I’ve never understood how people I’ve never met seem to recognize me. In fact, when Gene Hackman’s son Chris was racing motocross, I talked to Gene every weekend at Saddleback and didn’t recognize him until my friend asked me to introduce him to “Gene Hackman.” I don’t find myself that distinctive in the mirror. I know what you are going to say, “Of course they recognize you; your photo appears in every issue of MXA.” I don’t accept that reason. I consciously run photos of me racing, not posing. I don’t give interviews. I don’t attend public events. I never go to motocross reunions. I don’t have a Facebook page. I’ve never shot a selfie, and the majority of the face photos of me are from when my hair was dark brown and I was 30 years younger.

Surprisingly, I’m surprised when people recognize me—a little embarrassed but appreciative. Here is a sampling of what they say to me.

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“You’re Jody, right? I think you are a great rider,” said a guy at the riders’ meeting.

“Thank you, but I’m not the rider I once was. I’ve slowed down considerably,” I replied.

“No,” he says, “I said writer.”

“Well, the same thing applies to my writing as to my riding,” I respond.

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“I want to thank you for getting me through school,” a guy standing behind me in the sign-up line said out of the blue. “When I was young, I could barely read, and my teacher told my mom that she didn’t need to worry about me going to college. But, my teacher brought a copy of Motocross Action to class one day and I couldn’t put it down. I graduated from USC School of Business because of Jody’s Box.’”

“I have a similar story. I graduated from college with the help of a guy named Cliff,” I said.

“Cliff who?” he asked.

“CliffsNotes,” I said.

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“Jody, I’ve always wondered how fast you were in the your prime,” said a guy in the checkout line at Harbor Freight.

“Back in the 1970s, I was fast. I could probably do 70 back then. I think I’m down to 35 now,” I answered.

“What track did you do 70 miles per hour at?” he asked.

“I’m talking about words-per-minute. I was pretty fast on my old Smith-Corona Sterling,” I said.

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“Do you remember me?” asked a guy standing by the fence at Glen Helen. “I met you at Lake Whitney in 1976. You told me how to jet my Suzuki TM125.”

“Sorry, I don’t remember you,” I replied.

“I was wearing a blue sweatshirt,” he said.

“Oh, was that you? Why didn’t you say so? How have you been?” I didn’t remember him, but I do remember lots of blue sweatshirts.

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“I raced in the same class as you at Saddleback in 1986. We had some great battles,” said a guy as I buckled my boots in the back of my truck.

“I’m sure we did, but Saddleback closed in 1984,” I said.

“Maybe it was Arroyo Cycle Park,” he countered.

“Arroyo closed in the late 1970s,” I replied.

“Well, it was somewhere and I beat you,” he said.

“You and a thousand other guys,” I said.

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“How did you do today?” asked a guy after the second motos were over.

“Let me get back to you on that, because I think I still have another lap to go,” I replied.

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“I never really liked ‘Jody’s Box.’ You seem like an egotistical know-it-all,” said a guy who leaned on my bike as I worked on it.

“That’s okay, good taste often takes years to develop,” I replied.

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“I thought you were younger,” said a guy on the starting line.

“I was,” I replied.