BEST OF JODY’S BOX: “THEY DON’T HOLD TICKET TAPE PARADES FOR BUS DRIVERS LIKE THEY DO FOR ASTRONAUTS.”

<Jody has three different thumb nails and a right thumb that doesn’t bend.

BY JODY WEISEL

Back after Justin Barcia landed on Marvin Musquin’s hand, Marvin and I were comparing thumbs. That may sound strange, but it was a bonding moment for both of us. Marvin had broken and severely cut his thumb in a Freestone crash with Justin Barcia. As for my opposable digit, about 25 years ago I had my thumb mangled in the rear sprocket of Jeff Hicks’ Honda CR250. Although Marvin’s and my injuries were separated by three decades, we chatted casually about the surgeries it took to repair them, held our thumbs side-by-side to see who could bend theirs the farthest (it was a tie in that neither of us could bend them). I pointed out that my thumb was slice off back where the finger nails germinate and it resulted in my right thumb having three distinct and different thumb nails. We agreed to share gruesome photos of the post surgery stitches. I gave him some valuable riding advice — not that the two-time 250 World Champion needed any input from me about how to go fast—but, when it came to racing with a non-operational thumb — I’m an expert. 

When Marvin and I parted, we shook hands…only to jam our non-folding thumbs against each other in a symbolic blood brother act. 

Which got me thinking about the hands of a motocross racer. Apart from driving spikes for the Trans-Continental Railroad, there is probably no sport that is as tough on a person’s hands as motocross. When I’m walking through the mall with lovely Louella and she reaches downto grab my hand in a touching moment of PDA (public display of affection) as soon as her dainty hand touches the lobster claw of a paw that passes for my hand, she recoils in horror. 

There was a time when motocross gloves were for protection, even my old-school goat skin gloves from 1970s had rubber strips sewn on top of them to deflect some of the slings and arrows of racing. The Brooklyn Bridge school of glove design reached its apex in the mid-1980s when AXO designed transformer-like gloves with articulated plastic fingers, air scoops and grillage. Then, suddenly, about ten years ago, gloves started to shrink in size, purpose and protection. The modern motocross glove is no more protective than those crocheted driving gloves that tweedy British-twits use when driving their Jags. If boots had taken the same turn as gloves did, we’d be racing in ballet slippers today. 

For the most part, I don’t really care. I come from the school of thought that accepts that there are dangers involved in racing motorcycles for a living — and that they don’t hold ticket tape parades for bus drivers like they do for Astronauts. If it was safe, sanitary and socially acceptable, then everyone would do it. You gotta have some risk in sport to make it a “risk sport.” 

“I’M WILLING TO RISK GETTING HIT IN THE MIDDLE FINGER BY THE ROOST FROM THE GUY IN FRONT OF ME. IF I WAS AFRAID, I’D EQUIP MY BIKE WITH PLASTIC HAND GUARDS, BUT I’LL NEVER BE THAT AFRAID.” 

The thumb on Jody’s right hand sticks down below the throttle grip because he can’t use it to hold on.

I’m willing to risk getting hit in the middle finger by the roost from the guy in front of me — even if it means I’ll have to display my anger at him with some other finger. If I was afraid, I’d equip my bike with plastic hand guards, but I’ll never be that afraid. Plus, I’m one of those guys who can’t ride with hand guards on my bike…they confuse me. No sweat! I was the same way about my crossbar, but finally adjusted to riding without using the crossbar to aim with. 

I never liked palm padding in my gloves. Back in the golden age I would take a razor blade and cut all of the padding out of the palms of my Tibblin gloves (that way my hands could turn a richer shade of purple by day’s end). To me, palm padding is like racing with a catcher’s mitt on your hands. It is worth noting that I’m not prone to getting blisters and I’m a firm believer that padded palms, tape and those panty hose-like under gloves only make your hands softer. I’ve never gone so far as to soak my paws in salt brine to make them tougher, but 56 years of racing has replaced the skin on the high-wear areas of my palms with the human equivalent of rhinoceros hide. 

Eli Tomac’s Yama-thumb.

Sadly, I do have an Achilles tendon with my hands (how’s that for a mixed anatomy metaphor?). Since I switch bikes all the time, often between motos, I’m not all that sensitive to bar or lever position. I just get on and ride…and within a lap or two I adjust. However, the weak link in my hand strategy is “Yama-thumb.” I blame Jimmy Weinert for this curse. When Jammin’ Jimmy raced for Yamaha five decades ago, he elected to run a very weird bar bend. They were pulled way back and had a severe sweep. Every time I raced a Yamaha in the 1970s my wrists were so kinked that the top of my thumb would rub against the grip flange. The rubbing would wear the skin off of the first knuckle of my thumb (to the point of developing a perfectly round open wound by motos end). If I stayed off of a Yamaha for a couple weeks, my thumb would heal up — although there would be a shiny spot of pink skin where the Yama-thumb had been. And the next time I raced a Yamaha, it would tear through the pink scar tissue in two laps. This particular pattern has played itself out forever. Now, even though Yamaha has long since foregone the Jammer’s eccentric bar bend, a YZ will still cause spontaneous bleeding just by looking at it. If it hadn’t been for grip donuts, I’m sure that I would have whittled all the way through my thumb. 

I’ll never be a hand model, which is sad because that it an amazingly appealing job — show up at 9 in the morning, flash a few Vogue-ish gang signs, collect a fat paycheck and spend the rest of the day soaking your hands in the opposite of salt brine. But, I wouldn’t trade my scarred, worn and weathered hands for anyone else’s. They are like a history book of my racing career. There are scars from the saplings at Mosier Valley, a chewed-up knuckle from when I didn’t let go of the clip-on handlebars of my road racer at Dallas Motor Speedway, a crescent-shaped scar from where I tried to start a YZ250 by hand and a slowly fading gash from a first turn crash were my finger met the rear axle nut’s cotter key of a KX450F. 

But, most of all, I wouldn’t trade my gnarled up hands because I hate PDA.