BEST OF JODY’S BOX: WE WERE BOUND BY FRIENDSHIP AND THE BRAND WE RACED

Jody at Saddleback Park on his Suzuki working the edge of a rock-hard ridge that passed for a berm. at Saddleback.

By Jody Weisel

It is often said that if you live long enough, you will be the last of your friends still standing. On a theoretical level I understand that we don’t all make it to the end together—life is a topsy-turvy sequence of events and sometimes things beyond our control tear us asunder. I am heartbroken about what happened to my close friend Jimmy Mac, but I vow, in his memory, to continue on as though he was still parking next to me in the pits. I know that will never happen again, but I willforever remember him I when I think of all good times we spent at the races.

My first experience with Jimmy Mac was at the then-popular CMC races at Saddleback and Carlsbad in the 1970s. His Suzuki RM250 had 10Y on it and he wore a plain Torsten Hallman blue jersey with a yellow Suzuki logo on it (the one that looks like a sunrise, but actually represents “all roads lead to Suzuki”). I had the same bike and the same jersey. We instantly became close friends and used to travel together to the faraway events. Jimmy Mac could always be counted on to tell fabulous stories of his adventures as we clicked off the miles.

Back in day, we traveled long distances to race. It wasn’t unusual for us to load up the Mac’s van and head north for Lake Madera, Livermore and Puyallup on a three-week road trip. When two people are thrown into close proximity to each other, in a van filled to gills with bikes, gas cans, tools and sleeping bags, you expect some sort of friction. But not with Jimmy Mac. He was the perfect traveling companion. He drove while I slept, compared to my method of sleeping while I drove. He was a stickler for neatness and kept everything about his gear, helmet, bike and van in shipshape condition. At the track, he would help other racers change flat tires, scrape mud from under the fenders or rebuild a top-end after practice. Jimmy was good people.

 

Jimmy worked for Suzuki when we first met, but would move a few years later to Husqvarna to work for Mark Blackwell. As a motorcycle industry guy, he knew his stuff and had lots of connections. If I needed help, I could always call Jimmy Mac and he would call a guy, who knew a guy, who could get it for me wholesale. It may sound greedy, but I will miss that about him the most.

Jimmy was a confirmed bachelor. He would show up at Saddleback with a new girlfriend every couple weeks. He would say, “I think she’s the one.” Then three weeks later, he’d have a new girlfriend cleaning his goggles and arranging his van (which he would rearrange as soon as she went to the concession stand). He was a little bit of an obsessive compulsive and didn’t marry until he was in his 50s (he said, “I think she’s the one.”)

As the years rolled by, we just kept on racing together. There was no question on a rainy race day about who would show up and who wouldn’t—Jimmy Mac would be the first guy in line at the gate of the track. As we grew older, I learned to appreciate his cheery disposition, sly sense of humor and forgiving nature.

In the last year of our time together, I notice that he had become something of a malcontent. He became grumpy and was disillusioned with his bike. He had always raced Suzukis. That was the one thing that we had in common from 1975 to the very end. He used to joke that he bled yellow (even when he worked at Husqvarna). Since we raced the same brand, we could share parts and know-how. I could depend on Jimmy for technical help, spare wheels or a loan of his practice bike whenever I needed it—and he could expect the same from me.

 

It’s hard to realize that as little as a month ago, we were sitting in the pits at Glen Helen, two old guys with a lifetime of shared memories, swapping stories about the days on the road with Tony, Sugar Bear, Keith and Brian. Laughing about the horror story race where he broke his leg and I drove him home while he lay in the back of the van…for some reason it seems funny in retrospect.

So when I heard the sad news, I was shocked. No, I was devastated. It was hard to believe that we would never park next to each other in the pits again. Never share stories about the good old days. Never share our collection of Suzuki air filters. And, that I would never get to speak to him again about the joys and travails of life. You never know how much you miss someone until they aren’t there anymore.

I did everything I could for him near the end, but he wouldn’t take my advice. I warned him about the dire consequences of his action, but he refused to listen. And now he’s gone from my life, vanished as though he never existed. And, as far as I’m concerned, he can take that new Honda CRF450 he bought last week and park somewhere else in the pits from now on.

 

 

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