BEST OF JODY’S BOX: “YOU LEARN AS MUCH FROM GOING THE WRONG WAY AS YOU DO THE RIGHT WAY.”

By Jody Weisel

I’m a polite test rider. I never throw a bike down on the ground and stomp off. I don’t swear, mutter or complain. At worst, I will shake my head and laugh if a bike is truly atrocious. At best, I get a smile on my face that telegraphs my opinion of a good bike. My greatest strength is that if I don’t have an opinion, I will gladly say, “I don’t know.” There are lots of things that I don’t know and way too many opportunities to prove it. Too many test riders succumb to the pressure of the moment and spout off about “not enough rebound and the pilot is too lean,” only to discover later in the day that the bike has too much rebound and is fuel injected.

Mostly, I don’t say much. I think, but not out loud. I will ask a factory mechanic for changes, for advice and for out-of-the-box ideas. If he doesn’t think my ideas are good, I will insist on them and tell him, “You learn as much from going the wrong way as you do the right way.” I ask questions, lots of them. And, if I don’t like the answers, I make drawings in my notebook and ask the factory engineer to explain my doodlings. They think I’m crazy, but that’s how I learn.

NOT EVERY BIKE IS A GEM OF THE SEA. THERE ARE MORE FLOUNDERS THAN MOST PEOPLE CARE TO ADMIT. THEY ALWAYS SAY, “THERE ISN’T A BAD BIKE IN THE BUNCH,” BUT THAT’S BECAUSE THEY HAVEN’T RACED EVERY BIKE IN THE
SO-CALLED BUNCH. I HAVE.

Not every bike is a gem of the sea. There are more flounders than most people care to admit. They always say, “There isn’t a bad bike in the bunch,” but that’s because they haven’t raced every bike in the so-called bunch. I have, but I’m philosophical about how a bike performs. After all, I didn’t put my sweat and tears into designing it, building it or refining it. I just ride it. If I don’t like a bike, there is no guilt on my part. “I don’t make ’em; I just break ’em!” is my motto.

My job—since before any modern motocrosser was born—has been to evaluate production motorcycles as they sit in the showroom. I take my opinion seriously, but don’t really care what any other test riders, media outlets or crackpot internet posters say. Of course, I have a sense of sadness knowing that a product will go on sale whether I point my opposable digit towards China or not. But, I can’t let disgruntled executives or unhappy engineers dissuade me from my appointed rounds.

So, it was with some surprise that I got a call from an old friend who worked for a Japanese motorcycle manufacturer. “Jody,” he said, “We have a totally revolutionary rear suspension system that we want you to test. It isn’t ready for production. It’s still in prototype form, so you can’t tell anybody about it. But, since you have been our harshest critic over the years, we’d like to set up a test session to get some objective feedback from an outside source. What do you say?”

IT HAD “CONTRAPTION FACTOR” WRITTEN ALL OVER IT. THERE WERE LINKS, BELL CRANKS AND WIDGETS S
PROUTING OUT OF IT LIKE EYES ON A POTATO (OTHER THAN THAT, I CAN’T TELL YOU ANYMORE).

Of course I agreed, if only out of curiosity. They rented Glen Helen Raceway, positioned guards at the gate and unloaded the bike from the factory box van. It had “contraption factor” written all over it. There were links, bell cranks and widgets sprouting out of it like eyes on a potato (other than that, I can’t tell you anymore). I tried to ask the two Japanese engineers about the theory behind the Rube Goldberg-looking device, but neither of them spoke English. I drew them a doodle, but that only confused them. So, I got dressed while they adjusted the dials and punched numbers in a laptop.

On the track, the bike felt pretty comfortable. I cruised for two laps to feel out the bike. Everything felt good, so I steadily picked up speed. Through the sand whoops the bike tracked straight. There was no twitching in the corners. I cased the big double to test the suspension—although I case the big doubles even when I’m not testing suspension. It absorbed everything without a whimper. My confidence grew, and I began to let it hang out. I could see the two Japanese engineers standing nervously by the side of the track, so I dug a little deeper than normal. My lap times were good, and no matter how hard I landed or short I came up, the experimental rear suspension worked like a charm.

When I finally pulled up to the box van after 30 minutes of riding, I had a big smile on my face. That was nothing compared to the two Japanese engineers. They were hugging each other and jumping up and down. Each one ran over and pumped my hand and bowed. They were shouting something in Japanese that sounded like, “Kon kai wa koware masen deshita.” They were so enthusiastic that I started repeating, “Kon kai wa koware masen deshita,” back to them as we high-fived each other.

It wasn’t until later that I learned that “Kon kai wa koware masen deshita” translates into English as “It didn’t break this time!”