What's a Gentleman to Do?

I met the most fabulous woman.

A stylish lady from a trendy,

up-and-coming part of the city.

Parking there was awful.

Riding in from the ‘burbs

meant city traffic.

A nightmare on my Ducati with clip-ons.

Furthermore, I did not trust parking there.

What's a gentleman to do?

[Mike Lawless]
A 'city bike' was required.

Something shaft-drive, water-cooled, with an upright riding position.

And undesirable - so no one would steal it.

I saw it on Craigslist:

2004 Honda Shadow 750 Aero

Low mileage, new white walls, minor damage from being dropped

Wife said must go!

A scruffy black-and-burgundy Honda Davidson with bent handlebars.

Nobody would steal that.

We chatted as I looked over the bike.

He’d stopped at a friend's place to show off the new white walls.

Had a few beers and low-sided onto some guy's lawn

Earning a DUI

His wife said, 'Either sell the bike or quit your drinking.'

His bad decisions were my good fortune.

[Mike Lawless]
I got a feel for the Shadow on the ride home.

Not only did have it a vintage look, it felt vintage too.

The Honda is a study in just enough.

The 750cc V-twin engine does not dominate,

but glides the steel-fendered beast at a sensible pace.

While the engine has decent torque, there's no raw power,

and no use in breaking formation; you're not outrunning anyone.

But, it's a pleasant and smooth platform to watch the scenery.

The Shadow feels nicely balanced,

changing direction from side to side effortlessly,

enhanced by the wide handlebars.

A sportbiker might find the brakes sketchy,

but they are adequate,  if using both properly.

And it oozed Honda build quality.

[Mike Lawless]
On the ride home I stopped to buy a rattle can of satin black;

prepped and painted the bike in my driveway as she cooled off,

ditching the sissy bar and gingerbread as I went.

I couldn't relate to burgundy and gloss black.

I kept the exhaust stock on the now logo-less machine, my invisibility cloak.

I'm not a brand or a lifestyle,

Just a man on a motorcycle gliding quietly past.

[Mike Lawless]
Life changes like seasons.

Being an outlaw was overrated;

On the run and trusting no one is a lonely life,

There's no rest living with your finger on the trigger.

Riding the Shadow brought memories of simpler times.

Before drugs and alcohol, before 'going fast' was everything.

When the pleasure of being on the road was enough,

With the possibilities of what's around the bend.

The Honda achieved mission success.

Riding back and forth to the city was a pleasure.

I wake up at 3 AM pressed against her, skin against skin,

and don't want to leave, but I gotta get home, shower, and be at my job by 7 AM.

I blearily put on yesterday's clothes,

The smell of her perfume and sex in the air,

And close her door softly,

Pushing the bike down the street before firing it up.

[Mike Lawless]
I love gliding through empty city streets in the small hours.

The summer air like warm velvet.

These are the times worth remembering.

I rode the bulletproof Shadow everywhere.

From city streets to the gravel roads up in coal country.

Even the chance of weather didn't stop me,

The Shadow's big fenders kept the rain off.

The engine's even disposition even helped in slippery conditions.

So many adventures...as my Ducati gathered dust in the garage.


Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman. Read all his work for The Vintagent here.

Love, Liquor, and Lawyers

The Road Home

It had been a hard day at work, but that's why they pay you, right?

The ride home was my redemption;

my anguish faded as the revs rose.

The snarling 750-4 ripped through meandering backroads,

its speed and intensity left the day behind.

Hunger beckoned, so I headed for the ranch.

I climbed off my machine as my neighbor arrived, carrying a case.

Wanta brew?

Nothing like a cold one to wash away the road dirt.

We knocked back a few over conversation,

and would have had more but his wife yelled over.

I covered the bike after dinner, when she'd cooled off;

I'd washed down my meal with a bottle of red.

For afters, I made a double espresso with a shot of grappa

to give it some kick.

The Old Flame

I sat on the back porch, reflecting.

I'd given her my number not expecting a call.

The girl of my high school dreams.

Hadn't seen her since graduation, but there she was.

In school I was afraid of my shadow,

didn't think she'd remember my name.

Never thought how I'd changed, until she asked

'What's up with the crew cut and leather jacket?'

She touched my hair and a current ran through me.

My buddy barged in,

'You won't believe it. Lawless got balls.

He won't be alive much longer the way he's riding.'

Thankfully some party girls called him away to do shots.


Want to see my bike?

My black machine stood out in a gaggle of Honda Interceptors.

She said she didn't know I was the motorcycle type.

I laughed and asked her if she wanted to go for a ride.

'No, my dad would kill me.'

I started to talk about music to keep the conversation bouncing.

'It's the first warm night we've had.

Are you sure you don't want to go for a ride?'


The Siren Calls

The ringing snapped me out of my stupor.

Her parents were out for the night,

'Would I like to come over?'

I knew I was lit, but couldn't say no.

'Sure thing...I'm 45 minutes out....Seeya in half-hour.'

I climbed back on the bike, feeling over the limit,

but the lure of getting close to her was too strong.

I made quick work of the empty back roads.

Gearing down hard as I entered town,

I noticed a car in a parking lot turn on its lights.

It pulled out behind me, rolling up close, switching on his hi-beams.

There were a lot of yahoos in this town.

I wasn't looking to race; I just wanted to get laid.

I dropped the hammer hard as the light turned green.

The street went downhill with a kink to the right.

Charging through the gears,

in third as I flicked into the kink,

the exhaust touched down hard, and the tail came around.

The little man in my head said I got it-I got it!

That's the last I remember.

Out of Commission

I was cold, freezing cold.

That's odd. It's summertime.

I struggled to piece it together.

Lying on a metal table but unable to open my eyes.

Fighting hard. Finally, my right eye pops open to blinding light.

Flat on my back, I lifted my head to survey the damage.

My left wrist twisted the wrong way.

Lots of blood and abrasions.

Watched the doctors slicing into my lower abdomen. Goodbye spleen.

I said, 'If it's bad or I'm paralyzed, just let me go.'

Them yelling 'Sedation, Sedation!' as the lights go out again.

Coming to, I'm aware of the tubes.

Up my nose, down my throat, and one where a man doesn't want it.

First thing I see is a  state trooper.

With the nurse present, he reads me my rights.

The nurse welcomes me back,

'You're lucky to be alive

but sounds like you're in a lot of trouble.'

The crash was a real eggbeater.

A laundry list of broken bones, my eyelid ripped in half.

The car with the high beams was a cop.

I was drunk and running when I crashed.

The siren call of a pretty girl, and a lot of booze, had taken me out.

I couldn't work for weeks,

gave me plenty of time to consider my errant path.

The paperwork floated in,

a preliminary date with the judge,

I could go to jail for this.

Two to five years.

My dad once told me if I ever got in trouble to get a good lawyer.

The Legal Eagle

He was brash and condescending.

Blue suits with red suspenders,

the epitome of a successful lawyer.

When he brought his wife's Volvo for service,

all of us tried to look busy.

He'd grill the unfortunate who handled his paperwork.

relishing his own abrasiveness.

Our mutual appreciation of Jaguar automobiles

kept me in his graces.


It was my first day back at work.

Hobbling, hungover, and strung out on pain meds.

I switched into business mode as he entered.

Kept it professional.

The lawyer seemed amused by my battered state.

Finally smirking, 'What happened?

Your woman tired of your Irish ways?

Ya know, Jewish women will forgive their husbands' indiscretions

if the diamonds are big enough.'

The lawyer made my skin crawl,

but he was the only one I knew.

Do you take new clients?

He flashed an alligator smile.

'You can't afford me.'

I looked down at my shoes, nodding yes.

'Alright, you're a nice kid.

Hand me a dollar bill.'

Then the lawyer said to give him the details.

I told him everything: the bike, the girl, and the drinking.

He asked several questions, some a few times over,

and made me repeat my answers.

The lawyer said he could help me.

What he needed was my paperwork and a cash retainer

dropped off tomorrow.

He said ‘Let me be clear.

It must be tomorrow, and it must be cash.’

He wrote the amount on his business card.

It was more than every penny I had.

Man I had to hustle,

and somehow managed to get to his office on time.

His secretary took the cash and paperwork.

She said they'd be in touch.

The lawyer didn't bother to say hello.

Afterwards, I dropped off the title to the salvage yard across town.

My heart broke when I saw my bike.

The forks bent so far back

the front wheel broke the engine cases.

Just a pile of mangled tubes and a busted engine.

Everything was shattered, crushed, bent, or gone.

I touched the twisted handlebars, telling her I was sorry.

The man took the bike's title, laughing.

'You're the kid they flew out in the helicopter.

Yeah, they thought you were gonna bleed out.

You were lucky, that helicopter was on a return flight.

God must want you around for some dumb reason.'

It Was Only Thursday

By Thursday, I was struggling.

Scraping loose change from the glove box

of my beater Volvo to buy a jug of red wine.

My buddy stopped by with a baggie.

The joint back and forthing while we drank the red on my porch.

The music was loud, so we didn't hear my brother pull up.

He wanted to show me his new machine.

Under the streetlights sat a gleaming GSXR-1100

with a throaty full race exhaust.

I tried to lift my leg to sit on it but was still too battered.

My brother said 'careful' as my buddy helped me climb on.

I loved the hardcore feel of that bike.

'Let me fire her up so we can hear how she sounds'.

The roar of tearing silk echoed off the brick houses.

I let the clutch out before they could stop me.

No helmet or riding gear, my left arm still in a cast.

I blasted up the street, feeling no pain.

Lured by the racy all-business feel of the GSXR.

Turning around at the stop sign three blocks away from home.

I rolled on the throttle hard in first,

the wailing GSXR leaped into a near-vertical wheelie.

Standing on pegs, grabbing second and third gears.

Rock hard, feeling like Superman.

Squeezing on the rear brake made the front tire kiss the ground.

Coming to a stop, I joked this bike was too fast for me.

That's when the patrol car pulled up.

There was no fight, my only option being flight;

otherwise, I was going to jail.

I heard later they had three patrol cars skidding

around the streets after me.

Sirens and lights ablaze.

It's only fleeing and evading if they catch you.

I got back to my apartment at 3 am.

My buddy is still there smoking.

Grinning-bet it felt pretty good running like that.

Some might think I'd see the light.

That my luck would run out.

But I didn't care.

It was just Thursday.

A Day in Court

My reward for returning to work was a clapped-out 500 single.

I was tempted to hit the road and duck my court date,

just run 'til the marshals found me or my money ran out.

The week before trial, the lawyer's secretary sent a to-do list.

She said just stay calm, that I was in good hands.

I was feeling OK until the officer testified.

Telling the judge he was just trying to stop me

before I hurt myself.

That my blood alcohol level was more than double the limit.

How I was trying to elude the law when I lost control of the

motorcycle, crashing into a car that was parked on the oncoming

side of the street. That I landed 157 feet from point of impact.

From their calculations, traveling 83mph in a 25mph zone.

Their harsh professionalism was driving home the point.

I deserved to go to jail.

Meanwhile,  my lawyer is playing with his suspenders.

Seeming disinterested,

bordering on total disrespect.

The judge asked if the defense had any questions.

My lawyer remarked that he drives a twelve-cylinder Jag,

that the six-cylinder model was beneath him.

How twelve-cylinder automobiles were pure decadence.

Everyone seemed confused.

The prosecutor barked out 'relevance'.

He continued, 'Tonight, when I drive home,

if I pulled up behind him and turned on my high beams,

he would know to pull over because I'm an officer of the law.'

The officer blurted 'But you're not an officer of the law!'

'Precisely! How do your headlights differ from mine?

You never identified yourself as an officer of the law.

Due to your error, you nearly chased my client to his death.

My client has incurred huge financial debts due to his medical and legal fees.

Look at what you have done to him.

I demand all charges be dropped immediately,

or we will seek further litigation.'

The DA put his head down as the judge called for recess.

I must have looked pretty rough in the lobby.

Arm in a cast, left eye taped shut, and walking with a cane.

The officer came over, stumbling through an awkward apology.

He seemed on the edge of tears.

Saying he didn't mean for this to happen.

The tides had changed.

I realized that lawyer changed the course of my life.

If not for him, I would have gone to jail.

Won't You Come On Over Valerie?

Are you wondering what happened to Valerie?

She thought I'd stood her up.

Left for her parents' beach house in the morning.

Her friends hung out for the weekend.

'Did you hear about that guy we graduated with?

Yeah, some big motorcycle crash in downtown Royersford.

They flew him to a trauma unit.

He was running from the cops when it happened.'

She had a sick feeling in her stomach.

Replaying our flirty little conversations in her head.

I didn't stand her up after all.

She tried to call my apartment,

then reached out to my friends

in those pre-cell phone days.

Found out I was staying with family

until I could move around on my own.

I made it back to my apartment the following Tuesday.

There was a knock on the door.

I hobbled over, struggling to open it.

And there she was.

Fresh from the beach,

kissed by the sun.

She looked glorious.

'I'm so sorry!'

She placed her hand on her face.

'My God, what have I done?

If I didn't invite you over this wouldn't have happened.'

She pulled me close to hug me,

then paused, kissing me on the lips.

I would wreck again to relive that moment.

We stumbled over to the couch, still kissing.

My hands glided over her skin.

Her fingers thru my hair.

The kissing was bottomless.

We shed our layers as the room spun around us.

She got on top of me and took me over the edge.

Way better than the painkillers they'd given me.

She would stop over every day or so.

We connected on so many levels,

talking about music, art, motorcycles, our dreams.

Life was good between her, the wine, and the pain meds.

I loved the city, and she did too,

but her family didn't.

Still, we blasted into town on my motorcycle.

Walked through the art galleries holding hands,

ate sushi & did vegan.

Got dressed to hit the town.

Roared around the streets on my clapped-out 500 single,

stopping for cannoli and Americanos.

Then Baseball Season Ended

I felt like the only guy on the dance floor.

We had been constant.

Then my phone stopped ringing.

Things were different in those pre-iPhone days.

I couldn't get in touch with her.

Valerie always said don't ever call her house.

Saying her father didn't like boys with motorcycles.

She said he would go crazy if he found out about us.

I knew of her father.

He was in high school with my dad.

Pop said Valerie's dad is now big in the unions.

How they used to be friends,

but that was a long time ago.

What did I do to deserve the silent treatment?

Total crushed after a week or two.

I asked my buddy if he had seen her lately.

'Yeah, I saw her at a party with that douchebag baseball player

she has been dating since high school.

The dude's always telling everyone that he's going pro.

Talking about his crew.

The same whistle dicks he hung out back in school.

He needs to grow up.

Hey, he needs you over there so you can talk to her

while he tells everyone else how awesome he is.'

I needed a good laugh.

I didn't know about her baseball player.

The season ended, and I lost, or did I?

It burned a hole in me.

The magic, while it lasted.

The good times we had together getting lit and having sex.

Was she using me?  Who am I kidding?

It didn't matter.

I just wanted more.

I burned to be with her again.

Where was what we had?

I was lost and confused.

Figured I might see her if I rode by her house.

She was just getting out of the car, as luck would have it.

I shut off the bike and silently glided over to her.

Her eyes said it all.

'Have you lost your mind?'

The door opened,  her dad yelled VALERIE!

'One second, Daddy,

it's just a friend of mine from school.

Please go!'

I did a quick run and bump,

leaving with a broken heart.

It really was too good to be true.

I took my anger out on the bike.

Mad at the world and damming the way it played out.

I attacked every back road like it was a qualifying lap.

It's easy to go fast today if you don't care about tomorrow.

The next few days were tough.

It hurt if I wasn't going fast.

Drinking just made it worse.

With Love, Daddy

I hit the diner by the highway.

'Just black coffee and an English muffin, please.'

Two truck drivers sat across from me.

One got up to use the pay phone.

As I paid at the register,

the two monsters grabbed me,

dragged me behind the trucks.

Valerie's father leaned on his Coupe Deville.

My arms were pinned behind me.

His harsh look turned into a smile.

'I know you.

You're Jack's kid, right?

You need to do yourself a favor.

Forget where I live.

Never speak to my daughter again - ever.'

His punch knocked the wind out of me.

'If I see you near her again,

I'll take you trash to the fucking steam plant.

Not to give you a job either, you little shit!'

I was slammed to the ground.

Just glad they didn't hurt my bike.

The Mutual Allure of Danger

The rest of the week was a blur.

By Friday, I just want the sanctuary of my apartment.

Near midnight,

she tapped on my window with her keys.

There she was in a slinky black dress.

Shoes in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other.

In her kiss,

I tasted alcohol and cigarettes.

It turned me on.

'You said Mumm's was your favorite.'

She flashed me that smile.

Slipping out of her dress, she walked into my bedroom.

I walked in to find her in racy black lingerie.

Call me weak, but I couldn't resist.




Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

Road Test - More than Zero



My first moments on the ZERO were nearly my last.

I picked up the bike on a damp winter's day.

Traffic was heavy as I merged onto the road in front of the dealership.

Rolling on the throttle aggressively to blend into traffic,

the ZERO spun up the back tire hard,

snapping me opposite lock sideways in a lurid slide.

The kind of moment when atheists see Jesus.

Cold tires on a wet day caught me off guard.

I could lie to you, saying my flat track experience saved me.

But in reality, it was the excellent balance and neutral handling of the Zero.

A lesser machine would have put me down hard.

It’s always the memorable bikes that put the fear of God in me.

The FXE has a lightweight dualsport vibe, and weighs only 309lbs. [Raymond C Schwab IV]

I was left gobsmacked by the ZERO FXE

Didn't expect such fun in a silent, efficient package.

No honking intake or bellowing exhaust.

Just effortless thrust as the throttle is rolled open.

No banging gears, just seamless acceleration.

The rushing sound of the wind is your companion.

She whispers in your ear while center punching with a wall of torque.

(If you’re a numbers person: curb weight 309 lbs./78 ft-lbs. of torque per ZERO)

I used to say 'they'll pry my four-stoke from my cold dead hands'.

But after some saddle time with the FXE,

I felt like shouting: 'I've seen the future, and it's fun!'

The controls are as simple as can be, with no clutch lever and digital instrument panel. [Raymond C Schwab IV]

The FXE has the lightweight feel of a dual-sport.

Wide handlebars give that urban gorilla vibe.

Direct drive makes local stuff fluid & graceful.

Swinging effortlessly from stop light to stop light.

To sum up the riding experience in a word? Elegant.

Traditionalists may scoff at the lack of a clutch lever, though.

The bike carries its weight well.

Changes direction like a Rotax framer. (high marks)

There is no vibration-even at full throttle.

No warm-up time is needed either.

Just push the button and ride away,

even on the coldest mornings.

A perfect urban runabout that doesn't make enemies...except 'loud pipes' bikers. [Raymond C Schwab IV]

I'm silently trolling for photo spots late at night in a corporate office complex.

Just singing along with The Doors.

(I'm a spy in the house of love. I know the dreams that you're dreaming of)

I'd be safe from security if I could toggle off the lights.

Being silent is my friend and ally here.

Love riding in the crisp winter air.

The rides are fewer, so I savor every mile like it's my last.

Coming upon another bike that night really opened my eyes.

The big twin had open exhaust, running way fat.

You could smell the unburnt fuel in the air.

The rider was blipping the throttle,

Making his presence felt and pissing people off.

I didn't want to be part of that scene,

so I turned right to give him the Irish goodbye.

Looks small because it is small. Zero survives because they've remained focused on what they do best, and slowly built a following. [Raymond C Schwab IV]

Know someone who wants to learn to ride?

Especially if they've never driven a manual transmission car.

The complications of a manual choke, the fuel tap, and the clutch.

All that is out the window with an electric bike.

It's direct drive, so there’s no whiskey throttle moments learning to use a clutch.

No bogging down because the motor's not warm.

It will never stall like a big single in traffic.

(Oh the joys of kickstarting a persnickety single)

No scary moments switching to reserve in heavy traffic.

Heck, its belt driven, so there's no chain maintenance.

No winter fuel stuff/storage issues.

Perhaps it's a safer way to get into the sport.

Just twist the throttle and go.

Curious?   Check out Zero Motorcycles.  [And our years of EV coverage on The Vintagent - ed]

Two forms of electric transport. One is a lot more fun. [Raymond C Schwab IV]


Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

The Benevolent Outlaw

Hello, my name is Michael, and I'm an addict.

My kick isn’t special K, meth, or G.

Don't have time for alcohol.

Give me a motorcycle like an MV Agusta.

That's my drug of choice.

[Mike Lawless]
Insanity is doing the same thing but expecting different results.

My morning mantra is 'take an easy ride to work'.

These tired eyes are glued half shut until she fires up.

The song of the engine pulls me to the surface.

Pulling away from my house on part throttle,

Short-shifting to appease the neighbors,

Kind of like crossing the pits to staging.

There's magic in the air just riding this bike.

[Mike Lawless]
What started off as 'ride to work'

Escalated to search-and-destroy.

A woman in big sunglasses holds her phone horizontally, pulls her Benz out without a look.

Senna's words are hard-wired into my brain.

"If you no longer go for a gap that exists-you are no longer a racer"

Dropping two gears, I roll open the throttle and flick her over.

The bike moves like an extension of my body,

The screaming wail coming from within.

Frustration, pain and anger, shouting out of the pipes.

I wanted to destroy everything in my path.

I rocket past on a wall of sound, running a wide line.

Next corner a tight line to get maximum drive,

Catapulting by three cars before the start of the best stretch.

Some see traffic, I see opportunity.

I'm playing with the rent money now, pushing hard.

Ripping and running is freedom.

The rush is better than anything over or under the counter.

A twist of the wrist, and here becomes there.

Down a gear and disappear.

All sound and fury and frightful velocity.

[Mike Lawless]
Maybe I lack acceptance?

I smile at those who struggle to be in the moment.

Ride one of these beasts...you'll be in the moment.

I took the long way to work,

yet somehow got there sooner.

High on the intensity,

I walked into work still flying,

But the truth cut through my speed daze.

I'm tied to a job I hate, to pay for my bad habits.

Only at speed do I feel alive.

The bike transforms me.

From working-class hero to benevolent outlaw.

[Mike Lawless]
Had a pretty woman in my life once.

She called the bike my mistress,

Saying it gave me things she couldn't.

How I walked taller after a spirited ride.

And she liked that.

I've carried more scars from relationships than any crash.

I know more or less how much traction I have with a bike,

But not in relationships.

The lovers come and go.

But the bike is with me through it all.

Just turn the key and I'm gone.


Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

'Cause She's So High Above Me

She stood out from the daily faces,

Uniquely elegant in a world of bad fashion and heavy makeup.

Didn't have to open her mouth to show she was cultured.

She glided into my store,

Understated suit and a hint of expensive perfume.

She was so far above me, but sitting right across from me.

Unobtainable for a kid from the rows.

I didn't even bother,

Just acted professional,

But I wanted to be putty in her hands.

I came from low income, but don't have to act it.

Being a gentleman is a choice.

I held the door for her, rolling out the red carpet.

It was nice to dream, if only for those moments.

[Mike Lawless]

Weeks rolled by.A workplace friend pestered me to be his corporate happy hour wingman.

This was not my thing.

He dragged me kicking & grumbling after work.

The trendy spot was packed with office types.

Each more important than the next, or so they said.

The girl he came for couldn't have cared less.

So I just sipped in the shadows,

Until I saw her.

Couldn't believe my luck - the elegant one again.

Seizing the moment,

I walked over.

Hello miss.

She smiled lavishly;

My name is Laura.

[Mike Lawless]

She fired the first shot.My friend said you have a penchant for trouble,

And a trail of crashed motorcycles.

Well, we all have hobbies.

What do you do for fun, Laura?

I work in the financial field,

Lucrative, yes, but is it fun?

Well,  I'm an equestrian; horses are my passion.

Really? I know a few girls who do barrel racing.

I bet you do, Mr. Lawless.

So, what type of horseplay do you engage in?

She smiles, I prefer dressage.

So I'll see you at Devon?

You attend Devon?

Now I’m wondering what type of saddle I’d see you on.

I’m comfortable with either.

To me motorcycles are mechanical horses.

I shared my favorite  T. E. Lawrence quote.

"A skittish motorcycle with a touch of blood

in it is better than all the riding animals on earth."

Have you been motorcycling yet?

We swapped numbers as she emptied her cosmo.

[Mike Lawless]

A few days of pleasant conversation followed.She had to be at the stables Saturday morning, but maybe lunch?

We agreed on another trendy cafe.

I rode with a spare helmet, just in case.

The only motorcycle in the parking lot.

My leather jacket contrasting with the sea of blue blazers and polos.

I could feel their eyes on me,

But they vanished once I locked eyes with her.

She smiled warmly as I sat,

And our conversation picked up where we left off.

What was a squid like me doing with such a lady?

She was so much more than good looking.

[photo by Rita Minissi]

She agreed to a ride.It was erotic just helping her into the helmet.

It was no longer words across a table.

Our hands touched as I looked into her eyes, cinching her chin strap.

My plan was simple.

A casual slow ride to win her trust.

We glided peacefully across town,

But a slowpoke MGB blocked us right before the scenic part by the river.

My monsters took over.

I dropped down to 2nd, squeezing my elbows to pin her arms.

The whisper of my sport bike turned into a shrieking frenzy as the revs soared.

Blinding acceleration in the blink of an eye.

We ripped by the MG, front wheel in the air.

Upshifting for a plunge downhill on the narrow two-lane road.

I stray to the oncoming lane for a better line into the right-hander at the bottom.

Never rolling off the throttle.

The high intensity rush of maximum lean angle.

We ran way over the ton on a killing spree of speed,

devouring the river road as it snaked right and left.

And finally the bridge at the end of our loop.

I popped out of the bubble and squeezed on the brakes.

Her body squashed against mine.

I rolled into the coffee shop parking lot,

helped her out of her helmet.

She reached into her bag, pulling out a cigarette.

I noticed her hands were shaking, so I lit it for her.

She exhaled. Well, they warned me about you.

I offered coffee, but she said she needed something stronger.

I have a bottle at my place, would you like to come over?


Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

The Essential Machine

Is there anything as lonely as a single-cylinder motorcycle on a blustery winter's day?

Bolt upright and tossed around by the wind

I felt alone, but not forsaken.

Am I the only one out here? 

I struggle on the highway, trying not to pull too many revs.

It's a miserable run.

After an eternity, I start the countdown to my exit.

And the relief of rolling off the highway.

Where the essential machine does best: the back roads and interesting places. Who wants to ride on the Interstate? [Michael Lawless]
I bang her hard over, sailing down the exit ramp.

No need for braking, the single cuts like a scalpel.

The blustery wind no longer an issue in town,

Just braaping thru gears from light to light.

The mellow aftermarket slip-on makes mechanical music.


For me, skinny lightweight singles are pure motorcycle.

There is no fat.

It's not an ego extension or some twisted fantasy.

It's all that's really needed.

The essential machine.

Not that it pulls like a train, but it will get you to the station quicker. [Michael Lawless]
The KLX is no highway hero.

It shines brightly in urban environments,

Is a genteel friend down country lanes,

And an absolute party on dirt roads and trails.

I like the slender two-gallon fuel tank.

Large tanks make awkward, top-heavy motorcycles.

I'll trade agility over range any day, especially in my corner of the world.

The handling is what you would expect of a dirt bike on the road.

Super light, ultra-narrow, and tall.  The slightest input makes changes.

Quite different from sport bikes and heavy street bikes.

Where we at? Urbex is a thing made easier on a light, agile motorcycle. [Michael Lawless]
I'm not used to being the center of attention.

Riding across town, little kids shout 'pull a wheelie!'

Gassing up, a loud Hemi Charger rolls by, "Dawg! THAT JAWN’S LIT!!' 

Dressed in black, rolling into the Porsche dealership.

The young office hottie said, 'You look like a bad guy from a James Bond movie."

Must note the curb appeal of the KLX is massive.

Strong curb appeal: kids dig it. [Michael Lawless]
Another advantage to being skinny & light?

You can take it with you.

The KLX is easily squeezed into a minivan, pickup, or bike carrier.

Why ride two hours of crappy highway when you can just offload at the base of some tasty mountain roads?

The KLX250 was my gateway to flat-track racing too. (see our article)

Simply remove the lights and front brake lever, swap tires, and put on number plates.

Everyone knows Kawasaki builds bulletproof bikes.

You're race ready. No need for safety wiring. 

It’s a very inexpensive way to race.

The KLX is similar to but more docile than a 450.

Experience taught me that Hooligan class or modified street bikes are just too heavy.

Flat track racing is about putting the power down.

Lightweight singles are the real deal.

Truly race on Sunday, ride to work on Monday.

I highly recommend flat-track racing.  

A great way to learn about motorcycle dynamics while getting your competitive urges out.

Why sit in the stands if you can be out there on the track?

"No need for braking, the single cuts like a scalpel." [Michael Lawless
I would love to try the 2023 version of the KLX.

Not only more engine displacement (300cc) but, gasp, fuel injection.



Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

Praise for The Unloved

You and I have the same addiction.

We endlessly scroll the internet trolling for our next motorcycle.

Does the 'disease of more' impel the search for something better?

There are much worse addictions.

Low mileage, late make, high tech, and cheap. But it's a 250. What to do? [Mike Lawless]
I stumbled on a bike nobody wanted.

The price was beyond right for a newer street legal motorcycle with a title.

The ad had been running for weeks with no takers.

The Suzuki GW 250 is an odd little duck.

Not much info for the American market.

Small Japanese machines bear the stigma of gutless beginner bikes.

The road tests said the GW was underpowered.

Could barely keep up in freeway traffic.

Bad reviews are the kiss of death.

I know Suzuki has many versions of their 250 street bikes.

Both singles and twins.

For the record, the GW250 is a water-cooled, fuel injected parallel twin.

I drove out to the country for a look.

The condition was typical of a bike in a barn.

The seller was gracious enough to allow a road test before buying.

Where lightweight canyon carvers belong: on the bendy bits. [Mike Lawless]
My first thought was 'how petite', compared to most street bikes.

The riding position; classic UJM.

The instrument cluster just about perfect:

Analog tach with digi speedo, clock, fuel gauge & gear indicator.

All you need and then some.

The engine was a pleasant surprise.

The reviews shouted: counter balanced, long stoke, two-valver.

To me it was a twin that felt more like a  four.

Very smooth revving out to a pleasant crescendo at 11,000 RPM.

Suspension and brakes were fine, considering.

Handling is good, even if the front lacked feel when pushed.

Which might say more about me being a ham-fisted rider.

While the GW250 will never be a freeway flyer,

It was a pleasant roadster on narrow lanes.

Don't let the mean bunny get you down - he's not getting any lady rabbit despite spending $35k on a special special Italian stallion. [Mike Lawless]
The price was so cheap I gave the man my money.

I took her home, removed the stock mirrors and a few logos,  put on a pair of my favorite grips.

Plus the usual stuff; changing the oil, service the chain, set the tire pressure.

My eighteen-year-old daughter liked the Japanese Anime styling.

Exploring the backroads leads to unexpected pleasures/treasures. [Mike Lawless]
For weeks I cruised the back roads and commuted.

Enjoying the back roads.

You must carry your momentum,

This bike will never go down a gear and disappear.  Ever.

But the motor has good character.

It sounds like a motorcycle should, even with a stock exhaust.

The GW250 is quite a refined little package.

I dubbed the little roadster "Lusso".

Pulls like a train...well actually not. But that's ok, you're still riding. [Mike Lawless]
I love modern, giant gas stations on a motorcycle.

Clean bathrooms, lots of pumps & fresh coffee.

A young man rolled up on his Ducati as I refueled.

I nodded in his direction.

He took off his helmet and asked "Is that your piece of shit? Like are you just learning to ride or something?"

I laughed, mentioned the Ducatis I've owned, and that I was service manager at a Ducati dealership.

Said Ducati makes nice art work, but his sportbike is miserable as a road bike.

The riding position is a pain in the neck, the heat from your 1098's engine will melt your legs on a summer day.

Plus, we all know what they're like to get serviced.

He fired back 'Well I meet babes".

Shaking my head I replied 'If you want to meet women, buy a Vespa".

There is not much respect for small motorcycles.

The adage of the bigger the engine, the bigger the man is tiresome.

A brand doesn't define the man.

Are we not all riders?


I paid cash for my little bike, and will carry on riding it.



Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

How I Got Here

How do you spend your Saturday nights?

We're at a flat track race run in conjunction with a state fair.

It's blazing hot and I'm sweltering in full race leathers, helmet on, ready to go.

Standing beside me in staging is my daughter Olive.

She's happily eating chicken fingers from the concession stand.

Olive and Mike at the track. [Michael Lawless]
For me, just making a race is a win.

We would never have these adventures if her mom hadn't left me.

Yeah, part of me died, but that's no excuse not to live.

In my younger days, I blew an offer to road race because I was too busy partying.

I used to kick myself about that, but maybe this was God's way of giving me another chance.

I knew if I fell back into my drinking ways, none of this would be happening.

Regrets from my earlier decisions propelled me forward.

Chasing my dirt track dreams pulled me out of the hurt I was in.

Being out on the road and sliding around on dirt made life worth living again.

Mike Lawless on the Buell he flat tracked for a time. Read all about it here. [Michael Lawless]
I feel awkward when normal folk see me in my racing gear.

Kind of like the guy in the movie Electric Horseman wearing his purple cowboy outfit.

They say it's crazy for a man my age to be flat tracking.

But I'm just like him, trying to unscrew the damage I created.

These racing adventures with my daughter in tow are the best memories I have.

I can look back now, knowing the hurt was worth it.

I wrote down these stories for Olive to remember me by.

Just because the marriage didn't work out doesn't mean it's game over.

I had to accept it,

it was what it was.

Spend time with your children, or somebody else will. [Michael Lawless]
Regret is a monster.

I couldn't let it paralyze me.

It could destroy the good that's around the next corner.

I had to realize that my decisions put me here.

That it was me and only me that could pull me out of this too.

I got down to doing what I was doing when I was happy: trying to go fast on motorcycles.

Balance in life is the key for me.

Between work, being a dad, a writer, and yes, a racer.



Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

Would You Risk Your Life for $1500?

The yelling is over.

The champagne has been sprayed.
Done with the autographs and selfies with the fans.
Packed up and on the road.
He rings my cell.
Would you risk your life for $1,500 bucks?
'I got friends who frame houses or do timber who make more.'
I risk my ass and then some.
What the f***.
They said it was a breakthrough win on the Mile.
The racing in Singles is vicious.
He rode his ass off,
hung it out hard,
full throttle, running three wide into corners.
Banging and bumping thru traffic.
Staying out of the wind, then drafting,
trying to squeeze every ounce out of her.
A soundtrack of singles wrung against the stops.
They said he was too big to win on a mile.
He drove home smirking.
Refueling, another truck stop black coffee.
He lets his mind drift on the highways.
His buddies might make more money.
But they're never happy.
Always bitching about their jobs.
They live for the weekends.
Smoking and drinking just to get by.
Their lives a series of days rolling past.
Weekends off if you're lucky.
Feels like another form of slavery.
Racing gives him freedom.
He might not make a fortune winning races,
but it's a life worth living.


Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

Thinking of 'Fast Eddie'

My first motorcycle brought freedom.
I roamed twisty back roads,
flicking from corner to corner.
Lost and tired one ride,
I stumbled into a motorcycle shop I never saw before.
Not expecting much
this far away from the city.

Mr. Varnes, John Lawless & Ed Fisher with John's Yamaha TZ racer.  [Michael Lawless]
But in the shadows lurked an honest-to-goodness Yamaha TZ racer.
Gobsmacked - how did it get here?
I walked over and soaked in the details.
A  soft voice behind me said, "that's something, huh?
"Bikes like that take constant work,
you really don't want that.
See those FZ's over there?
All they need is an oil change every now and then.
You can ride'em all day."

'Fast Eddie' Fisher won the first National race for Triumph.

He'd changed my focus in a gently paternal way.
We talked motorcycle for a bit.
I heard one of the guys call him Fast Eddie.
To me, he was always Mr. Fisher.
His humility inspired me.
He never bragged about the things he'd done.
That just wasn't how he was geared.

Ed with his son Gary Fisher; both men won at Loudon.

Years passed,
and my brother started racing vintage motorcycles.
We would leave Friday after work,
drive straight thru the night to reach Mid-Ohio by dawn.
Things got tricky when John switched from four-stroke Hondas to two-stroke Yamahas.
He had no time to test or tweak before getting to the track.
We couldn't get the bike to run right.
Practice was coming up soon.

Ed Fisher with his daugher Kimberly and his Indian 101 Scout at Daytona.

Seeing our struggle,
Mr. Fisher and his friend Jimmy (AKA Mr. Varnes) came over to give us a hand.
They never asked for anything.
Just happy to see my brother make the show.
I was impressed by the way they carried themselves.
Humble yet gracious.
They inspired me to try and be that way too.

Godspeed, Ed Fisher.  



Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

Regular Hospitals Hate Us! 

Can winning a race make one immortal?
Perhaps if one was to beat 'The King' in a straight fight at the Peoria TT.
Who would not want to be remembered as the man who beat 'The King'?
It's the equivalent of Arthur pulling the sword from the stone.
So far, many have tried but none have done so.
A win there could be every bit as big as clinching a championship.
The Peoria TT is a fearsome place.
The younger generation calls it sketchy.
The type of track that puts a premium on skill and bravery,
separating those who have it from those who don't.
Airborne is not typical flat track stuff! But TT racing is a very different animal, and a little MX training couldn't hurt, no?  Henry Wiles airborne and sideways. [American Flat Track]
There is more to flat track than turning left.
TT courses like Peoria have a right-hand turn and a jump.
Unlike the ovals, front brakes are used on TT courses.
This track is built in a valley forming a natural amphitheater.
Perfect for gladiators.
A rider must pull different skills from his bag of tricks to be competitive there.
Cole Zabala's plan was simple.
Train at motocross to build the skills needed for TT.
Unfortunately, while training he got out of shape on a jump which led to him 
coming down sideways crashing heavily. 
Lying on the race track, dazed from the impact Cole accessed the damage done.
Pain everywhere, the lack of movement in his right wrist followed by coughing up blood
And the realization a hospital visit was required.
Give my cast a zipper, doc! When your livelihood is at stake, and you gotta race, regular hospitals just don't get it. A little plaster didn't dampen Cole Zabala's spirits. [Taylor Bellegue]

Going to a regular hospital after a motorcycle accident is never fun.
It's bad enough you pitched it away but now you have to explain yourself.
The doctors diagnosed Cole with a broken scaphoid and a bruised lung.
They were not impressed.
They recommend surgery on the wrist with a non-removable cast.
He would need to cease training for ten weeks.
They said a removable cast was out of the question.
Cole spoke of the need to decrease the timelines due to his racing schedule.
The doctors would not flex.
Dreams of Peoria glory faded.
The need for speed!  Cole Zabala blasting along the straightaway with nobody in sight. [American Flat Track]
Racers always look for a better way.
Cole went for a second opinion at a sports medicine clinic.
He liked being treated like any other athlete there.
They offered a plan to minimize his downtime to 3 weeks.
Cole did PR only at the Pennsylvania round.
His first race weekend back was New York.
He was able to get a third in one of the qualifiers.
Bike issues prevented better results in the mains.
I talked with Zabala during that New York round.
Cole's smiling face told the story.
Saying the pain was manageable.
We laughed about the hospital visits we riders have.
Commiserating about the 'less than' treatment for guys who crash bikes.
Cole laughed saying "regular hospitals hate us!"
Hey we should do an article!
That line stuck in my head.
Thinking about it while watching practice.
I started pecking away on my iPhone:

Regular hospitals hate us.
Have they never suffered for their art?
Experience has taught me I'm better off saying I fell out of a tree.
They roll their eyes when we drive ourselves to the ER after declining the ambulance ride.
I need your help, not your judgment.
I know your words come from a good place.
The kindness is much appreciated.
I can get thru the pain and the bullshit
Cause I'm living to line up again.

Peoria was next.
Time to find out if the blood, sweat, and tears were worth it.
But Mother Nature was not cooperating.
It took a whole lot of magic from Caterpillar to get the rain-soaked track together on time.
As the race day wore on the track got rougher.
Their race was the last of the day.
The battle began as the green flag dropped.   
The King was on form.
Two of his challengers crashed out in the pursuit of victory.
Two red flags with the pressure of being perfect for the restarts.
Zabala still on the mend fought gallantly.
At one point running close second to The King.
Game face on. That's racing - you win and you lose, and sometimes you get hurt. Cole Zabala focussed on the win. [Steve Koletar]
But The King was on a planet of his own.
He left the intensity behind.
Leaving second, third & fourth locked in a frenzied battle.
Pass after breathtaking pass at a ferocious clip.
Cole made a bid for second in the last corner but came up short.
Still a fine third place on his second race since the injury.
Jubilant times on the podium were a fine payback.
I just wonder how he'd do on a twin.
Coie Zebala looking like a centaur on is racing machine. [American Flat Track]


Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

The Sound & The Fury

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
- William Shakespeare, 'Macbeth'

He knew by her stripper hug that he was going to have fun tonight
Dinner and drinks, her for dessert.
She makes the good nights better.
All week he struggled to sneak out for a ride but work got the better of him.
His buzzing wristwatch signaled it was time.
He slipped out of her body hug,
Climbed into his riding gear.
Grabbed a quick double espresso on his way to the garage.
He toggled through his choices.
The sun crests the canyons as he wheels out his machine.
He coasted down the hill, away from the house before firing her up.
The sound of a three-cylinder MV barking to life.
The engine makes the music,
Turning from growl to wail as she revs.
It's the soundtrack for this morning's ride.

The stress of the week melts away as he picks up speed.
That job sucks all the joy out of him.
But between her and the bike,
he was glad to be alive again.
Howling down the straightaway,
he drifts over to the double yellow,
flicks hard right, arching from the double yellow to white and yellow again.
Tossing her left, he tags a knee then rockets up the hill through the trees on the narrow two-lane road.
Smiling in his helmet high on adrenaline.
He follows his asphalt path as it snakes through the forest.
The rider is all in,
with the Armco keeping him honest.
Turning right the road follows the coastline.
The smell of the ocean and eucalyptus trees fill his helmet.
All good things come to end.
He silently glides back into his garage.
Electric motorcycles make for happy neighbors.
The sounds of the MV are just computer-generated.
His onboard system reads his throttle input, pumping in the appropriate engine sound into his helmet speakers.
The advanced system even mocks the power delivery and corresponding engine vibrations.
His bike is so quiet that the dogs don't even bark.
Heavy metal thunder is dead.
The future is silent.

Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

The Perfect Lap: Don Emde

By Don Emde

I turned 18 years old in 1969, the minimum age to race motorcycles at the professional level in the United States. In those years dirt track racing and roadracing were combined in the same AMA Grand National Championship Series, so to contend at the top level, a rider needed to do both types of racing. I am probably best known for my roadracing—having won the Daytona 200 in 1972—but I did dirt track racing also and learned some things that served me well in all forms of racing.

My family lived then in the San Diego area, but the best place to go dirt track racing was Ascot Park, a half-mile dirt oval located in Gardena, south of downtown Los Angeles. Unlike other tracks where a race might be held once a month, Ascot ran every Friday night from April to October.

The AMA pro licensing system required first year pros to compete in their own Novice class and limited to 250cc machines. Second year pros were called Juniors and still competed in a separate class, but they could ride machines up 750cc, then if your scored enough transfer points, riders were at the top level called Experts and could then race in the National Championship races.

Don Emde (135R) leads the way at Ascot in 1969. [Mahony Photos]
My father, Floyd Emde, was a past champion of the sport, but at the time was a motorcycle dealer carrying Suzuki, BSA and other brands of motorcycles. For the 1969 season, he built me a pretty exotic race bike for my first season at Ascot. It used a special lightweight racing frame and was powered by twin-cylinder 250cc Suzuki X6 roadracing engine. It was wicked fast and what made it especially “exciting” was two-stroke engines don’t have a natural compression that slows the motor when you roll off the throttle, they just free wheel. Also, in those years brakes were not allowed on our dirt track machines.

I learned real quick how to handle my X6, finding the happy medium between going fast enough to compete for the races wins, and not too fast to end up on the ground…or worse yet in the solid wooden wall on the outside of the turns.

Getting a good start was critical at Ascot. Most of the riders I was competing against also had twin-cylinder two-strokes like me—either Suzukis or Yamahas—and if I got stuck in the pack with them, then I just rode the track wherever I could find an opening to try to pass the other riders.

To have a clear track ahead, however, I could then set my own pace and take control of the race. I knew in my mind what the “Perfect Lap” consisted of and what I needed to do, including how far into the turn to go at full speed, and then how to use my only tool to help turn the corner, the throttle. In flat track racing, a spinning rear wheel under full power serves as a bit of a brake and forces the motorcycle to turn in the direction you get the machine pointed.

Once I understood how to use the rear wheel to turn the motorcycle, I found that instead of riding the track as an oval, the actual line to follow was more of a diamond shape. Just past the start/finish line I could lean the machine over, let off momentarily, then back on and get the rear wheel spinning. This continued about half-way into the turn and the rear wheel would eventually start catching traction and heading out of the turn onto the back straightaway towards the next turn and then do it all over again.

That season I won 11 of the 30 Main Events in the Novice class and came back the next and won more races in the Junior class on a BSA 650. In 1971, I was hired by BSA to join their factory team and was racing the full AMA Grand National Championship schedule. I wasn’t able ride at Ascot as much in the coming years, but the concept I had learned of figuring out the perfect lap on a racecourse stuck with me, even in roadracing at places like Daytona.

[Editor's note: Don Emde was the first child of a Daytona 200 winner to win the race as well.  His win on a Yamaha 350 (tuned by Mel Dinesen) had other firsts: it was the smallest-capacity machine to win the race, the first two-stroke to win, and the first win for Yamaha.  After a successful racing career as a very young man, Emde worked in marketing at Bell Helmets, then was editor of Motorcycle Dealer News.  He later took up writing his own books, including Daytona 200, Finding Cannonball's Trail, and his magnum opus 'The Speed Kings', a history of board track racing, which we reviewed here. Thanks to our Flat Track Editor Michael Lawless for securing this article!]


Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

The Spectacle of Speedway

What's it like to ride a speedway bike?
I'm told they go faster when you shut the throttle.
That they do zero to sixty in three seconds
With no brakes or rear suspension.
The alcohol-burning 500 cc singles crank out 70ish horsepower.
Yet weigh in at 175 pounds.
They are explosive machines, vicious and unforgiving.
Their battle is a series of heats,
Just four intense laps of mano a mano racing.
Welcome to the world of Speedway.
Johnathan Oakden is an up-and-comer in the Speedway scene, and keeps his body in shape with MMA training. [Steve Koletar]
Who dares to race such machines?
The first speedway racer I met was 18-year-old Jonathan Oakden.
The likable young man's life plan is a move to California.
There he will take his shot at becoming a professional speedway racer. 
If that doesn't work out he is training to be an MMA fighter.
I felt like I was talking to Lloyd Dobler.
Johnny spoke of his love for combat sports.
How he grew up racing motocross, then made the switch to speedway.
Johnny studied martial arts and wrestling in school.
I applaud his decision to chase his dreams.
Plenty of time later to work in cubicles if they don't pan out.
Jake Meyer looking more pro wrestler than motorcycle racer, but that's Speedway... [Stever Koletar]
The second rider I spoke with was Jake Myer.
He looked more weightlifter than motorcycle racer.
He could easily bench press a speedway bike.
How did he get involved?
As a boy, his parents took him to the local speedway races,
and he was taken with the spectacle.
Jake hadn't been to a race in years but spotted an ad for a local race.
He had such a good time he took his wife to a second event.
She asked - why don't you race?
With her blessing, he started competing.
I'm not sure what her motives were.
Max Ruml is the master of the one-handed wheelie on his speedway bike. [Steve Koletar]
One racer stood out among this motley crew.
Max Ruml has an air of professionalism mixed with that west coast vibe.
This showman is ruthlessly fast while pulling off one-handed wheelies.
He recently clinched the 2021 AMA National Championship.
Max hopes to race in Europe next.
Gino Manzanez (another MMA fighter!) broadsliding at extreme angles, which is part of the Spectacle of Speedway. [Steve Koletar]
Our photographer Steve Koletar is a well-traveled race enthusiast.
He covers both automobile and motorcycle racing.
I asked Koletar what's the best show in racing?
Steve said "Speedway is out of this world.
It's a must-see spectacle."
I confessed I'd never been.
He wouldn't take no for an answer,
so we attend the next AMA National together.
The racing is intense.
You can see all the action on these small tracks.
I noted the enthusiastic crowd seemed very 420 friendly.
Speedway is a box that should be checked off by any true racing enthusiast.
Jason Bonsignore and Len McBride with the trophy Len created celebrating Jason's 25 year ownership of Champion Speedway. [Steve Koletar]
Note:  We would like to thank Jason Bonsignore.
Jason manages both Champion and Action Park East in New York.
His love for speedway keeps the sport alive on the East Coast.
Speedway has a huge following in Europe but is mainly based in California here in the USA.
This was the first time the AMA Nationals were held outside of California.
Hopefully, it will be an annual part of the schedule.
The racing is very sideways in Speedway, as full broadsliding is the technique for racing.  And wheelies.  [Steve Koletar]
The broadsliding technique used in Speedway was invented in the 1920s, some say by American rider Sprouts Elder, who improved on the original 'leg trailing' technique, in which a rider dragged his foot behind the machine. The sport of Speedway was originally called Dirt Track, and was the most popular motorsport in the world - period- in the mid-1920s. Riders traveled the world on an international, professional circuit following the seasons: the USA, Britain, South America, and Australia.We have plenty of archival stories of Dirt Track racing in its original days: have a look at a few here:


Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

EZ Does It

Doing it the hard way is painful:

Life over the limit beat me down,

And I grew gun shy from injury.

Tired of explaining the damage from my latest get-off,

and those hours of reflection in the ER.

Should I just write?

Writer and flat track racer Michael Lawless aboard one of his racers, from his story 'Passing, Pain, and Purpose.' [Michael Lawless]
Not racing is hard too.

Part of me dies at the track when I’m not suiting up,

and the dream floods back watching American Flat Track on TV.

The contradiction was killing me.

Lucky, I ran across Kenny Dahlin.

He runs a flat track racing school called 'EZ Does It',

named for his approach to racing.

We crossed paths on social media,

thumbs up & positive comments.

On the track Kenny looks effortless and in control.

Exactly what I wasn't.

I knew I could learn a few things.

So, I decided to invest in my riding skills.

Kenny Dahlin keeping a close eye on a student. [Kris Keath]

Kenny teaches on the track.

He sent me out first, then joined me:

We rip off a bunch of laps elbow to elbow.

He dropped back to tail me, then cleared off to see what I'd do.

His feedback made me realize

a lifetime of sport riding had made me lazy.

On the road, to corner quicker I'd enter fast and lean harder.

This doesn’t work on the dirt.

Charging into a corner,

I’d lose front grip then pick her up to regain traction.

By then I'm running wide, struggling to change direction,

and grabbing throttle to make up for mistakes.

Out of shape and into the next corner too fast.

Over the limit is thrilling

but actually slow.

Just a hot mess on the edge of crashing.

Getting real feedback on riding or racing is invaluable, especially from a pro who knows. [Kris Keath]

Kenny helped me dial it in.

He said my leaning in is something bad waiting to happen,

and forcing it only compounds the mistakes.

He said use the front wheel to steer,

and roll the throttle earlier to make her turn.

Kenny likes to keep it simple.

Don’t overwhelm the student.

Focus on one or two things to make progress.

His approach paid off,

I was going quicker yet calmer.

Flat track can be brutal, so EZ Does It.

The average age of students in Kenny's school was 50 for the first two years...something worth noting! [Kris Keath]

Kenny has coached over 100 students just this year.

For the first two years the average age of his students was 50.

Are you listening, motorcycle industry people?

Dahlin has spent a lifetime flat track racing.

As a kid, he rode to the races hanging on the back of his daddy's Harley.

Kenny climbed thru the ranks to carry an AMA Pro number.

You benefit from his experience by taking his school.

I think you'll agree it's well worth it.



Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

The Highline: Morgen Mischler

What does it take to be a motorcycle racer?
Some outside our circle might say 'balls'.
But to a racer, risk is a calculated decision, not blind aggression.
Outsiders have no idea what self-control and self-discipline it demands,
from eating right to working out.
Time spent wrenching while others go drinking.
It takes more than dreams.
It takes hard work and plenty of it.
And for most, years of struggling.
And when you make the main event,
you're way back on the third row.

How it feels: all bunched up in turn 1, looking for a magic line. [Steve Koletar]
I asked Morgen Mischler for his thoughts the morning after his big win in New York:

"Ever since I was a little kid, people would tell me I had balls of steel (lol). The first thing I’m thinking sitting on the third row is I’ve got 8 people ahead of me. I need to position myself on the line so I can get the traction I need to close that gap to the leaders. Starting is a big key in this sport, especially if the racing funnels down in the corner to a single file (which I loathe). The next thing is making sure the guys ahead of me are good starters and aren’t going to be roadblocks in the first corner, but also to hit a line I’ve found on the warm-up lap to give myself a chance to move forward."

Tell me about passing - are you stalking them or killing everything in your path?

"Passing on the highline. For me, it’s threading a needle others don’t think about threading. Trusting my bike placement won’t be in the marbles and having enough mid-corner speed to make the pass and keep it under control without running my clutch lever into their exhaust or knee, risking going down. If I’m the only one on the high line, it’s more about how fast I can run that line and find what else may be faster. Up there it’s more about finding your marks and hitting them while trying to find spots to improve and not lose time in the process of experimenting with the line. If someone else is on the mainline like Volusia, then it’s more like stalking and trying to find where you can squeak by. It takes a lot more commitment to thread the needle and come down to the mainline ahead of whoever was ahead of you."

At times out front means all alone, but not usually... [Steve Koletar]
What does it feel like to ride on the limit?

"My Lima video kinda shows my bike on the limit. It’s a badass, the bike becomes an effective extension of your body, so much of it is bike feel. When you have the gearing right it makes everything a lot easier because you fall into a rhythm. My bike is built very well by Vance and Hines. I can't thank them enough for their support. I don’t like ripping my fast bike on the limiter unless it’s at a national, gotta take it easy on that thing cause these pockets are pretty shallow compared to some teams. Not a huge fan of rebuilding things, so I try not to beat up my equipment outside of nationals. Really fortunate Vance and Hines builds all my KTMs. My main bike is a stout. I'm working on getting a backup machine just as powerful too."

What it's like running high? (the high line AKA 'high, wide & handsome')

"The highline is the slower way around, but it carries your momentum instead of having to slow down as much for the corner. There are so many different approaches to riding the lines that form. Some tracks you can’t get off of the main groove where all the rubber forms or you’re going backward in a hurry. A lot of it is people ride defensive and guard the inside. Last year Indy mile and this year Volusia II for example you couldn’t get off the mainline, but people wanted to protect the bottom so they wouldn’t charge into the corner as fast. I had to leave it on longer and flirt with the top of the groove next to the marbles to get enough momentum to pass them and immediately close the door to get on the mainline to make the pass. It’s a tough needle to thread because just above where the rubber has formed on the track is marbles of dirt that will carry you up the track"

It feels good to win! Morgen Mischel enjoys the rush, and the adulation, after a win in NY. [Steve Koletar]
Tell me about the euphoric feeling of victory?

"It’s a large amount of being pleased with yourself and knowing you just whooped some ass. Along with the relief of getting first after the stress of it. But euphoric is an accurate description."

Tell me about race day?

"An overview of the day was that we switched shocks to something I thought would work, chased the setup with it and qualified 20th. We switched back to the shock from the other day and made some adjustments before the semi to see if it would help. Mark and I had the provisional card ready just in case I didn’t get into the top 8 😂 but went from the 3rd row to 5th in the semi. Nailed a start and picked my way through on the first lap and put my head down. If you look at the gap, I picked up .1+ almost every lap. I didn’t check to see the gap until there were 2 laps to go and get a better view of it in the last corner on the last lap."

Tell me about your plans for the future?

"I’m not totally sure what the future may hold for me. I’m so invested in my program, I’m just trying to piece the right support together to actually make my program remotely comparable to the factory teams. I’m sure if we’d compare budgets, it’d be laughable. I’d also want to take everyone that’s supported me this far along because they deserve it just as much as I do. I’m fortunate to have the support I do because I never thought I’d get this far. Also, I would like to give extra special thanks to Randy Triplet, Bill Mischler, and Mark Muth."

A moment in the pits with our writer, Michael Lawless, and Mischler's team. [Steve Koletar]
This was great fun putting this together.
Morgen gives a good glimpse of what's in his head.
It all came together easily.
I was so stoked to be at the American Flat Track race in New York.
This was the first time back at the track with photographer/wingman Steve Koletar.
He's the 'Weegee' of dirt track. Be it sprint cars or flat track bikes.
Steve has a gift of capturing those magic moments seen here in this article.
We palled around the pits talking to riders and tuners alike.
This was the first time I talked at length with Morgen Mischler.
I was impressed by how talkative he was for a flat tracker racer, articulate too.
Morgen mentioned he was game for The Vintagent.
I knew he was serious when I saw Mischler started to followed me on Instagram.
We wrote this together without even talking.
Just using Instagram.
We plan on keeping these lines of commutations open for future updates.

Up close and personal. [Steve Koletar]
Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

The Man Who Beat Marquez

He was all of 20 years old.
Yeah, he had a Grand National Championship under his belt,
but no passport.
When the ink dried, he hopped a jet to Spain.
To face a man
even the great Valentino Rossi couldn't beat.

Brad Baker's style and skill made him the National Flat Track Champion, but would it serve him against the very best racer in the world, Marc Marquéz? [Brad Baker]
In the road racing world,
Marquez was the newly crowned MotoGP wonder-boy
whose speed seemed effortless
and victory inevitable.
The Superprestigio race
was created to showcase Marquez' ability
to dominate on dirt as well as asphalt in front on his countrymen.
Two worlds would collide in Spanish arena.
For the first time, a MotoGP World Champion would
face an American Flat Track Champion on a dirt track.
The idea was to jump-start the then-declining sport of flat track
and legitimize the sport to the nonbelievers.

Superprestegio was meant to bring the best of different motorcycle racing disciplines together,
but no American Flat Track riders were invited initially.
American journalist Mark Gardiner heckled the promoters via social media,
and soon after, the new American champ,
Brad Baker received his invitation
and an offer of a bike from the Spanish KTM importer.

Two brilliant and very young racers: Marc Marquéz and Brad Baker. [Brad Baker]
Arriving in Spain,
Brad was hustled to a press conference,
suitcases in hand,
and met his competitors.
They may have been superstars,
but every one was friendly.
Brad was surprised by the sea of press
and the army of enthusiastic fans.
He'd never been put on such a pedestal.
Motorcycle racing is huge in Spain,
but American flat track racing
has a county fair vibe.
After the press conference,
a fellow racer toured him around Barcelona.
From the back of a scooter,
Brad saw the old city,
its architecture and its nightclubs.

Arriving at the oval dirt track,
was where Baker finally felt at home.
This was his world.
His European competitors were pleasantly surprised
and found him a fine ambassador.
The Superprestegio format had two categories,
dirt racers and road racers.
The top 4 from each final advanced to the super final.
Baker dominated the dirt
while Marquez had his way with road racers.

Up close and personal: a match between the very best in the world. [Brad Baker]
They faced each other for the first time in the Super Final.
When the gates dropped,
Marquez came out swinging,
taking the holeshot.
But Baker was on him,
showing a wheel constantly.
A few laps in,
Brad ran around Marquez' outside in turn four.
but Marquez hit him firmly,
bouncing Baker off the outer wall
hard enough to bend his exhaust.
Baker said 'he was aiming for me'.
Marquez was playing for keeps.
But this wasn't Bakers' first rodeo.
He lived the unwritten rule in flat track:
you can bump but you can't knock 'em down.
He gathered himself up and set off in pursuit.

Baker lined up for a pass down the front straight,
charging hard up the inside.
Marquez tried to block him,
chopping his throttle and swinging to the left,
but his timing was late.
He bounced off Baker's side
and was slammed unceremoniously onto the track.
Sure seemed like flat track justice to me.
Baker looked back to see the MotoGP champ
lying on the track and thought "Oh F***!"
He took it easy for a lap or two
to show it wasn't intentional,
then picked up the pace and wheelied across the finish line
to take his win.

Marquez did not seem too happy at first,
but shook it off and congratulated Baker.
All was forgiven, and the party began.
Baker returned to Spain many times,
and now considers it a second home.

For years after, I badgered Baker for an interview
about that first Superprestigio race.
But every time I lined him up,
he'd throttle up and out.
Did he not see the significance?
In 20 years he'd be giving speeches about the night he beat Marquez.
I wasn't going to give up,
though I could read between the lines.
At that point, Baker was too busy looking forward to talk about the past.
For him, life was a blur of travel and racing, punctuated by victories.

Gladiators and friends at the 2013 Superprestigio race: Marc Marquéz and Brad Baker [Brad Baker]
My brother John and I were having dinner with Peter Starr,
who directed 'Take it to the Limit.'
As a kid, I saw the film and it changed me.
Suddenly, being a fan was not enough.
I sat quietly, soaking up his words,
trying not to say anything awkward.
But I had a chance to speak
of a race that deserves to be remembered.
Of a young American who traveled overseas
to face the World Champion,
on a borrowed motorcycle.
I confessed I'd been struggling to lock down an interview.
Peter asked "so what's the holdup?" and picked up his phone,
right in the middle of dinner.
"Tom, ask Baker to make time for Mike Lawless."
Peter encouraged me to keep at it.
Maybe I'd get my story after all.

A few weeks later, in the pits at Williams Grove,
it's after the main and packed with fans.
I'm just a fly on the wall,
but the sea of people parts
and Baker walks over to me, still sweating hard from the race.
'Hey, sorry I've been tied up.
I got stuff going on for the next couple of weeks.
Message me and we'll talk."
I was floored - did that just really happen?

I waited those weeks, then nervously shot him a text.
Several minutes later my phone rang.
Coffee in hand, I grabbed my notepad, and had that interview.
Flat trackers are a humble lot
and Brad is no different.
He plays the strong silent type well,
but warmed up as the words flowed,
about his wonderment for that Spanish experience.
The interview was worth the wait.
Thank you, Brad Baker.


Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman

The Last Victory

It's a long way to the top if you want to rock 'n roll.

Damn shame Baker is starting way back on the fourth row.

Seemed plenty fast all day but the Harleys kept breaking.

Guess they turned fragile in pursuit of speed.

Mechanical failure snatched him from contention repeatedly that season.

This was his final National for the factory team.

He won't win a Championship today,

but maybe redemption.

Brad Baker in full gladiator mode. [Michael Lawless]
The track started smooth and fast but turned rough and dusty.

Conditions forced more than one racer into survival mode,

everyone ran the safer line down low.

When the lights turned green for main,

Baker dropped into beast mode.

He brazenly ran the high line out by the fence.

Spectacularly over the limit.

Passing competitors on a wide-open throttle, hopping through the ruts and blinding dust.

There's no room for error running high, wide and handsome.

Insiders stood with mouths open as Baker roared by.

Baker gloried in the madness,

passing the entire field, taking the lead on lap 3.

With no challengers, victory was his - if the Harley held together.

Baker later said he took the first ten laps WFO.

Blasting through lapped traffic, the blinding dust pasted his taped-on faceshield.

With eyes burning from the dust,  he eased off but still won handily.

The sweet wheelie of victory. Brad Baker takes the checkered flag at a heat race in NY. [American Flat Track]
The battle for the Championship was settled well behind him.

In their excitement did the cheering crowd notice Baker's win?

I knew I'd seen something special.

It wasn't until the post-race party I knew others saw it too.

Some racers spoke in awe of his riding, some shook their heads side to side.

One tuner joked he'd worried 'Baker's balls would get tangled up in his chain'.

I was floored by the honesty of the new Champ when he confessed,

he tried to hang on to Baker but couldn't.

He'd almost pitched it away in the chasing, but reminded himself

he was there to win the Championship,

not beat Baker.

I couldn't find Baker for comment.

Brad Baker just ahead of Jared Mees at the white flag - one more lap to go. [American Flat Track]
I'd been chasing Baker ever since.

A Media badge doesn't guarantee face time.

I saw my chance on a break at The Kentucky Mile.

Baker stood in the shadow of the transport, like a gladiator, looking lean and mean.

Waiting for the battle to come.

But a fan munching the largest chicken leg I ever saw beat me to him.

"Hey, Brad, you going to win tonight?"

The hard look of a racer dropped into a smile.

"I'm going to try - hey thanks for coming out tonight man."

The fan was aware Baker noticed his chicken leg.

"I guess you can eat all the chicken you want huh?"

"I'm allowed 6 ounces with lunch and it can't be breaded or fried."

"Really, wow, what's that you're drinking?"

"It's a gallon of water with lemons & cucumber.

At the end of the day, I gotta hand it back empty to my trainer or else I got to drink it right there."

The fan stood, comprehending that flat track racers had changed,

and as he drifted away, Baker eyed me wearily knowing I'm media.

"Hey Brad - what it's take to run high wide & handsome?"

He took a hit from his water jug and said, "Big huevos,"

smiling broadly. ​

"What's it like going that fast with that wall in your face?"

"You don't see the fences, you're looking where you want to go."

"Don't you think about..."

"You can't..."

"What would happen if it goes wrong?"

Brad laughed,  "I'd end up face down in the parking lot."

He reached for his helmet as his crew fired up his bike.

"Hey, I was thinking we could do an article about your beating Marquez,

or about winning Santa Rosa?"

"Yeah ok, you know where to find me..."

That night Baker beat Henry Wiles for third place by mere inches

in one of the most electrifying battles of the season.

Brad Baker taking a moment with Olive Lawless. [Michael Lawless]
I wanted my daughter Olive to see the spectacle that is the Springfield Mile.

We did the 16-hour drive with our friend Barb Shoemaker.

Since we weren't hauling Jake's race bike she insisted we stop for Krispy Kremes.

Olive stopped calling her Ms. Shoemaker and switched to Aunt Barb.

I got to show her my favorite spots to observe the race action:

row one at start/finish line takes your breath away,

inside turn one against the rail is magic too,

the spooky tunnel under the track, and the media room.

Walking through the pits we bumped into Baker.

He's sweating hard in full leathers, right after practice.

Brad thanks me for the Marquez article.

I introduce Olive.

Much to her amusement, he reached out and said 'Hi, I'm Brad'.

They chat for a few minutes.

As we walk away she says,

"You make him sounds like such a desperado, Dad, but he's really nice."

Brad Baker as an advisor to the Indian factory flat track team, with Kelsey Stauffer and Jake Shoemaker. [Michael Lawless]
I was gutted when Brad was permanently hurt at that shitty little X Games short track.

For me, it was the day the music died.

Baker had seemed unbreakable.

But a wheelchair hasn't stolen Brad from the sport he loves.

He's a TV commentator for American Flat Track and an advisor to the Indian factory team.

He's set to be married this year to his sweetheart Kelcey Stauffer.

His passion for dirt racing led him in a new direction,

and he recently started racing a dirt track car with hand controls.

It reminds him of the old days - just him, a bike and van.

It's not easy, but that was never the point.

Life ain't over 'til the checkered flag is thrown.

Brad Baker at the hand controls of his circle track racing car... [Michael Lawless]
...and looking very much like the #6 we know. [Michael Lawless]

Michael Lawless [@electric_horseman], our 'Poet of Packed Earth', is the Flat Track Editor for TheVintagent.com, and has his own blog: Electric Horseman