malcolm’s moments ADVENTURES IN UTOPIA

Of the 1967 ISDT in Zakapone, Poland, meeting new friends, and a gold medal

BY MALCOLM SMITH

My second Six Days adventure — the 1967 ISDT — was held in communist-controlled Poland in a beautiful city called Zakopane, which lies at the extreme southern end of the country up against the Tatra mountains. Zakopane was — and is — the winter capital of Poland, a skiing and mountaineering mecca.

As I did the previous year, I flew first to the Husky factory to meet Youran and the factory folks, and help prepare the bikes, which would then be shipped to Poland. But instead of riding in the team bus as planned, I ended up traveling with a Swedish couple (who were slated to run a checkpoint for the event) because the bus was full and there were no seats left. The couple owned a little Saab 96, which was powered by a liter-sized 2-stroke engine.

We got horribly lost on our way from Sweden to Poland, first taking a ferry across the Baltic to Germany, and then losing track of the team bus there and losing our way badly after crossing into Czechoslovakia. The crossing was intimidating, with border guards in towers, barbed wire, and machine guns. We found our way to Prague and bought a map, but it didn’t help, the Communist regime having printed maps of roads they planned to build but hadn’t yet built. We gave it our best shot and headed out of Prague, eventually making it to Poland a full day later after doing way too many circles.

Zakopane wasn’t far from the border, and we soon reached the site of the Six Days. Like Villingsberg, Zakopane was wooded and green, the soil there kept moist year-round by weather and snowmelt. And like Villingsberg, the Zakopane ISDT course was a challenge — wet in places, and therefore quite slick, and devoid of the sort of traction I was used to in Southern California. Still, I had the Swedish ISDT experience to lean on, and it helped… but not that much. The riding was muddy, with slick roots and rocks, and everyone seemed to be falling off, even the Euros. It was tiring. And while I rode more carefully and smoothly this time around, I still fell off several times a day.

I roomed with my boyhood hero Bud Ekins that year, and we got along well. We riders stayed in small rooming houses, and there were plenty of us, including John Penton, Leroy Winters, John Anderson, Dave Ekins (Bud’s brother), Dennis Bemis and a guy named Dave Mungenast. At 10:00 pm they’d lock the doors, but Ekins was already gone, headed to town for a taste of the Polish nightlife.

I met people that year that would become lifelong friends. One was Swede Lars Larsson, an accomplished motocross and enduro rider who was instrumental in helping build the Husky and Hallman Racing brands (and the sport of motocross) in the U.S. during the ’60s and ’70s. At that year’s ISDT, Larsson won the road race special test (as I’d done the year before) in the open class, and watching him was impressive.

Another was Mungenast, a motorcycle dealer from St. Louis who was riding in his very first ISDT. Our meeting, however, was far from typical. On the first day of the event, Dave started a minute ahead of me, and as I was riding up a trail a few miles after the start, I saw a helmeted head sticking through a hole in the bushes on the side of the trail. The bushes were moving, and as I rode by I saw a rider emerge and wave to get my attention. It was Mungenast, who had ridden off the embankment, his bike having tumbled down the hill through the heavy foliage. He looked so desperate I took pity on him, and stopped to help.

After the ride he thanked me, and we went to a push-cart vendor who had loaves of homecooked rye bread. He’d break off a piece, dip it into mustard and wrap it around a polish