MALCOLM’S MOMENTS

FIRST PART SIX RACES, AND THEN…

Learning to go fast and enjoying it, right up until I got hurt

BY MALCOLM SMITH

The head mechanic at Mott’s Cycle (see Malcolm’s Moments in the June issue) was George French, who also built engines for local expert Jack Thurman, who rode for our shop. I began to watch what Frenchie was doing to those engines, and the idea of racing began to take hold.

I was 16 and riding a lot by this time, mostly on fire roads in the mountains, and Frenchie and I came up with a plan: I’d ride Thurman’s Matchless in novice scrambles at nearby Console Springs, and Thurman would ride the expert class. In my first race I was pretty fast except for the first turn, a big uphill left-hander. I’d let off there and guys would pass me. Frenchie said I needed to go full speed there, and when I did I was much faster.

I remember trying to pass a guy named Henry Arras — still a friend of mine — in a downhill corner; he was a brute, and when he looked back and saw me coming, he slammed the door and took out my front wheel. I went end-over-end, and they had to haul me off. There’s an unwritten rule among racers: “When

the flag drops, it’s every man for himself!”

I’d just bought a used Matchless 500 that had come from Hawaii, which I used in my second race, a hare scrambles in the badlands. We started in line similar to a desert race and ran down a long straight that led to a tight turn. I thought I needed to run wide open all the time, came in too hot and took out a half-dozen riders.

I ended up at the bottom of a pile, looking up at a spinning chain and sprocket inches from my face. The other riders were not amused. I crashed a lot in that 10-mile race (I’d get up, catch the leaders, crash again, and do it all again) but managed to finish second behind C.H. Wheat, one of the best local riders.

On the way home I remember thinking, “if I was on the ground all that time, and still able to get second, that means I’m as fast or faster than even the better riders. So all I need to do is not crash, and I’ll likely win!” From then on I rode more in control — and it worked! I won my third race and adopted that strategy whenever I was racing.

Not long after these first races we found out my dad was very ill. He was 99 at the time, had bone cancer and didn’t last very long. I was 18 or so, and it was a very sad time for me, though at nearly 100, he’d had a good, long run.

I’d been racing on and off whenever I had enough money for gas and entry fees. I was getting better and, slowly but surely, thinking I had a future, maybe in racing, but almost certainly in motorcycles. The AMA wouldn’t allow you to run its Novice/Amateur/Expert national series until you had a professional license, and you had to be 18 to get one. So the minute I turned 18 I got my pro license, and a week or so later entered a TT at DeAnza, an oiled-dirt oval and TT track upon which Ascot Park was modeled.

There were a bunch of top-level riders there that day, guys like Dick Hamer and Jim Goldsmith, both of whom enjoyed shop and factory support. Hamer was on a BSA, Goldsmith a Harley. I was riding Thurman’s 600cc Matchless Typhoon, a hot-rodded version of the standard Matchless 500. I’d gone riding with Thurman a week or so earlier and was surprised to find I was as fast as he was. That helped my confidence, and I got second in my heat. I got runner-up in the main, too, beating a bunch of locals, and I was feeling pretty

“I thought I needed to run wide open all good about it. the time, came in too hot and took out a It was a great scene; big grandstands, lots of half-dozen riders. I ended up looking up at fans, and plenty of energy. a spinning chain and sprocket inches I remember thinking, “Hey, I’m pretty good at this. I from my face.” MALCOLM SMITH might just be on my way!” Frenchie was pushing me, too, telling me I’d quickly work my way up, and I believed him. More and more, it looked like I was gonna be a motorcycle racer, and maybe even a pretty good one. The very next day I went riding in the hills near my home with friends Bob Luli and Mike Christensen. We got separated on the way home, and when I headed back to find Mike, we collided at speed in a very bad way. Mike’s bike hit me directly on my left side, shattering my leg and hitting me so hard it bent my Matchless nearly in half. I flew into a pepper tree on the side of the trail, while Mike tumbled nearby, bruised but unhurt. I was disoriented and in shock, and when I realized I was in a tree, I looked down and saw the bottom of a boot laying on my chest, with the sole facing toward my head. Why, I remember wondering, was Mike laying on me with his leg on my chest? I had no idea, so I asked him: “Mike, can you get your leg off my chest, please?” I will never forget his answer: “Malcolm,” he said from several yards away from me, “that is not my leg. It’s yours.” My racing days were over, at least for a while.

On the Matchless early in my racing career. Get your copy of my autobiography

at themalcolmbook.com.