malcolm’s moments EDISON DYE, SWEDISH STEEL

How I learned to love Husqvarnas and burgundy-’n’-chrome fuel tanks

BY MALCOLM SMITH

Imay not have known Edison Dye when he walked into my shop, but I did know of Husqvarna. Most Americans knew little about motocross and the ISDT, but I was very interested in the European scene, and by reading all the English magazines I could get my hands on, I knew of Husky’s excellent reputation on the world’s off-road racing stage.

“I race Greeves,” I told Dye. “I’m sponsored by the U.S. distributor. He pays me when I win, and I get a price break on bikes and parts.” Dye didn’t seem impressed, so I walked him over to my Greeves racer and pointed out the sturdy cast aluminum frame and front end and mentioned how tough they were. Dye had unloaded a Husky 250 and left it right outside the door, so we walked out to have a look.

was sorta crude…more lawnmower than pure-bred racer. Still, I played the game a little longer, maybe negotiating subconsciously a little bit.

Part Ten

“Look, Malcolm,” Dye said, “if you race Huskys here in America, I’ll sponsor you and send you to Europe to race the ISDT. I will pay all your expenses, and the factory will furnish you a bike just like the Swedish team riders will all be riding.”

I was proud of my Greeves racer, but I had to admit the Husky was impressive. The kickstand alone, which tucked nicely up against the swingarm, was a nice piece of engineering. The Husky just looked right — well-proportioned, lightweight, and with that burgundy and chrome fuel tank, just beautiful.

Still, I wasn’t going to be swayed so easily, and pointed out the Husky’s thin frame tubes. “That’s Swedish steel,” Dye countered. “It doesn’t need to be thick!” I glanced at the Greeves and had to admit it

Whoa. I’d always dreamed of racing the Six Days, but wasn’t making nearly enough money to make that happen. Still, I wasn’t totally sold on the stock Huskies, figuring they had to be different than the bikes being used in the world championships. I told Dye I had to try one first, and 15 minutes later we were on the way to my favorite local practice track with a brand-new Husky 250 in the truck.

When we arrived the Husky lit on the very first kick, unlike my Greeves, which needed to be tickled and finagled. The track had jumps and fast and slow corners, so it was a great venue — especially since I had likely ridden a million laps there on my Greeves.

The Husky was, in word, magic — light, fast, agile and blessed with fantastic handling. Norm had come out to watch with his Greeves in the back of his truck in case I needed to be rescued. I was gone long enough for him to think I’d seized the engine, and he unloaded his bike to come get me. I then rode up with a big smile plastered on my face, and looked right at Dye.

“You’ve hired yourself a rider,” I said. I knew that with this magical new motorcycle I would win races. I had the very first one in the country, too, and was already thinking about selling them.

And just like that, my long and successful association with Husqvarna began. I’d ride those burgundy motorcycles for a couple of wonderful decades, and race them the entire time they were made in Sweden.

I cannot tell you how excited I was with the Husky 250 Edison had left me. I left work early that day, drove home to San Bernardino, and rode my new bike on a local practice track down the street. Once again, the bike’s agility and light weight shocked me, especially compared with my Greeves and the four-strokes I’d ridden and raced previously.

There was a desert race that Sunday in the Lucerne Valley, and I was excited to try the Husky out, as was Edison. It was geared too low for desert work, so I installed the larger countershaft sprocket included in the tool kit, changed the oil, and then went over the thing with a finetoothed comb.

The race was a typical So Cal desert event, and very similar to the one highlighted in On Any Sunday Hundreds of riders would line up along a white line of lime powder, engines off, waiting for the banner (held aloft via poles a half mile away by two guys standing in separate pickup trucks) to fall as a gun was fired into the air. (Somehow, I doubt it contained blanks.) If you waited for the gunshot’s sound to reach to you, you got off late; the trick was to go the instant you saw the flags move.

The riders would then kickstart their bikes and head wide open toward the “smoke bomb,” which was usually a pile of old tires set aflame two or three miles in the distance. The course wasn’t marked at all prior to the smoke bomb, and because it was a big advantage to get there early so the dust didn’t blind you for the rest of the race, guys went all-out during the “bomb run.” It was usually pure chaos.

I’ll fill you in on how it all went in the next installment.

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