One story? From my years as Editor of ADB? That’s a big ask, Mitch. There are so many good stories from my two stints behind the ADB Editor’s desk in the late 1980s, and then again in the mid 1990s after GE’s tragic death at the Nevada Rally.
But one that has always replayed in my memory so clearly over the 40 years since it took place was when I had only been at ADB for a short while, maybe a year, in 1985. I’d been hired into the ADB Editorial Dream Team alongside GE, Honest Muz and designer Jeff Keen, and I got the job for my writing and photography skills, not as a dirtbike racer. But before I knew it, I’d been drafted into racing a Pony Express at Jilliby, as team mate to H Muz.
Muz, and GE, were enduro racers of some repute in the day, so I was fair crapping my Tycon jeans like a big black dog about riding shotgun with Muz.
And then when Muz, as was kind of his way, didn’t get a bike organised in time for the race, he barked: “Doesn’t matter Clubby, we’ll race your XR!”
‘My XR‘ was a Honda XR250RE, it was pretty new, and it was my pride and joy. And that day at Jilliby it copped a hiding like it had never endured before, and never did again.
Anyway, I duly fronted at Jilliby, and I remember Muz looking down his nose with derision at ‘my’ flash red rocket, as this was the ADB era of all four-stroke dirt bikes being nothing but overweight and underpowered slugs.
Expectations certainly weren’t high as Muz fronted the starter of the Pacific Enduro Motorcycle Club’s pony express, but from the minute the flag dropped, and the poor little thumper started valve-bouncing under Muz’s merciless caning of the throttle, clutch and gearbox, it was on… game on!
The loop started at Jilliby motocross track, then carved up into the surrounding hillsides of the Watagans, the course dominated by singletracks and logging lanes overgrown with lantana, and punctuated by steaming brown bogs at the base of every valley.
Astonishingly, Muz was ripping on the little red rooster and peeled off three or four laps before he finally handed the bike over to me: “Just get it back in one piece, Clubby,” Muz barked, “and I’ll do the rest!”
No pressure, mate!
So I peeled off a lap, kept my nose clean and the bike upright and got back intact. Within a nano-second Muz grabbed the ’bar off me and blazed back out into the bush.
Muz was on a mission and tore off another three or four laps before having to hand the bike back to me for another lap, at which point he was – for once – even more intently serious when he demanded: “Don’t f*ck this up Clubby, just one more lap!”
No pressure mate!
Now before you ask, yes, I made that lap, before Muz leapt back onboard and brought it on home.
And bugger me, Muz brought it home in first place of the Teams category, and we each scored a trophy for our efforts. The fact that Muz put a whole lot more effort into the race than I did, well, that’s a mere aside to my story.
I never scored many trophies in my riding and racing days, so that one holds pride of place on my mantelpiece –thanks Muz!
Clubby
