bungrot's blog: "Motorsport Debauchery"

This weekend was our annual scooter rally, which means a ton of riding, many beers, and a sore back and taint for a week. I'm sure all you prison bitches can relate. Friday night we had a ghetto ass ride in Oakland (AKA "the hood"). We did the same ride a few years back and my buddy John dumped his 1968 Lambretta. He said he saw a dead body and it freaked him. Turned out it was a bag of garbage, but in Oakland, I'm sure it could have been a body. This year we had no such mishap. What we did have was a fucking freezing ride home at 2AM. Temp dropped to high 30s. My hand was stuck on the throttle in a sort of C-shape, like when I beat off too much. Of course the throttle was much smaller in diameter. It was so cold that I thought of just sticking my face against the engine while it was running.

Saturday morning we met early and prepared for the Iron Butt ride - 125 Miles of canyons and hills and mountains. I'm sure you motorcyle riders don't think that is much, but those little 2 stroke motors at RPM feel like a 10HP vibrator hooked up to a Sears Die Hard car battery. We bombed the Oakland hills with a full view of the bay and San Francisco, including all 4 north bay bridges (Bay, Golden Gate, Richmond, and San Mateo). It was an epic view. Backroads led us into Castro Valley where we played "spot the mullet". 5 points for a mullet dude. 10 points for a mullet chick. 15 point for a mullet kid. 50 points for a mullet family. I think we all racked up at least 500 points. Billy Ray Cyrus would have been proud. Miley Cyrus would have been impregnated. We jumped into the canyons of the Livermore wine country without seeing a car for 20 miles. Lots of twisty two lane road. Up into Pleasanton and we had a really shitty lunch. Man, food out that way sucks ass. Actually, sucking ass would have tasted better. After Pleasanton we headed into the Livermore back canyons and into Morgan Territory. Morgan Territory is where all the bicyclist in tight spandex climb to the top of the mountain, then coast at 50 to the bottom. I wanted to kick some of them to the curb. This place is in the middle of nowhere and on one side of the mountain are all million dollar homes and ranches. Then you cross the county line and end up with the Dukes of Hazard. The road narrows to a single lane on both sides of the mountain and you get to dodge assholes in cars up and down. At least there is a cliff on one side to soften the blow if you wipe out. Right as we hit the bottom, Syd from SF yelled, "I hate this road. It is the worst, scarriest road I have ever been on". Then Montery Pete flew by at breakneck speed yelling, "this is the best road ever". So what is the moral? How the fuck would I know, I'm immoral. After the fun stuff, we headed down death highway where every fuckwit in Walnut Creek drives 80 MPH as if Starbucks will run out of double whip super crapachino latte express fat-fuck-asswipe drinks. Slow down, you horse-face wolly mammoth, there's plenty left to help you keep your girlish figure. And by girl, I mean female hippo. Walnut creek led us into the backroads of Lafayette where we said goodbye to RobertSF and Jimmy, then into the back section of Canyon and the Oakland hills, where most other people bailed out. 8 of us made the trek back to the starting point in Berkeley. Only 3 breakdowns all day. Not back for 120+ miles at speed.

Sunday was a quick breakfast in Berkeley, then the backroads to a biker bar called the Warehouse Cafe in Port Costa. This is where all the real bikers go. No sport bikes and lots of vintage American. And lots of Hells Angels colors. And 30 of us pulling up on old Vespas and Lambrettas. The old bikers laugh their asses off at the little 2 strokes, but they are cool and come talk to us, since many of them started off on the same. The young Harley guys with the shaved heads and the personality they bought with the Harley usually just give us dirty looks. It must really be tough to hide the fact they are gay. We drank much beer and consumed much grub. We made it back. Don't ask how. I don't remember much of the ride, other than we were doing 70 through the hills. Oh yeah, kids, don't drink and drive! So, if you are into old scooters and want to have some fun in the NorCal area, search out the Oakland clubs at some of the events. And if you are a tool, then don't.

If you don't know what it is, at least check out the site and familiarize yourself. You buy a total piece of shit car for $500 or less, fix it up, still for that same $500 or less, then race the hell out of it. A bunch of tatted out hoodlums cheer you on as your shitbox tries not to explode, then you drink lots of alchohol. Sound good? It is. Several friends of mine ran the last Lemons at Thunderhill and dug on it. I missed it (again). After the death at Altamont last year, I didn't know if enthusiasm would still be high. One of the event organizers is a buddy and at our last drinking event, he told me they are getting numbers of entries that are many times over what is allowed to participate. Check out the events page on the site and definately at least spectate at an event near you. Also, check out Dave Coleman's shitbox Miata with turbo blocking driver view from the last run HERE. Dave is an awesome guy with a severe shitbox racing habit (if you haven't read his articles in the late great Sport Compact Car Magazine).

I was sitting in a flat in Paris last November and decided to put together a small run along the Northern California coast and into the Redwoods. The end of August looked good for weather and did not conflict with other events. The run would be a total of four days of insane coastal and canyon racing with stops for really tasty treats and beer (none of that pseudo-chicken BS here). If you've never been to Northern California or the Redwoods, it is impossible to describe. The scenic beauty of the coastline is eclipsed only by the enormity of the California redwoods. Check out the following pics of The Lost Coast and the Redwoods (it will save me from typing 1,000 words). The first day of driving had us meeting at The Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco. My buddies Ted and Seth came up from Los Angeles and met us there. Ted's car is a 1972 Datsun 510 with an Autech SR20DE engine that puts out 275HP stock (just say, wow!). Ted's also an avid racer that I describe as "boringly efficient" as he never makes a mistake on any track. Seth, well, Seth got to play bitch. I am running a modified 1969 Datsun 510 with a turbocharged and fuel injected motor. It sounds better than it is. The displacement is so small that I am probably getting only 135HP. No other cars showed, which was expected from a first year event that called on people to take two days off work, spend over $1,000, and drive at speeds in excess. We left and started heading up Hwy 101, across the superbly bonerific Golden Gate Bridge. Traffic was fairly light, but my car has an experimental engine management system controlling fuel and spark and it had been problematic to date, leaving me stranded a few times. The bridge would not be a good place to stall. As we exited the bridge, we turned off at the first scenic view that overlooks San Francisco and allows you to walk on the bridge. Total miles traveled for our first leg = 3. OK, a slow start, but neither Ted nor Seth had ever walked the bridge or seen a bunch of the sites up close. We scurried, took pics, and headed back for the cars. A few folks were checking out the car and eventually this led to our most heard comment, "I used to have one of those!". A bit of story telling and we were back onto Hwy 101 heading north.
Now, it sounds like fun cruising with your friends in old cars, but I had just installed a 4.111 differential and 45 series tires on 15" rims. Even with a 5 speed trans, I was buzzing at 4,000 RPM at 68 MPH. Ted, on the other hand, had a 3.90 diff and a 6 speed trans. He was at 2,200 RPM. We slowly wound our way to HWY 128, where hills full of trees took us out to the coast. The first half hour of HWY 128 was amazing. The turbo was spooled up to 16PSI out of every turn and I rocketed forward. But then it happened. Damn slow ass people in front of us. My car became a cow scoop as I slid up slowly on each person until they finally realized they were holding up traffic and scooted over. Not too bad of a drive. We ended up on HWY 1 in short order. HWY 1 is the scenic highway that everyone raves about. What they don't tell you is there are a few spots that are shitholes, like Fort Bragg, and that is exactly where we were headed. We were supposed to stop for lunch in Fort Bragg, but we ran late. We did see a few other Datsuns in groups and thought they might be looking for us to caravan to the meet spot a few hours away, but they went on their own way. Could be because we had to skip the lunch meet spot and there was no way of notifying anybody. Oh well, next year will have registration. We made our way around some jackass driving his van on the railroad tracks that kept dropping the crossing gates on everyone. Somebody should have just beat the shit out of the guy. And then we hit the coastal part of HWY 1.
We were all alone. No cars on the road. This is the part in all those pictures where the road is perched high above the ocean. And there were no other cars in sight. I mashed the accelerator to the floor and spooled up the turbo and attacked the corners with wreckless abandon. Ted was on my ass. I pitched right, then left, sliding around hairpin turns with only a small gaurdrail separting me from the cliff and ocean below. Ted was still on my ass. I upshifted into a corner, gaining speed before the entry and kept my foot into it the entire time, spooling up at the apex and blasting out of the turn like a Saturn V rocket at Cape Caniveral. Ted was still on my ass. I looked closer and Seth had a death grip on the "oh shit" handle. There would be no in-car footage of this section. For 30 minutes we blasted every turn, every straight, every transition, never seeing another car in front of us, behind us, or coming the opposite way. The coast was amazing; the sky was clear blue and the sun was smiling down upon us. Everything was right and Baby Jesus wept. We had caught the very best section at the best time with nobody to get in our way.
The last turn along the coast was a right hand sweeper that led uphill, into the Redwoods. This section of the Redwoods connected scenic HWY 1 to ugly HWY 101. The good news was that it was about an hour of driving a small twisty two lane highway through the forest and we were still alone. The bad news was that a crash here meant you were going to *smack* a 200 foot tree with a 12 foot or larger base. Airbags were not an option in 1969 and the crumple zone is your spine. The turns between the trees were rated at 35MPH. This was not the white sign, but the orange sign. You see, in California, white speed limit signs mean that is the law. Orange signs mean a group of engineers figured out the safest speed for the road was a certain limit. To us white signs means you risk a ticket and orange signs mean you risk your life. We hit the turns a touch over 65MPH. The turns in the forest were so tight and came in such quick succession that I started to slide around my seat a bit just from man handling the steering wheel. I was using 4 of the 5 points on my racing harnesses, but I guess I should have put a 2" trailer ball in the center of my seat and butt clenched to stay centered. And Ted was still on my ass. About 40 minutes into the trees and it happened. Some dumbass in a newer shitty Chevy Impala pulled out right in front of me. These dumbasses not only blocked the road, going 30 MPH slower, but also were weaving so we couldn't get around them. I thought about just pulling a dangerous manuver in a turn, but after looking around, realized I was in the middle of nowhere and a crash would mean that most likely the first people on the scene would be Skeeter and Bubba with a meat wagon. I decided I could slow down a bit and ride the last 20 minutes or so at a moderate pace.
We said "so long" to the hillbillys and jumped on HWY 101 North for another 45 minutes of FWY driving before we hit our destination above Eureka. Pulling off the FWY, we noticed the hotel row was really crack alley. There were burned out busses with dirty hippies living in them. Panhandlers were all over the place. Cardboard signs at every corner and in front of every store. What the hell did I get us into? Just as we were exiting the car, a local named Doug pulled up and spoke to us for an hour. Cool guy. Saw our postings on the net and wanted to join in, but his car wasn't quite ready. We told him where to meet us for breakfast the next day and headed into the hotel lobby. Just then three more Datsuns from Oregon pulled in. Our twosome was now a fivesome and there were a few racers in the small pack. An evening of Mexican food and beer ensued as we prepped for the long Saturday the next morning.

Sure, I spend most of my time bitching and complaining, but that's what makes me so damn cuddly. This time I am going to give you two-million people here some real advice. Gas prices are quickly hitting $5 and hordes of people are looking into scooters as basic transportation. Good choice. We (me, the mouse in my pocket, and my dirtbag friends) tend to specialize in old Vespa and Lambretta scooters, but try to stay up on all things scooter. People are flocking to Ebay and Craigslist looking for cool vintage scooters with fresh paint and shiney chrome. I am telling you to watch out for Vietnam imports if you are thinking of going this route. There are bunch of ways to tell. First, read Eric's post on how to identify these rolling death traps here. Now let me tell you about a 1966 Vespa VBC a buddy gave me that was Viet-tacular!

So, my buddy decides to be nice to me and shells out $1700 for a scooter in pieces because he knows I am into old Vespas. I thank him, take this thing home, and start tearing it down. Never take someone else's project as being road safe. The damn thing was a bondo wreck with the engine Viet-welded (known as JB Weld) and tons of silicon sealant. I messed with it for a few days, got it running, but decided the engine was shot and sold it to another buddy for $750, which is closer to what it was really worth. He messed with it, put in a new engine, then started finding wiring problems and cable problems and fuel problems and brake problems. He eventually sold it with full disclosure to somebody for $1000 with new motor. This thing was not only a piece of crap, but also a death trap. The person buying it from him only wanted the motor and the rest got trashed.

So, if you are going the route of buying a scooter and want vintage, get with your local dealer and buy something good. Or better yet, get with one of the shops advertising in Scoot! magazine here. See, I am finally being nice to you people. BTW, scooters, even vintage, get ~70 MPG. Get one. Join a club. Have fun. Drink beer. Get nekked.

A group of 40 of us on mostly Vespa and Lambretta scooters headed out to the canyons of NorCal. Canyon carving into Castro Valley was a kick, but once out of the hills we ran smack dab into a hillbilly protest. Cops everywhere. Rednecks everywhere. "Free the Texas 3" was all over signs. If they were really smart (which hillbilly rednecks aren't), they would have had something like "Play Texas Hold 'em with cards, not people" or some other jackass nonsense. We fueled up and split before the mullet brigade could see that we had some Mexicans and homos in our group. We shot down the Livermore Wine Trail into Niles Canyon. The front group, led by me and my 1962 GS160, was flying low and fast. I hit a nasty off camber turn as my scooter was fully leaned and my suspension fully collapsed. The scooter jumped up about a foot and I found myself across both lanes of the narrow canyon. First I yelled, "SHIT!", then I checked my pants to see if I did. Out of the canyons and into Pleaston (P-ton for you losers) and lunch stop at a shitty Mexi joint. At the next gas stop Christopher the skinhead revved the shit out of his hopped up small frame, spewing clouds of smoke into the cab of Mike's '41 Ford truck that was playing chase vehicle. Back onto the road and into the canyons. The next canyon stretch was full of cows and horses. The horses were scared shitless by the sounds of all the two stroke engines. I guess they probably thought the McDonalds meat trucks were coming to chainsaw them into McRib sandwiches. The cows couldn't give a shit. Out of that canyon and onto Morgan Territory. This two lane mountain road wound way up, full of twisties. At the top it turned into a one lane road, full of twisties. And then it cross county lines and the road shot downhill, covered by a canopy of trees in a forest on a road as small as a goat trail (and trust me, I know my goats) full of pot holes. We should have slowed down, but the first 6 of us just gunned it. My suspension on that old GS kept maxxing and with every pothole, I would be tossed a foot into the air. Potholes in the roads, cliffs on one side, and 5MPH turns everywhere. Amazingly none of us wrecked, but we stopped at the next barn to wait for the slower folks. Then we noticed Jethro and Bubba at the barn working on their hillbilly Jeep. These two goat fuckers were straight out of Deliverance. They even had that beautiful hillbilly methlab smile. After we regrouped we headed out before they could break out the Vasoline ("get up in them woods!"). The next stretch of road was smooth and twisty and we shot up to 70MPH, despite the rain coming down. A quick jaunt on the HWY and we were in Walnut Crack, home of the nuevo riche (where they drink lattes in their 4X4s). It was SUV hell. We lost a few souls that had enough with the 100 miles of canyons already ridden. So long. We fueled up and hit the canyons back to Berkeley. On the last stretch the front group of 6 hit an oil slick in the apex of a 10MPH right corner that we were taking at 40MPH. I had full washout on both the front and rear wheels and luckily caught it before it went down. I looked back to see two more washouts and another scoot going wide off the side onto a dirt pad. I can't believe nobody died on that part. We hit the meet spot in downtown Berkeley and split up right as the rain started coming down. What a day. Sure as fuck beats sitting online wishing I had a life...

The California Melee folks decided to throw a SuperDrive Sunday for everyone that knows football watching is for losers. Angry Lance and I made the trek to Pacifica and checked out the myriad of cars: Alfas, Porsches, Jaguars, Mercedes and a couple shitboxes like our Datsun Bluebird, David Swig's BRE 510, and hotty Elizabeth's old Toyota. We got about an hour and a half into the drive and Angry Lance started getting sick. Two people getting sick in two events. This sucks. I think the Bluebird is now the barfbird. We dropped out of the pack and headed to some hillbilly-ass golf course for some road chow. They were serving redneck brunch from a really nice, but really old and big waitress. Definately not one of the little hos from Coyote Ugly - maybe she was from Grizzly Bear Ugly. At any rate, we got our chow and gobbled it up. Next time I am going to tell them to save the trouble and just punch me in the gut and throw the food in the toilet. Quicker that way. It cuts out the middle man. The pack was long gone and we were limping home via the freeway. I think I am going to steal some barf bags from SouthWest on my next flight and store them in my glovebox.

If you are into period specific rods, then Vern Tardel is THE man! This is not the Boydster bullshit, this is the real deal. You won't find any fiberglass or chevy 350 conversions with auto trans, just original pieces. I went over to Mike C's house to grab a ride in his '41 Ford flathead pickup and wait for Jay in his '39 Merc flathead droptop. We hit the road and headed up HWY 101 to Santa Rosa and dropped into the sticks where Vern has his shop. Kevin from England and his gal came over for a 3 week holidy and told Mike they'd meet him there. You can't imagine what this place is like. There must have been 300 flathead engines just lying around with an easy 40+ classic cars and trucks. And this is just Vern's collection and a few customer cars. Vern and his partner Gary and brother Mike were just what you'ld expect - 50 or 60something year old guys that eat, drink, and sleep classic rods. These guys knew every mod in the book, which makes sense since Vern and Mike wrote a book called "How to Build a Traditional Ford Hot Rod". The shop is a big barn like structure with all tools known to man, and a few extras. Vern was in the process of building at least 5 different 32 Coupes along with a handful of other sweet rides. Too much for me to write, but check out the pics in my pic section and more importantly, go see Vern's page at http://www.verntardel.com/

Just got finished running California Melee X this weekend. 750 miles in 3 days covering all NorCal back country roads and highways through desert, dirt, forest, coastline, and hillbillys. Did I mention the hillbillys? More on that later. We headed out with a pack of Porsches, Alfas, Minis, Fiats, BMWs and a couple oddballs. Team 33 was driving my RHD Datsun Bluebird Coupe. First day took us from Palace of Fine Arts SF up some back ass highways north of Marin, along dirt/rock roads into Redbluff. We followed a caravan that got lost twice and ended up backtracking solo 45 minutes at 80+ MPH on the backroads to catch a group of cars. First night saw a dive hotel with one of the vintage Mini Coopers turned into a Mini-Bar. Many beers and drinks later and we were ready to head out for bad Mexi food and huge frickin' goblet margaritas. Up early on day 2 and we headed for HWY 36 - a 137 mile long 2 lane (at best) back highway of all twists and turns that led us out towards the Coast. After lunch in the way-too-cute Ferndale, we headed out on the most bumpy 5MPH switchback laden road to the coast. My co-driver shit a brick as we passed cars at 60MPH while approaching 5MPH hairpins with cliffs on the side. I guess he didn't know I had the kung-fu kick going on the brake pedal. We got lost in BFE and stopped at a hillbilly market to verify directions. 6 old farts out front smoking weed and talking shit about Mexicans. I wanted to say, "buenos dias, mother fuckers!", but figured I'd get deliveranced. The store had stickers everywhere saying "We vote pro gun". Too bad they didn't vote Pro Hygene. Back on the road and into a hi speed dirt run, drifting and e-braking around the corners until Mr. Sheriff came by. He just gave us the evil eye. Good thing or we would have had to use confusing big words on him with 3 syllables or more. We ended up taking an extra 50 miles, yet with my pro-dumbass no fear of death driving, we came in with the first 1/3 of the cars. More debauchery and drinking ensued. Damn Vodka and Lemon Chello. Damn beer. Damn shitty American beer. Our dirtbag room smelled like a gang of bikers had a combo smoke and fart-fest the entire week before and the hotel just tried to cover it up with lysol. It was like someone shit a pinetree into an ashtray. I had to get up and go sleep in my car by 330AM. Day 3 and the run home. More backroads past the 101 and then after lunch, we hit the most insane highway ever - Stewarts Point-Skaggs Springs Road - leading from Cloverdale to HWY 1 above Salt Point State park. We chased a Fiat 850 Sport Coupe through fifty miles of crazy ass cliff roads. The CHP screamed at us as we passed a rolled semi. We ripped down a set of 15 MPH S curves at 65 MPH. The road narrowed to a single lane as we headed head on with a logging semi at hi speed through the S curves. You gotta remember, in a right-hand-drive car the passenger is heading straight on with death. As we slid around the logging truck inside one of the S turns I saw the cliff next to me and the logging truck on the right. Then I noticed my co-driver hitting an imaginary brake pedal and turning white as a ghost. Oh shit, vomit is about to come. We pulled over so his hung-over destroyed head and gut could get some air. Also so I wouldn't get puke on my interior. 4 more hours of racing to go, but I could see he was worse for wear. We just cruised the rest of the run along the Redwoods and along the coast til we were back in SF. Pictures and shakey-ass almost-crying in-car video to follow.