SuperHunky

Enjoy~ Cindy Sieman

KRAMER VS KTM

By Rick Sieman/August 1980/Dirt Bike
(Notes: The movie “Kramer vs Kramer was playing at the time, and this gave me the germ of an idea. Hey, I know it's a stretch!)


“Tell us, in your own words, Mrs. Kramer, some of the things that led to the breakup of your marriage.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Well, probably the single worst thing was with him and that damned air filter. Always washing and drying it.”

“Say what?”

“Oh, you know. The filter on his bike. Every Saturday, like clockwork, he was always cleaning the filter on that bike of his.”

“But what could that have to do with …”

“I'm getting to that. You see, after he washed his filter in gasoline, he'd take it in the kitchen and wash it again in the sink with soap and water. Then he'd take it out to the dryer and flip the horrid thing inside my dryer.”

“What was the problem with that?”

“Problem? Problem? Let me tell you, mister smart lawyer. He never did such a great job of cleaning that air filter before he popped it into the dryer, and just about every other weekend, all of my underwear would come out all greasy and smelling like pre-mix. That's right. He never looks in the dry­er before he tosses that filter in. Just pops the door open, flips the vile thing in and goes off to twirl some wrenches. Doesn't even care what it does to my un**es. That's plain inconsiderate. Even nasty.”

The lawyer spun dramatically, flexed his eyebrows, leaned on the table with both arms stiff and said, “Your honor, it's plain from this testimony, that we're dealing with a degenerate of the worst sort here. I rest my case. Your witness, counsel.”

“Thank you. Mrs. Kramer, just exactly why do you want custody of the two-year-old?”

“Mostly because I think it'll help my husband. You see, he's become so at­tached to that two-year-old dirt bike, that he's no longer a rational human being. I think he just might do some­thing dangerous, like …”

“Like what, Mrs. Kramer?”

“Well, he was talking in his sleep one night about turning the KTM into a sidehack.”

“Your honor!!! Objection to this line of questioning. Anyone who would turn a perfectly good KTM into a side-hack would border on a monster, which my client is surely not. I must insist that the line of questioning be re­directed.”

The judge stroked his chin. “Yes. Of course. Only a walking looney-tune would add a chair to a KTM. Counsel will please rephrase the question.”

“Let's explore some other areas. It has come to my attention that Mr. Kramer has gone to great lengths to destroy Mrs. Kramer's flowers. And these are a point of pride. Apparently, Mr. Kramer takes the oil from his gear­box and pours it in the flower beds of Mrs. Kramer. Now, your honor, Mrs. Kramer works long and hard on these flowers, only to have a load of sk**ky gear oil dumped on the sweet petals of pale rosebuds. Disgusting, isn't it?”

“Hey, I always figured it might make them grow. You never can tell.”

“Your honor, what we're looking at here, is a total disregard for the wants and needs of Mrs. Kramer. This man has apparently chosen to place the value of his bike above that of his wife.''

“Have you priced KTM parts lately?”

“Hmmm. Perhaps you're right. I'll redirect the line of questioning. Mr. Kramer, what makes you think that you're more fit to have care and cus­tody of the two-year-old KTM than Mrs. Kramer? After all, she rides bikes, too, and has expressed an interest in using the bike for trail riding purposes. She feels that a steady diet of racing motocrosses and enduros is the wrong way to ensure a long and healthy life.”

“Well, I've always believed that you have to treat ‘em tough. Make ‘em work hard. Treat ‘em with a heavy hand, but with the right kind of care at the right time and the right place. In the long run, it pays off. You baby a bike and you end up with a bad bike. One that won't work when it has to.”

At this point, Mrs. Kramer leapt up, tears in her eyes. “Oh sure, big mister tough guy. You think that's the way to handle something you love? Well, not me, buster!”

The kindly, white-haired judge held up a hand to halt the outburst. He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his voluminous stomach and spoke in a stern, yet kindly tone:

“What we have here is a classic case of both parties wanting the same thing. If I had the wisdom of Solomon, I could probably figure out which party really cared the most. But, since I don't, here's what this court proposes to do. I am going to take the KTM away from both parties and remand the custody to a professional organization to take care of it until it's of age. I hereby award cus­tody of the two-year-old KTM to Dirt Bike Magazine. Visitation rights can be worked out by the respective lawyers.”

Mr. Kramer jumped up with agony in his eyes. “No! No! Anything but that! Don't let those monsters get their hands on the KTM. I've seen what those guys do to a test bike. I'd rather let Mrs. Kramer have custody.” At this, he put his hands over his face, sobbed, and threw up all over his lawyer.

The judge was impressed. “Well, well, well. We seem to have found out just who really does care about the bike. That bit about giving custody of the bike to Dirt Bike was just a clever ruse on my part. And I think it worked. The court hereby awards custody of the KTM to Mr. Kramer.”

Enjoy~ CiCindy SiemanTHE DEER HUNTER

By Rick Sieman/February 1985/Dirt Bike
(I don't know about you, but I laughed my ass off as I read this column. Hell, I forgot that I ever wrote it.)


Curtis picked up his well-worn copy of Field and Stream that he had stolen from the barber shop five years ago and turned to page 29.

Yep. There it was … the ad showing the three-wheeler with the deer draped over the luggage rack. A smiling hunter was at the bars with his gun safely nestled in a carrier attached to the forks.

Curtis thought back to the last time he'd gone deer hunting with the guys. He'd shot a 300-pound, eight-point buck, and it had taken him half a day to drag it back to camp. His back was screwed up for two months after that.

Yup. This year when I get my deer, it's a three-wheeler for me, thought Curtis. He snapped open yet another can of beer and studied the ad once again, thinking how surprised his hunting buddies would be when he showed up with his new three-wheeler.

Yessir. Curtis bought his trike with $200 down and $67.42 per month in payments. Not bad for the ultimate deer carrier.

Yes-oh-yes. The guys oohed and aahed when Curtis unloaded the three-wheeler out of the back of the 12-year-old International Harvester pickup with the particle board camper shell painted in genuine Army camouflage colors. Heck, once a duck had even landed on it. Shot his feathery butt right off into never-never land, Curtis remembered with a smile.

Yeah. At the campfire that night before deer season opened, Curtis told all of the guys how neat it would be to be able to drive back with the deer on the carrying rack instead of lugging it miles through the woods. He spat a stream of Mail Pouch to***co juice into the fire, belched and went to sleep early so hunting season would hurry up and start.

Oh yes. Four o'clock in the morning, cold air and the smell of coffee over a campfire. An hour later, they split up, and each headed for his favorite spot.

Yup, yup, yup. Curtis hunkered down behind a bush and waited. Two hours later, he lined up a sight on a huge buck about a hundred yards away. He squeezed the trigger carefully, and the crack reverberated through the hills.

Yes indeed. The buck stiffened, fell, twitched a few times, then lay still. Curtis fired up the quiet little three-wheeler and putted cautiously up the gentle hill toward the downed animal.

Yeah. In ten minutes he had the big buck dressed and draped over the carrying rack on the back of the ATC. He could picture the look on Herb's and Frank's faces when he pulled into camp like this. About three slow miles later (it was a heavy deer), he got up on the last ridge before the camp. All he had to do was find the trail that branched off the ridge, and ease on down.

Yes. He could see the camp now … nestled down by the stream, and from his spot high on the ridge, he could see at least a dozen other hunters, rifles in hand, waiting patiently.

A shot rang out. Then another. Then it sounded like a shooting gallery as two dozen frustrated deer hunters opened up at the silhouette of the deer so blatantly displayed on the top of the ridge.

Noooooo! Slugs whistled through the plastic fenders, blew holes through the gas tank, ripped chunks of foam out of the vinyl and ricocheted off the engine cases.

Oohhh-nooooo! Another volley of shots rang out as the rest of the stealthy hunters saw the “deer” and let loose with several pounds of lead. The front tire let out a hiss and went flat. A cable sagged down as a half-inch wad of metal snipped it like a pair of scissors.

Curtis rolled up into a ball and tumbled down the hill just as another slug sparked off a fin and ignited the fuel. A huge column of flame shot up, but Curtis could catch only glimpses of it as he rolled and rolled and rolled, perhaps 700 yards to the bottom of the hill and into a murky and very cold stream.

From where he sat, he could see the black smoke curling up into the clear sky. He still had 35 payments left to make. Curtis began to wonder at this point just what people saw in those ATCs in the first place.

Enjoy~ CiCindy SiemanGOOD NEWS, BAD NEWS

By Rick Sieman/June 1983/Dirt Bike
(Damned good column, if I have to say so myself.)


The good news is when you find out that you're in the first race of the day. The bad news is when you walk back to your bike after the rider's meeting and see a flat rear tire.

Good news is when you take a look at your gas can from the week before and see that it's full of gas. The bad news is that you can't remember if you put oil in the gas or not.

Good news is when you get a free T-shirt for winning your class at a local race. The bad news is when you try it on and it's too small to even fit your dog. It also has a “Dave's Rokon Sales and Service” logo on the front and says “Harleys suck” on the back.

Good news: You've finally saved enough money to get a brand-new bike this year. Bad news: The dealer who said he'd give you $900 for your old bike changed his mind and instead made a top offer of $275 and a can of chain l**e.

More good news: When you get your new bike, you find out that all of your old countershaft and rear sprockets will fit. The bad news is when you find out that all the new bikes are running giant countershaft sprockets and small rears, while your bike runs small countershafts and large rears.

Good news is when you find out that you can buy a mail-order replacement saddle cover for only $5.95. Bad news is that when you get it, you find out it's purple with yellow lightning bolts down both sides and has artificial tuck-and-roll patterns on the top.

Excellent news is when you get some dope to buy your old bike for exactly what you asked for it. Horrible news is when he ends up beating you at every race for the rest of the season and never breaks anything, while your new bike has a string of terminal DNFs.

Good news is when the new girl you start dating turns out to be a natural on a dirt bike. Bad news is when she starts beating you at the local track.

Great news is when you get a spiffy new set of tools for Christmas. Grim news is when you spend most of the time in the garage using those new tools on a lemon bike.

Good news is seeing the fastest guy in your class stopped by the side of the track, changing a fouled plug halfway through the race. Bad news is when he catches and passes you anyway.

Good news is when you train like a loony and get in the best shape of your life and ride like the wind. The bad news is when some old fat rider beats you anyway and comes up to congratulate you on a good race with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Good news: You get to bed real early the night before the big race so you can be ready for anything. Bad news: You can't fall asleep until 40 minutes before the alarm goes off and wake up like a part-time zombie.

Good news is when you ride an enduro and the best enduro rider in the district is on your minute, so you don't even bother to bring a clock. The bad news is when he has two flats in the first seven miles and then does a giant flip on the first downhill, and just sits down alongside his bike, moans, and asks you if this is the bus to Cincinnati.

Good news is when you finally break through the terrible dust in a desert race and really start cooking it. Bad news is when—about 35 minutes later—you realize you aren't on the course anymore. And when you stop, you can't hear any bikes or see any dust clouds on the horizon.

Good news is when you get a holeshot and lead the pack into the first turn by three bike lengths. Bad news is when you miss a gear and that same pack runs over you.

Superb news is when you finally work up the nerve to try that double jump on the track that's been giving you fits for the last two weeks. Bad news is when you find out it's now a triple jump.

Good news is learning how to do a long, graceful wheelie in front of your friends. Bad news is trying to dodge a 200-pound German shepherd chasing a cow directly in your path, and running over your grandmother while saving a near loop-out on the wheelie.

Good news is getting your copy of Dirt Bike in the mailbox two days earlier than usual. Bad news is that you are the star of “Crash and Burn” this month.

Good news is getting a pair of tie-downs returned to you that you had forgotten about. Bad news is that they're soaked in oil and the hardware is rusted solid.

Good news is finding out that you can squeeze four bikes in the back of your van. Bad news is finding out that your throttle cable was ripped off when you unloaded the bikes.

Good news is getting a brand-new helmet and giving your old one to your kid brother. Bad news is when the new helmet hurts your ears so badly that your nose hairs bleed and you find out that your brother let the dog chew up that old comfortable helmet.

Good news, no doubt, is when you get out the night before the enduro and pitch camp in a fabulous spot next to a babbling brook under a shady tree on the only level ground around for miles. Bad news, for sure, is when you find out the enduro isn't until next weekend.

Good news is getting to pre-ride most of the course in a desert race two weeks before the event. Bad news is when someone tells the sponsoring club about it and you get suspended from the district for a year.

Good news is when you get voted in as a full member of a dirt bike club. Bad news is when they give you a nickname like “Hog Nose,” or “Fenderhead,” or “Bultaco Bill.”

Great news is when your club gets the sanction to put on a National-caliber event. Bad news is when only six guys show up to do all the work and everybody else has an excuse.

Good news is when you win the big trophy for high-point rider of the year for your district. Sad news is when you get home and see they've misspelled your name. And they've got the wrong year and class down as well. And it's not just a metal plaque that can be re-engraved, but instead it's all carved into teakwood and covered with six coats of Atomic epoxy.

Good news is when you give the trophy girl a giant, long kiss and the gathered crowd whoops and yells with glee. Bad news is that her brother is there and he resents the display. He also plays four positions for the San Diego Chargers … all at once.

Good news: You find a shortcut home from the track that will save you at least 15 miles. Bad news: The road is so rough it cracks your windshield, your speakers all fall out, the headliner vibrates loose and you get two flats.

Good news: You sneak a day off from work in midweek to go trail-riding with your buddies, after telling your boss that you're sick as a dog. Bad news: As you head out of town for the hills, you see your boss driving alongside you on the freeway and he sees you. You try to duck under the dash and succeed only in getting a bloody nose as you whack, your face on the extended ashtray. The next day, you are fired and your bike is stolen by a band of wandering gypsies. When you report it to the cops, they arrest you for 114 outstanding parking tickets. While you're in jail, your girlfriend runs off with your lawyer. At your trial, the judge, a Sierra Clubber, throws spitballs at you while the list of charges is read. When you finally get out of jail, you find that your apartment has been turned into a parking lot. The only thing left standing is your mailbox, which is now occupied by a rabid bat and a 27-ounce insect with three blue wings.

Good news: You get the latest issue of Dirt Bike and they tell you how to get 18 more horsepower from your bike for $1.93. Bad news: You don't have your bike anymore and you only have $1.89, anyway.

Good news: You get a phone call from the guys at Dirt Bike and they tell you that you're a winner in their monthly contest and have won a brand-new bike and a full riding outfit. Bad news: the staff at Dirt Bike offers to break in your bike for you. Good news: You are smart enough to say, “Thanks, but no thanks,” and rescue your new scoot before they have a chance to turn it into water-cooled debris. You don't need any more bad news, which is good news.