***

I first met Dave Coombs in Pennsylvania, at the Brownsville track for the Annual Mother’s Day race. Here, he seemed like a perfectly pleasant individual. The day of racing was fun, the organization excellent and, like  they say, a good time was had by all.

One year passed and, responding to an invitation by Coombs, I winged my way East to attend the Blackwater 100 in Davis, West By-Gawd Virginia. Upon arriving, I was shocked. The Dave Coombs I had met in Pennsylvania had changed, as if he was a werewolf! No longer was he smiling and genial. In actual fact, the man had the manners of a constipated wart hog.

A newcomer to the Blackwater 100, I asked Dave many questions about what to expect and how to best prepare for the grueling 100-mile race. He responded with a pack of lies, a whole bunch of distorted information, fabricated misleading statements and outright verbal intimidation.

Thus, being ill-prepared, I spent a great deal of time standing in waist- deep mud and nostril-deep water. As I dragged my shivering, frozen and soaked body from one bottomless bog to the next, I silently cursed Coombs’ existence and vowed to get even. To compound matters, when I finally got back to my hotel room that night— hours after the event—Coombs had already drank most of my beer and had sold my dry clothes to a wandering band of gypsies.

About a half year after this degrading experience, our Mr. Dave Coombs arrived in sunny Southern California for a visit. I immediately cheerfully invited him to go racing with me.

He accepted, but asked me to brief him on what to expect “out there.” I could have been cruel and really misled the man, but I felt that a simple “modification” of the conditions would suffice. The following is a fairly accurate recount of the conversation.

“Well, what’s this track like, anyway?”

“Sunrise? Basically a cruise. A simple, sandy track with very few bumps. Horsepower is the answer.”

“Hmmph. I suppose you’re gonna give me a real dog of a bike to race, right?”

“Nonsense! In fact, I’ll let you ride my very best and fastest 490 Maico. I’ve even been working on the bike, especially for you.”

“No kidding? Is it fast?”

“Sixty-five horsepower to the rear wheel. . . minimum.”

“Great, great. What else should I know?”

“Well, you should be aware of the coyote problem out there in the desert. You see, they...”

“The what?”

“Coyotes. They have these killer coyotes that attack people. However, if one of them approaches you, the only thing to do is stand still and hold your arms up in the air like a Joshua tree. That way the coyote will think you’re a cactus and will merely piss on you—rather than attack.”

“Huh?”

 “Yup. That’s why I bought you this tube of coyote piss salve. It’ll keep your skin from breaking out into giant, red festered boils. I got it wholesale. Twelve bucks. I’ve got change, by the way.”

Coombs forked over the money and studied the unmarked tube. “You sure this stuff works?”

“Trust me. Now. . . one other thing. There are a few deep whoops on this track. Have you ever ridden at high speeds over sandy whoops?”

“Uh, well.. . no, not exactly. What is the secret?”

“Simple. As you get ready to hit the really big ones, chop the throttle and get your weight way forward over the bars. The rest will be more or less automatic.”

“Great. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Snakes. Gotta watch out for the snakes.”

“Snakes! What kind of snakes?”

“Oh, mostly rattler, pit vipers, mambas, puff adders and a few corals. But I wouldn’t worry too much about them. As long as you whistle the whole time you’re walking around or riding, it’ll scare them off.”

“Whistle?”

“Sure. It’s an old-time desert rider’s secret. Keep it up, real loud, and don’t stop.”

“But.., won’t that get you all out of breath and dizzy?”

“Hey, take your choice. Snake bites or sure doom. It’s up to you.”

“Geez. There’s more to this than I thought.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad. The rabbits are even worse. Most of them are rabid and you can get permanent brain damage from just touching the diseased creatures. If one bites you, well...”

“But...”

“Not to worry, not to worry. Just use your head and keep your distance from any cactuses or bushes. Those needles will go right through a car door. Bad stuff. That’s why I think you ought to wear as much protective gear as possible. Two, maybe three sets of leathers. Five or six pairs of socks. Ten stout jerseys. Couple of pairs of gloves. At least two chest protectors and a good, strong, thick jacket on top of the whole works. It’s absolutely essential”

“But won’t it be hot out there? Especially with all that stuff on?”

“Gosh, no. That’s just talk. Why, it hardly ever gets into the seventies out in the dez. We just started those rumors to keep the tourists from flooding into the area. And if it does happen to get a bit warmish, you can always take the jacket off.”

“Yeah, right. What else?”

“Well, we should go out to a restaurant and have a traditional desert racer’s meal. Jalapenos, chile verde, chile Colorado and some good old-fashioned marinated cactus. Wash it down with a few large Margaritas and you will be ready for the race.”

“Margaritas?”

“Yes. It’s sort of a health food drink. All the fast guys drink it. And listen, whatever you do, don’t drink any of this Los Angeles water. It’s terrible stuff. Here’s a big jug of some good Mexican water I bought for you. Drink this with every meal and make sure you drink a whole bunch right before you race.”

“Gosh, Rick. Thanks a lot for all the advice. You know, after Blackwater, I thought you might’ve been a little ticked at me. But you’ve been a real help.

“Dave, it was the least I could do. The very least.”