Grover chalked up his 11th straight win at Desperation Flats MX Track. Like the previous ten rides, his 11th was a come- from-behind win, the leader crashing his brains out with less than half a lap to go.

People were starting to talk. After all, Grover wasn’t that fast. Any fool could see that. Yet, somehow, each and every week he managed to pull off the win.

Just three weeks ago, he got the overall win with a pair of sixth-place finishes. Inexplicably, the top riders in each moto DNF’d, or finished way back in the pack in their other moto. A lousy pair of sixth- place rides and here was Grover, smiling from ear to ear, walking around the pits with a huge four-foot trophy.

He attracted enough attention that the local cycle paper sent a reporter out to talk to him and take a photo.

“Well, Grover, you just got another win. How’s it feel?”

“Great, just great. I got me this feeling that I can’t lose, no matter what. As long as I keep my lucky T-shirt and socks on, that is.”

“Howzat again?”

“You see, when I won that first race, I had on this here old Howard’s Rokon/ DKW/Carabela Cycle Sales T-shirt. It brought me luck. I haven’t washed it since. I also have a lucky pair of socks, too. These are some green JT socks that are about eight years old. Luckiest things I ever put inside my boots. I haven’t washed these, either. Way I figure it, as long as I’m wearing these, I’m unbeatable.”

“Are you trying to tell me you haven’t washed those things for 11 straight weeks? Aren’t they starting to get a bit, ahh... ripe?”

“Oh well, there is a certain fragrance, but nothing I can’t live with. However, there’s no way in the world I’m going to take the chance of washing them and destroying this here streak.”

It got worse the next few weeks as Grover continued to win. Between motos, he’d sit around the pits with his smelly old Tshirt on and prop up his feet on a milk crate to air out those rank green JT socks.

His friends started to complain. “Hey, c’mon, Grover. Howsa ‘bout taking those foul things off, at least between motos? The smell is even driving the flies away.”

It was true. The legendary blowflies that made life barely tolerable in the late summer months gave Grover considerable clearance.

But, he was adamant. “You guys just want me to lose. And if I take these off, I’ll lose. They get put on Sunday morning before I leave for the track and don’t get taken off until I get home and get my bike unloaded. Then I let them dry out on the fence. No way am I going to wash all the good luck out. Nope.”

It got to the point that no one would ride to the track with Grover. It just wasn’t worth splitting the gas money to put up with the stench. Sitting next to Grover outside at the track was bad enough; being trapped with him in the cab of a pickup was unthinkable.

Harry, Chuck and George all got together and had the riders at the track sign a petition to make Grover get rid of the wretched gear ... or at least wash it.

When presented with the four-page petition, Grover was a bit upset, but stuck to his guns. “I can see where you three guys might be upset, ‘cause you’re in my class. Harry, when’s the last time you or George or Chuck beat me?”

They looked at each other searchingly.

“See? My lucky shirt and socks are doing the job and I ain’t taking them off until I lose. Got it?”

It was the last phrase that sent Harry, Chuck and George over to talk to Wendall, the track owner. “Look, Wendall. Alls we want you to do is tell Grover he didn’t win last week. After all, he got the overall with a seventh and a second. Tell him the scorers screwed up and that he really got second overall, instead of winning. Please. It’s either that or we’ll have the club run the Thanksgiving Day GP over at Stumble- field Raceway instead of here. Okay?”

Reluctantly, Wendall agreed to go along with the program. After Grover finished his second moto with a clear win, Wendall cornered him and broke the bad “news” as gently as he could.

Grover listened quietly, then slumped into his lawn chair. He popped open a cold beer and stared at the label for long minutes.

Then, very slowly and with great deliberation, he pulled off the two green socks and the yellowish T-shirt and threw them in the big trash can by the corner of his truck.

Harry, Chuck and George watched solemnly as Grover loaded up and drove off. As soon as he was out of sight, they all made running dives for the trash can. Harry got one sock and Chuck got the T-shirt and the other sock

They had a standoff for a few minutes, then flipped for the goods. Harry won and snatched the T-shirt and sock from Chuck.

The very next week, he won.