BEST OF JODY’S BOX: LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICINE — BUT NOT NECESSARILY FOR THE PATIENT.

BY JODY WEISEL

When you race with the same guys week in and week out you get to see the whole spectrum of human endeavor. Some good, some bad and some rained out. Even in the antiseptic halls of insurance companies, law firms and auto parts stores it is human nature to cherish the nice moments and forget the scary ones. Not so in motocross! For some reason racers find the scary moments funny and relive them over and over. Each time they tell how they endoed down the Carlsbad downhill they laugh longer and louder. It may be weird, but it’s part of the mind’s self defense mechanism. As long as you plan to throw a leg over a motorcycle, you have to look at the worst thing that can happened to you as just another part of the human comedy.

I won’t lie to you, in my racing career I’ve seen horrific crashes, heartrending events and more than my fair share of stomach turners. The effect is not as negative as you’d expect. If you hang around long enough you become hardened to the situations that an inexperienced rider and 220 pounds of metal can get into. Laughter is the best medicine — but not necessarily for the patient.

My friend Fred Phalange is a classic example of motocross racers twisted view of danger. On a day-to-day basis the gang never really pays any attention to Fred (except when he sits on the lid of the ice chest). Fred doesn’t have any striking personality traits that make him stand out; he’s not especially fast, he doesn’t look all that good in motocross gear and at speed he most resembles a hermit crab straddling a bowling ball. If he wasn’t sitting on the ice chest every time somebody wanted to get something out of it, he would almost be invisible.

However, Fred does have one attribute that makes him unique. What is it? Fred Phalange is so susceptible to getting concussions that he can get knocked out if a Rhinoceroses Beetle flies into him in the pits (even with his helmet on). Even more drastic is the fact that when Fred’s knocked out he completely blanks out. So, it’s no wonder that whenever there is a first turn crash, one of the gang has to go up and guide Fred Phalange back to the pits, tell him what happened, what day it is and where he parked. It’s not really funny, concussions are serious, but when Fred is concussed he is the perfect foil for practical jokes.

A couple years ago Fred showed up at the track wearing some incredibly ugly riding gear. It was pink and green and had a giant spider web pattern on it. In practice Fred crashed and was knocked out. The ambulance guys brought him back to our pit and said that they thought he was okay, but that he couldn’t remember where he lived. We sat Fred down (on the ice chest) and quizzed him about the directions to his house. He was clueless, but suddenly he looked down at his jersey and pants and said, “How did I get in these ugly clothes?” You gotta admire a guys who can have good taste knocked into him.

Last weekend I was standing by the side of the track, trying to find a titanium seat bolt that had fallen out in practice when Fred Phalange came flying towards the whoop section. He was in last place and trying to make up time. We’ll never know what Fred was thinking (because he can’t remember), but he moved to the bad side of the whoops and left his bike tapped in fourth. I closed my eyes, but could still hear his YZ250 cartwheeling end over end. When I opened my eyes he was laid out, sprawled out and knocked out.

I ran over to where he lay, stopping for a moment to dig in the dirt when I saw something shiny that looked like a seat bolt. By the time I got to Fred he was coming to. “What happened?” he asked groggily.

“You were winning,” I said with lots of enthusiasm. I figured he’d never remember anything that took place and it would make him feel good to think that he was fast. It’s bad enough to be dingy without being slow.

“What lap did I crash on?” he asked hopefully.

“The last lap. You almost had the victory in the bag, but you got taken out by a lapper,” I was lying, but Fred wasn’t questioning my version the story.

“Where’s my bike?” he asked looking around groggily. A flagman had pushed it into the bushes to get it off the track.

“Your Honda is over there,” I said pointing towards the brush.

“What Honda?” he asked.

“Your Honda CR250, ” I answered.

“I don’t have a Honda!”

“Sure you do. You sold your YZ about a two months ago and have been riding Honda’s since October.”

“What month is it?” he asked slowly.

“December, ” I said. It was only August. Only in the Sun Belt could you get away with a seasonal lie so bold.

“Fred, I’d like to stay with you, but I have to go back to the pits and find Lulubelle.”

“You mean Louella, don’t you?”

“Who’s Louella?” I asked. Just then the paramedics walked up and began shining a light in Fred’s eyes.

I pulled the head ambulance guy over and said, “He can’t remember anything. His name is Jimmy Mac and I think he has a concussion. He thinks it’s December and he swears that he was riding a Honda. If he doesn’t get his memory back, come and see me in the pits. My name is Fred Phalange.”