Jimmy B Classic 2022

The best off-road race in the southwest occurred for the second time on April 2, 2022, but you never knew it was going to happen. You have never even heard of it. Maybe, you still haven’t. But it happened exactly as planned, and discreetly as possible.

This conquest began over two years ago. With hundreds of hours of digging, trimming, and marking course in southern California at a private location of nearly 300 acres of pristine enduro heaven. I was confident that the trails were good, all business was in order, and we had a sold-out entry list. But there was one thing I needed to confirm prior guaranteeing the best enduro race in the southwest… rain.

For the last several decades I have sacrificed my body on an altar of dirt in attempt to please the dirt bike Gods. Dozens of broken bones and countless struggle sessions later, the time had come to collect.

For rain, I knew I would need the Gods assistance, so I set out to bless the course in hopes they would water the track for us.

I visited the racecourse several evenings and sunrises walking through the bushes dodging poison oak and rattlesnakes. I was buck naked with nothing but a 1989 JT chest protector, Bell Moto 3, and beloved Hi Point boots. Burning raw castor oil, I would wave the FMF shorty pipe over the logs and fallen trees. The ritual lasted days; only stopping to go to work, drink beer, and prep racecourse. Periodically I would fire up a two stroke and rev the motor till detonation with the beans and frank falling on either side of the ribbed seat. Id stumble down “Itchy Dick Creek” hanging drawings of flaming dicks on the bushes to deter the riders from getting the itch. On occasion I would assist safe passage to illegal immigrants through “Clints Canyon”. Then during the twilight of the evening, I sat atop “The Reach Around” getting cross faded, reciting the winners of the first ISDE, and playing Motley Crue “Kickstart My Heart” at maximum volume. I promised sacrifice of both blood and motorcycle parts. The Emperor of the Rocks demanded payment in wheels and clutch levers. Victory and safe passage granted, and debts paid thrice over. Finally, I negotiated a treaty with the local wildlife by depositing tiny pools of beer sporadically throughout the course so they too could heckle the passing riders.

I did all of this for you.

And by the glory of every dead dirt biker that ever popped a goddamn wheelie… It rained.

As the prophets of other religions shared their success, I have now shared mine. Follow the protocol and rain will follow. A perfect dirt bike race was achieved but that story is told below.