He's Loose As A Goose And Flies On A Bike

There is a malady that strikes professional motorcycle racers called plate fever. When a man catches it, he has been known to beat up his friends. He makes dubious deals. He scoffs at security. He races when he should be in traction. And he rides as if the crash walls were made of cardboard.

There is only one thing that relieves the fever, and that is a 10"-by-12" white plastic plate with a big black No. 1 on it. To get it, a man has to be No. 1, the national motorcycle champion.

In 1976 Gary Scott, a 24-year-old from Springfield, Ohio, carried the plate on the front of his motorcycle. Few men had ever had the fever as bad as Scott; it didn't break for four years. A lot of people were glad to see him finally get rid of it. He deserved the championship, they agreed.

He'll have the fever again next year. A 19-year-old from Flint, Mich. named Jay Springsteen stole the plate from Scott this year and became the new No. 1, the second youngest ever. Springsteen had had some advice on how to cure the fever from three-time national champion Bart Markel, his neighbor, who has won 28 national motorcycle races, more than any man in history.

The American Motorcyclist Association national championship was decided this year in a 28-race series, 24 of which were dirt-track races. By far the most spectacular dirt-track events are those contested on one-mile ovals. Springsteen won four of the six miles and finished second in the other two. He makes spectators swallow their hearts with his moves on the big tracks. He wails down the straight on his 750cc Harley-Davidson at 140 mph, his right hand on the throttle, at ear level because his chin is on the gas tank, his left hand reaching down to the front fork at knee level and clutching a stubby grip about the size of a half-smoked White Owl. When he approaches a turn he abruptly sits up and moves his left hand back to the handlebars. Gently he taps the rear brake with his right foot—there is no front brake—so the back of his bike slides around and violently pitches the machine to the left, leaning it over so far the engine sometimes scuffs along in the dirt. He slides sideways at nearly 100 mph, his left leg stuck out as far as he can stretch it, his steel shoe skimming over the dirt and acting as an outrigger. Still drifting toward the wall, he cracks open the throttle and snaps his left foot back up on the peg and grabs that White Owl down by his knee and slaps his chest back on the gas tank, then finally comes out of the turn and slingshots down the straight. Springsteen does this a lot, sometimes between two other riders doing the same thing, as often as not nudging—and being nudged by—the other riders' feet, elbows and handlebars.

Dirt-track racers are a completely different breed from, say, Indy drivers. When an Indy driver pulls onto the track he looks as if he's stifling a yawn; when a dirt-tracker pulls onto the track he looks as if he's stifling a scream.

Scott's situation throughout the past season was unprecedented. In 1975 he had been one of five Harley-Davidson factory riders. Then he had been on the other end, trying desperately to take the plate from Kenny Roberts, sole member of the Yamaha team. Since he was the only man on the team who had a strong chance for No. 1, Scott felt he rated the fastest Harley. He saw it as common sense: if Harley-Davidson wanted the national championship, they should throw their weight behind the man who could best win it for them.

But Dick O'Brien, Harley-Davidson's racing manager, didn't see it that way. O'Brien has an iron policy: no team orders, every man for himself, and may the best man win. Not only that, but Harley-Davidson didn't make a competitive road racer; Scott was forced to stay home from the road races while Roberts scored points.

Scott took the plate from Roberts anyhow. But after the season he and O'Brien still disagreed on a lot of things—including what Scott was worth for 1976—so Scott quit and became a champion without a factory contract, a privateer No. 1. The situation was unprofitable for both parties. A championship was of little value to a company that could hardly advertise the fact; Harley-Davidson probably lost hundreds of thousands in sales. Scott probably lost tens of thousands in endorsements.

Scott spent the winter preparing to defend his championship without a factory behind him. He bought his own bikes—or arranged deals for them—hired his own tuners and did a lot of the work on the bikes himself. For the one-mile races he wanted to use a Harley-Davidson XR750; after all, he had nothing against the motorcycle.