Death By Teretonga
By Shawn McDonald
After a great race in the southern island town of Christchurch, in New Zealand, we were off towards the town of Dunedin, and the next great promo appearance of Team America.
We landed at the local Yamaha store, which was really quite nice. We were at the shop for the third promotional stop of Team America’s trip. Just as at the two previous promo stops there were no customers or fans to be seen, just the salesmen, mechanics and one parts guy. This was all getting rather depressing. The thought “Oh shit, not again,” ran through many of our minds. We instantly blamed Steve Dahlstrom for the whole mess, for trying to pick up on the local girls.
We were scheduled there for a few hours, so we decided to do a little exploring outside the shop. Like all the New Zealand bike stores, 80 per cent of the bikes it sold were used. One of them immediately captured Steve’s eye. It was a Yamaha FZR four cylinder 250. Like the women of the country, it was exotic. You couldn’t find one in the US, and the instructions were even in English. Steve wanted this bike reeeaaal bad. He was already thinking of how to ship the bike over, pay the freight and taxes, then enter it in the F-III class back home, and kick his friend Doug Du Buque’s butt. There were a few other things Steve wanted real bad in NZ, but that’s another story.
I, and a few others, kept telling Steve how this was not such a good financial proposition, and that he should carefully rethink the potential options of such a decision. Okay, we told him he was stupid. “You’re stupid, stupid, stupid!” we yelled at him. Steve is very single minded, and kept thinking of the Holy Grail and ultimate victory. He is such a hard-head. That is what I like about Steve, though.
Troy ‘Boy’ Burstyk and I meandered next door to the big general store, to see Edie Lind drooling over the low prices of fantastic homes on the waterfront, and mumbling about moving there and starting a law practice. Between Steve wanting to start an auto repair shop and Edie a law practice, we had a small mutiny developing. Inside the store there were cowboy hats and boots, saddles, real estate, a pharmacy, food, sports equipment, even a few kitchen sinks. New Zealand-style Wal-Mart shopping. We left without buying a house or a horse, but once again we did slam down some more tinnies and munch on some wonderful German food, made up by one of the local ladies at the shop. You really didn’t care about meeting the non-existent fans when you got to share a drink, some food, and good conversation with true-to-the-heart friendly people.
Mike Sullivan has the greatest knowledge of music and jokes than anyone I have ever met. We could ask him trivia questions about music, and he would always answer them quickly and correctly. He has gathered lots of jokes when traveling across the country to race in the Grand National AMA flat track and the AMA road race championships. One of the many jokes he told during our 14-hour trips was ‘Death by Bongo Bongo’. This is a great joke, and it rocked the van with laughter. You may have heard it joke before. You see there were these explorers who get captured by the natives, and then… Oh, just ask Mike some time!
Eventually we arrived at Teretonga, the most southerly, and the most exposed race track in the world. You could not only feel the cold, but also see it. Strong southerly winds from the frozen wasteland of Antarctica left the land flat and bent. The town of Invercargill, where we stayed, is where they used to launch expeditions off to Antarctica by sea (now they fly from Christchurch). Imagine a race in Nome, Alaska. Got the idea? Who brought us here, anyway?
Team America arrived early at the local Honda store, where we were to work on the bikes. Nobody was there. We decided it had to be us. It must have been something we said or didn’t say that kept the Kiwis from meeting us. But sorry mate, we’d forgotten where we were for a moment. Like most foreign countries everybody starts work about 9am.
In New Zealand the phrase “No worries, mate” takes on the status of a national motto. If you are waiting for a critical part to arrive by 4:30pm the following day, you are in for a world of hurt. No worries means lay back brother, and enjoy the clean air and ozone-depleted sunshine because your critical part will get here today, tomorrow or maybe even next month. Wait a second while I check to see if I even ordered it.
A typical night for a Kiwi bloke might be going to a bar, and spending a night of knocking down the tinnies quite hard try to impress the ewes, I mean girls. Remember that the country has the largest beer consumption per person in the world! So have a case or two of beer, roll up that doobie and have a sit in the sun and watch your nose fall off after 15 minutes. No worries, after all! If you’re from California, you will fit right in. The rest of us took a little acclimatizing to the latitude and the attitude.
I finally got bored waiting for the shop to open, and started to climb around on the local buildings. Troy ‘Boy’ Burstyk was interested, and after a short climbing lesson started challenging me to climbing duels. Luckily for both of us monkey boys, by now there was a sign of life at the Honda store.
After working on the bikes we pointed ourselves towards the ocean and the Teretonga track. I don’t remember what the Maori word ‘Teretonga’ translates into English as, but I would guess it must mean windy, cold, nasty rain. When I saw the race track sign saying ‘Teretonga’ my mind snapped back to Mike’s joke, and I started quietly chanting, “Death by Teretonga, death by Teretonga.” Soon more revelers in the van joined the chant, "Deeaatthh byy Teerreettoonnggaa.” It would become our theme. It would become our destiny.
Like all the rest of the courses we raced in NZ (except Wanganui) the track was level flat. I mean it made the Portland International Raceway track look mountainous. Strange how all the trees were bent over at the waist, with the limbs all horizontal. I wondered why? Maybe it was the same phenomenon as water circling the opposite way going down the drain? Or maybe it was because the wind blew almost as fast and as hard as a hand-built 600 V-Twin Ducati running on nitro methane. It was probably the wind.
Next stop was to the Grand Hotel, in the town of Invercargill. It wasn’t really that grand. It was kind of old, and the floors creaked, but it was home to us and all the other racers on the National circuit. It was a 1920s building that did have a lot of charm, and a large bar on the second floor. For the first time all the racers were staying in one place at one time. PARTY!!
My memory lapses when I try to remember what happened each night. I know we started off slowly each evening after practice and dinner, and then sped up as the night went on. There was always a lot of noise, motion, alcohol and blurry figures. As a matter of fact the bar went dry every night we were there, and they had to get booze from the bar down the street. You think they would know who we were, after all.
I do remember I started climbing around the fire escapes on the second floor, and popping my head into the bar windows like MacBeth’s Father until the bar tender asked me politely to stop. No worries has its advantages, also.
Then there was the wonderful Edie, who healed us and bandaged us at every racetrack we went to. She was a licensed professional masseuse who gracefully provided her services to those of us in pain and discomfort. I would have never finished the Pukekohe race in Auckland if she had not worked on my rock-solid forearms. Edie once again tended not only to the Americans, but also to some of our closer Kiwi friends, one of which was Revvin’ Kevin Grey.
Now Kevin was rather a big bloke, who raced a GSXR 750 Superbike. I stayed with him and his girlfriend in Auckland, and will never forget the sight of Kevin when I awoke one morning on the cot in his spare room. He’d opened the door to ask if I wanted some breakfast or not. Now this is a very hospitable question for a host to ask, but I suppose it was the way he was dressed. Like I said, Kevin was a big bloke with a tummy to match, and he was only wearing these blue bikini briefs with the flag of New Zealand stamped right in the center of them – in front of a slightly hung-over me. I kept on trying to pull the blankets over my head, and he just kept on standing there and talking and talking to me. It just seemed like forever, but these Kiwi blokes are very hospitable. It is an image I will always remember Revvin’ Kevin by. Now, back at the hotel, Kevin had a sore back and Edie was taking out his muscle knots in her and Bruce’s room. I was next up to have my arms and sore back taken care of, and I’ll always remember the look on the face of every drunken racer, mechanic, and support person on the NZ national circuit crammed in this bar when I came down the stairs with Edie who, in her commanding voice, said, “Who’s next?” The place grew eerily silent as all eyes looked to the stairs, and to us. Edie very rarely gets flustered, and this didn’t faze her at all. I don’t think she even noticed.
I thought this was enormously funny, but I strenuously kept my laughter to myself – I knew Edie would give me a whack in the back of the head for thinking such nasty thoughts. After a few chuckles the bar-room noise roared back to its previous volume once again. Edie’s presence in front of those racers would not allow for laughter, but it was funny. Oh yes, it was a scream.
Until this point eating had proved an adventure every time you opened your mouth and swallowed. You know that after the first time you order a pizza with olives, and they’ve still got the pits. You got one choice for salad dressing, and it was mayonnaise. The meat was not baked, broiled or barbequed, it was boiled until gray and tasteless. I mean, I look at hospital grub as being gourmet compared to most Kiwi food.
This was one reason Bruce had made it mandatory that we pack a big bag of genuine tortilla chips, salsa and beans, so that on at least one night we could have a true American meal (Mexican food as an American meal?). We won’t even get into what they offer as Tequila. Okay, diesel fuel has a real similar taste. But it was a night out with Steve and Troy at the local Chinese restaurant that brought out the best in the Yankees.
As often as possible we went for the safe, traditional food. Since there were only two Mexican restaurants in the entire country, and both were extremely bad and an island away, we decided for the next American food, Chinese. Luckily for us it was right down the street from the hotel. I wasn’t too hungry, or I was too cheap, so I just ordered a bowl of Won-Ton soup while the boys opted for a regular-sized meal. When the Chinese owner/waitress/business manager brought out the food she gave me a bowl of soup that would have fed the entire Team America. I immediately told her, “I’m sorry, I didn’t order this.” To which she replied, “Yes. You order bowl of soup!” I pushed the bowl away from me and repeated, “I didn’t order this bowl of SOUP” – and she pushed the bowl back at me and said, “Yes. Yes. You ordered this bowl of soup.” Now I’m not sure if it’s the American spirit or me, but I get a little bull-headed occasionally (enough snickers from everyone who knows me), and I was not going to cave in or lose this argument. I pushed the bowl away from me for the last time, and told her to do whatever she wanted but I was not going to pay for that soup. Then from her tiny frame came the gigantic words, “I am very, very angry at you!” and, in one last attempt at making me change my mind she repeated, “I am very, very angry at you.”
She grabbed the bowl and scurried away to the kitchen, very loudly muttering something in Chinese that I couldn’t understand, but I knew what she meant. Then out of the kitchen doors came the owner/waitress/business manager with a man who looked to be the owner/cook. The woman pointed at me, repeatedly yelling something in Chinese to the man. Now Troy was worried about putting something in his stomach, and told me to just accept it so we could eat. Steve had a deeper fear, he told me they would piss on all our food before they brought it back. Needless to say it was one of my few wins in New Zealand, as she brought back the correct-sized soup for me, and dinners for the boys. Steve was still worried; he would sniff every piece of food and ask, “Does this smell funny to you?”
From then on we ate only at the hotel, and what a wonderful surprise it was. We could sit down in the slightly decaying elegance of the Grand Hotel restaurant, and dine on farm-raised venison with a lovely red wine sauce, and then top it off with national NZ desert, Pavlova. There was a gastronomic heaven, and it was near the Antarctic. But wait, I haven’t told you about the race yet. Wait till the next issue, and I will fill you in.
By Shawn McDonald
After a great race in the southern island town of Christchurch, in New Zealand, we were off towards the town of Dunedin, and the next great promo appearance of Team America.
We landed at the local Yamaha store, which was really quite nice. We were at the shop for the third promotional stop of Team America’s trip. Just as at the two previous promo stops there were no customers or fans to be seen, just the salesmen, mechanics and one parts guy. This was all getting rather depressing. The thought “Oh shit, not again,” ran through many of our minds. We instantly blamed Steve Dahlstrom for the whole mess, for trying to pick up on the local girls.
We were scheduled there for a few hours, so we decided to do a little exploring outside the shop. Like all the New Zealand bike stores, 80 per cent of the bikes it sold were used. One of them immediately captured Steve’s eye. It was a Yamaha FZR four cylinder 250. Like the women of the country, it was exotic. You couldn’t find one in the US, and the instructions were even in English. Steve wanted this bike reeeaaal bad. He was already thinking of how to ship the bike over, pay the freight and taxes, then enter it in the F-III class back home, and kick his friend Doug Du Buque’s butt. There were a few other things Steve wanted real bad in NZ, but that’s another story.
I, and a few others, kept telling Steve how this was not such a good financial proposition, and that he should carefully rethink the potential options of such a decision. Okay, we told him he was stupid. “You’re stupid, stupid, stupid!” we yelled at him. Steve is very single minded, and kept thinking of the Holy Grail and ultimate victory. He is such a hard-head. That is what I like about Steve, though.
Troy ‘Boy’ Burstyk and I meandered next door to the big general store, to see Edie Lind drooling over the low prices of fantastic homes on the waterfront, and mumbling about moving there and starting a law practice. Between Steve wanting to start an auto repair shop and Edie a law practice, we had a small mutiny developing. Inside the store there were cowboy hats and boots, saddles, real estate, a pharmacy, food, sports equipment, even a few kitchen sinks. New Zealand-style Wal-Mart shopping. We left without buying a house or a horse, but once again we did slam down some more tinnies and munch on some wonderful German food, made up by one of the local ladies at the shop. You really didn’t care about meeting the non-existent fans when you got to share a drink, some food, and good conversation with true-to-the-heart friendly people.
Mike Sullivan has the greatest knowledge of music and jokes than anyone I have ever met. We could ask him trivia questions about music, and he would always answer them quickly and correctly. He has gathered lots of jokes when traveling across the country to race in the Grand National AMA flat track and the AMA road race championships. One of the many jokes he told during our 14-hour trips was ‘Death by Bongo Bongo’. This is a great joke, and it rocked the van with laughter. You may have heard it joke before. You see there were these explorers who get captured by the natives, and then… Oh, just ask Mike some time!
Eventually we arrived at Teretonga, the most southerly, and the most exposed race track in the world. You could not only feel the cold, but also see it. Strong southerly winds from the frozen wasteland of Antarctica left the land flat and bent. The town of Invercargill, where we stayed, is where they used to launch expeditions off to Antarctica by sea (now they fly from Christchurch). Imagine a race in Nome, Alaska. Got the idea? Who brought us here, anyway?
Team America arrived early at the local Honda store, where we were to work on the bikes. Nobody was there. We decided it had to be us. It must have been something we said or didn’t say that kept the Kiwis from meeting us. But sorry mate, we’d forgotten where we were for a moment. Like most foreign countries everybody starts work about 9am.
In New Zealand the phrase “No worries, mate” takes on the status of a national motto. If you are waiting for a critical part to arrive by 4:30pm the following day, you are in for a world of hurt. No worries means lay back brother, and enjoy the clean air and ozone-depleted sunshine because your critical part will get here today, tomorrow or maybe even next month. Wait a second while I check to see if I even ordered it.
A typical night for a Kiwi bloke might be going to a bar, and spending a night of knocking down the tinnies quite hard try to impress the ewes, I mean girls. Remember that the country has the largest beer consumption per person in the world! So have a case or two of beer, roll up that doobie and have a sit in the sun and watch your nose fall off after 15 minutes. No worries, after all! If you’re from California, you will fit right in. The rest of us took a little acclimatizing to the latitude and the attitude.
I finally got bored waiting for the shop to open, and started to climb around on the local buildings. Troy ‘Boy’ Burstyk was interested, and after a short climbing lesson started challenging me to climbing duels. Luckily for both of us monkey boys, by now there was a sign of life at the Honda store.
After working on the bikes we pointed ourselves towards the ocean and the Teretonga track. I don’t remember what the Maori word ‘Teretonga’ translates into English as, but I would guess it must mean windy, cold, nasty rain. When I saw the race track sign saying ‘Teretonga’ my mind snapped back to Mike’s joke, and I started quietly chanting, “Death by Teretonga, death by Teretonga.” Soon more revelers in the van joined the chant, "Deeaatthh byy Teerreettoonnggaa.” It would become our theme. It would become our destiny.
Like all the rest of the courses we raced in NZ (except Wanganui) the track was level flat. I mean it made the Portland International Raceway track look mountainous. Strange how all the trees were bent over at the waist, with the limbs all horizontal. I wondered why? Maybe it was the same phenomenon as water circling the opposite way going down the drain? Or maybe it was because the wind blew almost as fast and as hard as a hand-built 600 V-Twin Ducati running on nitro methane. It was probably the wind.
Next stop was to the Grand Hotel, in the town of Invercargill. It wasn’t really that grand. It was kind of old, and the floors creaked, but it was home to us and all the other racers on the National circuit. It was a 1920s building that did have a lot of charm, and a large bar on the second floor. For the first time all the racers were staying in one place at one time. PARTY!!
My memory lapses when I try to remember what happened each night. I know we started off slowly each evening after practice and dinner, and then sped up as the night went on. There was always a lot of noise, motion, alcohol and blurry figures. As a matter of fact the bar went dry every night we were there, and they had to get booze from the bar down the street. You think they would know who we were, after all.
I do remember I started climbing around the fire escapes on the second floor, and popping my head into the bar windows like MacBeth’s Father until the bar tender asked me politely to stop. No worries has its advantages, also.
Then there was the wonderful Edie, who healed us and bandaged us at every racetrack we went to. She was a licensed professional masseuse who gracefully provided her services to those of us in pain and discomfort. I would have never finished the Pukekohe race in Auckland if she had not worked on my rock-solid forearms. Edie once again tended not only to the Americans, but also to some of our closer Kiwi friends, one of which was Revvin’ Kevin Grey.
Now Kevin was rather a big bloke, who raced a GSXR 750 Superbike. I stayed with him and his girlfriend in Auckland, and will never forget the sight of Kevin when I awoke one morning on the cot in his spare room. He’d opened the door to ask if I wanted some breakfast or not. Now this is a very hospitable question for a host to ask, but I suppose it was the way he was dressed. Like I said, Kevin was a big bloke with a tummy to match, and he was only wearing these blue bikini briefs with the flag of New Zealand stamped right in the center of them – in front of a slightly hung-over me. I kept on trying to pull the blankets over my head, and he just kept on standing there and talking and talking to me. It just seemed like forever, but these Kiwi blokes are very hospitable. It is an image I will always remember Revvin’ Kevin by. Now, back at the hotel, Kevin had a sore back and Edie was taking out his muscle knots in her and Bruce’s room. I was next up to have my arms and sore back taken care of, and I’ll always remember the look on the face of every drunken racer, mechanic, and support person on the NZ national circuit crammed in this bar when I came down the stairs with Edie who, in her commanding voice, said, “Who’s next?” The place grew eerily silent as all eyes looked to the stairs, and to us. Edie very rarely gets flustered, and this didn’t faze her at all. I don’t think she even noticed.
I thought this was enormously funny, but I strenuously kept my laughter to myself – I knew Edie would give me a whack in the back of the head for thinking such nasty thoughts. After a few chuckles the bar-room noise roared back to its previous volume once again. Edie’s presence in front of those racers would not allow for laughter, but it was funny. Oh yes, it was a scream.
Until this point eating had proved an adventure every time you opened your mouth and swallowed. You know that after the first time you order a pizza with olives, and they’ve still got the pits. You got one choice for salad dressing, and it was mayonnaise. The meat was not baked, broiled or barbequed, it was boiled until gray and tasteless. I mean, I look at hospital grub as being gourmet compared to most Kiwi food.
This was one reason Bruce had made it mandatory that we pack a big bag of genuine tortilla chips, salsa and beans, so that on at least one night we could have a true American meal (Mexican food as an American meal?). We won’t even get into what they offer as Tequila. Okay, diesel fuel has a real similar taste. But it was a night out with Steve and Troy at the local Chinese restaurant that brought out the best in the Yankees.
As often as possible we went for the safe, traditional food. Since there were only two Mexican restaurants in the entire country, and both were extremely bad and an island away, we decided for the next American food, Chinese. Luckily for us it was right down the street from the hotel. I wasn’t too hungry, or I was too cheap, so I just ordered a bowl of Won-Ton soup while the boys opted for a regular-sized meal. When the Chinese owner/waitress/business manager brought out the food she gave me a bowl of soup that would have fed the entire Team America. I immediately told her, “I’m sorry, I didn’t order this.” To which she replied, “Yes. You order bowl of soup!” I pushed the bowl away from me and repeated, “I didn’t order this bowl of SOUP” – and she pushed the bowl back at me and said, “Yes. Yes. You ordered this bowl of soup.” Now I’m not sure if it’s the American spirit or me, but I get a little bull-headed occasionally (enough snickers from everyone who knows me), and I was not going to cave in or lose this argument. I pushed the bowl away from me for the last time, and told her to do whatever she wanted but I was not going to pay for that soup. Then from her tiny frame came the gigantic words, “I am very, very angry at you!” and, in one last attempt at making me change my mind she repeated, “I am very, very angry at you.”
She grabbed the bowl and scurried away to the kitchen, very loudly muttering something in Chinese that I couldn’t understand, but I knew what she meant. Then out of the kitchen doors came the owner/waitress/business manager with a man who looked to be the owner/cook. The woman pointed at me, repeatedly yelling something in Chinese to the man. Now Troy was worried about putting something in his stomach, and told me to just accept it so we could eat. Steve had a deeper fear, he told me they would piss on all our food before they brought it back. Needless to say it was one of my few wins in New Zealand, as she brought back the correct-sized soup for me, and dinners for the boys. Steve was still worried; he would sniff every piece of food and ask, “Does this smell funny to you?”
From then on we ate only at the hotel, and what a wonderful surprise it was. We could sit down in the slightly decaying elegance of the Grand Hotel restaurant, and dine on farm-raised venison with a lovely red wine sauce, and then top it off with national NZ desert, Pavlova. There was a gastronomic heaven, and it was near the Antarctic. But wait, I haven’t told you about the race yet. Wait till the next issue, and I will fill you in.
