World’s Fastest Bench Racers
By Shawn McDonald
I was sitting down in the cocktail lounge of the Four Seasons Hotel enjoying a nice Vodka martini, straight up, no olive, when I heard a group of men behind me talking. I turned my neck casually, so as to not draw attention to myself, and saw a group of four men in black tuxedos drinking champagne. To my surprise they were former motorcycle racers. There was Pat Waskinaski, who was known as much for chasing down the competition as he was for chasing down women. Pat had as many championship trophies as he had paternity suits against him. He actually went faster on his bike when being chased by an irate father than when the green flag fell.
Next up was the freezeback from Canada, ‘Ravin’ McNaughton, who spiked his tires for extra traction on icy tracks. The problem with Ravin was he never de-spiked his tires, and he liked running his front tire up on the leader’s legs. If somebody fell down, Ravin’ made sure they wouldn’t do something silly – like getting back on the bike and rejoining the race – by running over them with his spiked rear tire. Cheesehead wasn’t just a name for Ravin; it was a way of life.
Then of course there was ‘Stoner’ Bronson, the ultimate California racer with the blond hair, blue eyes and a tan. Just like Yin and Yang, Stoner had two sides to him. One was the perfection of genetic engineering which had created a true natural on the race track and the other was the… Well, you know the… He was the classical… Just look at his first name, all right! The only problem sponsors, spectators and fellow racers had was which Stoner would awake Sunday morning.
And finally, completing the group was the ultimate Scotsman, Angus Campbellsoup. He was so tight with his money that he had his tires bronzed so they would never wear out, then crashed so much on his head because of those his bronzed tires that the metal plates in his skull caused electrical interference with his ignition; he was so opinionated that he argued with God about his letting pine needles fall on the track surface.
Pat: Who would have thought, 21 years ago, that we would be sitting here today dinking Chateau Laffite?
Ravin: Nothing like a glass of Chateau Laffite.
Stoner: In those days we were lucky to bum a bottle of Fosters beer from a spectator.
Angus: Even a Budweiser.
Ravin: In a broken can.
Stoner: We had to use a rolled up newspaper.
Pat: With no beer inside.
Angus: Even though we bad no money, I was happier in those days.
Pat: Because we were poor.
Ravin: My father said that money doesn’t buy happiness.
Angus: He was right, of course. I remember racing a five-year-old Yamaha.
Stoner: Oh we never had it so good. We used to dream of a bike that even had suspension.
Pat: Luxury. I had a bike with a weird Italian name that meant pig’s snot in Sicily. The carburetor was filled with that snot until redline.
Ravin: We had it tough, of course. I had a Tibetan 1,000 cc racer that would only run at an altitude of over 20,000 feet, and was fueled by runny Yak dung.
Stoner: I had my Yak Dung Special repossessed. I used to have to ride an African Swahili 75 cc with no suspension, sharp nails where the seat should have been to keep you on your toes, and we would have to race at the Isle of Cobblestones.
Angus: Sharp nails. You were lucky. I had a Russian Poplatlybunck. It was made out of pig iron and weighed 5,000 pounds, no suspension, the handlebars were missing, the engine was still on the designer’s drawing board and I still won the Deer’s Dead Drop GP with it.
Pat: When I said that my bike wouldn’t run cleanly until redline, what I meant was that at redline it started a nuclear meltdown – the instantaneous combustion killed me but I still won the Central LA “I don’t speak Spanish” Grand Prix, despite being a burnt crisp of a corpse.
Ravin: A burnt corpse would have been a heaven for me. I had a French Voulez Vous racer with a frame made of nuclear rods, no engine, no suspension, and no wheels, just the frame. I was bolted and chained to the ground while I was physically driven over by earthmovers, which flattened my body to the width of a spark plug gap, and I still won the Fukijuwahawahaoripoopoo International Race of Champions by over 15 laps.
Stoner: Right. I had a Satan Special, which was developed in Hell and had a special clause in the purchase contract so that going to hell was a down payment. The motor was a 500 cc minus, which meant at full throttle it went in reverse fairly fast. I had to have a hungry Polar Bear as a passenger, but he nibbled off my arms. I had to take a short cut through Hell where I saw my the bully from seventh grade, my Grandmother coming to kiss me as a kid, my ex girlfriend, my five ex wives and their Lawyers, well that last one was redundant. I still won the World Championship standing on my head.
Angus: You try telling the racers of today that, and they won’t believe you.
Stoner: Nope, they won’t believe you.
By Shawn McDonald
I was sitting down in the cocktail lounge of the Four Seasons Hotel enjoying a nice Vodka martini, straight up, no olive, when I heard a group of men behind me talking. I turned my neck casually, so as to not draw attention to myself, and saw a group of four men in black tuxedos drinking champagne. To my surprise they were former motorcycle racers. There was Pat Waskinaski, who was known as much for chasing down the competition as he was for chasing down women. Pat had as many championship trophies as he had paternity suits against him. He actually went faster on his bike when being chased by an irate father than when the green flag fell.
Next up was the freezeback from Canada, ‘Ravin’ McNaughton, who spiked his tires for extra traction on icy tracks. The problem with Ravin was he never de-spiked his tires, and he liked running his front tire up on the leader’s legs. If somebody fell down, Ravin’ made sure they wouldn’t do something silly – like getting back on the bike and rejoining the race – by running over them with his spiked rear tire. Cheesehead wasn’t just a name for Ravin; it was a way of life.
Then of course there was ‘Stoner’ Bronson, the ultimate California racer with the blond hair, blue eyes and a tan. Just like Yin and Yang, Stoner had two sides to him. One was the perfection of genetic engineering which had created a true natural on the race track and the other was the… Well, you know the… He was the classical… Just look at his first name, all right! The only problem sponsors, spectators and fellow racers had was which Stoner would awake Sunday morning.
And finally, completing the group was the ultimate Scotsman, Angus Campbellsoup. He was so tight with his money that he had his tires bronzed so they would never wear out, then crashed so much on his head because of those his bronzed tires that the metal plates in his skull caused electrical interference with his ignition; he was so opinionated that he argued with God about his letting pine needles fall on the track surface.
Pat: Who would have thought, 21 years ago, that we would be sitting here today dinking Chateau Laffite?
Ravin: Nothing like a glass of Chateau Laffite.
Stoner: In those days we were lucky to bum a bottle of Fosters beer from a spectator.
Angus: Even a Budweiser.
Ravin: In a broken can.
Stoner: We had to use a rolled up newspaper.
Pat: With no beer inside.
Angus: Even though we bad no money, I was happier in those days.
Pat: Because we were poor.
Ravin: My father said that money doesn’t buy happiness.
Angus: He was right, of course. I remember racing a five-year-old Yamaha.
Stoner: Oh we never had it so good. We used to dream of a bike that even had suspension.
Pat: Luxury. I had a bike with a weird Italian name that meant pig’s snot in Sicily. The carburetor was filled with that snot until redline.
Ravin: We had it tough, of course. I had a Tibetan 1,000 cc racer that would only run at an altitude of over 20,000 feet, and was fueled by runny Yak dung.
Stoner: I had my Yak Dung Special repossessed. I used to have to ride an African Swahili 75 cc with no suspension, sharp nails where the seat should have been to keep you on your toes, and we would have to race at the Isle of Cobblestones.
Angus: Sharp nails. You were lucky. I had a Russian Poplatlybunck. It was made out of pig iron and weighed 5,000 pounds, no suspension, the handlebars were missing, the engine was still on the designer’s drawing board and I still won the Deer’s Dead Drop GP with it.
Pat: When I said that my bike wouldn’t run cleanly until redline, what I meant was that at redline it started a nuclear meltdown – the instantaneous combustion killed me but I still won the Central LA “I don’t speak Spanish” Grand Prix, despite being a burnt crisp of a corpse.
Ravin: A burnt corpse would have been a heaven for me. I had a French Voulez Vous racer with a frame made of nuclear rods, no engine, no suspension, and no wheels, just the frame. I was bolted and chained to the ground while I was physically driven over by earthmovers, which flattened my body to the width of a spark plug gap, and I still won the Fukijuwahawahaoripoopoo International Race of Champions by over 15 laps.
Stoner: Right. I had a Satan Special, which was developed in Hell and had a special clause in the purchase contract so that going to hell was a down payment. The motor was a 500 cc minus, which meant at full throttle it went in reverse fairly fast. I had to have a hungry Polar Bear as a passenger, but he nibbled off my arms. I had to take a short cut through Hell where I saw my the bully from seventh grade, my Grandmother coming to kiss me as a kid, my ex girlfriend, my five ex wives and their Lawyers, well that last one was redundant. I still won the World Championship standing on my head.
Angus: You try telling the racers of today that, and they won’t believe you.
Stoner: Nope, they won’t believe you.
