SPOKES: Are motocross riders gluttons for punishment?

LONDON - I never planned to have a thing for motorcycles; it just happened. My mum tells me that the first time I offered up anything of verbal consequence was when two motorcycles passing over the railroad crossing a short distance from our house. I have a dim memory of this because I recall being slightly peeved I couldn’t get out of the stroller for a closer look.

My dad was in between motorcycles when I was young, presumably on account of having to sacrifice such delights for the family car, which I’m pleased to report was regularly pointed in the direction of motocross meets a few hours from home.

When I was eight, my parents took to me to Dave Taylor’s Trail Park in Dartford, England, where I rode a motorbike for the first time. Dave Taylor was a trial bike rider and stuntman, but he was also a champion of motorcycle safety. He believed kids who had passion issues with bikes, like me, should get a chance to ride at the earliest opportunity and build up some skills for later on in life.

Still, I couldn’t believe I was actually allowed to do this. My first experience of riding a motorbike was too thrilling for my infant brain to contextualize – probably because I’d no knowledge of grown-up love – so I was left with a very raw ‘beside-myself-with-delight’ feeling, which I expressed by shrieking a lot.

A can of worms well and truly had been opened. If looking at bikes was enough to cause apoplexy, the fact that I’d ridden one ensured my poor parents wouldn’t get a moment’s peace until I could go again.

We were a comfortable family, but far from wealthy. The thought of actually owning a bike hadn’t even crossed my tiny mind. The moment that it happened has been erased from my brain, which indicates, to me at least, that it was too much to absorb – my mind, memory, quite literally blown away.

My dad was a motor engineer for an insurance company. He’d managed to get hold of a stolen/recovered Yamaha YG1 80cc that was due for the scrap yard. It was a road bike but with a bit of dad know-how and some knobbly tires, it was perfect for a spot of scrambling. I’m not sure how keen Mum was with all this motorcycle business. I think it was suggested to her that maybe a few spills would put me off. Even if it didn’t, surely getting used to handling a bike, should I eventually take one out on the road when I was older, wasn’t such a bad thing, was it?

There was a circuit about an hour away, located on some wasteland outside London. It was properly organized, and the people were nice, if not a little more ‘rough and ready’ than the sorts of folk I was familiar with. Every other Saturday, Dad would attach to our family station wagon a homemade trailer (another written-off item, this time the base of a fire-damaged camper that had been cannily converted – my old man was a genius) and the family – Mum, younger sister and baby brother – would set off to watch me getting to grips with my bike. They all sacrificed their weekends for me. I still feel humbled by it, but one imagines at the time I took it all for granted...

All of my gear was secondhand, save the crash helmet, gloves and body armor that sat under my prized Yamaha racing shirt. I knew I was a little out of place with my too-big musty, mustard-yellow leather pants, the discolored seat of which had stretched to actual cow size.

As my bike was designed for the road, it suffered ground-clearance issues. Often it’d grind to a halt over some of the taller bumps, leaving me stranded like a sailboat on a sandbank. Not that I gave a tinker’s cuss, I hasten to add. To say that I lived for Saturday fortnight is somewhat of an understatement. In hindsight, it’s a miracle I wasn’t bullied to an early grave, let alone had friends, as I could speak of nothing else.

I had my fair share of spills on that little bike, but nothing too serious – the odd collarbone, some damage to the tendons in my wrist caused by a knobble tire…a few of us had a fallen afoul of a nasty corner, and on one occasion a fellow rider started his bike on my arm as it lay buried under mud. I wasn’t the fastest rider out there, by any means, but I was grimly determined, to the point that if I was injured and no one noticed, I’d keep quiet about it in case my fortnightly license was revoked.

One Saturday afternoon I fractured my right ankle. I sort of remember hitting it on a wooden post and it aching for a few days, but I figured it was okay. Six weeks later, my right foot had started to turn in on itself. As the pain was long gone, I’d not really noticed. It was only when Mum wanted to know why one side of my shoe leather was worn down to the carcass was it apparent I’d done more damage than I frankly cared about. After a demonstration of my newfound limp, I was packed off to the doctor’s office, then X-rayed, and after a decision to not break and reset the offending bone, physiotherapy.

This event marks my first encounter with real pain. Not just mine, but others’ pain, as well. I can still hear the screams of grown-ups in that awful room, being manipulated by burly chaps in white coats attempting to correct/readdress damage down to their various components. I’d never seen a man cry before; now I was in midst of dozens of them. Some would offer cheery salutations to me before bellowing out in sheer agony and breaking down completely. A few would even try to maintain the ‘it’s okay’ charade by winking at me as big fat tears rolled down my pallid cheeks.

My own experience was nothing short of terrifying. It wasn’t the actual manipulation of rubbery little bones being corrected by ham-like hands and this awful little semicircle with a platform on it, on which my foot would be rested, held flat, while another white-coat would bend my ankle in the opposite direction of happy. No, it was the ice bath.

My foot and ankle would be submerged in ice water for up to 10 minutes before treatment would begin. It was utterly awful, the pain so bad that I was unable to speak, let alone cry. The subsequent horrors, seriously awful, believe me, were in no way as bad as the ice bath, so there was a kind of ironic relief when it came to the actual manipulation. This treatment went on for a few weeks, I was given exercises to do in between sessions and boy-oh-boy, did I do them. It wasn’t just to avoid the ice bath either; I wanted to go back onto the track.

Oddly, this whole episode may have had an upside. If my parents, especially my mum, wanted any evidence that this whole bike thing wasn’t a passing fad, then there it was. On June 26, 1981, when I was exactly 12 and a half, I got my first proper motocross bike: a secondhand Yamaha YZ 100e. This bike was designed to be ridden hard on dirt, mud, and nothing else. I’d passed probation, and I don’t think anyone in the world could’ve been happier, or indeed, prouder.

The old circuit on which I used to train had been sold to some property developers, so we now had to go over to Slough (west of London) every other Saturday. This circuit was a lot less forgiving than the track at Englefield Green. It was much more convoluted and rugged, and the soil was rich and thick. This meant it stuck fast to everything. My Yamaha would get packed with mud that would bake into a ceramic-like shell.

I can remember the process of cleaning the bike almost as much as riding it. Dad would prepare the bike by spraying generous amounts of WD40 over the engine (ah, that lovely smell as the engine warmed), so that when the inevitable cleaning would take place, the caked-on mud would be easier to pry off with a screwdriver. After the worst was over, we’d hose the bike down and give it a bit of TLC. Then we’d clean the dirt off the drive, I’d hose, and Dad would sweep the mud down the drain – easier than it sounds, as this was a clay-based coagulate.

On one Sunday afternoon during the winter, following a particularly muddy Saturday, I was put in charge of the hose as Dad swept the drive. I became distracted by a passing neighbor and managed to hit my Dad square in the face with a jet of freezing cold water. I was alerted to this temporarily lack of concentration by my dad, his glasses at right angles to his head as he screamed, “Careful you *insert very unpleasant adult word*!” It remains one of the funniest things I’ve witnessed. Dad saw the funny side, too, after he’d dried himself off.

By now my motocross skills were beginning to come together. I was adept at tackling a variety of terrain and conditions, all the while getting faster and more confident. Talk of entering competitions became a serious reality. On the day of “the accident” I had been the best I’d ever been, the best I’d ever get.

No longer was I riding with the juniors; I was riding with the seniors, for all intents and purposes fully grown men. I was 14 years old and beginning to outgrow my bike, something that had already become a bit of a headache for my parents after overhearing a conversation one night. They needn’t have worried.

It was early on a Saturday afternoon when I hit a jump fast and hard, when a much larger bike did the same thing on my inside. He collided with my handlebars that pushed them full-left lock, just as my front wheel hit the ground. I came to a dead stop and flew over the front of my bike. This had happened a few times before, although this time my bike was still carrying speed. I was just wondering where my bike had gone when it landed right across my back in an unprotected area of my spine. I dimly recall some blood coming out of my face.

I was taken to the hospital and fussed over but was considered fit enough to go home that evening, even though I was unable to walk properly. Sure enough, a fortnight later, I was back on the track, but something was different. I tried to ignore a feeling of dissatisfaction, but it persisted until I released I wasn’t actually enjoying the prospect of Saturday’s session during the week. I went through this in my mind. I still adored my bike and the sport of riding, but something had usurped it. I was on the second or third lap of a session when I realized I was actually afraid. I rode back to the paddock and my dad asked me what the matter was. I can still hear myself telling him that ‘I didn’t want to do this anymore.’ In many respects, this day marks the beginning of my adult life, and I can’t possible explain why.

In due course, my bike was sold. I erased this traumatic event from my psyche, and Saturdays became like everyone else’s. I’m sure my mum, sister and brother were glad to have their Saturdays returned to them, too, and who could blame them, ’though I’m still not sure if Dad shared their feelings.

When dad and I went to the Goodwood Revival at the end of last summer, we spent a good while watching the classic motocross bikes and taking in that glorious undulating sound as the tires chewed through the Hampshire mud. He asked me if I’d do it again, clearly remembering our past motocross experiences with fondness. I’d had loved to, but sadly, that accident did a little more harm than knocking a bit of fear into me. It perforated my disc, and there are days when I can’t walk properly. I’ve no intention of risking paralysis for a few gorgeous afternoons out on the dirt, but I have no regrets whatsoever.

When I ventured onto the roads at age 17, I hope my mum’s concerns that had arisen during my motocross days were appeased from knowing that motocross had honed my skills as a street bike rider. Because of my formative years, I am able to enjoy riding quickly and safely (most of the time), confident that I am able to handle the sorts of incidents that can result in injury and/or death. I can think of at least two occasions where innate skills prevented a full-on disaster, purely because I knew how to correct a wiggle or bring the bike to a safe conclusion after some *$#@?! car driver pulled out of an intersection with scant regard to my, or other people’s, safety.

Either way, I look back on those motocross days with an enormous amount of fondness, and I know who I have to thank for them.

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About Jamie Dwelly:

UK-based James “Jamie” Dwelly has been riding bikes since he was eight, started out on an 80cc Yamaha converted by his biker dad for off-road usage. When his mother realized his passion wasn't just a passing “kid fad,” Jamie got a second hand yz1000e Yam, which he happily rode for another three years before retiring at the grand of age of 12 when an accident left him with a perforated disc in his back. At 18, Jamie bought a Yamaha RD200 and has never been without a bike since. After a succession of fast, beautiful bikes, he currently owns a 1976 Triumph Bonneville and is eyeing up another ludicrously nippy crotch rocket to sate his lust for speed. E-mail Jamie at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .

1965 Jaguar, ex Elton John collection, in Mar. 3 Bonhams sale

OXFORD, England - A red 1965 Jaguar E-Type Series 1 4.2-Liter Roadster that belonged to Sir Elton John is one of the highlights of the Collectors' Motor Cars and Automobilia sale, taking place at Bonhams Oxford on March 3, 2012.

Estimated to sell for £50,000-70,000 ($79,000-$110,000), the car was bought by Sir Elton in 1987. According to his fleet manager, Sir Elton and his staff referred to the E-Type as 'OK Elton' due to its number plate OKE 1, which was worn throughout his ownership and is sold with the car.

Many superlatives have been used to describe the classic design of the Jaguar E-Type: sleek, racy, elegant, and sporty. Referred to as the zenith of the Lyons' line since its introduction in 1961, the E-Type was a worthy successor to the XK Jaguar, evoking the lines and style of the successful D-Type, slimmed and refined to create one of the world's most attractive cars. An icon of the 1960s, few cars have had such universal appeal as the Jaguar E-Type, and in many people's eyes, the Series 1 4.2-litre is the best E-Type of all

An exceptional 1961 Morgan Plus 4 Supersports High Line will also be offered in the Bonhams sale, estimated to sell for £55,000 – 65,000. The Line has been owned from new by the Vought Family, renowned for their pioneering work and engineering in the aviation industry and of Vought Corsair fame. It has undergone a £100,000 restoration and is now finished in the Corsair livery of Blue and Yellow

Further highlights include a 1961 Ferrari 250 GTE 2+2, estimated to sell for £40,000 – 60,000 and a 1966 Citroën DS21 Décapotable. Estimated to sell for £36,000 – 42,000, the Citroën Décapotable has been in current ownership for 68 years and is one of only 50 right-hand drive examples delivered to the UK between 1962 and 1966.

In 1968 it was bought by the current owner, Joe Judt, who has been an active member of the Citroën Car Club since the 1950s, served as the Chairman and is now the Club's honorary President. Well known in the UK and abroad, Joe's Décapotable is featured in many English language books on the history of Citroën cars. Now in his early nineties, Joe has reluctantly decided to pass this remarkable car on to a new owner in order to ensure its continued use and enjoyment.

Today's rate of exchange: £ = $1.58.

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Blue-chip cars set for RM's sale at Amelia Island March 10

BLENHEIM, Ontario – RM Auctions, the official auction house of the Amelia Island Concours d’Elegance, has announced its latest series of blue-chip automobiles set to cross the auction podium at its Amelia Island sale, March 10, in Florida.

Held in conjunction with the famed Amelia Island Concours d’Elegance, the single-day sale will lift the gavel on more than 100 high-caliber automobiles, including 10 examples expected to exceed $1 million.

“This year’s offering represents the finest collection of motor cars we’ve ever brought to Amelia Island, second to none. In addition, we’re changing things up this year, hosting our sale on the ocean-front lawns at the Ritz-Carlton to take advantage of the magnificent scenery Amelia Island has to offer,” said Rob Myers, chairman and founder, RM Auctions.

In keeping with RM tradition, important and historic Ferraris are an important focus, with no less than eight examples. Headlining the offering is an exceptional 1956 Ferrari 250 GT Coupe Speciale, s/n 0465 GT, featuring rare 410 Superamerica-style, Pinin Farina Berlinetta coachwork. One of just four examples built, 0465 GT remains unique among its peers thanks to numerous special-order items including gauges, telescopic steering wheel, high bolster seats, twin fuel tanks with twin fillers and a custom lowered driver’s window crank. It carries Ferrari Classiche certification and is a multiple award-winner, most recently receiving a “First in Class Platinum” award and judged “Most Elegant Ferrari” at Cavallino in January (est. $1,300,000-$1,600,000.

“This 250 GT Pinin Farina Coupe Speciale epitomizes the quality and breathtaking aesthetics of Ferrari’s early coachbuilt cars. Spectacular in presentation, it is a true work of art, deserving of close inspection,” said RM’s West Coast specialist Shelby Myers.

Other notable Ferraris on offer include a beautifully restored 1961 Ferrari 250 GT Series II Cabriolet, s/n 1755 GT, featuring rare covered headlights and finished in its original Avorio (Ivory) color (est. $600,000-$800,000); a highly desirable, Ferrari Classiche certified 1972 Ferrari 365 GTB/4 Daytona Spyder, s/n 15417 (est. $1,100,000-$1,300,000); and a well-documented, matching numbers 1967 Ferrari 275 GTB/4 Berlinetta, s/n 09721, with recent cosmetic freshening and engine overhaul (est. $1,200,000-$1,400,000).

Blue-chip American marques are also well-represented. Joining the previously announced 1934 Packard Twelve Dietrich Convertible Victoria and 1929 Cord L-29 Special Coupe, likely the most important Cord in existence, is a majestic, well-documented 1929 Duesenberg Model J Convertible Berline, J103. The first LWB chassis built, this example was one of seven publicly unveiled at the 1929 New York Auto Show (est. $800,000-$1,000,000). Another great example and no stranger to the spotlight is the 2002 Chevrolet Corvette Riley & Scott Racing Car. One of three Corvettes on offer, it holds a special place in the history books as the late Paul Newman’s 2003-2007 SCCA racer in which he won his last race.

“It is a terrific testament to Paul Newman’s extraordinary racing career and eye for competitiveness and perfection,” said Donnie Gould, RM specialist. “Finished in its no. 83 livery, it is not only a fitting tribute to a Hollywood legend but a superb racing car.”

Other notable entries for RM’s Amelia Island sale include:

• a beautifully appointed, show-quality 1930 Bugatti Type 46 Superprofile Coupe (est. $1,250,000-$1,750,000);
• a 1965 Aston Martin DB5 Vantage Convertible, one of seven original Vantage-powered DB5 Convertibles produced (estimate available upon request);
• a concours quality 1960 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Roadster featuring original hardtop, tool roll and desirable Rudge wheels (est. $850,000-$1,000,000);
• a pair of rare and highly collectible Hispano-Suizas, including a 1913 Hispano-Suiza “King Alfonso XIII” Double Berline (est. $750,000-$1,000,000) and 1918 Hispano-Suiza Type 32 Collapsible Brougham (est. $350,000-$400,000);
• an ultra-rare, supercharged 1937 Squire 1½-Liter Drophead Coupe, the only Squire bodied by preeminent English Corsica coachworks and an exceptional prewar sports car (estimate available upon request); and
• a historic 1941 Chrysler Newport Dual Cowl Phaeton, the actual pace car of the 1941 Indianapolis 500 race and subsequently owned and driven by Walter P. Chrysler Jr. (est. $1,500,000-$2,000,000).

For those with a penchant for more recent automotive design, the sale will lift the gavel on a 2006 Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren Coupe, the 2007 New York Auto Show car, boasting just 5,700 miles from new (est. $220,000-$260,000); and a 2005 Porsche Carrera GT, the awesome pinnacle of modern Porsche road car performance, just one private owner from new (est. $300,000-$350,000).

Beyond the automobiles the sale will feature a select range of motorcycles and collectibles, including the distinguished and highly desirable Lalique Mascot Collection of Ele Chesney, accompanied by custom display cases, and a Ferrari 250 GTO Bronze Sculpture which will be sold to benefit Spina Bifida research of Jacksonville.

One of only three known complete collections, the Lalique Collection includes 30 individual mascots to be sold as a single lot. The offering is headlined by the rarest Lalique of all, Le Renard (The Fox), one of only seven known to exist.

RM’s Amelia Island auction follows on the heels of the company’s highly anticipated sale of the Milhous Collection, Feb. 24-25 in Boca Raton, Fla., rounding out an exciting two weeks of auction activity in Florida.

For further information or to view the digital catalog, visit www.rmauctions.com or call RM Auctions at 519-352-4575. For information on the Amelia Island Concours d’Elegance visit www.ameliaconcours.org or call 904-636-0027.

Entertainment mogul Chris Evans acquires 'Chitty' car

The fully functional road car that was purpose-built for principal shooting in the classic children’s film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang has joined the enviable fleet of vehicles owned by British entertainment industry mogul Chris Evans.

According to Evans, who wrote about his fanciful acquisition in today’s London Daily Mail, he acquired the car from a friend who could not store it properly.

“My pal had bought the car on his birthday before he went skiing, not realizing she is over 17ft. long. Garage problem,” Evans wrote.

With a penchant for motors that usually runs to more-exotic Italian makes, Evans surprised his family by purchasing the whimsical roadster. Reportedly, the Evanses were spotted last weekend navigating the picturesque Chiltern Hills like Commander Caractacus Pott and his cinematic family.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’s production designer Ken Adam – more correctly Sir Kenneth Adam, O.B.E. – stood firm in his belief that if the film was to be about a car, a real car would have to be built—not a mock-up. Along with Rowland Emmett, who had been assigned the task of creating a series of mad inventions to appear in the film, and the Ford racing team headed by Alan Mann, Adam set about building Chitty.

No detail was spared in the car’s creation. Built on a custom ladder-frame chassis, many old-world forms of car building were employed. Modern technology stepped in to help create a vehicle that was accurate enough to fool veteran and classic car experts when held under the scrutiny of 70mm cinema cameras. It also had to be durable enough to withstand everything from driving in sand, over cobbled streets and down staircases.

The bonnet (hood) is crafted of polished aluminum, the boat deck was handcrafted of red and white cedar by boat builders in Buckinghamshire, and the array of brass fittings was obtained from Edwardian cars. Even the alloy dashboard plate is from a British World War I fighter plane. The car weighs approximately 2 tons and measures 17½ feet in length, and is powered by a Ford 3-liter V-6 engine mated to an automatic transmission.

Chitty rolled out of the workshop in June 1967 and was registered with the number plate "GEN 11," an I.D. given to her by Ian Fleming in his novel ("GEN 11" had significance in that if you read the number ones as "i's", it spelled out the Latin word "Genii" meaning magical person or being).

Due to the outlandish capabilities of Chitty, the studio built other non-driving, versions for various stunts including the flying scenes and seafaring chase. This hero "close-up" car was used in all of the road-driving sequences and is the only car to bear the legitimate "GEN 11" registration plates (the other versions all bore "GEN 11," but this was purely cosmetic).

Chitty was owned and meticulously maintained by Pierre Picton since the early 1970s. Pierre first became involved with Chitty during filming in England in 1967-68 when he was responsible for maintaining the car during production and for some "double" driving sequences. When filming was completed, Pierre transported and cared for Chitty as she toured promoting the film. A few years later he acquired her from the production company.

The car was sold on May 15 in an auction conducted by Profiles in History of Calabasas Hills, California. Chitty remains, to this day, in excellent operational condition – but with speed-loving Chris Evans at the wheel, it’s probably getting the workout of its life.

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Some of the information contained in this article was provided by Profiles in History.