Anyway, Paul’s dad was buried in the same municipal cemetery as my parents. We were standing around reminiscing about our dads before the service and I said, “Hey, you want to see something hard core? My Dad has a Guzzi on his tombstone.”

Whenever I tell people about my Dad I always say he loved two things — fast cars and motorcycles. If you don’t believe me just look at his tombstone. My Mom picked that out after he died in 2003 because — besides her, my brother, and me — those were the two things he loved most. And when I think about it now I realize just how hard-core he was.

Dad toured all 48 contiguous states on his Moto Guzzi baggers. He was one of those “Iron Butt” guys who liked to do 1,000 miles per day. That may not sound like much to a guy who can cruise 1,000 miles on a modern, air-conditioned Goldwing, but Dad did it on archaic, ’70s-era Guzzis. He loved those bikes, and rode them everywhere until he had a stroke (while riding) and a bad single-vehicle crash in 1992. He still rode a little after that, but not much. And not very far.

Like it says in the “About” section on this site, my first memory of motorcycles was riding on the back of Dad’s Electra Glide at four or five years old, making a 250-mile trek to my grandparents. In the early ’70s Dad switched from Harleys to BMWs. Then he bought a Ducati — a beautiful 900 Darma SS — but somewhere around ’75 or so he discovered Moto Guzzis and fell in love. From that point on Guzzis were all he owned. When he died he had five plus a tractor-trailer storage unit full of parts.

Imagine, if you will, doing 1,000-mile days on one of these with a full fairing, saddle bags, and a small pop-up camping trailer hitched to the back. Many times I watched my Mom and Dad (yes, Mom got into the act too) head off to some rally two or three states away for a camping weekend. If Mom didn’t want to go Dad went by himself, and would stay gone as long as he thought his business could survive without him (which often wasn’t very long.)

Oh, Dad had all the luxuries of the time — radio in the fairing, crude helmet radios, etc. — but the ’70s didn’t really have much in the way of luxury for motorcyclists. Nevertheless, these beautiful, classic bikes took him all over these great United States.

Now Dad had nary a tattoo — didn’t have much use for them unless you were in the Navy or the Merchant Marine — wore a crew-cut most of his life, and went to church on Sundays. He would never have been confused with a character on Sons of Anarchy. But he was a hard-core biker.

The other day I was talking with my business partner Ty. He’s a lawyer and the closest he’s ever been to a motorcycle is when he walks through my shop. He had just watched (again) the TV special “Smartest Guys in the Room” about the Enron debacle. There’s a scene in the show where Fastow and Shilling and some other ersatz bigwigs are out on some adventure ride in the desert jumping their shiny, expensive dirt bike toys off little hills to prove their manhood — like tribal scream therapy for rich guys.

Ty’s comment was something like, “How stupid. Grown men playing action sports trying to prove how tough they are.”

I said, “Hey. Just a minute. I’ve been doing stuff like that my whole life.”

He said, “Yeah, but the difference is I know you’ve been doing it your whole life. You didn’t do it once just to brag about it.”

Thanks. I guess. I’m not sure but I guess he has a point. I’ve been at it my whole life but I haven’t done nearly enough of it the last 20 years. So here’s to you, Dad. I might not get it on my tombstone, but I’m going to do a lot more of it in the future.

This report is unconfirmed and based on this RacerX article. I also found this post from June 2006 and this LinkedIn profile for Bruce Whitehead.

Based on these sources the property on which the track sits is part of WB Ranch, a property owned by a limited partnership with Bruce Whitehead listed as General Partner.

Whitehead is a hunting enthusiast and investor and it appears the property is being converted into something that can make more money — a managed hunting preserve, corporate retreat, and housing development.

Whitehead does not feel that motocross is compatible with these activities. The track, races, and blue-collar RV camping are probably putting a crimp in his ability to sell  $200,000 housing lots. Well, it is America and we are not (yet) communists here.

It looks like Whitehead’s group has run the ranch since 2000 and allowed the track to remain operational under the supervision of Dave Martin (of Honda of Houston and managing partner of Moto-Mgmt. LP) until 2006.

In June 2006 the track operating lease was transferred from Martin’s Moto-Mgmt. group to Allan and Jamie McWilliams of Millcreek Race Promotions.  Millcreek operated Lake Whitney MX, along with other racing facilities, from 2007-2010.

I haven’t been to Whitney since the late ’80s but am told the facility had suffered from economic neglect for the last several years and was in serious need of modern upgrades. Some riders indicated this was just the last nail in a coffin built 10 years ago when Whitehead took over the property.

That’s unfortunate as Whitney was Mecca for Texas motocross racers in the ’70s and ’80s. I personally witnessed John Banks hammering the lower section of track by the river bank on a thundering CCM at a Trans-AMA race in ’76 or ’77. I also attended a number of AMA Nationals there.

My high school friend Tom Holtan (AMA #516 in the early ’80s) got blown off the track by Kent Howerton during practice at one National at Whitney and was never quite the same afterward.

I hate to see this change, especially given that the heir apparent track is Freestone County Raceway which qualifies as a motocross track only under the broadest, most wildly optimistic definition of the word. But time moves on.

Lake Whitney Cycle Ranch may no longer exist, but the memories will live on. And who knows, some corporate fat cat may still hear the rumble of John Banks’ CCM as he putts his little golf cart along the river where the Men of Motocross once ruled.

Update: This story has been updated to reflect the facts. Check the comments for details. :end:

A while back Mitch Boehm of Moto Retro contacted me about some old SL 70 stories. I don’t know if he used any of them or not as I haven’t gotten around to subscribing yet. But here’s one I didn’t send him.

After I “outgrew” my SL 70 I sold it to my younger brother. The top photo on the left is my brother jumping the SL 70 off a hill on some unnamed junior high campus. We were such scofflaws.

Anyway, back in the early ’70s there was a big vacant lot, probably a couple of acres, right off of 5th street and Palmer, just behind the Tyler Junior College campus.  TJC has a big football practice field there now, but back in the day it was just a wooded lot with a creek running through the back.

We made some trails through the lot and, eventually, turned it into an impromptu MX track that we used to ride for hours. It was fun and I did many, many laps there thinking one day I would be Marty Smith. Anyway, after I sold the SL 70 to my brother I traded up to a used 1973 Honda CR125 Elsinore and we’d both go riding there — middle photo on the right  is me riding the 125 on that  lot. That old Elsie was really loud. Looking back it’s amazing we never had any trouble with the police there — at least none that I recall. Must have been some really tolerant neighbors.

One of the problems with open trail riding is there aren’t any rules about which direction to go. We had a more-or-less established direction for the track, but on any given day someone might decide to ride it backwards for a change. On this particular day my brother and I were riding the track. I’m not clear on the exact sequence of events, but I think I had stopped for a breather and David was still riding. Off at the other end of the lot I heard another bike, but couldn’t see who it was.

I could tell they were headed up to the front of the lot, in the opposite direction we normally rode. I couldn’t do anything. I figured whoever it was would see the dust trail, or hear the other bike, or — at least — David would see the other rider and act appropriately. But no.

None of those things happened. Instead, David collided head-on with Brent Berryman Stratton Weems, another local kid who rode a Yamaha YZ 80. I remember a thud, and a “r-i-i-i-i-i-I-I-I-I-I-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-G-G-G-G-G!!!!!” as both of them fell off. I went running up to find my brother down on the ground holding his shoulder with a big lump on top — a sure sign of a broken collarbone.

I can’t remember what happened to Brent Stratton. Seems like he was OK. I was kind of panicked that I was going to have to get my brother home and then get an a$$-chewing for letting him get hurt. I think there was a bunch of twisting front wheels between our knees to try and straighten the forks. Then, according to my brother, I went to a nearby house and got a friend’s Mom to drive us to the hospital.

I vaguely remember the neighbor, but I  really don’t remember that part very clearly. I just remember the head-on crash. The only picture I have of Brent is this one, where he’s riding the SL 70 on the sandlot track back in ’74. And I don’t know if this was before or after the crash. Probably before.

Good times, for sure, despite the occasional trip to the emergency room. No one had to get pins, rods, or screws in their bones, at least not most of the time. I have another story about my own little faux paus riding the Elsie across town, but that’s for another day…