Boswell's Vault

This one holds up pretty well despite the use of the word 'swass'. Now, as then, the PCD is the heart of the sport.

Quickly now, name the rider most responsible for the success of organized BMX racing. Does a name come immediately to mind? David Clinton is credited with pulling the first tabletop in the sport's history, way back in the day. Stu Thomsen (yeah, I know, you're sick of seeing his name in here) brought BMX to the department stores and gave it a face. Above and beyond those guys, though, exists the racer who made BMX a going proposition and supports it to this day. You may even be able to find him at your track. Let's look, shall we?

At local races, the motos are usually posted in that dead space between the end of practice and the scratchy rendition of a taped National Anthem. Hordes of riders rush the board, little kids feeling the old staples on the wood press against their hands and arms as the older Novices and Experts crowd them towards the dim carbon sheets, pen in one hand scratching motos and gates furiously on the other palm. Ten, fifteen minutes pass and the board is deserted, save for the lone rider who rests his elbows on his crossbar and eyes his moto sheet studiously, muttering under his breath. "Evans... he might pull fourths across the board. Smith... he could wreck and take out half the field. Six riders including me... Mike could maybe bail enough to even the points out. They trophy to fifth... Yeah, if I get a good start and stay up I could pull it off..." Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you... the moto filler.

I detest the above term with all my heart, yet I use it enough, to describe guys who don't have a chance in heck of winning but show up week after week nonetheless. Guys who drive fifty miles to the track to make three lonely circles ten feet behind the rest of the moto, who sometimes show flashes of possible greatness just long enough to break their own hearts when things return to normal. Girls who come out every race knowing that they'll be combined with somebody four years older and ten times faster than they are because too few ladies are hip to BMX. Dads and Moms who have to endure seeing their kids despair again and again for simple lack of speed or ability and don't make, or let, them quit. Moto filler? It's not a dignified, not a proper, not a noble enough term for these members of the BMX family.

Which is why I've now replaced the term "moto filler" with the acronym PCD, for Partially Competitive Dude(ette)s. After all, nobody is completely noncompetitive; we've got five levels of proficiency in the NBL to cure precisely that problem. But some riders seem to always be sitting in the back half of the pack, hitting the gate, bailing, slipping pedals, or suffering from some unnamed difficulty that makes the prospect of a first place trophy infinitely remote. Not everyone in a moto has a real chance at winning. Somebody has to fill those seven other spots, and more often than not it is the PCD who performs this thankless chore.

I've identified a couple types of PCDs to pay homage to this month. The first, and most rare, type is the "Absolutely Hopeless" rider. This rider usually shows up early, wearing the latest threads and looking more than vaguely Swass. (When I submitted this story, I wrote "It's a word, Jill-trust me" after "Swass." How many of you remember what "Swass" meant? - JB) He takes plenty of practice, sometimes to the point of exhaustion or heatstroke. Practice is this guy's time to shine. His lack of speed around the track appears lackadaisical and semiprofessional. He is careful around all the jumps and generally rolls the gate to avoid contact or comparison with the other riders. These riders are mostly found in the Novice class, since they've been around too long to remain Beginners yet have given up all hope of ever turning Expert. Their comp comes and goes, but they remain. They are more likely than any other class of PCDs to figure their placing based on the number of riders in their moto. Some of them have never, ever, won a race, but love the sport and the charged atmosphere surrounding a track on race day enough to come out anyway. Not coincidentally, these guys are probably unsurpassable when you are looking for someone to chill or practice with; their love for BMX is the purest, undefiled by pride or greed.

Sharing some traits with the "Absolutely Hopeless" PCDs are the "Flashes of Greatness" riders. These dudes have dialed bikes, slick uniforms, sometimes even custom helmets. During practice they rip around the track, knocking the stuffing out of the gate and styling over the jumps. Very often they will beat the rest of the practice moto by miles, looking for all the world like factory guys having a mellow day. When the motos are posted, they give the sheets a casual glance. "I can smash these guys, if my starts are okay.""If" is the key word in those statements. When you hear the "if," replace it with "Won't." When the race comes, Bob is going to blow his starts just like he always does, John is going to slip his pedals in the third turn, and Chris is more than likely to wash his front tire out whenever possible. Certain fatal flaws bar the path of victory from these PCDs.

Once in a great while, though, by luck or divine intervention, the "if" will disappear, and the Flashes will win a moto by a hair or a kilometer. Crossing the finish line, these guys will wave to the crowd, bow, or manual until they lose their bikes. Screaming like banshees, they'll run to their mom, girlfriend, team manager. The keys to victory will be clutched."Next week, I'm going to waste them again!" Nope. Sorry, pal. Next week, you're going to blow your start three times in a row and watch the mains from your car. The week after, you're going to lead the moto to the first turn and wreck. You'll get more and more depressed while thoughts of quitting dance in your head. Sooner or later, though, everything will come together again, you'll win or place well, and the whole deal repeats itself.

Does it sound like I've got contempt for these dudes? Not on your life. It takes a very real kind of courage to show up every weekend knowing that, though it's possible you might win, the chances are that you're going to go home empty-handed and discouraged again. And again. Maybe I'm stupid, but I'll take one of these guys over a gate full of #1 riders any day of the week when it comes to riding around or just hanging out. They're the riders that make it possible to have a number one.

Last but not least are the "Limited Ability" riders. These guys are my personal favorites because I count myself among their numbers. So you'll excuse me if I wax personal for a while. Like a lot of Limiteds, I was a quick study as a Beginner and made my way from worst to first well within the year allotted for Beginner membership. Racing didn't come easy to me; it was hard work learning to race competitively, work that eventually paid off in winning. I turned Novice with a fair amount of confidence in myself, and cleared space on my dresser for the bigger trophies I'd be receiving. Yet my first year as a Novice was hamstrung by a lot of "almosts," as in, "Almost got him that time." Or "Almost snapped the whole gate." You get the idea. Pretty soon, however, I was #13 in Ohio during a year in which literally hundreds of 15 Novices rode, with the promise of eventual greatness, I suppose.

That promise was kind of broken in March of 1988 when I was run over by a truck. I rehabilitated for roughly two years and came back, against the advice of my doctors, my parents, and some of my friends. As an Expert. Why not? I didn't want to languish in Novice, racing PCDs and guys with less time on the bike than I'd had. I wanted to face the best. My first time out, I was lucky not to finish last. Twelve months later, little has changed.Yes, I show all the signs of being a Limited PCD. I have twenty or so races under my belt as an Expert, with three first places and a few seconds, mostly in combined classes. I've gotten quite a bit better on the bike; in fact, if I could dial my starts, I might be able to win consistently at the local level. "If?" I'm revealing my moto filler status in that single statement. My starts chew pretty hard, and probably always will to a certain extent.What makes me a Limited PCD, though, is just that-limited ability. Some things on the bike are simply beyond my reach. That's okay. I don't really expect to be Number One any time soon, if ever. I suppose I'll simply have to work harder, train harder, ride more, change my gear, buy a new frame...

Your average Limited PCD can tell you, in exact detail, the nature of his limitations. "I've got good power, but in the first turn, my left foot seems to be twisting too much, it makes me slip my pedal."

"How long have you had this problem, guy?"

"Seven years now. Can't shake it. Maybe this next moto I'll try actually twisting my foot the other way over the second roller." It's kind of sad. A lot of guys have great careers until they turn Super or Pro, at which point they discover themselves to be PCDs due to the monster comp or physical infighting that is a Pro's stock in trade. On the other hand, I've seen riders who were straight bozos for years and, in the blink of an eye, did something right and became winners. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I realize that they were always winners, and the rest of us hadn't looked hard enough to realize it.

During the time I've spent in BMX, I've seen all kinds of riders come and go, some of them with eye-popping ability and no desire, others with natural style and competitive drives so strong that getting second place sent them into fits of self-recrimination. Most of those dudes are long gone, while the homeboy or girl on the bike five lengths back at the finish line is still around. How long you last in BMX has nothing to do with your ability. It's all in the heart, you see. Some have it. Some don't. After a year or so, it becomes apparent who's in for the long haul. Most of the iconoclasts are, or have been, PCDs. More power to them. Being moto filler gives one a sort of perspective (heh, heh) on racing, one that isn't available to the racer who only knows victory and success. It makes one aware if what a fragile thing organized bicycle motocross is, and how dependent it is on people who don't win.

Do you think that Manufacturer X makes all the money it does on the local hotshots? Heck no-most of them are getting free stuff, or at least a discount. No profit in them. Rather, it's the guys who are always searching for something extra in their bikes or themselves that fill Manufacturer X's coffers, which enables M.X. to diversify into the wonderfully profitable world of mountain bikes, where most riders don't have a tenth of the talent or drive of the average PCD.

But I digress. My moto filler status won't shut me up when it comes to changing this sport for the better, nor will it embarrass me when it is time to speak out against the various "adults" who are stealing BMX from us and turning it into a vaguely unprofitable circus complete with paved berms, under-the-table pressure, and questionable deals. The heck with that. The race is not always to the swiftest, nor the victory to the strongest. We moto filler have a responsibility to smack some sense into the rest of you, who are too busy winning or sinning to know the real deal. Ya'll been warned, as they say here in Ohio.

Not everybody likes to admit that they are eligible for PCD status. That's okay-you don't have to. Nobody wants to be moto filler, not even me. BMX will survive if, and only if, everybody from last-place Beginner to Terry Tenette gets out to the track and does their best. To quote Mrs. Ruth McNutt of Holeshot BMX, "There are no losers in BMX." Not you, not me, not that guy who, twenty minutes after the moto board rush, is still leaning on his bike and weighing his chances. No losers. Remember that, please. And when you see me blow my start next time, don't laugh. After all, maybe next time I'll snap and wipe the whole lot o' ya. I think if I could just shift my weight forward a hair sooner...