All language subtitles for On Any Sunday (Brown_ Bruce 1971)_WEBRip.1080p.x264.AAC_EN

Four million people
ride motorcycles in the U.S.

They come in all shapes, sizes, and ages.

To some people, a motorcycle is work.

Or a way to get to work.

Or a way to get away from it all

to the solitude of the open country.

A motorcycle is whatever
you want to make it.

Turn it on and you could
give yourself a real thrill.

A motorcycle is easy to ride,
except the first time you try,

your next door neighbor, who
probably doesn't know himself,

is giving you the hot
tips: brake, clutch,

shift, throttle - just
simple coordination.

♪ On any Sunday, stretching
up, reaching high

♪ Leaving my Monday world behind

♪ I fire my rockets
and explode in the sky

♪ Kick up my heels
until I find, I'm flyin'

♪ Over my shoulder through
the dust and fallen

♪ Run will they catch me if you can

♪ On any Sunday I'm a flyin' man

♪ On any Sunday like the tail of a kite

♪ Flying and dancing in the wind

♪ Something inside of me
goes back through the years

♪ And I'm a kid I used to know

♪ I'm flying

♪ Over my shoulder
through the dust and quiet

♪ Run where they'll catch me if you can

♪ On any Sunday I'm a flyin' man

♪ Flyin' man

A group of business men
during the rush hour.

The young man with a garment bag

over his shoulder is Mert Lawwill.

29 years old, 5'6", 143 pounds.

He's not a banker or an
accountant or a salesman.

But he is a professional
man like the rest.

His profession - motorcycle racer.

Mert makes his living in one of the

most dangerous sports in
which man participates.

His skill in the racetrack has
earned him the right to carry

the American Motorcycle
Association #1 professional plate.

He won it by competing in a series of

27 national championship
races and scoring

the highest number of
points during the season.

The speeds he hits are incredible.

On a half mile track, one
of the races he rides,

it's a 100 miles an hour in the straights

and 80 in the corners, within
inches of posts and guardrail.

He rides within inches of other riders

he literally has to trust with his life.

Professional motorcycle
racing is a violent world.

Mert Lawwill is a gentle
man in a violent world.

His job as a professional racer
takes him on the road about

eight months of the year,
following the national circuit.

He leaves his family and
home in the suburb of

San Francisco, called Tibron,
to compete for another season

in 27 national championship
races across the United States.

He and the rest of the
pros pile up their machines

off starting lines in 16 states.

80 horsepower engines
and 300 pound machines.

That would be like having 2,000

horsepower in your family car.

To win the #1 plate, you have to

ride five different kinds of races.

They each take different machines

and different riding techniques.

There are several hundred
professional AMA races

in the United States,
but there's only about 15

who have the ability
to win Mert's #1 plate.

The riders are guys like Mert.

Definitely not the Hollywood image,

but highly skilled professionals.

Like Dick Mann, a former
♪ 1, Gary Nixon, twice ♪1.

Gene Romero.

Cal Rayburn.

Most are small, around 5'6 " or 5'8",

and most are young
like Mark Belsford, 20.

Dave Smith, 21.

Dave Aldana, 20.

Don Castro, 19.

Keith Nashford, 20.

Frank Gillespie, 22.

Jim Odem, 23.

Jim Rice, 23.

Watching them in slow motion,
they look almost casual in

their actions, but they're
doing over 100 miles an hour.

Number 24, Jim Rice, number 14
in, the late Ken Pressgrove.

They don't all make it
through each racing season.

There are only a handful
of people in the world

who have the courage and skill to ride

a motorcycle like Mert
and these professionals.

Even with their skill,
they get into trouble.

The best thing to do to avoid a bad crash

is to purposely lay the bike down,

like John Hastie is doing
at 80 miles an hour.

Keeping his cool and
checking traffic behind him.

In car racing, you can make some

small mistakes, like spinning out.

In motorcycle racing, there's no

such thing as a small mistake.

Even laying it down
hurts, leathers and all.

Most riders can expect to lay

it down several times a season.

Some of them are involved in
some unbelievable crashes.

Keith Nashburn, number 30x,
went right through a 4x4 fence.

Ten minutes later, he was
picking the straw out of his hair,

and ten minutes after that,
he was back on the track,

letting it hang out further than ever.

If they didn't have the
ability to shake it off and get

back on the track, they
wouldn't be professional racers.

Frank Gillespie, a young California

rider, had a bad one, too.

Down on a dusty track and
out with a broken shoulder.

Two weeks later he's back, ready to

race again, broken shoulder and all.

Gary Fisher is a good example of

the incredible courage these racers have.

He was involved in a horrible
crash in the Midwest.

Amazingly, all the riders got up.

Gary said he was all right.

An hour later, he was taken to

the hospital with a broken back.

He soaked the cast off in the bathtub,

put on a brace instead,
and within six weeks,

would take the brace off and race.

To win or keep #1, you have to

compete in different types of races.

One is road racing.

Riding very special, highly-tuned

machines with ferrings to cut the wind.

Chin on a foam tank pad
with very precise methods

of throttle, clutch, and brake.

There are five road
races in the early part

of the season, from March
to the first of June.

Road racing is noisy,
precise, and very exacting.

It's also a graceful and
beautiful thing to watch.

Of the five road races
they ride, Daytona Beach,

Florida, the is the Big
Daddy, with 30 degree

bank turns and blinding speed.

On the banks, there's so
much centripetal force,

your suspension is
completely bottomed out.

Your helmet's banging around,

your eyes are forced into their sockets,

and your vision is blurred.

When you're watching from the stands,

it's hard to believe that
coming off the banks,

they're hitting 160 miles an hour.

Oil on the track!

Try jumping out of your car

at 120 and you'll know how he felt.

Miraculously, he didn't break a bone.

Watch again in ultra-slow motion

and you can see the abuse he took.

His glove goes flying
30 feet down the track,

takes a tremendous jolt...

Watch his right leg get bent under.

It's amazing it didn't break.

Like all forms of racing,
road racing is precise.

It's got a certain beauty to it

and it's also very dangerous.

This is the mile.

The most incredible of
all dirt track racing.

On the straight, Mert
hits 130 miles an hour

and around 100 sliding the corners.

Mert's teammate, kind of
protege, Mark Brelsford, number 87.

Mark is spectacular on the mile.

Most riders agree the
biggest thrill of all

is to sit up at the end of the straight,

and at 120, pitch it sideways.

Mark laid out, feet up, out of the turn,

100, 110, 120, and
back down the straight,

tucked in to reduce the wind resistance.

♪ K-C-A-C-L

When Mert's not racing, he's
working on his machines.

After each race, the engine is torn

down and inspected piece by piece.

It's a lot more complicated
than twisting nuts and bolts.

For instance, each gear
in the transmission is

ground down by hand to save
a few ounces of weight.

If he can get a fraction of an
ounce off this cam follower,

he can pick up a few extra RPMs,

and that's an edge over the others.

He spends hours alone in his garage,

trying to figure out a way
to improve an engine part.

Only another professional racer,

who maintains his own
equipment like Mert,

can really appreciate the work involved.

He spends over a thousand hours

a year working on his motorcycles.

It's off to Columbus, Ohio.

One of ten cross-country trips Mert makes

during the eight month racing season.

He drives his van over
70,000 miles a year,

traveling with his friend
and helper, Jack Dunn.

They don't stay in motels,
but drive 24 hours a day,

stopping only to eat and refuel.

Mert is totally dedicated
to his profession.

He works at it seven days a week.

He doesn't have time for
many outside interests.

Motorcycle racing is his life.

He grossed about $50,000 the year before,

ended up with about
$20,000 after expenses.

That's good money, but
not what it should be

for the skill, knowledge,
and dedication he has.

Let alone the risks.

For most people, San Francisco to

Columbus, Ohio, would be four days.

For Mert and Jack, 27 hours nonstop.

They don't arrive a day early and relax.

The pit gates at 8:30,
they arrive at 8:30.

An hour later, after driving all night,

he's on the track going
sideways at 80 miles an hour.

Before each race, there's
about an hour of practice.

They aren't practicing riding,

they're experimenting
with frame geometry,

gearing, and tires most
suitable for this track.

There's a lot more to racing than

holding the throttle wide open.

Tires alone are an exact science to them.

With different rubber compounds
and different tread designs.

Even a pound or two
difference in air pressure

makes a difference in handling.

Before each race, they cut their tires

with razor blades for added traction.

Each rider has special
cuts and they change

from hour to hour, depending
on the condition of the dirt.

There are many things to
attend to before a race,

like taping on these clear,
plastic strips called tear-offs.

Some riders stack up five or
six and rip them off one-by-one

as the flying dirt sticks
and obscures their vision.

It's gotta be a real
thrill just to reach up

and find that tab at 100 miles an hour.

The last thing they strap on before

a race is their steel skid shoe.

Custom-made for each rider,
with the shape of the bottom

sliding surface varied to
suit the rider's style.

The 20 lap, half mile in Columbus, Ohio.

Mert had won the race two years in a row.

A win today would put him in good shape

to keep his #1 plate another year.

A $6,000 purse and 60 points.

Mert wanted both.

On the starting line,
watching for a flicker

of movement from the flagman,
he's like a gunfighter.

No show of emotion, not even a blink.

Total concentration.

Mert was riding
beautifully, stretching out

his lead, he'd done everything right.

He'd chosen the right
tire, he'd picked up

those extra few RPMs by
grinding down his cam follower.

His machine was perfectly
set up and he was

riding like the national champ he is.

The crowd, sensing
victory and urging him on.

On the last lap, the pack
came around, but no Mert.

Here he came in last
place, out of the race,

with a broken throttle cable.

A two dollar part.

It cost him the 60 points
he needed and his share

of the purse, instead of
several thousand, was $116.

It was a pretty disappointing day.

It would be tough, with the races left,

to earn enough points to keep #1.

By Monday, Mert was back on
the road, heading for more

races and hitting the gourmet
restaurants along the way.

You may survive the race,
but not the restaurant.

Mert went on to win three national races.

He greatly enjoys the things
that come with winning.

What followed him through the season

was an unbelievable string of bad luck.

He broke down in nearly
half the championship races.

Often little things,
like a throttle cable,

or an electrical short, or
a tire tread coming off.

Here at Terra Haute, Indiana,
with a half a lap lead,

Jack Dunn just knew
something would happen.

And it did.

Mert pulling off with
a broken crank shaft.

He'd break, bounce back, break again,

race again, but now it was too late.

With the races left to
run, there was no way Mert

could earn enough points
to regain his #1 plate.

The plate he'd ridden 12 years to win,

and had one season, he'd now
have to give to someone else.

There were four riders
who had enough points

to have a shot at ending up #1.

One was Mert's best
friend, Dick 'Bugsy' Mann,

number 2, the veteran of the circuit.

Not only excels at each
of the five AMA events,

but is highly skilled
in motocross, as well.

There's no one who's more respected by

his fellow riders, and
the fans, than Dick Mann.

On the BSA number 2, Dick 'Bugsy' Mann.

The second rider
who could win the #1 plate,

one of the youngest, 20
year old Dave Aldana,

his first year as professional expert.

David Aldana, the crazy kid
from Santa Ana, California.

Off the track, he's conservative

compared to his action on the track.

He crashed 15 times during the year

at speeds up to 120 miles
an hour and was never hurt.

David said, "You never know how

"fast you can go
until you fall down."

If he didn't crash, he often won.

The third rider in
contention was Gene Romero.

Gene's nickname is Burrito.

He's the most flamboyant of
all the professional racers,

but is very serious about his racing,

particularly late in the season when

he wanted the points for #1.

I don't want to hurt anybody,

but I just want to get out there

and I gotta get third, no matter what.

It's gonna be either one.

I've gotta get third or come
and visit me at the hospital.

I dig carnations, man.

The fourth and final

rider who could be #1 was Jim Rice.

Jim, the winningest rider on the circuit,

had taken the checkered flag six times,

as many times as anyone
ever had in a season.

The #1 plate would be decided at

Sacramento, California, in September.

Quite different from
the national circuit is

the On Any Sunday World of Motocross.

A motocross track is uphill, downhill,

jumps, bumps, mud, rocks, and dust.

The rougher, the better.

Competition is still
the name of the game.

It doesn't matter whether you're battling

for first or 31st, it's just as fierce.

Here's a classic
confrontation for tenth place.

The guy in the yellow
figures he'll zap his buddy

through the puddle and
cover his glasses with

mud and water, so he can't see,
and that'll put him behind.

But his pal just threw away
his $40 prescription lenses

and passed him right
back again on the corner.

When some riders start getting behind,

they panic and try a shortcut
through the giggle weeds.

When they can no longer race,
it's simple frustration.

Getting your bike stuck
in the mud is bad enough.

Getting your body stuck
in the mud is the worst.

Especially when it's your
girlfriend who has to dig you out.

Everyone makes mistakes riding motocross,

even world champion Bengt Aberg,

here going over the handlebars.

Somehow, when Aberg gets off, he does

it with a certain style and grace.

Everyone crashes now and then,

but not often with style and grace.

More often, the classic flying W.

Missing a turn and going off
the course is a common error.

The classic was this guy, running 8th,

who cut the course and
nailed his buddy running 3rd.

Son of a bitch!

What the hell were you thinking?

You wonder how they

get into the positions they do.

The one kid was laughing so
hard, he got stomach cramps.

Thousands off riders compete

in motocross in the United States.

One of them is Steve McQueen.

On the starting line, he's not an actor

out for a ride, he's
100% motorcycle racer.

There's no one with a
more competitive instinct.

When he gets on his race face,

the world could be
falling down around him,

but all he sees is the track.

A one million dollar body out there,

with a possibility of being used

by someone for traction in a corner.

If the movie studio moguls
realized what he was

doing on a Sunday afternoon,
they'd have a coronary.

The two best motocross
riders in the world

are Bengt Aberg, 500cc
World Champion from Sweden,

and Joel Robert, 250cc
World Champion from Belgium.

Joel Robert, number 17, is a

national sports hero in Belgium.

Motocross races in Europe sometimes draw

crowds of over a hundred thousand people.

In Joel's home country of Belgium,

fans have been known to lay in the track

in front of other
riders to help Joel win.

Except he doesn't need any help.

With a #1 plate, Swede Bengt
Aberg, 500cc World Champion,

his riding skill is unbelievable.

Here, using power to
straighten himself out.

Scientific tests have
been made and motocross

was found to be the
second most physically

demanding sport in the
world, following only soccer.

After 30 minutes of racing,
even a rider in perfect

condition, like Bengt Aberg,
is almost totally exhausted.

He's got maybe an hour
to rest between races,

then do it again, three times a day.

Motocross races run in
all kinds of weather.

It's a race against the other man,

but even more, it's man's battle
against the course itself.

There's a certain brutal
beauty to motocross

that you can only see in slow motion.

The classic example of the
Sunday competitor who rides

for fun, with his usual
ear-to-ear grin, is Malcolm Smith.

The only thing different
between Malcolm and the rest of

the Sunday competitors is
Malcolm rides a greater variety

of events, something
different almost every Sunday.

He seems to enjoy it more than

anyone and he's also the best.

Back in 1968, when being
interviewed by Wide World of Sports

about his amazing
performance the year before

in the Mexican 1,000, he didn't
talk about how tough it was.

Instead, typical Malcolm...

Did you have any adventures
during that 9 hours

and something last in this
wild country down there?

No, it was easy going down,
but it was hard coming back.

We had an old Volkswagen
that a friend of mine

drove down there, my co-driver this year.

And we started back and it gave up on us

and we rode on a turtle
truck with live sea turtles.

On the top of the turtles,
all the way, for five days.

On the top of the live turtles?

Top of the live turtles.

And it smelled very bad all the way back.

On the starting
line, most riders are nervous.

Malcolm's usually got a smile.

Of the many events Malcolm
rides, he's particularly

outstanding in the rugged,
off-road races like the

Mint 400, a 400 mile race
through the desert near Las Vegas.

Like riding from San
Francisco to Los Angeles,

through the roughest imaginable terrain

and averaging 50 miles an hour.

The race goes on night and
day and when it's all over,

and the other riders are almost
in shock from exhaustion,

there stands Malcolm in the middle

of the night with a big grin.

Malcolm is king of the Mexican 1,000.

A 1,000 mile off-road race down

the peninsula of Baja California, Mexico.

He goes so fast, he should
be in a class by himself.

One year, he drove a dune buggy,
to see what that was like,

and was running 2nd before he broke down.

Here again, at a pit stop, he didn't say,

"Dust, tough, tired."

Instead, typical Malcolm.

Looked like you

were having a good time, Malcolm.

Oh, great, lots of fun.

See any incidents out
there, any problems?

Nope, nope.

Turn around this way for just a second.

The only one I ever
see is Larry Berquist.

Yeah, they're up ahead of you still.

Yeah, yeah, we know.

We can't keep up with a motorcycle.

He couldn't keep up with a motorcycle

that year, but every other
year, the lone dust crown

across Lake Chapala was Malcolm
Smith and his motorcycle.

He never failed to lead.

One year, he was two hours ahead of the

next machine at the
halfway point and rode

the final 200 miles on a flat front tire.

The rougher and tougher
the event, the more skill

and human endurance it takes,
the better Malcolm likes it.

As he would say himself,
"That was really neat."

El Escorial, Spain, near Madrid,

the sight of the
international Six Day Trials.

The ultimate test of man and machine.

The Six Day Trials is
the Olympic games of

motorcycle sport, held for the 45th year.

348 riders from 16 countries
have gathered to compete.

Among them, Malcolm Smith.

Here getting his bike inspected

and marked prior to the first day.

Each part of the motorcycle is
marked with a special paint.

In six days of riding, no part can

be changed without being disqualified.

Even internal engine parts are

marked and the engine is sealed.

The only parts that can be changed

are control cables,
chains, tires, and tubes.

At 6:45 in the
morning, the first

of the riders get underway.

They leave four per minute.

The colors on their helmets
denote the rider's country:

Germans in white, Spanish
in yellow, Italians red,

English green, Czechoslovakians in blue,

the Swedes with yellow and blue.

Malcolm, number 242 would be
starting on the 60th minute.

Of all the events Malcolm rides,

this is the only one he
takes very seriously.

There's no prize money involved.

The top prize for an individual
rider is a gold medal.

Off goes Malcolm and 348
others through the countryside

of Spain, the beginning
of a grueling adventure.

The concept of the event is quite simple.

To ride about 200 miles per day for six

straight days and keep on
a prescribed time schedule.

The trouble is, none but
the best can keep up the

time schedule and these riders
are the best in the world.

It's an honor just to be
selected to ride the six days.

You go through a series
of checkpoints each day.

You can get there early, but you can't

clock through until
your prescribed minute.

You lose one mark for each

minute you're late to any checkpoint.

In all, there are 65 time checks.

If you're only one minute late to

any one of these, you lose a mark.

To win a gold medal, you can't lose

a single mark in six days of riding.

It's hard to appreciate the difficulty

of the six days without being there.

It's hard to realize just how long

six days on a motorcycle really is.

The best riders are
usually the Europeans.

Most are paid a salary
year-round to ride.

A gold medal at the Six Day Trials

sells a lot of motorcycles in Europe.

Malcolm isn't paid.

In fact, he pays all his own expenses

just to go over there and compete.

During the competition, the temperatures

range from 80 degrees to 20 degrees.

They went from 2,000
feet to over 8,000 feet,

riding in the clouds in
the mountains of Spain.

Of the 1,200 miles the event covers,

about 800 of it is trails like this.

They may last for 40
miles, on the foot peg,

maneuvering like six
days on a bongo board.

The speed average:
24 miles an hour.

But very few can keep it up.

All work on the machine must be done by

the contestant himself
with no outside help.

The bikes are locked up except during the

time you're riding against the clock.

The only time to make
repairs or adjustments

is if you can get ahead of
schedule and stop to do it.

If you can't change a
tire in four minutes,

you're not competitive
in the Six Day Trials.

The only tools you can use for

anything are what you carry with you.

If anyone hands you a tool or helps

you in any way, you're disqualified.

If you keep your bike
together, change tires

fast enough, keep on
time, and lose no marks,

you still haven't won a gold medal.

You have to compete in a
series of special tests

at the end of each days' riding.

One is this 200 meter acceleration test.

Clocked top speed at the end
earns needed bonus points,

except there's a sound meter in that tent

and if you make too much noise going by,

bonus points are subtracted
instead of added.

Another special test
at the end of each day

is a five mile timed cross-country route.

Sort of a motocross against the clock.

The fastest times earn
the most bonus points.

And to earn enough bonus
points for a gold medal,

you have to be in the top 30%.

The motorcycles have mufflers and lights,

which are under the number plate.

You can be stopped at any time
and have your light checked.

If it doesn't work, you have to

stay there until you make it work.

In this special test, Malcolm has

to go fast, but not too fast.

He's got to save the machine,
he's got to save his body.

There are more days to come.

Day after day, Malcolm left in

the morning chill from El Escorial.

Stiff and sore, but on time.

Each day, he left to do battle with

the clock and the elements of Spain.

Mostly fatigue in his face, but on time.

The six days, more than
any event, tests a man's

all-around ability, his
riding, his endurance,

mechanical skill, and
his ability to think

clearly when tremendously fatigued.

If you do everything
right, don't make one

mistake in six days,
you win this gold medal.

Malcolm won one in Poland,
he won one in Germany,

and he won this one
in El Escorial, Spain.

Back in the United
States, what's Malcolm do?

Heads for another motorcycle race

with his friend, Steve McQueen.

The event is the Elsinore Grand Prix.

1,500 motorcyclists line up in the

main street waiting for the start.

1,500 riders and 50,000
spectators fill the little town.

It's a 100 mile race through
the streets of the city

and into the foothills outside of town.

The average age of the
2,000 Elsinore residents

is 60 years old and it's the only town

in America that welcomes such an event.

The residents love it
and so do the riders.

Malcolm will be starting
in the second row,

Steve starting in the fourth row.

Held back by a rope, riders leave at

ten second intervals, ten abreast.

It was supposed to be
ten second intervals,

but it got a lot shorter than that.

You could tell the most eager riders

by the rope burns on their neck.

By the time the race was two miles old,

Malcolm passing the last
rider and taking the lead.

It had rained a few days before
and there was a big puddle.

As the pack came thundering through,

the water puddle turned
into a mud puddle.

Then it turned into a mud hole.

The first 200 riders made it through,

but for the 1,300 yet to
come, it was all stopped.

There's no money involved in the race.

A trophy for the winner.

In fact, they pay a $15 entry
fee for the honor of riding.

While they were getting
out of the mud hole,

Malcolm had opened up a commanding lead.

Malcolm rides so smoothly
and effortlessly,

he doesn't appear to be going very fast.

He is.

There's 1,499 riders behind him.

When he came back through town
at the end of the first lap,

he was so far ahead, there
were no other riders in sight.

For the rest of the riders
thundering through town,

it was sport for the spectators to see if

they could get across the street

before they got run over by a motorcycle.

Everyone rides Elsinore.

If there's one event you ride a year,

it's usually the Elsinore Grand Prix.

People of all ages, girls,
the pig farmer from Marietta.

There's only about 200 riders
who are seriously competitive.

For the rest, it's a
great Sunday adventure.

Doing wheelies through town
to dazzle their friends,

bouncing off any object in sight,

missing half the corners
and ripping out ten

miles of banners and dragging
them back through town.

The people of Elsinore can't believe

what's going on in their town.

They pull a chair up in their front

yard and have a grandstand seat.

Number 48, Steve McQueen, entered

under the name of Harvey Mushman.

But it didn't take
long for the spectators

to figure out who number 48 really was.

She was dazzled, but her
husband wasn't too impressed.

Yeah, I could do that.

Steve really earned the
respect of his fellow riders.

Some of them didn't realize
what a good rider he really is.

His car racing experience
gives him the ability

to pick the perfect line
through the corners.

In a subsequent Elsinore
race, Steve crashed, broke his

foot, got up and finished
8th, broken foot and all.

It was Malcolm Smith's day.

When Malcolm passes you, it's a

mistake to try and stay with him.

In the lead, but still time for a

wave to a friend beside the course.

Malcolm's got an uncanny sense
for doing the right thing.

Here, swerving off the
course, through a hole

in the barbed wire fence, and around

the now cleaned out mud hole.

Back through the fence
again without missing a beat

and passing six guys in the process.

What's a guy who rides motorcycles

every Sunday do for a living?

Malcolm owns a motorcycle shop.

In ten laps, Malcolm passed 7,000 riders,

some of them three times.

Malcolm almost never makes
a bobble or a mistake.

It's about 200 feet down
off the side of the road.

When it was all over,
it was Malcolm Smith.

There he stood in the pits
with his ear-to-ear grin.

He didn't even look tired.

Steve turned in a great
ride, finishing 10th overall,

riding against the best riders in

the country for this kind of event.

Every time I start thinking
the world is all bad,

then I start seeing some people
out there having a good time

on a motorcycle and it
makes me take another look.

It was good fun.

There are a lot of things that are

good fun on a motorcycle,
like sidecar racing.

So specialized, that only about 200

people do it in the United States.

The passenger is called the monkey,

he's usually flat on one side.

Motorcycle drag racing is another

highly specialized form of competition.

They hit speeds of 160 miles
an hour in the quarter mile.

Before they leave the
line, they burn their tires

to get them hot and sticky
for better traction.

This guy was going to donate
his lungs to the Mayo clinic.

Special machines and riders who usually

specialize in nothing but drag racing.

It's won or lost in a
hundredth of a second

at the finish, or even at the start.

Probably the least number of people

in all of motorcycle sport
race their motorcycles on ice.

Quebec City, Canada, is the site of one.

The fans try to stay alive in the

ten degree below zero weather.

The riders wear leather masks to keep

their faces from
freezing and protect them

from cuts from flying ice off the track.

Two inch spikes in the tires
for traction on the ice.

Before a race, they have to be wondering,

it would be like getting
run over by a buzz saw.

If you go down, the main
thought is to get off the track,

because there's more buzz saws coming.

This guy set a world record for a

20 foot crawl on his hands and knees.

They hit tremendous speeds
on this half mile ice track.

20 second lap times, averaging almost 80.

Absolutely no wheels spin
with those spiked tires.

They ride with different
styles - some foot down,

dirt track style, others slide
on a knee on a hockey pad.

There's only about 50 or
60 people who ice race in

North America and only a
couple of big ice races a year.

It's popular in certain parts
of Europe, especially Russia.

Ice racing in Canada, ten degrees

below zero, in the middle of a snowstorm.

From ten degrees below
to 115 degrees above

at the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah,

where once again, men
on motorcycles compete,

trying to set speed records.

Once a year, they have
speed week for motorcycles.

There's about 200 different
classes and anyone

with a two-wheeled
machine gets into the act.

Some of the bikes are a little strange.

This guy had a 60 horsepower
skateboard and steel kneecaps.

Some guy got an old bomb
and put a motor in it.

Didn't handle very well.

From the backyard specials
to the exotically engineered

and computer-designed,
stream-lined bikes.

There was a fellow named Cal Rayburn,

a professional racer, who
was going to make an assault

on the motorcycle land speed
record of 250 miles an hour.

He was going to drive one of those

slide rule, super-engineered specials.

He lost a little faith in
the computers and engineers

when he got in and found
out an interesting thing.

He didn't fit.

By then, Cal was beginning
to have some second thoughts.

He kept saying,
"You guys are nuts."

They said his helmet visor
must be too big, so they

sawed it off, that way it
wouldn't dig into his chest.

It didn't dig into his chest,
but his chin still did.

In this position, he was
supposed to try and go faster than

anyone ever had with a
motorcycle over 250 miles an hour.

Once the lid was in the place, he found

out interesting point number two.

He couldn't see out.

His feet were too big and
blocked his view out the

front window and his knee
blocked his view out the side.

So all he had to do was
peer out the side window,

over his knee, and follow
this black line painted

on the salt at anything over 250.

Late in the afternoon, they launched him,

and he found out interesting
point number three.

It didn't handle very
well at six miles an hour.

He kept saying,
"You guys are nuts."

But he was driving.

After a week of trying and
crashes from six to 206,

Calvin finally set a new
motorcycle land speed

record of over 265 miles an hour.

The steering changed with the speed.

Under 100, turn right to go right.

100 to 200, turn left to go right,

and over 200, back to normal again.

The mile track at Sacramento, California.

This is where the #1
plate will be decided.

A $12,000 purse.

But more important to
Dick Mann, Dave Aldana,

Gene Romero, and Jim Rice, 101 points.

Enough to make any of them #1.

All the riders were there, but
the pressure was on the four.

If Dave Aldana won, it would be the

first time a first year expert ever had.

Romero was not his usual laughing self.

Jim Rice was off alone,
walking the track.

Dick Mann arrived.

He'd broken his leg in
a race only three weeks

before and no one
expected him to compete.

But he'd sawed off his
cast and was going to try.

He jammed his swollen leg
into his boot and steel shoe,

went out on the track,
and won his heat race.

Mert won the second heat,
Gene Romero the third,

with Dave Aldana transferring to the

point-paying main by
finishing third in his heat.

The first four riders in each

heat transfer to the main event.

Jim Rice, number 24, playing it cool

in the final heat and transferring.

After the finish, at 120 miles an hour...

An hour later, they lined
up for the main event.

Jim Rice was getting out of the ambulance

and was going to try and ride the race.

Jim Rice walking out

and he'll be back in action.

In a lot of pain with a bandanna

covering his broken nose, Jim quietly

took his place on the line with the rest.

And down the backshoot
at 125 miles an hour.

It was Dave Aldana.

The race was black-flagged.

Aldana's bike was completely
totaled, but David,

as he had all year, walked away unhurt.

But he also walked away
from any chance of being #1.

No way he could make the
three minute restart rule.

The restart was a carbon
copy of the first.

Mert in fourth, working
his way back to third.

Romero second and Mann first.

And Romero, again, getting by

Dick Mann at exactly the same place.

Jim Rice, running in last place.

Ten laps later, the field spreading out,

Romero further ahead and
Rice dropping further back,

his bike running poorly and Jim just

too physically shaken to be competitive.

It's amazing he tried to ride at all.

On the 20th lap, Dick Mann pulled in.

He'd caught his shoe in a hole and

was in too much paint to continue.

For him, that's got to be a lot.

Mert hung on to Romero's
tail for the first 20 laps

and then, as it happened so
often during this season,

smoke began pouring out
as his engine went south.

It was Romero's day.

50 laps, wire to wire, his
father cheering him on,

a beautiful ride, the checkered flag,

and Gene Romero, the new #1.

It was a day of happiness for Gene.

For Rice, Aldana, and Mann, it
was a very disappointing day.

Rice was lucky to be alive.

What kind of men are these
that take tremendous chances?

That saw off a cast and
ride with a broken leg

and say, "It'll be okay,
I'm a fast healer."

Why do they do it?

There's no answer to that.

If you ask them, they say simply,

"Because it's what
I like to do."

For Mert, the day at Sacramento

had been a mirror of the season.

With as much bad luck as
Mert had had during the year,

he still finished with
enough points to be the

number sixth ranked rider in
the national point standings.

Let's see what's happening in

the rest of the motorcycle world.

It's Sunday and we're about 20

miles from Salt Lake City, Utah.

There's a hill there called Widowmaker.

It's 600 feet high and the angle

up the face is 89%, roughly 45 degrees.

It's the sight of the annual
Widowmaker hill climb.

No one's ever made it over the top

and they've been trying for seven years.

Riders come from all over
the country to compete in yet

another highly specialized
form of motorcycle competition.

As I said, no one's ever made the top,

but they give it a hell of a try.

Wherever the bike stops is
where the measurement is taken,

so they get some bizarre
push off techniques.

This guy nearly nailed
a couple of spectators

and lost 12 feet in the process.

That's a whole lot better
than losing 387 feet.

Some of the bikes have
a lot of character.

The hill climbers, themselves,
are safe to say, characters.

There was the mortician from Waukegan who

thought hyperventilation was the answer.

It got him up the hill 15 feet.

The classic guy that day
was old Hawkeye Hillbilly.

He spent considerable time mentally

psyching himself up for the hill.

Didn't know whether that was his

number plate or a traffic citation.

On the hill, Hawkeye the
bouncer turned in a great run.

Only about 50 feet short of the top.

Ol' Malcolm was there.

He'd never ridden the hill climb,

but he thought it would be fun.

On his first try, in
typical Malcolm Smith style,

he forgot to turn on the gas.

Later in the day, he got his second run

and more than made up
for his first error.

Riding his stock motorcycle
in the 500cc class,

against the specially
built hill climbers,

he got up to around 500 feet,

right in there with the best of 'em.

Going back down the hill is a

major operation for most riders.

Malcolm dazzled folks when he turned

around and rode his motorcycle down.

Holy cow.

One of the final riders of the day

was Mike Gibbon, who'd
driven all the way from

Grants Pass, Oregon, to ride this event.

Chains on the tires and
nitromethane fuel in the tank,

Mike Gibbon made the first tire

mark on the top of Widowmaker.

After seven years, it had been done.

He got a big trophy and
the local Lions Club

gave him $100 to help him pay
his expenses back to Oregon.

It had been quite a day.

Widowmaker had at last been conquered.

Malcolm got 100 feet further up the hill

than any other stock
bike, finishing third

against the special hill climb machines.

This fellow's a trials rider.

The magicians of the motorcycle world.

Good trials riders can do
wheelies like this for miles.

Around corners, everywhere,

just bopping along, watching the scenery.

Trials riders are the violin

players of the motorcycle world.

Tremendously skilled at what they do.

The kid couldn't believe it,
but there was nobody to tell.

In riding trials events,
all you have to do

is get through a difficult
section of terrain

without putting your foot down.

A good trials rider's ability
to do this is amazing.

It would seem impossible
to get a motorcycle

with ten inches of
clearance over a 30 inch log

and then make a sharp right turn

to stay in bounds and
not put your foot down.

It can be done.

Here's a beautiful example.

Lift the wheel at the precise instant,

turn it in midair so when you land

your turn has already begun.

It looks easy, don't believe it.

Malcolm rides one or two trials

a year on his Sunday outings.

In fact, he rides one or two
of almost everything a year.

In trials, too, he is very good.

Try this someday if you want

to do something really difficult.

Neat, Malcolm.

Quite a different breed from the

trials riders are the desert racers.

Unique to the southwest,
particularly southern California.

There's even a group of girls called

The Desert Daisies,
who race in the desert.

A great variety of people,
from all walks of life,

gather each Sunday to race.

Number one plate holder in
the desert, Whitey Martino.

When they line up for the
start, it's quite a sight.

Down there on the line
are doctors, lawyers,

carpenters, plumbers,
engineers, salesmen,

students, anyone, and everybody.

A thousand riders ready
to race a hare and hound

over 100 miles of desert terrain.

50 miles from the nearest town.

This scene takes place
every Sunday of the year,

which starts from 500 to 2,000 riders.

The prize - a trophy for the winner

and the satisfaction of knowing
you did it, for the rest.

They head first to a smoke bomb

about five miles from the start.

At 10:00am, the banner drops.

About 10% never make the first
five miles to the smoke bomb.

It's a cross between a race and a war.

They raise a cloud of dust that

settles three weeks later on London.

Once through the smoke bomb,
they start to thin out,

following a trail marked
with a ribbon and line.

No one's allowed to
ride the course first,

so it's all new terrain to them.

Three stripes of line across the trail

mean a dangerous spot ahead.

To the experienced desert rider,

mounds of dirt mean danger, too.

Because the mounds had
to come out of something

like a mine shaft or a ditch or a hole.

You can tell when someone found one

by the way they disappear so quickly.

It's 100 miles of uphills, washes,

brush, sand, cactus,
downhills, and rocks.

A struggle just to get through.

But the biggest hazard to a desert

racer is another desert racer.

In the spring, the B-29 bugs come out

and hitting one is like
running into a medicine ball.

Desert racers are good people.

There's even a guy who rides
the desert with his dog.

There's a rug in the
tank the dog hangs on to.

He's got claws like an eagle.

Their pit stops are kind of unusual.

Some of the hairiest
racing is in the pits.

The best riders can
invariably be found way

in front of the dust and really hauling.

Here, J. N. Roberts, one of
the really great desert racers.

Steve McQueen riding here.

Still rides an occasional desert race,

although he prefers motocross now.

A few years back, he rode every Sunday

and was ranked the 11th amateur rider.

And here, Malcolm Smith.

He rarely rides the desert.

Says he doesn't like the heat and dust.

He's ridden about 12 desert races

in his life and he won six of them.

The other six, he broke down.

King of the desert and #1
plate holder, Whitey Martino.

There's a great deal of skill involved,

not just riding, but reading the terrain.

This is the way it looks
to Whitey, weaving through

the pucker bushes at
60 to 70 miles an hour.

You don't go straight, but it's

almost like a slalom through the bushes.

If you hit a bush, it's an instant end-o.

After battling your way through
sand, rocks, turtles, bugs,

and mine shafts, you'd expect
the finish to be exciting.

The finish of a desert race is

like the finish of no other race.

It's just over.

There's usually about 100 people watching

and they're waiting for
somebody else, anyway.

Desert races are a very
personal experience.

No spectators to cheer you, but a great

personal satisfaction
in knowing you did it.

If 1,000 start, there's usually

about 300 or 400 that finish.

The rest are strewn out
over 100 miles of desert

and are picked up by a crew
that sweeps the course.

But there's always someone
who gets off the course,

gets lost, and breaks
a chain or something.

He has no idea where he is
and neither does anyone else.

The desert racer's
handbook says build a fire.

The rescue squad will see the

smoke and come and pick you up.

Desert racers don't lean toward

tinder and the one-match fire.

It's high-test and a
pucker bush for them.

The nearest water is in
the radiator of his truck,

but he doesn't have any
idea where his truck is.

That's $1,000 signal fire.

Probably the most fun
in all of motorcycling

is to load your bike in a pickup

truck and head out into the country.

The pressure of racing over,

it's time to relax and have some fun.

Malcolm, Steve, and
Mert all like to race,

but they think this kind
of riding is the most fun.

It's called cow trailing.

If your friends aren't paying
attention, how can you resist?

Steve could have picked
better people to fool

with than Mert Lawwill and Malcolm Smith.

There's something about going
riding with your friends.

A feeling of freedom, a feeling of joy

that really can't be put into words.

It can only be fully shared
by someone who's done it.

♪ On Any Sunday looking back on the crowd

♪ From the far out place I've found

♪ Screaming inside of
me and laughin' out loud

♪ I'm losing contact with the ground

♪ I'm flyin'

♪ Over my shoulder
through the dust and quiet

♪ Run where they'll catch me, if you can

♪ On Any Sunday I'm a flyin' man

♪ Free as the wind, faster than time

♪ Reason and rhyme are running behind

♪ Tastin' the sun, feelin' the Earth,

♪ Knowing my worth and freeing my mind

♪ On Any Sunday like the tail of a kite

♪ Flying and dancing in the wind

♪ I'd like to break the
string and drift out of site

♪ I may not pass this way again

♪ I'm flyin'

♪ Over my shoulder
through the dust and quiet

♪ Run where they'll catch me if you can

♪ On Any Sunday I'm a flyin' man ♪