Thanks Again Joe.

This is my second in an irregular series of re-runs of blog posts I made in the past. This one is from August 2011 and for some reason I’d been thinking about my BMX racing days and how they formed and cemented my future in the bicycle business.

When I was 17 and moved out of the house and 1500 miles away to Florida it for some reason didn’t feel like a very big deal to me. Now, looking back on it, it seems a bit nuts and I’m surprised my parents let me just pick up and take off and go so far away with such a weak ‘plan’. But they did and I ended up in Niceville, Florida. I found the local BMX track and with it an entire community and southern family. The southern good ol’ boys took me in as one of their own despite my being a Yankee. It was at this time that I met the man who would become my coach and dad away from home. He looked after me and gave me a firm talking to when I screwed up and even though he had no ‘right’ to do this it felt right and I learned so much from the man. The man just commanded respect. We all called him ‘Hardman’ for a reason.

After I posted this story Joe’s now adult children got in touch with me and I was a bit worried that my words about their dad would be misunderstood. It was a very emotional time for me hearing from them and more stories about their dad and of course to hear of his passing away. This past summer Joe’s son Joey came to our 20-10 Gathering and spent a few days turning over the pedals with us. At one point during one of the rides Joey and I were pedaling along side by side and it seemed like no time had passed let alone 25 years. Joey said something like — “ who would have ever thought 25 years ago that you and I would be riding road bikes together in Montana of all places — Pops is no doubt looking down and smiling”. I know I was smiling.

Thanks again Hardman.

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Here’s a link to the original post if you’d like to read it in context – http://kirk.massive.net/2011/08/09/thanks-joe/

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Thanks Joe.

Over the years, between racing and framebuilding, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and working with some wonderful people. As some of you might know I started in this business by racing BMX as a young man. At the age of 17 I left home and moved from Central New York State to the Panhandle of Florida and right into a hotbed of BMX racing. I lived in the very small military town of Niceville (I couldn’t make up a better name) and raced my BMX bike all over the Florida Panhandle. At some point I met a good ol’ Southern boy named Joe who had a kid that was also racing. Joe was a 45ish year old (but very high mileage) little bearded man who had muscular dystrophy and I later came to find out was also an alcoholic. His southern accent was so thick I couldn’t tell what he what he was saying a good part of the time. He walked with a big limp and could barely even ride a bike but he had a real eye for good riding and knew how to motivate a young man like myself to work harder and ride smarter. There were times when he knew I was having trouble making ends meet and he would tell me to come out to his place for some sprints and training on his back yard track and then to stay for dinner. It was really just his way of getting me to stay for dinner and have a real meal. In time he became my coach and I traveled with he and his family to events all over the southeast chasing fame and glory and really tall trophies.

I wanted to be one of the big names like Greg Hill or Stu Thompson but in retrospect I didn’t have what it took to do that. But Joe believed in me and put a huge amount of time and energy into my training and racing. Many long nights at the track (racing was done at night, under the lights, when it was cooler) with Joe having me do starts over and over and over again until they looked just right to him. He had a very good eye and knew when it was being done right. We started having some bigger successes and traveling farther to events and attracting attention from teams that wanted me to race for them. This was what might have been the golden age of BMX racing, before freestyle became so big, and the big bike companies put a huge amount of resources into racing. Lots of money was changing hands. I dreamt of being on the receiving end of that money and Joe was doing his best to coach his son and I to that end. The only real way to get there was to win enough to get the attention of a major factory team that would pick up the expenses for racing and travel. Racing 3-4 times a week and traveling 6-8 hours each way on weekends becomes very expensive, very quickly, but was needed to reach that top tier.

Joe and I met with some smaller regional team managers at some of the big races and while their offers were better than nothing they wouldn’t pay as much as we needed to make a go of it so we held out for something bigger. Then Joe got us a meeting with Gary Turner. Gary Turner was the ‘GT’ of GT Bicycles and they were the 800 pound gorilla at the time. If anyone could afford to send us around the country racing it was going to be Mr. Turner and his company GT. I was very nervous and was scheduled to race my preliminary motos that morning before our meeting and knew I’d better kick some butt so I could tell Mr. Turner that I was doing well and had a good chance of winning that weekend. It’s hard to ask for money when you stunk it up just an hour earlier. My morning races went well and soon it was time to meet with Mr. Turner. Joe got me cleaned up and told me to come with him. It was obvious to anyone that knew me that I was very I was nervous. It was certainly obvious to Joe and he told me to relax. Joe knew better than I that winning races was only part of what Turner was looking for and that I needed to look confident and relaxed so that I could give good interviews and represent GT well. But I was not confident and relaxed — I was gripped. The time came for us to meet and Joe and I started walking across a big grassy area outside the track — I think it was in Memphis — to meet Mr. Turner. I could see Turner from a long way away and we waved a hello and Joe slowly limped his way across the clearing. Joe then stopped and turned to me and looked me right in the eye. I couldn’t help but think, ‘what the hell are you doing? — let’s not keep the man waiting’. Joe looked me in the eye and with the thickest southern drawl one can imagine asked me a question. “ Dave, do you know what a ‘buddy’ is?” He then answered his own question with “a buddy is a wart on the dick of a dawg” and had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face.

What the hell was that about? I’m so confused at this point and we start walking toward Mr. Turner again. We get close and there are smiles all around and Joe reaches out his hand to Turner and greets him with “Hey Buddy, howz it going?” I started laughing out loud. In fact I could not keep a straight face at this point. All my nervousness was gone and suddenly it seemed so much less important. The meeting was fine but in the end went nowhere but I will never forget Joe and how he took care of me and taught me how life worked. In that one short ‘Buddy’ moment he taught me that some things are not as important as they might seem.

In time I moved away from the area but went back and visited a number of years later and Joe wasn’t doing that well to be honest. His kid was off at college and without the focus of racing he’d fallen off the wagon and was drinking again. Not good. That was nearly 25 years ago now and I suspect that Joe might no longer be with us at this point. He’d lived a hard life and had some very bad luck……….but he taught many of us so much. Thanks Joe. I think of you often.

Dave

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