All of you people saying that the WOWBoyz and the 12 O’Clock Boyz need to stop doing their thing are the reason that society is crumbling. Allow me to explain: If you decide that ripping midnight wheelies on a CR85 through the streets of the Baltimore ghetto is something that you need to do, one of two things is going to happen. Either you are going to be the shit at it and get hella pussy and make more athletically and physically prominent offspring (like Chino), or you are going to crash and die and stop your bloodline right there. Straight up natural selection at its finest. People these days do so much to prevent nature from doing what it is supposed to do, and just like that we have traffic jams in every city loaded with people who really did not have to exist. We need to do something to curb the numbers a little bit here, and letting these dudes rip it is a step in the right direction. When the zombie apocalypse starts, who do you want riding you to safety? Chino, or the kid whose mom wouldn’t let him play soccer without a helmet on?
I’m starting to channel Bill Burr here, so I’ll let him take the wheel:
Two factors at the very beginning of this video led me to believe that it was going to be an absolute hammer: 1) Sinisalo helmet. 2) The amount of number plates on the front of that black CR250 (spoiler alert: it’s none). Right off the bat, I’m hooked. And rightfully so, because this was a game-changer. This was seriously the Breaking Bad of moto videos – it was good already, then the twist at the end turned the whole show on its head. Lights out; I’m about to buy the Blu-Ray and it doesn’t even exist. This is further proof that Russia might be the empirical leader of NFG. After seeing this, it’s really a testament to America’s brass for not surrendering during the Cold War. If these guys had missiles pointed at you, it might be the ballsiest move ever to say “Fuck off. I dare you to launch those bad Larrys.” So I mean really, score one for America.
How about that chick though? Worst acting job in the history of the business. Are you really expecting me to believe that you said no to a man that was riding a CR250 backwards and calling you out? Impossible. Literally impossible. She’ll be on a mail-order bride website next week.
Let us take a second again to recognize the dynamic existence of the track snack. Over three years ago, BRO submitted to the world the Salute to Moto Hoes. We love them, really we do. They are an essential aspect of the track ecosystem, because studies have shown that 92% of any action pursued by the man is done purely with the intention of getting laid as a direct result. Don’t believe me? Google it. Ok, I made that up, but all the men in the audience believed it anyway, because it is totally true. Society would completely crumble, and that is not an exaggeration at all, if men were not constantly doing shit to get pussy. But still, why do moto hoes exist? What is happening in their heads that makes them attracted to a bunch of idiots who can ride a motorcycle and flick it around all willy-nilly? I decided to dig deeper.
And the results were astonishing (not really, I’m just trying to sound cool). You see, these girls grow up in a very distinct environment – the racetrack. To simply put it as male-dominated is only to graze the surface of the matter. Things still really wouldn’t make sense, since most areas in life are male-dominated, like athletics, business, politics, the military, jungle warfare, the world championship of midget-throwing, and space, as far as I know. Why then do these girls act the way they do in such high numbers? It is because the world of motocross is not only male-dominated, it is a realm with a very real and defined hierarchy of men. Unlike team sports, where sometimes a star will separate himself from the herd, but for the most part athletes are only as good as their team, every racer at the track has a unique spot on the totem pole, or the food chain, if you will. It could be argued that there are certain tiers that dudes share (A riders, B riders, C riders, complete joes), but deep within the heart of the situation, every guy has his own spot. Either you’ve beaten him more times or he’s beaten you more times. It is a labyrinth of individual head-to-head competitions, on a psychological level.
The women of the racetrack (again, this is a generalization, even though it’s absolutely true) see this hierarchy, and behave accordingly. In just the way that women are attracted to money and fame, they are attracted to fast riders. Why? Because they have separated themselves from the herd, and proven to be the best at something. It means, to these ladies, that these guys are the finest specimens in their world, so they ought to be the finest specimens all around, and these girls want fine specimens all over their face. Because, at the end of the day, that’s how nature works. No one is here to say that women can’t be strong, independent beings (he said with no sarcasm at all). Seriously though, I personally know several girls who won’t even touch any sandwich making necessities out of principle. But, let’s be honest, rams don’t butt heads and deer don’t have huge antlers for shits and giggles. Motocross is a legitimate food chain, and these girls aren’t just hungry, they’re thirsty. It’s science, BROs. Trust me, I’m a blogger.
Now I’m going to close this off speaking only to the females: I know you are reading this thinking “OMG, that is so not true. I am LOLing at your ignorance.” Fine, you needn’t believe me. True, some girls are at the races to race. But an overwhelming amount of them are there for the extracurricular activities. No one is bashing you, girls. Hating on track snacks is a direct result of giving a fuck, which BRO will never endorse.
By now, the information has settled within you. Kurt Caselli has moved on. This one was tough folks. I know they all are, but this one took the wind out of the sails around here. I never met Kurt Caselli in person. The first time I saw him was in 2009 at Monster Mountain in Alabama, before BROtocross ever existed. I knew he was an offroad guy, but he was absolutely incredible on the track. The course there has ruts like you wouldn’t believe, and he was perfect in them every time. I was a fan after that. Not long after starting BRO and getting some legitimate recognition, Kurt e-mailed me out of the blue. He just wanted to tell me that he was a fan of the site and looked forward to reading what I had to say about basically anything. At this point, media people had expressed their affection for BRO, but never a pro rider. I always write everything for the core population of this sport – the riders – and to have one of Kurt’s caliber on my side was something special, and very encouraging. Honestly, there is a degree of this site’s success that can be attributed to that e-mail.
Some of you might also remember that I was the first one to drop the definitive story that Dungey was 100% signed to KTM (I’m linking the story, but save the criticism because I am well aware that just about everything I said other than him being signed turned out to be completely wrong and I look like an idiot in hindsight). In the post, I said I had the info on good authority, and that good authority was Kurt. He was apparently in the KTM headquarters in Cali when Ryan was actually there signing the papers. Kurt sent me, and as far as I know, only me, the scoop. It doesn’t mean much now, but I thought it was so cool of him to give me the news over any other media outlet. It made me feel like a boss, because I knew Kurt was a boss.
This weekend was not a good moto weekend for me, even beyond this news. Yesterday, I got a flat tire within 5 laps of getting on the track. I waited for 2 hours for someone to show up with a tube, then in changing it, I pinched it, effectively ending my day. I was furious; nothing within reason was going to fix my mood. I said out loud “Holy fuck, I’m going to kill myself.” Of course I didn’t mean it; it was a figure of speech that I use maybe a little too often. But sitting here now, typing this, I regret saying that. It was two flat tires, cry about it. I will ride again, Kurt will not. At least not in this world. That’s why it was important for me to say this. Where he cannot ride, BRO will. We all will. We will drag bar, do whips, scrub jumps, block-pass joes, do wheelies, rip trails, rail ruts, hit rev-limiter, and have fun in the name of Caselli. I ride for Kurt.
I also think it’s worth mentioning that while the original speculation around the accident was that Kurt had hit a booby trap, reports are now surfacing that it was a regular cattle crossing (and happened during daylight hours). I was beyond enraged at the booby trap news, and while I know that they do actually pop up at Baja, there is some comfort in knowing that Kurt’s death was not the result of a horrendous example of human indecency.
http://madison.craigslist.org/mcy/4173538451.html 2003 YZ450F Needs a gas tank(it has a make-shift one on it now). Needs a muffler. Good rubber. Recent clutch. Many extras(call for details). Runs and rides great. First $1200 or best reasonable offer. Must sell this week. Need money for court. John 224-XXXXXXX. Delivery available. I posted this ad for a friend. This video is of him racing his YZ450F and my Harley (and blowing away the police): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ui770U2v0aI
Here’s some of the other extras it has: Enzo race suspension. Genuine Yamaha racing clutch. Gold anodized forks. 13:1 compression piston. 478 cc kit.
I say this every time I post these, but I again emphasize the fact that I am vehemently opposed to posting CraigsList ads. It’s not even that I don’t think there are a lot of funny ones out there, quite the opposite really. I mean, this whole site could turn exclusively into a CraigsList comedy blog in about 15 minutes if I posted all the retarded shit that people send in.
But having said that, I had to post this one, for several reasons. First of all, it comes with a video. Every white trash asshole in America should carry around a camera 24/7, and this is all the evidence I need to support that idea. Second, just take a look at that machine. There is no shot you won’t end up on the box with that steed (interpret that whichever way you decide to). And finally, the dude supposedly outran the cops, but now he needs money for court. And you know what the best part is? He’s probably telling the truth. His legal issues almost definitely have nothing to do with what’s happening in the video because the guy without a doubt went straight to the liquor store (where he took the photo to sell the fucking bike) and tried to rob it. So the question now is what are the odds that he actually did it with a box on his head?
P.S. Another odds question: What are the chances that when he says “Gold anodized forks”, he means the stock gold on the actual fork legs? Like a billion percent, right?
Back to RTS with a vengeance! The youngbloods are throwing punches like Pacquiao out there. You pay for the whole seat, folks, but you only need the edge.
OK, so we have Adam Cianciarulo: basically red-headed motocross phenom. Short in stature, large in talent and sun block requirements. Then we have Jessy Nelson: certified ripper and holeshot master, missing his clutch-side thumb after a bad experience of not giving a fuck. Each a master of his craft, having overcome extreme adversity (Nelson for the thumb, AC for being perpetually 11 years old) to become a motocross star.
Now, the scrubs. AC’s is his from MOTO 5, and you can actually see the clip in the trailer for the film. Absolute hammer of a scrub. Jessy’s is from Straight Rhythm, and you can also see its twin brother in the video. Again, it’s an absolute hammer. Both off steep lips, one to the right, the other to the left. This one is almost too close to call, BROs…
What is this, change? I usually hate change, because it means something different is happening, and I, like all good BROs, hate things that are different, like KTMs, not-America, gingers, and nerds.
But here we have a rhythm section. And it’s straight. Like, no turns whatsoever. A straight rhythm. Whoa, I just blew my own mind. Anyway, Red Bull Excitebike Straight Rhythm is blowing up the internet right now. Red Bull is always trying to mix things up, whether they be retarded (Parkour shit, Crashed Ice, this thing) or awesome (Rampage, Kluge, X-Fighters minus the wind, anything with Travis Rice).
But this is what motocross needs. Why? Because no one needs to train for a 60-second moto. Listen, I love Ricky Carmichael, and I respect everything he did as a motocross racer. But he ruined it for everyone when he started training his ass off and destroying the whole field. I’m pretty sure that some racers were mid-keg stand and just like “Wait, what? We’re doing that now?” And just like that, the party was over. And I know that some of you Mormon-types are thinking, “No way dude. Motocross is supposed to be intense and gnarly and other stupid adjectives.” Listen chief, we’ll still have the Nationals and regular SX for that crap. This is for guys who like to have fun and can do ridiculous things on motorcycles. And let’s not forget that, on average, riders made a lot more money when people didn’t train as much and drank beers and grabbed the trophy girl’s ass and popped ecstasy before the main event in Vegas and had to pull off halfway through because they were rolling so hard. Now, with Straight Rhythm, it doesn’t matter. Blood dope all you want, Lance Armstrong; it’s not going to do dick. That’s why I like this. I could give a fuck about all the “new” fans that might come in; they all wear fanny packs, anyway.
Preface: If you have not seen BRO: The Film, then I’m sorry your life has not been enlightened in the way that mine has. But that is why this blog exists, because the readers know that I am better at using my brain than they are. That is why this story is necessary. 30 minutes into seeing BRO: The Film, I realized that BRO: The Film is an essential piece of the zeitgeist that cannot go without my gonzo contribution to it. So here it is, my experience as a BRO. The Film.
Day one in Southern California, I stepped on to the pavement taking in the sweet mix of Los Angeles pollution and lingering Purple Vanilla Kush residue. A dough-eyed innocent from the east coast, with my skin unadorned by tattoo ink and my truck tragically sitting at OEM height, I was an alien in a foreign land (which coincidentally is filled with aliens).
My first stop was the track, and that is when I saw them. The BROs. Knights of the moto realm, gloriously festooned in black socks, black hats, and black everything else except for skin, they struck admiration and fear everywhere they went, often flanked by a pair of tits so fake that they come with a warning label. The black plastics of their bikes shone through the pits on even a cloudy day, because these dudes were true badass motherfuckers. Sometimes, they ride the track, sometimes they hit the freestyle jumps. Sometimes, they sit there and try to fight people. The world is their oyster.
I had to approach them. Mustering the courage, I walked up to say hello. I stumbled in the accepted greeting of the region, clumsily missing the requisite fist bump that follows the sideways high-five. They ridiculed me at first, but I earned their respect when I threw a beer can into an innocent bystander’s truck, just because he was different than me. I was in. Now it was time to find out what real motocross was all about.
It wasn’t until my 3rd or 4th line of some of the finest Columbian nose-candy this side of Lindsay Lohan’s nostrils that I realized that this was the key to my success as a motocross rider. The blow. The fake titties. The tattoos. The obscenely high trucks. The general aura of douchebaggery. This was motocross. My youth had been wasted with racing, working out, spending weekdays watching races and trying to become a better rider/person. I was but a sheep amongst a foolish and ignorant herd. But alas, my eyes, for the first time, were opened, thanks to the beautiful cognizance brought on by several grams of a wonderfully illicit substance.
I also listen to this on repeat.
I started training bright and early the following morning. Breaking up bag after bag of cocaine, I could already see my future in motocross taking shape. I was picking this up fast, and by noon, I was bagging the shit out that coke, without even a look at the scale, entirely confident that my skills had surpassed the need for such unnecessary assurance. I was becoming the best motocross rider I could be, right there at my kitchen table, each bump sharpening my senses and my abilities on the bike. It was only a matter of time before the sponsors came calling. The agencies were undoubtedly tossing my name around, next to names like Deegan, and not-Deegan. Occasionally, I would catch myself drifting off in thought of what energy drink I would ride for. Was I a Rockstar guy, or would I fly the green and black of Monster? The question rattled back and forth in my head as the cocaine killed off my weaker brain cells, leaving more room for the stronger ones, in a perfect illustration of neuro-Darwinism.
The time came for me to bring my newly-honed bike skills to the track. I pulled up to Pala at the crack of noon, the sun gleaming off my truck’s fresh coat of black that had been spray-painted on there (even a spray-paint covering of black looks better than any of the other colors that for some reason exist). I unloaded my bike and got to work straight away. Removing my shirt to reveal a throng of dragon tattoos, tribal tattoos, and tattoos incorporating various guns and bullets, I sat down next to my bike, beer in hand (Budweiser, of course) and stared off into the California skyline. To each passing female, a simple tilt of the sunglasses would suffice to inform her of my sexual prowess as an alpha male jackhammer. And to each passing rider, a relentless glare combined with a purse of the lips to communicate the fact that I could level his whole family with one solidly delivered punch. My motos would consist of exactly this, sometimes riding around in the pits doing so. I hit the road at the end of the day barely able to see the road; not drunk, mind you, just exhausted from drinking so much.
And that was that. My professional motocross life has now begun. The horrors of an existence devoid of drugs and suspiciously androgynous women are now behind me, and I can focus on my goals as a racer: To beat up anyone who questions my sexuality, and to maybe ride a motorcycle, sometimes. Until next time BROs, remember, hit your woman with a bag of soap. No bruises, no worries.
The last five minutes could legitimately be sold at Starbucks. I’ve got so much “get up and go” in me right now, it is not even funny. I could without a doubt lift a car off a trapped child at this moment.
I hate doing hill climbs out in the trails and always will. They are the worst. Everyone thinks it’s such a blast to run up a steep pitch and then just whiskey throttle your bike until the fenders don’t exist anymore, but fuck that noise. I legitimately hate it, like I will do anything I can to get around the hill. I am that guy whose ability on a motorcycle gets progressively worse the steeper the hill becomes. Every hillclimb on the planet could get AIDS tomorrow and I would feel nothing.
A million NFG points to the guy on the Yamaha at the 1:25 mark. When push comes to shove, and you must either let off the throttle or hit some redneck’s ankle wide open, true men know what to do. His ankle will heal [probably]; there’s a race to win.