GIANT KILLER
DON EMDE' DAYTONA VICTORY
Some of you might say you already know my story about winning the 1972 Daytona 200. About how me and a big pack ofyamaha 350 riders held back for the first half of that race like a swarm of buzzing bees, then swooped in at the end as one leader after another went to the sidelines with broken motors, chains and worn out tyres. Well, that’s the quick read, but there is a little more to the story.
My desire to win the Daytona 200 didn’t begin the day I arrived there in March of 1972. It went back a very long time. I grew up in the San Diego area of California and for whatever reason, there have been more Daytona 200 victories recorded by racers from San Diego than any other city in the world. Before I was even born, my father, Floyd Emde, had raced to victory there, and my win 24 years later was the 11th by riders either born in the San Diego area or living there at the time. When I was growing up, my dad and mom had a motorcycle shop, so I got into the day-to-day motorcycle environment at a very early age. And it seemed like all the time people would be stopping by their shop to talk to my dad, or we’d be at one of the local races and he’d be talking to someone, and when that was over he’d say to me, “That was Ed Kretz, he won the first Daytona 200.” Then another time it might be: “That’s Brad Andres, he won Daytona three times.” So as I got a little older and started to ride and race motorcycles, it was pretty well ingrained in my brain that winning Daytona was a big deal, and also if I was going to be ‘anybody’ in the San Diego area I better win that race someday. Fast forward to 1971, I was now a member of the BSA factory team in America. I was obviously excited about finally getting to race in the Daytona 200, arguably the biggest single race in the world in those years. I was a bit disappointed to learn when I arrived there, however, that only Mike Hailwood and Dick Mann would have the newly revised Rob North frame BSA 750 triple called the Low Boy. Me and my other BSA team-mates, David Aldana and Jim Rice would be on the High Boy left over from 1970 (first generation Rob North frame geometry, taller and heavier).
I qualified fourth fastest for the race and finished third in my first Daytona 200, and this set a pattern of how my year went in 1971. I was third in a few other races, as well as other top five finishes and ended the year ranked third in road racing points behind Dick Mann and Kel Carruthers. That felt good, but not great and I wanted to do better. Something that was cause for some positive thinking was Gary Nixon’s win in the first segment of the Ontario 200-mile race at the last race of 1971. All year long I had finished ahead of Gary, who rode one of the Triumph Trident High Boys like my BSA. Then we got to Ontario and Doug Hele and the Bsa/triumph crew from England was there with a BSA Low Boy for John Cooper and they also brought along a new Low Boy Triumph for Gary to ride. Suddenly it was the Nixon of old and he took the win in the first of two 100-mile races. Bad luck struck in the second segment though, when a lapped rider blew a motor in one of the fast sweepers and Nixon, Mann and a few others hit the oil and crashed. John Cooper got through however and scored a close win for BSA over Kel Carruthers. Despite Gary’s crash, I could see how much of a difference there was between the two models. That said to me that I could do much better on a Low Boy model. When the last race of the 1971 season was over at Ontario Speedway in October, team manager Danny Macias came over to me and said they were happy with how my rookie season had gone and they were planning to have the same team for 1972 (Dick Mann, David Aldana, Jim Rice and myself). He said a contract would be in the mail soon and he’d see me at Houston (that was where two Dirt Track Nationals were held at the Houston Astrodome to kick off the racing season). Once I’d had a little time to relax and start thinking about 1972, one of my biggest hopes was that the next year I could ride one of the Rob North Low Boy triples like Dick Mann and John Cooper had ridden and won on. I didn’t know what BSA had coming for 1972, but the changes from 1970-71 were pretty dramatic. I could only dream of how I’d do against the likes of Dick Mann, Cal Rayborn, Gary Nixon and the many other great and now-legendary racers of the day if I was on the latest BSA model. I felt a lot of relief that the 1971 season was over. I finally had some time to think. It was so competitive in those years and with the full dirt track schedule we also ran, there really wasn’t time to make many changes or develop your programme as the races were happening. We had something like 20 National races (points paying events for the championship) and while on the road we’d stop and take in any dirt track races on our way, just to make money. In 1971 I probably ran 40-50 races. I did a lot of daydreaming then, always thinking about certain racetracks, especially Daytona, and how I could go faster there. There came a point in the fall of 1971 that my daydreaming went a step farther and I was convinced that yes, I would win Daytona in 1972. I knew my time had arrived after all these years dating back to when I was a little kid. And the feeling wasn’t just, “I think I can.” I was sure “I will win.”
GETTING THE AXE
In late November my dad was building me a brand new BSA 750 dirt track bike, and my positive thoughts continued about how my road race programme would go. My family all got together on Thanksgiving Day, then the next morning I was loading my trail bike into my van and getting ready to head out to the desert for some camping and trail riding. A postman drove up to deliver a letter to me from Birmingham Small Arms Company. I knew exactly what it was, of course. It was my contract for 1972. What else would it be? As expected, the letter was from Pete Colman, vice-president of Birmingham Small Arms Company in the United States. You can imagine my surprise however, when I noted there was no contract enclosed. So I started reading the letter, which began: “I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate you personally for your excellent racing performances during the 1971 season – and to tell you of our plans for 1972.” Next came an overview of BSA’S plans to race through private entries and the stunning words: “As they say, ‘nothing is forever…’ and therefore I must inform you that our team efforts have been officially withdrawn, and you are now free to make your own arrangements for the 1972 season.” Did I read that right? “Free to make your own arrangements?” Despite what the team manager had told me a month earlier, there I was, 100 days from the 1972 Daytona 200 and suddenly with nothing to ride. So began the first of a number of challenges to test my confidence about winning the 1972 Daytona 200. Plans for my trip to the desert were quickly cancelled and I got on the phone right away to see about any factory rides that might still be open. In the weeks to follow I wasn’t having too much luck until I had a promising conversation with Harley-davidson’s race chief Dick O’brien. He said if I was available for 1972 he’d like to talk, and he was coming soon to the west coast. We agreed to meet for dinner one night in Long Beach where he revealed that there was a strong chance that Cal Rayborn was going to sign with Suzuki. He had suffered through a couple of really frustrating years with Harley’s old Iron Head XR750 and wanted to ride to win. Harley’s team consisted mostly of talented dirt track racers, but with one exception of improving pavement racer Mark Brelsford, Cal was the lone hope O’brien had to win in road racing. At the end of the dinner, Dick wrapped it up saying that if Cal went to Suzuki I would be on the Harley factory team. But he said he didn’t have a budget for us both and if Cal stayed he couldn’t make me a team rider, but would help with bikes for dirt track and even road racing if I needed it. It turned out that the all-new alloy XR750 that Harley-davidson had coming for 1972 was too interesting for Cal to leave now. He felt he owed O’brien and Harley the chance to see how much better the new bike would be. So Cal stayed at Harley for 1972, although he did make the switch at the end of 1973 (and ultimately died in his first ride on a Suzuki in a non-championship race in New Zealand). Another call I made was to Kel Carruthers, who had been spearheading Yamaha’s road race efforts in the US the last couple of years. He let me know that Yamaha was putting a bigger road race team together, but was full up with the team riders all signed. But in our talk he let me know about the new six-speed Yamaha 350 TR3 that was coming for 1972 and he was confident it would be a competitive bike. It was now becoming apparent that there were no openings for a factory-sponsored rider in the US for 1972 and I needed to put something together as a privateer. So my next call was to my former tuner/sponsor Mel Dinesen, a Yamaha dealer from Bakersfield, CA. I had raced for Mel in 1969 and 1970 and we did some big things, including winning the AFM #1 National title, as well as winning the 100-mile 250cc National race at Talladega, AL in 1970, beating Gary Nixon and Cal Rayborn.
Mel was immediately excited about having me ride for him again. He had one rider arranged to ride in the Amateur ranks in 1972, but he would order one of the new six-speed models for me to ride in the Nationals. He also had Motorcycle Weekly publication on board to help sponsor some of his out-ofpocket costs. Being busy putting things together for a month or so, I hadn’t thought a lot about Daytona for a while. But soon that burning feeling returned, that things were falling in to place for me to win the race, especially after talking to Kel about the improvements to the newtr3. He was pretty sure that the new 750cc Suzuki and Kawasaki two-strokes that would be making their debut at Daytona would need to make two pit stops for gas and tyres, so that would cost them a lot of extra time in the race. And with the new six-speed transmission, I felt that was my ‘Silver Bullet’ that would allow me to keep up going around the banks. The new Yamaha 350 arrived from Japan in January and Mel wanted me to run an AFM club race at Willow Springs to break in the new bike. Everything went great there and I won the Open Class race against bikes up to 750cc. My confidence continued to build. In March, Mel and I had arrived in Daytona Beach, along with his other rider, Jim Evans. The first day of Bike Week included registration, setting up in the garage area, tech inspection, and the first practice session that afternoon. I made a stop at the Dunlop Tyre garage to see about getting tyres. Paul Butler from England was the Dunlop race manager at the time. I had got to know him well the previous year when I was a BSA factory rider and I pretty well expected that once a Dunlop sponsored rider, always a sponsored rider. But Paul had to give me the bad news that he only had a budget for the factory teams and as a privateer I would need to buy my tyres. So the negotiations began and I finally let my confidence slip out about winning and I said: “How about this? If I win the race, Dunlop will
provide me tyres for the rest of the year.” He agreed, probably thinking it wasn’t a risky bet. In the first practice session I found that I was having a lot more trouble staying with the 750cc Suzuki and Kawasaki machines than I was expecting. I figured they might have a few miles per hour advantage, but they were running over 175 mph, which was about 10-12 mph faster than my bike. That’s 2-3 seconds a lap just on the banking at Daytona and even with my six-speed I couldn’t stay in their draft. However, no sooner was their speed difference sinking in than I heard people talking about how their tyres were shredding in just a few laps. It sounded doubtful that Dunlop or Goodyear had a tyre for them that would go the distance in the race. As practice continued the next few days, things were breaking down into two groups, the big 750cc two-strokes that were ultra fast, but unlikely to finish… and the rest of us who came to run 200 miles. I must say it wasn’t easy to keep thinking I was going to win the race when you had seven or eight motorcycles on the track that you couldn’t keep in sight. But I did. Somehow this was going to work out. I knew it.
BAD DAYS AND GOOD DAYS
Thursday of Bike Week in those years was for qualifying. My lap times had me running around 10th fastest all week, but Mel and I didn’t get the gearing and jetting right that day – winds and atmospheric conditions are constantly changing there. I almost waved off my first qualifying run when I found I couldn’t pull sixth gear, but thought it wouldn’t hurt my lap time too bad. But it did. I went from 10th fastest in practice to a qualifying time that was 21st fastest! The next day was a good day for me. I was also entered in the 250cc Lightweight GP class and we ran our heat races that day. I ended up taking the win ahead of new Yamaha factory rider Kenny Roberts. He wasn’t the king yet, more of a prince, but he was fast and I felt good beating him out. Then on Saturday we raced the 100-mile Lightweight GP final. It was pretty much a Yamaha affair, and I had Kenny, Kel Carruthers, Gary Fisher, Dave Smith and many other top road racers to race with. We all had pretty identical Yamaha TD3S, which made for some good racing. In the race I was in a good battle for the lead with Roberts, Fisher and Smith. We went back and forth a few times until the 10th lap when I leaned my bike over in Turn One a little farther than normal. The left exhaust pipe grounded out, lifted the rear wheel and launched me over the high side at about 90 miles an hour. I landed on my head and right shoulder. While my first instinct was to try to get back on the bike, I soon realised that I might have broken something and I sat back down. Next thing I knew they were loading me into the ambulance and I was off to the nearby Halifax hospital for x-rays. I remember looking up at the ceiling of the ambulance wondering how was I going to win the race on Sunday if I was in the hospital? It turned out that I had not broken anything, but my right shoulder was swelling up fast. My parents drove me back over to the track and I wanted to see how it felt to sit on the bike. While I couldn’t move my right arm
outward very easily, I was able to sit on the bike and reach forward to the handlebars. I told Mel to have the bike ready to go Sunday morning. My dad stayed at the track to help Mel while my mom drove me back to the hotel. I just soaked in a hot bath mixed with Epsom Salt all that afternoon. I felt that was the only way I could keep the muscles in my shoulder loose enough so I could race on Sunday. In my mind the win that was in my head all these months was still on. After all the setbacks I had since getting the axe from BSA, I didn’t think there were too many more things that could get in the way.
RACE DAY
It was the AMA’S policy that any rider taken to the hospital after a crash had their racing licence pulled, so Sunday morning I first needed to go to the infield hospital to get checked out by a doctor. The outward stiffness was still there and painful to have him moving my shoulder around, but I had good grip and he cleared me to race. I was still stiff and sore for sure, and the morning practice session would tell us a lot about how competitive I would be. Since the life of the little 350cc Yamaha was uncertain there was no need to ride the whole session. I went just a few laps and got a good lap or two in to test my shoulder, then headed to the pits and I was ready to race. And ready to win. All of the other races had been run and it was down to the final event of Bike Week 1972. There was a lot of tension in the air. I remembered well the tragic crash the year before when I saw fellow-rookie rider Rusty Bradley suffer fatal injuries when he crashed going in turn one on the first lap. Over at the Suzuki garage they had a big drama going on with their severe tyre wear problem. They started the week with Dunlop, but the company advised Suzuki they could not in good conscience allow the riders to gamble on making them last for 200 miles (and no, nobody had thought of changing tyres during the race yet). At the last minute, Goodyear arrived with a special, and untested, batch of tyres. Suzuki decided to give them a go rather than pull out of the race. As for me, I still felt good about my chances, even with a stiff shoulder. It hurt, but I didn’t think it would slow me down. When it came time to race, I lined up on the fifth row. This would be my worst starting position of any race since I started racing at the National level. But all that concern was wiped out after the start. When the green flag fell I got a great start and my Yamaha quickly moved past a couple of rows of riders. The 1972 Daytona 200 would be the last race at Daytona where the field would go off the line and make a full lap around the 2.5-mile oval before heading into the infield. By the time the field got to the banking on what is known as NASCARTURN 1 I had gone from my 21st starting position to 10th, which was about where I had expected to qualify. The first few laps were pretty uneventful. On the banking I could see a small pack of riders pulling away from the group I was in. It was expected that the Suzuki and Kawasaki two-strokes would be fast at the start, and one of each went to the front with Art Baumann and Yvon Duhamel.there were also some Honda 750 four-strokes withyoshimura lineage up there with Gary Fisher and Roger Reiman. I thought things would now settle down and that I was in a great position to move up to the front when the 750s started to drop out. But on the third lap, the most surprising thing I could have imaged happened. It was actually my bike that began to falter. I first noticed a slightly different exhaust note and the tachometer began to lose a few revs. I took to the bottom lane in case I needed to pull off and for a while it kept running. But eventually I could feel the stress in the motor and the revs were falling. Finally, I had to pull in the clutch and I was now coasting dead-engine at 150+ mph with the pit entrance coming into view. At that moment, which seemed like minutes flying by, I had to make a decision. Other bikes were now speeding past me on the right as I headed towards the pits. But as I approached, my inner voice just said: “If you go in, you’re not going to win the race.” Quickly I thought, what could it hurt if I tried to get it running? So I leaned the bike to the right, aimed for the pad at the bottom of the track heading to the startfinish line and slowly let the clutch out. At first, the rear wheel was locked, but in maybe a second or two it broke loose and the motor restarted. I quickly downshifted a few gears and everything felt okay. I was back in the race, although I had lost at least twenty or more positions.