Everything has been so crazy lately that you'd think that I'd have material stacked up for this installment of Whiskey Throttle. But for the longest time the column was sitting on the back burner and I was starting to get the cold sweats about it. Then I was thinking about a recent death in my family when my thoughts spiraled off into the family connections within motocross and, more specifically, the sibling bonds we develop in racing. ..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

I remember when my brother and I first started racing. We shared our first bike for a while until my parents got Aaron a sweet yellow P-Dub with a big ass number one plate on it. He loved that thing when he got it, but I felt like I had gotten the better deal when I kept the newer bike. Showing some brotherly love, I let him wear my helmet while I opted for the less stylish open face and ski goggle set up that we ran back then. Eventually, we both got trick O'Neal and USA gear sets—yes USA was a real gear brand—and started getting better by racing each other. We learned to ride at this place we called Cargill that was about as safe as holding a newborn child over a balcony, Michael Jackson style. There were trails going everywhere and we even had a track on the side of a hill that featured an impressive figure-eight section. It was an awesome track to practice on, that is, until Aaron decided to punt me at the cross-road section of the track. It wasn't his fault, but I think he may have enjoyed seeing me squirm on the ground trying to get some air back into my lungs.

Not long after the Cargill incident, we were racing 60's in Arvilla, home of multi-talented columnist Steve Drewlo, when our disastrous tendencies flared up again. I'd gotten a good start, but was pinched off in the first turn by some blonde kid running a bold number one plate on his bike. I went down in front of the entire pack sprawling flat on my back in the process. Who would be the one person to run me over? It was Aaron of course. He hit me smack in the middle of my stomach; his Dunlops folding me into a taco shell as he roosted into turn one. I was left in the dust uttering that familiar, "I NEED AIR!" growl. As it happened, I had no idea who'd run me over, but Aaron knew exactly who he'd just plowed. He dropped his bike on the side of the track and ran back to me yelling, "I'm sorry Justin!" As I think about it now, he may have been one of the first people on the scene, probably just to see me writhing in pain once again.

Years have gone by since Aaron has used my body as a door mat, and I can't specifically remember the last time I wrestled him to the ground after gut wrenching defeat. Now, I find myself realizing the bond that we've formed through years together in the back of the truck or mud drenched at the race track. I've gained some valuable perspective on racing, and the entire family aspect of our sport has come into much clearer focus.

A German general spoke to his men at the end of World War II, quoting Shakespeare and wishing his men long and happy lives while gesturing to the unbreakable bond of brotherhood that they'd developed while sharing the ordeal with each other. While nothing in motocross comes close to the horrors or sacrifices that the Greatest Generation made, the concept of brotherhood lives on in our sport. Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, competitors and best friends alike; all share an unbreakable bond of brotherhood developed through the extreme highs of victory, and the heart wrenching moments of defeat. Through it all I consider myself lucky to be one of, "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers."

During one of the very first Grass Roots work sessions in the basement that we half jokingly called "the office," BK and I decided that I would do a monthly installment where I could rant and rave about whatever I wanted and we'd call it Whiskey Throttle. Whiskey Throttle is a term I probably heard for the first time while hanging around the Barnesy Racing trailer back when Yamaha's were pink and Kawasaki was just thinking about putting a purple tank on their bikes. Monte Barnes was telling me in his very deliberate and all knowing voice how Kris had wadded up during his last ride and he used the term "Whiskey Throttle." Naturally, not wanting to look like the kid who didn't know what Whiskey Throttle meant, I just played along and gave a bucktoothed smile. I remember wondering for days what Monte really meant by the term until I finally heard one of the Barnes boys use it for themselves. That was when I started to develop my own personal understanding of the term Whiskey Throttle. ..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Here it is, after several requests, the explanation of the term Whiskey Throttle, as used in an everyday moto conversation according to the Fisky Racing Dictionary.

Whiskey Throttle- is when a rider comes barreling into a section of terrain and temporarily or fully loses control of their motorcycle. Some examples can include; pinning it through the biggest set of sand whoops you can find and doing the biggest back and forth swaps you can imagine only to save it by, ironically, pinning it. Also, attempting your first bubba scrub and forgetting the second half of the maneuver where you need to bring the bike back to its upright and straight position, causing your to land sideways swap back and forth several times before being launched onto your hind parts at the base of the jump. This usually happens in front a crowd of riders you were hoping to impress or if you're lucky, in front of some hot coeds who you'll be able to convince that what you did was a normal and everyday experience for a motocrosser. To put it the most basic way that I can, Whiskey Throttle really relates to the sound made by your bike when you desperately pin the throttle and everyone can here the "RAAP, RAAP, RAAP!" sound made either right before an amazing save or a film worthy get off.

Whiskey Throttle the column name is really the work of part time NDMA motocross announcer Nick Hulberg. Nick and I played hockey together when we were in high school and when I approached him to do the official announcing for the Ruthville motocross race he became an instant hit. Nick's energy and play by play announcing style was a breath of fresh air at the races and it wasn't long until he started giving nicknames, literally, to some of his favorite riders. "Righteous Reidman" was one of his favorites and apparently, in the middle of a heated 125 A battle between myself and another rider, he started yelling "Whiskey Fisky" into the mic.  People started asking me immediately if I had a wild side that involved Mr. Jack Daniels or Jim Beam but that couldn't have been further from the truth. At the time I'm pretty positive that most Minot State University freshmen were sailing with the Captain, but don't quote me on that. Nick just liked saying Whiskey Fisky so I ended up stuck with it whenever he took over the announcing duties at the races. When it came time to figure out what to call my monthly column in Grass Roots it was an easy decision. A big thank you goes to Monte Barnes and Nick Hulberg for unknowingly helping to create what we now know as "Whiskey Throttle, a Grass Roots column by Justin Fisk." Could you imagine it by another name? How about Lutafisk? It just wouldn't be the same.

Justin Fisk - Editor

I recently had a chance to spend some high quality time with a couple of Canada's best characters when they decided to ditch the snowy climate of Manitoba and shoot down to the more bearable, and rideable, North Dakota.  Josh Penner, who you can read about later in this issue and his boss Jim Fredrickson loaded up the truck and headed south to the Schriock compound for some early spring riding. Josh had stopped by earlier and was hopeful that the tracks would be in as good of shape as he was treated to the week before. Jim on the other hand didn't really know what he was headed for and was all smiles when he saw the mint track conditions that he was going to shred for the next two days.

Anyways….the first day that the two of them were ripping up the track I was forced to sit on the sidelines and watch because of some complications with my bike that I'd rather not talk about. I shead a single tear thinking about it now, but I'll get over it. The time we spent sitting around in the shop and chatting turned out to be both hilarious and informative. Jim owns Frederickson Performance Center in Brandon, MA where he trains athletes to achieve their elite level of fitness. Jim has actually trained several guys who have gone on to be first round draft picks for the NHL, so needless to say he knows his shit. And, if you still don't think he's the real deal, Jim can just squash you with his paint can biceps. When we weren't talking about making ourselves look like the next Conan the Destroyer, we were constantly making Canada vs America jokes and ripping on each other. As we were going back and forth about Mr. Schriock's eating technique that looked a lot more like inhalation than chewing, I couldn't help myself but to let out a snort or two when the occasional "eh…" spurted out. If we were in Canada I'm sure I'd be getting ribbed for saying "Huh…" after sentences.

On day two I begged my dad to let me ride his bike a little bit and he reluctantly agreed, knowing full well that most of the time when I use his stuff I do some sort of stupid person move and end up owing him a new air box or something random like that.  Since I was taking it easy on Pops' bike I had a chance to sit back and observe the rest of the riding gang a little bit. When the gang got on the bikes it didn't matter where anyone was from or what type of bicep they were sporting under their jerseys. Everyone was just having a great time riding together and trying to do "sick whips" over the table tops. Aaaaa the greatness of motorcycle riding….. Maybe we should try sending a few thousand motorcycles to the middle-east and see if people quit fighting over ancient property boundaries. That will almost never happen but if it works to bring people together in so many other places why not give it a go in the dessert?

Remember when I told you that Jim was a best? When he and I decided to go for one more "rip" I had no idea that I was about to see a cartoon like strength demonstration. Jim went around a sand turn in front of me that let into a relatively small set of rollers. His borrowed Yamahamer dropped into a small hole and bucked him superman style into the air. When his legs came down there was no bike for them to land on and I was about to have a front row seat to an excellent swap out. I couldn't hold in my excitement!  Jim was dragging along side of his bike with the throttle pinned and my butt cheeks were the ones puckering up! I don't know about you guys, but when that stuff happen in front of me I always hear myself going, "ooooOOOOOOOO!" in a build up sort of scream.  All in one movement Jim did some sort of a Barney Rubble foot pedal move and hopped back onto his out of control bike and hit the next jump without ever letting off of the throttle. I was in utter amazement. I've had plenty of get offs and near get offs in my life but I have never done, nor seen, a whiskey throttle quite like that. I couldn't help but laugh under my helmet and think of the column. Without a doubt Jim would have been in the bushes had he not brought his Popeye arms with him from Canada. All he said when we stopped was, "That was sick eh….."

Justin Fisk - Editor

Whiskey Throttle Two!

It seems like I just wrote the last one of these! When BK and I decided to grab fourth gear and plow into this Grass Roots project, I had no illusions of it being an easy task. I had a good idea of how much work was going to be needed to satisfy the perfectionist tastes of the two of us. What I didn’t really dwell on too much was the amount of time I’d be spending on this project and the number of canker sores I’d see popping up in my mouth from our little moto mag. After just over two months of working on Grass Roots I have settled into a nice sleeping pattern similar to that of a new born baby. Though I may be losing a widget of sleep here and there, I wouldn’t want it any other way. Grass Roots has been a long time coming for the Mon Dak region and, as Ricky would say, "I’m super pumped" about it. However, Brandon and I haven’t been alone in working on GR. We’ve had a ton of help from everyone around us, and here’s a great big thanks to you guys! I recently hit the pavement again to check out the Sandbox Arena for some riding time and some recon work for an article that you can look for in Issue 3. The whole trip got me "super pumped" about riding my dirt wheeler again and when I got back I found myself pouring my energy, full throttle, into GR again. All of the work and time that has gone into making Grass Roots a reality has been worth it. We hope you enjoyed the first issue of GR and continue to enjoy our evolving Grass Roots project.

Justin Fisk

WHISKEY THROTTLE

When I was growing up I was what I'd like to think of as a fairly talented kid. I'm sure if you asked my parents they would just say "I'm so full of crap my eyes are brown" but that's just how they roll. I played a few different sports and did mediocre at most of them and I did and still strive to do well in school. But one sport in particular caught my heart and still holds it to this day. Motocross is what you could call my first love. As I'm sure hundreds of other stories have started before, my motocross life began when my parents bought me a beautiful white and pink Yamaha PW50. As I jumped on it for the first time, with my brown mullet flowing behind my helmet, I knew that I was destined for a life in motocross. As I've come through the age classes and had a million laughs and smiles doing it I've realized that this is what I want to do for the rest of my life. Most people can agree that we motocrossers have a common bond that breaks down all barriers and can help us relate to anyone who shares the passion of throwing a leg over the saddle and twisting the throttle. GrassRoots is just another way for us to get together and keep in touch with our motocross brethren. I hope you enjoy our little moto adventure and here's looking forward to slingin' some moto bull with you soon!

Justin Fisk.... editor