Hey America. This is Brian Purtymun, a.k.a. “Mr. Red”. Now that I’m back in Georgia and not paying $3.50 for a Snickers bar any more, I thought I’d give y’all the scoop about what went on in Los Angeles last week. Some of you who didn’t get selected for one of the finalist or semi-finalist slots would probably prefer that I burn in Hell. But rest assured, the magazine business is indeed work and not all play, so don’t think you’re missing out on some ultimate playboy lifestyle. Since this whole process was called the “Extreme Job Interview”, and our TV airwaves are saturated with reality-based programming, you’re probably expecting to hear about a bunch of secret alliances, backstabbing, and drama like that. Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, but all of the contestants were regular guys who got along well and were cordial to each other. Unless they were all plotting something against me that I wasn’t aware of, in which case I just got screwed, big-time. Just kidding.When the elevator door opened at the 17th floor of the Petersen building on Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles last Monday afternoon, I was expecting chaos. Since this is Dirt Rider magazine, you would think they’d have a pit bike track set up in the office, launching bikes over each other’s cubicles and breaking out into riotous laughter when someone smashed a KLX 110 through a wall. Where was the heavy metal music blasting from a boom box? The spray paint on the walls? The bonfire made out of environmentalist magazines and bumper stickers? Instead, I stepped out of the elevator into a deathly quiet, but normal-looking office. Puzzled, I rounded a corner, searching for Jimmy Lewis.Based on some peoples’ complaints of Jimmy getting too much face time in the magazine, here’s what I imagined meeting him would be like as I took the elevator ride up from the lobby: imagine an egomaniac sitting in a hot tub, wearing a huge foam cowboy hat. Trophy girls are rubbing his back as he clamps down on a fat cigar with his teeth like a Texas oil tycoon, cackling and playfully splashing water on the girls. I then pictured him yelling into a cell phone at a manufacturer’s rep, demanding that a new CRF450X test bike be delivered to the office immediately. As he yelled, his cigar plopped out of his mouth and sizzled out in the hot tub. One of the girls rubbing his back placed a fresh cigar in his mouth immediately and lit it for him.Instead, I ended up meeting a regular guy in street clothes. No iced-out medallions hanging from his neck; no entourage. There is no Ivory Tower, where motojournalists are worshipped and given free access to everything. The entire Dirt Rider staff is just a bunch of regular people who happen to love dirt bikes.Since Pete (“Mr. Pink”) already lives in L.A., he must like it pretty well. Dan (“Mr. Brown”), Derek (“Mr. Blue”), and I however, agreed after a couple of days there that L.A. is kind of a whacked-out city to live in. I don’t know if I’ll get selected and have these wicked powers of journalism again, so I’d like to rant for a couple of minutes and give the electronic middle finger to Le Meridien, the swank hotel in Beverly Hills that Dan, Derek, and I stayed in during our first night in Los Angeles. After dinner at Rocco’s where we met the Dirt Rider staff, we followed Jimmy in my high-dollar Dodge Neon rental car over to the hotel. Jimmy was driving his Subaru, and as we pulled up to the front drive of the hotel, the valets waved us through as if to say: “get this crap outta here.” So we parked on the side and tried to walk inside to register. Then the valets told us we couldn’t park there. I tried to pull into the underground parking deck, and the valet told me customers can’t park their own car at this hotel; that it’s valet-only. I guess when we first pulled into the hotel, they waved us through because they thought we were poor bums in a Subaru and a Dodge Neon and didn’t have the nerve to try to actually stay at their fine establishment.Anyway America, get this: we were all snapped out of our post-dinner grogginess when the guy tells me that valet parking is $24. Twenty-four dollars! To park a car?! I said “WHAT?!”, Derek said “HUH?!”, and Dan said “YOU GOTTA BE…” all at the same time. Registration was a pain, and at checkout the next morning, they tried to bill everything to mine and Derek’s cards, even though Jimmy told them it was all going on his corporate card. The clerk didn’t seem to care and just said something about how Tyra Banks was going to be there, and didn’t pay much attention to us. By the way, Tyra has a new talk show out. It’s called Canceled The First Season. Actually, it’s creatively titled: The Tyra Banks Show. I’ve never seen it, but three guys from Dirt Rider magazine clearly take priority over a minor celebrity like her.But that’s not all. This was supposed to be a high-class hotel, where one would think certain things were included in the already high price. But Internet access for me to send e-mail to my family was $10.99 (I didn’t get online that night). I screwed up and didn’t bring enough food in my bag with me, and I was forced to order room service for breakfast. Two mini boxes of Raisin Bran, some milk, and a glass of grapefruit juice were $20, plus tip. The Snickers bar I grabbed out of the snack basket on my dresser the previous night was $3.50. Hey, what was I supposed to do? There were no vending machines, and if I left and went to a convenience store, they’d try to charge another $24 to park the Neon again. Welcome to L.A.!Day Two was all about the office work. We were assigned to edit a few articles, as well as an individual project. Mine was to research knee brace info for a possible upcoming comparison. As I said before, it sure is quiet in the Dirt Rider office. My attention drifted to the view of the city outside of the office window. Pete (“Mr. Pink”) came by my workspace and casually mentioned that all the tiny little houses below with a yard the size of a picnic blanket were “at least a million dollars.” It’s nice to know that the workingman can still aspire to own his own home someday.
Now for the really fun part- Day Three. After a night in a Motel 6 (more like Motel 4 ) next to the freeway, we all were ready to get out of town and enjoy some peace and quiet in the desert. Nothing makes for rest and relaxation like an exhaust brake on an 18-wheeler being used at 3:30am. Senior Editor Karel Kramer had been nice enough to escort us to his house the previous night after taking us out to dinner, so that I could pick up some of his riding gear, and he also let us borrow riding vests to keep warm during the next day. Karel (pronounced “Carl”) has a wealth of industry experience, and had some good stories to tell about the magazine industry, including stories about riding with champions Malcolm Smith and Dick Burleson. To any Southerners reading this, be forewarned: you can’t get any decent iced tea out in California. I understand that sweet tea is the nectar of life down South but trust me, don’t fight it and just order a Coke with your meal instead.After meeting Jimmy, his wife Heather, and Jesse Ziegler for breakfast at Denny’s at 6:45am Wednesday, we headed up to Hungry Valley riding area, north of L.A. As the miles clicked by on the Interstate, the traffic slowly faded away and the hills got steeper. Coming from the East coast, I was amazed at how jagged the peaks of the nearby hills looked compared to the worn and rounded shape of the older Appalachian Mountains I’m used to. One thousand…two thousand…three thousand feet above sea level we climbed. The Dodge Neon’s engine struggled to keep up with the posse, but soon enough we exited the Interstate and found ourselves in the middle of nowhere. The great thing about working for a magazine is that you get to ride in the middle of the week. Jimmy later told us that Hungry Valley is absolutely packed on the weekends, sometimes with upwards of 20,000 people. Well, rolling into the parking lot at 8:00 on a Wednesday morning allowed us the distinct advantage of having the place almost entirely to ourselves.
Soon, Jimmy assigned each of us a bike, and mine was the 2006 Honda CRF150F. You can read about it here: www.dirtrider.com/extremejob/141_0510_purty_crfBy mid-day, we had each taken some pictures and done some riding. I had gathered a good first impression of the little Honda, and was taking notes for the plane ride home. After spending the morning exploring Hungry Valley, we became…well, hungry! Since Jimmy is a Dakar Rally racer, I was starting to wonder if he was going to have us break up into teams and use our map-reading skills to compete for a pack of Slim Jims buried under a rock somewhere. Luckily, his wife Heather was nice enough to go to Carl’s Jr. (just like Hardee’s back East) and get food for everybody.Jimmy loves riding so much that I think he forgot about lunch. I can see why he said that it’s hard to get photo models to come out and shoot with him, because he really does get out there early and stay all day. If I didn’t have any volunteers, I’d put myself into the magazine a lot, too. He also didn’t brag about his skills; he just started doing something without warning, like take the CRF150F and ride it through a tree with a split trunk.
After lunch, we all started to relax and get comfortable with the field-testing process and the camera equipment. We switched bikes and got to play around a little on each of them. I rode a Honda CRF250X, a Yamaha WR250F, and a WR450F. Although I raved about the 250X’s slipper clutch and smooth power output, my favorite bike of the day would have to be the big Yamaha WR450F. I love torque, and a novice like me tends to short-shift a bike when riding. The big WR delivers plenty of torque, allowing me to shift early and still have enough low-end left over in the next gear to accelerate hard. It was during my brief time on the Yamaha WR450F where the pinnacle of my trip was reached.I headed out on the trail, cracking the throttle halfway open. The big WR belted out its thumping soundtrack as we zipped across the desert together. I struggled to keep the bike from fishtailing the entire time, and probably looked like a goon. But in my mind I was Johnny Campbell, smoothly motoring on my way to another Baja 1000 victory. I backed off the throttle a few times, then thought: “when am I going to be here again?” and decided to go for broke and wring the engine out for all it was worth. As I clicked through the gears and the desert scenery faded into a gray-green blur, my heart rate increased, and the chorus from Elton John’s Rocketman played in my head:
And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time
Till touchdown brings me round again to find
I’m not the man they think I am at home
Oh no no no, I’m a rocketman…
I downshifted going into a corner and pinned it upon exit. Launching a cloud of sand behind me, the 450 pulled a fat wheelie and shoved me down the next straightaway like a ground-to-air missile.“Rocketmaaaaan! Burning out his fuse up here alone!” I sang as loud as I could inside of my helmet, while the WR accompanied my vocals with a thunderous “BRAAAAP!” as we made beautiful music together at 12,000 RPM. Later in the day, Jimmy and the gang were racing each other in a tight figure eight with berms in it. After railing the berms over and over for several minutes, he pulled out of the figure-eight, shut his bike off, removed his helmet and simply sighed: “Man, motorcycles are fun!” I couldn’t agree more.DR Tested—Jimmy Lewis’ Patience
| Incident | Max. | Rated |
| Le Meridien Registration | 20 | 17 |
| Valet Parking Rip-Off | 30 | 25 |
| Slow Service At Denny’s | 20 | 19 |
| Nervous Photo Model | 20 | 19 |
| Damaged CRF450X | 10 | 8 |
| Total | 100 | 88 |
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