The summer heat in Dodge City hung over the fairgrounds like a wet blanket. Even before the engines fired, the dust had already worked its way into boots, leathers and lungs. To most people it was just another motorcycle race in the middle of nowhere Kansas. To Marsh Pottorff, a Norton distributor from Colorado, it was one of the biggest weekends of the year. At one time the Dodge City Race was the biggest race in the USA. It was plotted out in 1914 and run every year unless there was a war on. It's a field now.

A year earlier Pottorff had purchased one of Norton’s six Daytona Twins. The factory had gotten a few things wrong, but after months of work he had turned it into a proper racer. The machine was ready. Marsh was ready. He had come to Dodge City expecting to ride the race himself.

As he unloaded his pickup and rolled the Norton into the pits, he felt confident. The bike sounded magnificent; in his shop it sang through the gears, the exhaust note sharp and clean. Everything seemed perfect.

Then a voice behind him interrupted his plans.

“Mister, do you know anybody who has a motorcycle I could ride today?”

Marsh turned around.

Standing there was a skinny redheaded kid carrying his boots and helmet. He looked young—almost too young. His leathers were worn. There was nothing about him that suggested greatness.

“What’s your name?” Marsh asked.

The kid smiled.

“I’m Gary Nixon.”

The name rang a bell.

Months earlier Marsh had received a phone call from Oklahoma City. A young rider wanted to sell a BSA flat tracker and all his racing equipment. The caller had explained that his father had given him an ultimatum: get rid of the motorcycle or get out of the house.

Marsh hadn’t bought the bike and had forgotten all about the call.

Until now.

Looking at the young rider standing before him, Marsh had a sudden thought.

Why not?
He was forty years old. Gary was hungry, ambitious and clearly willing to ride anything. If the kid was fast, it would be good publicity for Norton. If he crashed or finished nowhere, well, they would still be the only Norton at the event.

“Put your leathers on,” Marsh said. “Let’s see what you can do.”

The Norton was no easy motorcycle to ride.

It was essentially a factory racer. Clip-on handlebars. Five-gallon hunchback fuel tank. Rearset controls tucked close to the rear wheel. The oil tank was built into the frame and the front chain relied on a manually operated drip-feed oiler. It demanded respect.

Marsh explained how he would ride it.

Gary listened politely.

Then he climbed aboard and adjusted himself in the seat.

The bike suddenly looked different.

The race began.

For the first half, Gary followed Marsh’s instructions exactly. The tachometer stayed around 7,000 rpm. Riders on faster machinery blasted past. Gary appeared content to circulate in the pack.

From pit lane Marsh signaled him.

Now.

Gary twisted the throttle harder.

The Norton surged.

The engine climbed to 8,000 rpm and Gary started hunting riders down one by one. Every lap he came around carrying more speed. Every lap another competitor disappeared behind him.

People began to notice.

“Who’s that kid on the Norton?”

By the closing stages Gary was charging toward the front. With six laps remaining he had climbed into fourth place and was reeling in the leaders.

Marsh could hardly believe it.

The skinny redheaded kid who had shown up begging for a ride was about to put a Norton at the front of a major race.

One more lap and he would be within striking distance.

Then disaster struck.

As Gary accelerated onto the backstretch, the motorcycle suddenly slowed.

The charge was over.Unknown to everyone in the excitement, a simple mistake had doomed the effort. At the halfway point Marsh had become so caught up in the race that he forgot to operate the chain oiler. Without lubrication the front chain overheated and failed.

The Norton coasted to a stop.

The victory was gone.

Yet nobody in the pits was talking about the broken chain.

They were talking about Gary Nixon.

The kid had arrived without a motorcycle, without a ride and without a reputation outside a small circle of racers. In a matter of laps he had shown everyone exactly what he could do.

Marsh never forgot it.

Years later, after Nixon became one of America’s greatest motorcycle racers and won national championships, people often acted as if success had been handed to him.

Marsh would shake his head.

“No,” he would tell them. “You’re wrong.”

He remembered the dusty morning in Dodge City. He remembered the redheaded kid carrying his helmet through the pits, looking for any motorcycle he could find. He remembered the way that Norton came alive when Gary climbed aboard.

Champions rarely announce themselves with trophies.

Sometimes they simply walk into the pits and ask:

“Mister, do you know anybody who has a motorcycle I could ride today?”