Ask Ping!

Ask Ping!

May 27, 2011 10:00am
Dear Ping,

It has been reported by a Guantanamo Bay prisoner that music torture was worse than physical torture because "he could anticipate physical pain [...] and knew that it would eventually end, but the experience of slipping into madness as a result of torture by music was something quite different."

I write this email having survived the motocross equivalent of the Guantanamo Bay music torture of its prisoners. What we endured this last Sunday at a North Texas track will be told around campfires for generations as the horrifying tale of “The Announcer Guy with Nothing to Say.”

It began innocently enough in the morning with the usual welcoming announcement, and then naturally flowed into the racing schedule, race rules, etc.  However, as we sat in the pits waiting for the first gate it became apparent that “The Rapture” was really happening in white speaker boxes, which surrounded the pits like a WWII prison camp.  From 7:30 am to 4:21 pm, there was a constant vomit of verbiage from Announcer Guy on his weight, his employment, the Mavericks, the weather, food, the fun we’re supposed to be having, the website address of the track (incorrectly stated for the first five hours), people that no one knew… over and over and over until our ears bled and young children came to us and begged “Mister…can you please turn off that speaker box?”  Occasionally he would mention the action on the track, but that was usually followed by the statement that he really couldn’t see the riders.  One moto featured an epic battle between two 250 A class riders, but he was too busy reporting the health developments of someone in, clear violation of Federal HIPPA laws, to notice the incredible inside pass the winner made to take the checkered flag.  Blessed silence only came when Announcer Guy would pause to eat free food. The relief was so intense that donations were made in an attempt to keep a steady stream of ribs going to the scoring tower.

Is the sport of motocross so far advanced, so far above the average person, that it is impossible to have straightforward, intelligent commentary of the actual racing?  Or have we truly slipped into Idiocracy with no hope for mankind because the spawn of Cletus is only interested in watching Burrito Supreme pummel some fool in a rehabilitation demolition derby and therefore cannot understand what it means to keep from wadding up in the whoops?





Dear Joe,

Nice Idiocracy reference. I’ve sat in many a dirt bike pit area and listened to “Announcer Guy” until I wanted to drown myself in the azure waters of the freshly serviced porta potties just to subside the annoying man’s chatter. It truly is a travesty when good people are forced to listen to that meaningless chin music all day. The problem is that you need an announcer that can fill airtime. But hiring the wrong guy can turn a nice day at the track into, well, apparently the emotional equivalent of water boarding. In supercross we have Erv Braun who has earned the nickname “Filibuster.” Erv Braun is to the microphone what Michael Phelps is to water. Not bong water, but actual pool water. If talking ever becomes an Olympic sport, Erv will be rolling through the pits with more hardware than mister Phelps as well. But Erv actually knows what he’s talking about most of the time so he isn’t as annoying to listen to. My only advice is to keep sending ribs up. If that fails, try marinating them in liquid laxative.

Good luck.




I was watching the Hangtown national today and this thought entered my head: Wouldn't it be funny if the 30-second girl tripped on her way to the sideline? Do you think they would hold the gate for her until she got up or would they let her be berm food? Am I wrong to think this? Should I seek professional help? I still think it would be funny.

Joe dobrodey



  • Every straight guy in this crowd is about to laugh.
Dear Joe,

Laughing at that would be completely inappropriate. And yet, I would laugh so hard I would probably need a diaper. In fact, if you looked around and there was a guy not doubled over in laughter at that moment we might finally figure out who the gay motocrosser is. Sorry, but the thought of a spokesmodel in shiny, high heel boots, a spandex unitard and so much makeup it looks like it was spackled on by a professional mason scrambling to the sidelines on all four like a Survivor contestant would be amusing. Let’s all hope for a boulder or dirt clod just big enough to cause a stumble to find it’s way to a national start line very soon.




Well I've been thinking about this more and more lately, but how many concussions is too many? I'm 15, and I've had about four concussions. First one was when I was racing and was going around a sweeper at Perris when I high-sided and slammed my head and knocked myself out. Second one was at my friend’s house where I got my head shoved into a wall and started bleeding and threw up. Third was me being an idiot and running around the house and tripping face first into a wall and causing myself to have to throw-up. And then the last one was when I was riding in the desert in the sand and ate it and knocked myself out again. I mean, these may not be the most serious concussions and I'm definitely not going to stop riding anytime soon, but I've been thinking about this since I wanted to start doing Martial Arts but I don't want to suffer more concussions.





  • Delicious, but not safe.
Dear Mach3,

It’s great to hear that you are thinking at all after those bouts with the ground. How many concussions are too many? One is the answer. Of all the body parts you really don’t want to mess around with the brain is top of the list. What kind of helmet have you been wearing? A scooped out watermelon rind? A Leather football helmet from the black and white days of football? Don’t get cheap here, man, because it sounds like your brain is already soft and mushy from the barrage of blows it’s taken. I would definitely avoid any cage matches or duels to the death in the octagon until you have this whole bumped head/projectile-vomiting thing figured out.



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