Arizona republican., 1914-04-06
(By Lyle Abbott.)

When a man can grind off 92 miles at the rate of 65 miles an hour. and gain such a lead that he can finish his century on one cylinder at 30 miles an hour and win by two miles. he deserves all the credit that any fighting plucky motorcycle racer can get.
 Don Johns did all that yesterday. when he won the Phoenix motor cycle clubs big century race from a field of eleven fast entries.
 It was the third trial on which the machines got away. All punched at the wire, Johns followed the dope when he shot into the lead around the first turn, passing Baker about the quarter mile post. From that moment he was from few lengths up to twelve miles ahead of the nearest competitor until he went bad in his 92d round. Three times did he visit his pit, once in his 50tf for gas and oil, and twice after he had lost the use of his fore cylinder. New plugs nor new valves cured the ill, and
 
 that heartbreaking whirl with but one barrel shooting. Then everybody passed him. It became a matter of agony to the Excelsior team each time that Frank Sellner lapped his crippled rival. Frantic signals from the Merkel pits were directed at the last hope of the Yellow Devils. Hay ing ridden one of the quietest, most consistent races in the whole field. Sellner was rapidly gaining on the one lunged Ex. In another two miles he would have led him, but the laps which Johns had put away to his credit from the thirtieth to the nine tieth mile stood him in good stead. and Sellner was two miles short of the tape when the chugging Excel sior limped up and broke the cord that released the stop of the electric timer.
 For the first time since he came to Arizona Erwin G. Baker, the other noted rider of yesterdays race. was beaten. The score in long distance races between Johns and Baker now stands 1 to 1, or a percentage of 800 as the baseball man says. Johns had just lapped Baker in the thirtieth mle-as I predicted yester- day-when Bakers back tire blew out-as I did NOT predict yesterday. The explosion occurred just as the big Phoenician had left the north turn. Round and round his axle the casing and tube were wrapped by the terrifically speedy revolutions of the wheel. In the space of fifty feet the machine had been slowed down to thirty miles an hour For a wonder Baker did not lose his machine. He skdded from beyond the gate to within hundred feet of the wire be- lore he could stop. His back wheel. tire swinging wildly, was locked and the rim cut a snaky path in the | track Baker ended up against the 1 inside fence. The flying tire had beaten him unmercifully across the back. treating him to the same medi- 1 cine that an infighter gives his oppo- nent The big fellow dropped the machine and walked across the track. dropping in the shade of the outer | fenc a picture of desolation. His face was contorted with grief, such as comes to man who sees a most coveted prize slip from his grasp. His | was concentrated essence of woe
 Not a word would he say for space. turning his head from the hundred questioners who were thrust I ing mere sympathy and condolences at him.
 l
 | Johns Still Speeds l Meanwhile Johns was still burning Continued on Page Two)