. Essays for Ben ............................

. All Here


These are all the essays I've submitted to my contact at Ducati. If you go to Ben's site and click on the News link, you should find my essays.. Not all of them are up yet, and not all of them will make it.


MAKING THE MOST OF CELEBRITY

There are three types of workers: white-collar, blue-collar, and red-collar. White-collar workers anchor desks all day long. They make long distance calls to friends on their work phones. They forward chain email to people who don't care. They check their appointment books to see how the lunch dates play out for the week. If you worry about food falling on your shirt when you eat, chances are you're a white-collar worker.

Blue-collar workers stand or walk around all day long. They push things, pull things, build things, destroy things. Sometimes they touch live wires in the process, which results in untimely demises. If you work around people or equipment that smell, odds are high you're a blue-collar worker.

Red-collar workers are people who get paid tons of money for things the rest of us like to do recreationally. Examples are playing basketball and riding motorcycles. Red represents the color of blood, as these people are subject to different physical requirements than the rest of us are. In general, once red-collar workers hit 40 years of age, they are reaching the twilight of their careers. Their bodies are so worked over from years of pounding that by the age of 40 all these folks want to do is pull up their lounge chairs and massage their aching knees with their scarred hands.

Ben is a red-collar worker. At the age of 27, he has about 13 years ahead of him as a balls-out rider. Assuming that he chooses not to work after his prime wage-earning years, he needs to start thinking of ways to make as much money as he can in the next decade. The most obvious way to make scads of money is to keep winning so Ducati will pay him handsomely to ride for them. He can also make good money by parlaying his success into commercial endorsements. These are the obvious things. I want to point out the money-making efforts he will likely overlook.

My first recommendation is that he collect all the L&M; cigarettes he can get his hands on and start smoking them. He doesn't even have to smoke them all the way down; just take a few drags so his lips touch the cigarette butts. Pop each used cigarette into its own plastic bag and then sell them as souvenirs. What can be more personal than DNA from Ben's saliva? I'm already making room in my trophy case for this one.

Giving rides to people on his superbike is another way to rake in the cash. The fun part is that there's no passenger seat and no footpegs. That's the beauty of riding on number 155 -- how can there not be a fantastic story when one travels 170 mph while perched on a tiny patch of fiberglass, gripping hot exhaust pipes? There are people out there willing to pay a few hundred dollars to get into a shark cage. I'll bet rabid World Superbike fans would pay even more to be thrashed on the back of a world-class bike piloted by a world-class rider.

Shell is a Ducati partner. Certainly it wouldn't be hard for Ben to get a gas card from them. When he gets his card, he should report it lost. They'll cancel that card and reissue him a new one. Ben can then auction off the "lost" card on eBay to the highest bidder. Clearly the new owner shouldn't use the card since it has been reported lost, but the point is that the new owner has personalized Ben paraphernalia. What DeBeers is to diamonds, Ben can be to a Shell gas card.

Perhaps the most humanitarian money-making effort would be to teach broken English to Italian men so they can become irresistible to American women. Isn't life an eternal exercise in finding love and acceptance? Certainly Ben has picked up enough rudimentary Italian that he could communicate key American phrases to Italian men who desire the lifelong companionship of American beauties. Sample of curriculum:

Ben: Class, repeat after me: "You're the most babe-like thing I've ever seen. For sure."
Class: "You are most baby-like. Think I'll ever scene. Far sure."
Ben: Not bad. Class dismissed. See you next week when we'll talk about who picks up the dinner tab.
Ben, trust me when I say you should smoke all the cigarettes you can. You should take people on hairball rides. You should auction off Shell cards. You should teach lonely Italian men how to pick up women. Time is the great equalizer. Everybody becomes an old man or an old lady sooner or later. If you don't want to have to open a supermotard school when you're fifty just so you can pay the bills, then start minting your money while the press is hot...


BEN'S NEXT CAREER

During this year's Valentine's Day chatroom session with Ben, I asked Ben what he'd be doing if he didn't ride. His non-committal answer was that he was thankful he rode. Since he didn't offer any good alternatives, I feel I have a right to speculate on what he might be doing if motorcycles were nowhere in the picture:

Highrise welder with a penchant for violating code. Anybody who professionally races motorcycles is a risk taker. And what better blue-collar translation of a risk taker is there than to be one hundred stories up in the air on an exposed I-beam welding away? But that's not all: Imagine if Ben thumbed his nose at safety regulations and did things his way, like wearing open-toed sandals instead of steel-toed boots. Or maybe attaching his safety harness to his lunchbox instead of a beam. Or perhaps he passes on the welding mask so he can "toughen up" his corneas. If risk is his motivation, I've no doubt he can push the envelope with this job.

Food taster for targeted politicians. I realize that poisoning is no longer a true risk to political leaders, not like when Caesar was pissing off people right and left just to get a salad named after himself. So that's the good thing about being a food taster in today's market: It's highly unlikely that Ben will be hurt from such a job. The reason that Ben is ideal is because he's probably around 5% fat. This means there's little fat to absorb the poisons and delay detection. One taste of curare and Ben would be flat on the ground, earning every cent of his pay.

Scrabble tile shuffler. In an interview I once read, Ben claims that his vocabulary skills are strong since his parents denied him TV and forced him to do things like read books. Indeed, Ben did use the word "plethora" in the interview and I've no reason to believe that he is something other than intelligent. But seeing how I can't confirm what his IQ is, I'm not comfortable declaring that he'd be a true Scrabble master. However, I am confident when I say that I think he'd be good at shuffling the tiles for this vocabulary-oriented board game. His hands survived a hard get-off at Daytona a few years back; they certainly can handle shuffling tiles for hours at a time.

Human cheese grater. Take a close look at those abdominal muscles. They look like they should be shredding his shirt. It takes no imagination to understand what they can do to cheese.

Fashion designer specializing in polyester. It's a rare occasion in which we can find a picture of Ben either not wearing his leathers or a sponsor's t-shirt. From the few pictures I've seen of Ben "in his element," it appears that he has this thing for polyester. Think 70s, think disco. I realize that drawing this conclusion from only a few pictures is not unlike drawing the conclusion that man evolved from apes based on one fossil. But if I'm right, I think Ben has a bright future in designing alternative garb for fans of polyester. What I have seen of his choices I heartily approve. For those of us who appreciate a fabric that won't wrinkle and feels as gentle against the skin as only a polymer can feel, I would welcome some fresh styles for polyester. It's time a young visionary helped us past the near-sightedness of leisure suits and tent dresses.

Given these and so many other career possibilities for Ben, let's just hope that he keeps being a successful rider. Although I'd love to have a good reason to send him a perfume-scented card, I'd hate for it to be a card wishing him a speedy recovery after he's put a nail through his foot during an apprenticeship as a roofer. Some guys were just meant to ride.


IS THIS HOW BEN FELT AT KAYALAMIi?

This weekend I revisited the site where Ben blew my doors off: Willow Springs International Raceway in Rosamond, California. About two years ago I was at the track, just going around and doing my best not to look like the gripped squid that I felt like. I had been riding all day with members of the Ducati Riders Club, and the faster members -- knowing that the slower members could be easily spooked -- kept a good distance away from us when passing.

Later in the afternoon Ben showed up with a Monster that was purportedly given to him by Ducati as a gift. I kind of lurked around and stared at him from afar. I didn't want to bother him since it appeared he was out there just to have a good time and not to have yet another person come up to him and say, "How's it going, dude?" Shortly after seeing him, I went out in my session with the club. I was tip-toeing around the track when WHOOSH...Ben nearly clipped me on his new Monster! Okay, in retrospect he was probably a good ten feet away from me, but from a newbie's perspective, he may as well have done a wheelie up and over my spine.

A couple of years later, I have begun racing as a novice and my skills have improved greatly since that special day Ben strafed me. Yesterday the Willow Springs Motorcycle Club had its monthly races. The novice lightweight race, my race, was the last one of the day. I had all day to ponder if I would choke, and if so, how badly. During the prolonged day of stress, I wondered what feelings Ben had before a race:

Self-doubt? "I'm scared. No, I'm beyond scared -- I think I've swallowed my tongue!"
Indifference? "Balancing my checkbook gives me a bigger tingle than racing."
Aggression? "Where's Edwards? I'm going to tell him to skip the strip club tonight because he's going to see plenty enough of my butt."

When my race finally rolled around I straggled out to the pit lane. They let us out for our warm-up lap, which gave me a chance to assess my competition. I was worried. Seemed like a few of the guys were pretty quick and that my quest to podium at least once in my life would not happen today. We got into our grid positions. I had the inside spot on the front row. When the starter waved the green flag, I, like all the lemmings around me, roared off. Three of us barreled side-by-side into turn 1, a hard left-hander. I had been counseled not to back down in this turn so I kept the throttle on and ripped through. As I headed into a right-hand sweeper, I suddenly realized I was in the lead, a position that was totally foreign to me.

In this most peculiar of circumstances I thought to myself, "Is this how Ben felt at Kyalami? Did he see nothing in front of him but track? What did he focus on?" After not having been passed several laps into the race I grew slightly paranoid: "Is 'Colin Edwards' right behind me? Is he waiting for just the right moment to stuff it in under me?" I wanted to look back to see if anybody was there, but after having seen Ben lose a podium spot when he glanced back at Laguna last year, I couldn't bring myself to do it. Around and around I went with the same insistence in my head: "Ben did it in Kyalami. I can do it here." And so I did. For the first time in my life (and perhaps the only time in my life), I took the checkered flag.

Note to Ben: Since you've been a racing inspiration to me, I'd like to return the favor: Whenever you come back to Willow Springs, let me know. I can show you how to ride hard even after you've swallowed your tongue. I'll even show you how to pry it out of your throat once I figure out how to do mine.


HOW NOT TO LOSE

There's a lot of hard work that goes into winning. Likewise, there's a lot of hard work that goes into not losing. It's a yin-yang existence that racers don't think enough about. Take Ben's win at Kyalami as an example. The hard work that goes into winning starts with his crew setting up the bike so it's ideal. And there's dedicated physical training on Ben's part so he can excel in a demanding race. These are winning approaches.

Now for the non-losing approach. These are critical tenets of any successful race program:

- Thou shalt not eat suspect foods that wreak havoc on the intestines. Troy Corser knew all about this one at Kyalami. Seems like at just about every race one of the riders is suffering from food poisoning. Or maybe it's the flu. Either way, do not eat it if it smells funny and always wash with warm, soapy water after you shake anybody's hand. These two rules should be easy to follow. (And Ben, I know you have this thing for sushi, but it's raw fish with a high likelihood of carrying parasites. If parasites were people they'd be...well...bad people.)

- Thou shalt not try exotic new undergarments on race day. Okay, so maybe you've been wearing white cotton briefs all your life. You wake up one morning and decide you've been boring all these years. Maybe it's time to try wool underwear. Go ahead, but choose any other day to try a "new you." When your bum is on fire from a fabric that disagrees with your skin, you are guaranteed not to podium.

- Thou shalt not try to patch it up with the "ex" on race day. Calling up a former flame just to chat about what went wrong is a no-no. E-mailing is as bad as calling. Whether you're happy, sad, mad or genuinely ambivalent about the ex, save the communications for after the race. Same deal if you have a parole officer.

- Thou shalt not play "chicken" on mopeds. Yes, it's that exhilirating "sport" in which you speed head-on towards an opponent to see who lacks guts and has to veer away at the last moment. This sport is invigorating up until the point you underestimate your opponent and he smashes every knuckle in your clutch hand. Just imagine the look on Tardozzi's face when you explain this to him.

Everybody is going to point out the obvious to you: focus, shed the fear, put your heart in it. I want to make sure you don't overlook the not-so-obvoius. But since you did well in race 1 and won race 2, it looks like you're already obeying The Tenets of Not Losing. Keep the faith and the everlasting podium is yours.


STARVING FOR HORSEPOWER

According to the Ducati site, Ben is 1.74 meters tall. This actually translates into 5 feet 7 inches, which isn't right. That's my height and the last time I grabbed onto Ben at a photo op, I believe I was looking up his nose. But never mind the height (which is actually 5 feet 10 inches). What we're here to focus on is Ben's weight. At 71 kg, Ben weighs 157 pounds.

For a given amount of power, you can reduce weight to maximize acceleration. By doing so, you improve the power-to-weight ratio. Let's make the assumption that Ben's bike is as light as it can be. Lead fishing weights are not melted and reshaped into wheels. Densely packed llama hair is not used for seat stuffing. Gold trinkets are not glued to the gas tank for luck. So where do we focus? On Ben. Ben needs to stop eating. Granted, there appears to be little fat for him to lose, but what about that bulky muscle mass he carries around? It's good for nothing but topless photo shoots.

Here's the plan: No more deep-fried butter sandwiches, cheddar cheese milkshakes, or mayonnaise straight out of the jar. After a few months of foregoing these food items and anything else that doesn't smell or taste like plain water, Ben should be in optimal condition. Imagine the speed he'll carry down any straightaway when he's shaped like a torchier lamp. Track records will be his for the taking.

Target weight: 120 pounds. I can just about guarantee that at this weight the 2001 championship is Ben's if he don't pass out from lightheadedness first. As for the flapping leathers that no longer fit? That's what staplers and duct tape are for.


BEN'S PASTIMES

Snowboarding: Good adrenaline rush. Fly down a hill, sometimes in control, sometimes out of control. You never know when you'll catch an edge and brain yourself on snow that only pretends to look fluffy. Not unlike motorcycling, there's some living on the edge, moreso if you're bad and inexplicably end up at the top of a black diamond run. Snowboarding is kind of like riding a motorcycle on ice, except without wheels. I can see why Ben likes snowboarding.

Skateboarding: Good adrenaline rush. Fly down a hill, sometimes in control, sometimes out of control. You never know when you'll snag on some uneven pavement and brain yourself on a fire hydrant. Not unlike motorcycling, there's some living on the edge, moreso if you're a complete novice and decide to visit the local skate park with whiskey on your breath, a load of Gen-X attitude, and absolutely no protective gear. Skateboarding is kind of like riding a motorcycle, except with much, much smaller wheels and no handlebars. I can see why Ben likes skateboarding.

Rock climbing: Another good adrenaline-inducer. Showing complete disrespect to gravity can be exhilirating, especially when your climbing partner is known for tying bad knots and being easily distracted. What can possibly compare to being 100 feet above ground while your legs tremble on an imperceptible ledge and your fingernails cling to a tiny crystal of rock? Kind of sharpens that line between living and dying, not unlike how you might feel if you drove your motorcycle (accidentally) over a cliff but your rear wheel caught the guard rail, leaving you dangling in the air. I can see why Ben likes rock climbing.

Golf: The ultimate in adrenaline overload! Swinging a stick at a small ball may not sound risky, but think again. Every year, innumerable golfers get caught out on the links during lightning storms. A few chosen ones will raise their 3 irons in a backswing when...WHAM!...the �ber shock sets every body hair on fire. Is this what Ben thinks about when he hits the links? Of course it is. Putting on a polo shirt and slacks just to smack a tiny ball is not the attraction. The true thrill is challenging the hammer of Thor with a lightning rod firmly clenched in hand. It's like parking a motorcycle under downed powerlines on a windy day. Forget skateboarding and rock climbing. I can *totally* see why Ben likes golf.


LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF

I've never met Ben (autograph sessions don't count) so there is nothing that would really qualify me to write anything about him. What I am, though, is an avid motorcyclist (owner of four Ducatis and several other bikes) and a fan of two-wheeled racing.

Several years ago, I was watching an AMA Superbike race and my husband declared, "This guy is awesome!" I took a hard look at the screen and pretty much repeated the same thing�only for a different reason. Okay, so I took the "low road" to appreciating Ben. I didn't care if he trail-braked and threw his bike into the turns sideways. I didn't care that he kept it on as his bike oscillated on worn tires. What I cared about was that he made my eyes pop open like I was staring at a DNA confection. But over time, as I followed his career and monitored how he presented himself to the world, I started appreciating Ben for what I thought he was: A good guy. A spirited guy. A guy who would never have a "gastro-related event" in my truck no matter how much he'd been drinking. Unlike other stars, he was not temperamental. He was reliable and professional. In short, you could take him home to meet the parents without extensive coaching. Or, for you guys, you could go to a frat party with him and not worry about getting into a fistfight before the night was out.

Several years later, Ben is now a sophomore in World Superbike. He podiumed in his first race of the season at Valencia and probably could've done the same in the second race had there not been the stop-and-go incidents. He's confident. His motorhome is washed. His cowboy hat fits right. So what's missing? Not a factory ride. Not good mechanics. Not pretty umbrella girls. What's missing is a "subjective scribe," someone who will write about him from a different angle. So that's why I'm here. I'll let the real journalists get on him about tire choice and race lines. What I'm interested in -- because most of us are in the same boat -- is the Ben I see without the benefit of a press pass.


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