. Life as a "Racer" .................. |
. Li'l Ol' 666 |
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January 1, The New Year Resolution I'm going to race this year. I'm not pursuing this because I'm ultra fast and need to let it all hang out. I'm pursuing this because I have a morbid journalistic curiosity about what it takes to race. And I say "morbid" because instead of wanting to do this, I feel like I have to do this, even if it means Steve Rapp-ing myself somewhere along the way. Some women have a biological urge to make babies; some women have a biological urge to ride. January 12, Paperwork We filled out the necessary forms. My number will be 666 (The Beast) while Chris's number will be 667 (Neighbor of the Beast). Why 666? Because 155 was taken. If I can't be like Ben, I may as well be like the Antichrist. I don't know the Antichrist personally, but to have one's own number seems quite the status symbol. January 17, Bike Prepped The bike is safety-wired and the plates are on. The front plate was designed for a Honda F3. To make it work on the 900ss, we had to use a heat gun to reshape it a little. The devil works in mysterious — make that seat-of-the-pants — ways. January 18, Drive to Lancaster Because we live 3 hours from the track and because we refuse to get up at o-dark-hundred to hit the road, we always drive up the night before. I get home from work to find that Chris is still prepping his bike. Word of warning to new racers: Race prep your bike WAY ahead of time. It is not at all trivial. Chris had a ton of bolts to drill on my bike so he could safety wire them. Then his bike had its own share of shenanigans to deal with. I don't know all the details, but I'm sure Chris will do a write-up on it. Suffice it to say that if you start race prepping a bike the night before, you are f#cked. Chris finally finishes up the race prepping and we get on the road around 10:00. Soon as we got to Motel 6, we hit the rack. January 20, Novice Racer School Wake up at 6:15. Chris is high strung from the minute his eyes open. I want to set the clock all the way back to when I made my decision to race and change that decision... ¤ We get to the track around 7:15. First, we take care of registration. We go to the offices to make sure we were in the books and to get our slip for tech inspection. Once we get that slip, we take our bikes to tech inspection. They give the bike a quick once-over for egregious problems, and then send us on our way. ¤ Novice racer school starts at 8:00. At around 35 students, the class is about as large as it has ever been. Danny Farnsworth is the instructor. We learn not to shoot heroin and try to race. We learn that if you're not peeing, you're not hydrating. We learn that eating five chimichangas just before riding might cause diminished focus. We then talk about the track and what to do on it (braking, passing, turning, crashing, race lines, etc.). Then, they release the leather-clad hounds... ¤ A Danny Farnsworth Nuggets-o-Wisdom Moment... Don't fuck with your contact patch... The pavement is your friend... Never exceed your pucker factor... You do not want a 600-pound sizzling enema [a warning to anyone who might panic brake in turn 8]. ¤ We are split into groups based on cc's and then led around. Soon we are cut loose and newbies are whipping all over the place. After our time is up, they hurry us back into the classroom for discussions about what the instructors saw on the track. We absorb what we hear and are then tossed back out onto the track. This cycle repeats for the afternoon with no break for lunch. If you don't like eating your stomach lining, pack a sandwich before you show up for class. ¤ In the late afternoon we have our Race Start practice. What do you get when you line up a bunch of newbies on a grid and have them pin the throttle while dumping the clutch? Raw, unadulterated mayhem! We all go barreling into turn 1. As we enter turn 2 we stare straight into the late afternoon sun and see nothing but a wall of silver-white glare. We survive the first race start, but the second one results in one or two people sampling the dirt through the sun-bleached turn 2. In this particular start, Chris also manages to pop a huge wheelie. When he comes down, he racks his manhood on the gas tank. Ouch! The third start is the best: They had been starting the experts in a wave behind us. They're quick so even though we launch first, they're on our asses before we can get through turn 1. One expert who rushes his way into the newbie cluster did something that results in him almost highsiding. His legs are flopping around in the air before he finally regains his composure and takes off. A crash would have most certainly cleared the track of a few newbies. What that sight taught me was that I should run, not walk, to the back of the pack. At worst, I will finish last. At best, I can catch some spectacular wadding-up of motorcycles. ¤ The day ends with the distribution of the WSMC novice competition license. I believe there are two criteria for passing the class: You don't exceed two minutes to do a lap and you don't crash your bike. The Kelleys become proud new owners of race licenses. Chris is french kissing his and I'm soiling myself over the sheer joy of surviving Day 1 of 2. January 21, Race Day After I wake up, the sinking feeling returns: I am marching towards my own execution. ¤ The morning is cold and the desire to hop on the track is low. The open practice sessions start the day. First the lightweights went out, then the middleweights, and then we heavyweights had our turn. Although I had been passed by high speed riders during the novice practices, I'd yet to sample the true aroma of napalm in the morning. This napalm came in the form of the expert heavyweight riders simultaneously passing me on both sides with what seemed (to my small novice brain) to be millimeters to spare. I'm motoring along, singing showtunes to myself when — WHOOOOOOSH! — I am double-strafed. It is a completely new sensation, like the first time you touch a live electrical wire, or inadvertently drive a sewing machine needle through your finger. All very memorable, to be sure. ¤ Random Thought Never pit across from the p.a. speakers unless you enjoy retreating to the inside of your car to try to carry on a conversation. Unlike Fastrack days, on WSMC race days the chatter is continuous. ¤ We are race 12 of around 16. Tick...tick...tick, the day goes by slowly. We walk around the pits. We watch some races. We eat our sandwiches. I hadn't put much thought into our race until the tenth one rolls around. When the eleventh race starts (the main event: Unlimited Formula 1 Grand Prix), Chris and I start casually gearing up. The pit in my stomach returns... execution time... dead man walking... ¤ The first call for the heavyweight novice group goes out. I am geared up. The second call goes out. I get on the bike and roll into the pit lane. The final call goes out and I am slowly surrounded by my fellow racers. I look around, sullen. Why am I here? Didn't Danny Farnsworth talk about people going 170 mph in turn 8? What does this mean for a stiff like me who barely exceeds the century mark? I am a charlatan. I do not belong here with these fast people. Such a fraud. I try to beat myself to a mental pulp, but I am waved through to take my warm up lap. ¤ The grid numbers are spray painted onto the track. They are faint and do not catch the eye until you look for them. I find position 20 and place my front tire over the number. The starter holds up a board with the number 2 on it. Like those around me, I begin to rev the engine. The starter raises the board with the number 1 on it. Like everybody else, I rev more frantically. The number one gets turned sideways... then the green flag is waved! We all roar forward. People whiz past me. Before long, the pack pulls away from me. ¤ The track eventually becomes empty around me. It has turned into a race against myself. I resign myself to last place, so the least I can do is make it a spirited last place. I focus on the track. I tell myself to breathe. I barrel into the turns as hard as I can. When I see the crossed flags to indicate the halfway point of three laps, I am mildly shocked. Feels like I've been out there an eternity. I grow worried... will I not only be last, but also a lap marker? I keep the heat up to avoid this fate. ¤ The checkered flag comes out. I am mildly pleased at not have been lapped. I pull into the pits, where Chris and a few friends await. I remark on my last-place finish when one of the guys tell me that there had been a guy behind me all along — I beat someone! I start jumping up and down like I had not only won this race, but that my trophy would be a willing Ben Bostrom. A hugely triumphant moment for me. To add to my elation, I had achieved my other goal of staying under 1:50 — during the race I was turning consistent 1:48s. ¤ The Beast makes her debut, and it is a satisfying one. |
Prepped, front Prepped, back Novice race school Frost on windscreen Chris as Mr. Attitude Kelley camp Start grid The Beast in turn 4 Race results |
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