. Life as a "Racer" .................. |
. A Diary |
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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. February 9, Aprilia Purchase The heavyweight novice class is not one I should stay in. It's crowded and full of frothy people. We're going to stick me on an Aprilia RS 250 so I can run in the lightweight class. This way, should I get a "sizzling enema" (see the Farnsworth comment below) maybe it'll be from a weedy 150cc bike instead of someone's piggy 929. We bought Cory West's crashed Aprilia from his team manager Harry Blackstock. Cory was rear-ended during the Aprilia Cup Challenge at Pocono. We think we know what's wrong with the bike, but we won't know for sure until it's in our garage. February 16, Fastrack Friday We decide to get a little pre-race riding in by attending Fastrack. For the first time I run with the Intermediate group instead of the Super Street (beginners) group. Much to my surprise, I am able to pass a few people. I guess it would no longer be fair for me to stay in Super Street and pick off newbies. ¤ Since I'm borrowing a friend's 900ss, I use today to try to dial in the suspension. This is my opportunity to see if any of the modifications done to this bike (which are extensive) might be of interest to me. Without a doubt, the FCRs add a pleasant spiciness to the acceleration. I'm having troubles, however, with the hopped-up suspension. High speeds in turn 8 cause the bike to wallow, so I'm unable to really push the bike. We try all sorts of changes to the suspension, but it seems that once there's an improvement in turn 8, turn 2 starts showing problems. I eventually settle on a mix that does not aggravate either turn too much. February 17, Race Practice The morning sessions are quiet. It's still cold, which keeps many of the riders with delicate consitutions off the track. Because of this light traffic, I am able to string together several good laps and average 1:46s, two seconds down from the previous month. I also record a 1:44 on my My-Chron unit. There is one person who will understand the significance of this number: John Pearson, WSMC and AMA racer. He's the one to the right of the Giraffe Neck Lady in the Marie Claire pictures. He said that if I could get down to 1:45, he'd be my umbrella boy. Now I'm not sure if I forced this into the deal or not, but he also has to wear a Speedo swimsuit while holding my umbrella. John, you probably miscalculated the fact that I drink Gatorade so "It's in me." How about we reset the deal so I have to get under 1:40? It'll probably be late summer and around 110 degrees at Willow so you'll be begging to wear that Speedo anyway. February 18, Race Day The morning is cold and rain speckles the ground. It's race day so all the heavyweights are out there in spite of the moisture. I find a few gents to hang with as I go around the track. It's not long before the strafing by the experts begin. This month makes last month look like we had refugees from a retirement home on the track. The experts come screaming by us on both sides into turns, disrupting what lines our feeble minds had selected. This happens again and again. Maybe four laps into the practice, the guys in front of me start pulling off. I think they have had enough of being handed their hats. I stay with it just because I'm not sure I can get off the track without getting run over by very fast people who are very leaned over. I decide to sit out the next practice session since I was only learning how to take bad lines during the first practice. ¤ Our race is #18, the last one of the day. It's about 4:00 by the time our race starts. Most everybody has packed up and headed home. The few still hanging around either have friends racing, or know that there's got to be some excitement when you throw together a bunch of high horsepower-low skill people. They won't be disappointed... ¤ We get in our grid positions. For some ungodly reason, someone saw it fit to put me in grid position 8 in the third row. When the friendly flag man waves the green flag, we roar off. We're pretty much nut-to-butt as we make our way around on the first lap. On the third lap about four of us crawl through turn 1, not sure which of us will take out the others. As we make it through, we find a bike in the middle of the track, its rider right next to it writhing around in pain. It's obviously a red flag condition so we all come to a halt on the side of the track. One guy even manages to run off the track trying to stop; at least he keeps the bike upright. They roll the ambulance and the rider is taken off the track. ¤ We regrid and try it again. This time, we can't even finish one lap. A cluster of people barrel into turn 3 and suddenly there's a cloud of dirt and a bike and rider being tossed unkindly. The orange checkered flag comes out, which means we all come back into the pits. Deja vu: they roll the ambulance and the rider is taken off the track. ¤ We regrid again and try it one more time. This time we finish the last four laps without incident. Unlike last month, where I was left to race alone, this time I am frustrated by a rider whom I can't get around. I am on him in all the turns, but he has at least 40hp on me and continually pulls on me in all the straights. This month I am stuck in last, but in my heart I know I am as capable as some of the other hacks. At 80hp, I had the most underpowered bike out there. Next month on the Aprilia in the lightweight class, I'm hoping to have more fun. ¤ A Moment That'll Never Happen Again I signed my first autograph today. There was a girl walking up to every person wearing leathers and asking him or her to sign her sweatshirt. Not one to defraud the public, I told her that I was slow and that she didn't want my autograph. She said she didn't care and insisted that I sign. I found a small blank spot on her sleeve and executed as commanded. She then proceeded to ask me if I knew where Vicky Jackson Bell was. The girl's ability to transition from me to VJB horrified me, like I would burn in hell for perpetuating a fraudulent racer persona, which I actually never did perpetuate since I made it clear to the lass I was no pedigree. I told her I could not help her with the directions to VJB and wished her luck in her search. Later in the day, the girl resurfaced with an even younger boy in tow, and asked me to sign the shirt he was wearing. That's two autographs in one day. And probably for the rest of my life. February 21, Aprilia's New Mama My Aprilia RS 250 arrived today. Although I have a cold that kept me face down in bed most of the day, I did have the strength to put on my shoes and run out into the garage to sit on my new bike. First impression: I. It's been crashed. Second impression: The clip-ons are very non-ergo. Let's see...I bought a crashed race bike with an aggressive riding position...uh duh! Once it's fixed and once I'm used to the riding position, the umbrella boy is mine. By the way, an anagram for Aprilia is "Air Pail." I think I will call this bike The Air Pail: faster than a mixing bowl, more nimble than a janitor's bucket. March 16, Fastrack Friday Chris spent the previous couple of weeks fixing up the Priller. Except for the slightly tweaked forks, he has repaired most everything on the bike; it's a stunning pygmalion transformation. Because the bike has undergone so much work, we decide to attend a Fastrack Friday to get some track time before the race weekend. ¤ My first challenge: Kickstarting a bike. Unlike using a blender or doing your first load of laundry, kickstarting a bike is not a rite of passage into adulthood. As such, I had never had to kickstart a bike. Chris shows me how to do it. Then I wail on the kickstarter for a while until my leg cramps. Chris gets it going for me again and then I hop on and putt around the pit lane. Uh oh...this ain't a Monster. When I turn the bars it feels like the bike jerks around instead of just rolling in that direction. I'm thinking I've got a long day of buyer's remorse ahead of me. ¤ I head out into my session and take it easy around the track. I've been warned that a two-stroke isn't like a four stroke: no engine braking, power that suddenly comes on, the need to be in the right gear at all times, blah blah blah. I ride in fear, like I've exchanged a pony for a bronco. But a few laps into my session, I'm pleased to learn that the bike is manageable. Except for being in the wrong gear and going down the straightaway at 50 mph wondering what the hell was wrong with the bike, I have a good initiation into the way of the two-stroke. The rest of the day is spent getting acquainted with the bike. To my surprise, I am turning regular 1:45 laps; the month before I might have turned a handful of 1:45 laps. Akos seems to like me. ¤ Who Or What Is "Akos"? "Akos the Mighty" is what I named my bike. (Akos is a he, because I'm a she and as a she I only straddle hes.) It's named after a friend who owns the same bike and actively harangued me to get the Priller. He also donated a dinged up tail section and a front fender since mine were trashed. Akos has an interesting Austrian-Hungarian accent that is not unlike what you'd probably hear bellowing from a European military officer as the enemy advanced and he was yelling at you to get your useless conscientous-objector ass back into the trench or he'd shoot it off himself. Lots of room for intimidation, which makes Akos a good name for the bike. March 17, Race Practice Saturday affords me another whole day to whoop on Akos. I've worked out many of the operator error problems, but still can't seem to get any drive out of turns 6 or 9. At the end of the day we decide to put a smaller sprocket on the front. We also put on new Dunlop D207GP tires. Chris tells me that the guy who runs Sport Tire Services said that if I could win on the Dunlops he'd double my prize money. This is probably because I lack "the sack," which is that testosterone-ladened je ne sais quoi that erroneously leads men to believe that dying young with the throttle pinned ensures eternal fame. ¤ The practice day is marred by a special incident: As I'm roaring down the straight, the bike loses power. With so much done to the crashed bike, I can only wonder which part has given up the ghost. By the time I enter turn 1 I'm coasting so I complete the turn and drive off the outside of the track and into the rocks. I slow to a stop and then push my bike over by the fence so I'm not a distraction to others. As I'm sitting on the bike, I begin to suspect what might be wrong. I take the key out of the ignition and push it into the gas cap. I pop open the cap and look in. Sure enough, I see no glint of fluid. Oy vey! Knowing that the crash truck will soon be out to get me, I wonder how well my acting will be when they ask me what the problem is and I have to shrug, "Uh, dunno." Thankfully, they don't ask me a thing and just professionally haul my sorry ass back to my mechanic- trainer-crew chief husband. ¤ About My Crash It hurt. It bruised my hip. It ground up my shoulder. I wasn't going more than 5 miles per hour when I smashed into the ground. That's the last time I ride my stupid skateboard at Willow Springs. March 18, Race Day The morning practice goes well. The traffic is light. I'm stringing together some good laps. When practice is over, there's nothing left to do but sit around and wait for my execution (read on and you'll understand what I mean by this). The lightweight novices are race 12 out of 18. As my race draws closer I say less and less. There is nothing left to do but wonder yet again what the hell I am doing out here. Worse yet, since I'm not the last race, there will actually be people standing around and watching. I don't like that. I want to be left alone to wallow in my substandard motorcycling misery. Under stress I don't eat or drink. The eating part really isn't a problem, but since it's hot, I really should be drinking. Chris opens a can of Whoop Ass (yes, there's really a drink with that name) and tells me to drink it so my nuts can instantly get hairier. I try to comply but it's hard to even drink. I tell him to finish it and stare off into space. ¤ Soon, I find myself back out in pre-grid with the Stinkyweights (I've given the lightweight class this name because we're mostly two-strokes and we're all flicking the throttles to keep the engines running which results in a constant cloud of white, nauseating smoke). We take our warm-up lap and get into position. I roll up onto number 5, which is to the far right in the second row. Not a bad spot. ¤ As we're moments away from the flag being dropped, I remember what Chris told me about getting the revs up before feathering out the clutch. I get that angry buzz going and when the flag's dropped I find myself barely moving as the entire field roars past me. After seconds go by, the bike starts to accelerate and I take off. Short of killing the engine, it was the worst start possible. Angry with my poor acceleration management, I start charging at my opponents. As they cautiously head into turn 2, I have so much to make up for that I blow by about four people. Heading into turn 3 I scoot past a couple more. Soon I'm past a majority of the pack and I seem to be doing a lap without anyone around me. Then, somewhat to my surprise, someone looks like they're not that far off. Over the course of a lap I begin to reel him in. By the last lap I am behind him, wondering if there's a chance in hell I can get around him. As I come around him on the outside in turn 2, I'm thinking that there's a chance I can drive by him into turn 3. As I contemplate the big move, my proverbial balls shrink. Having had dragged my foot in turn 1 a couple of laps back, the thought of crashing rung up in my mind. I backed down. It's one thing for me to crash, but I really didn't want to be responsible for taking someone else out. Through the rest of the track I was on him, but in the end I didn't have enough drive to get through 9 and take him down the straight. He beat me by a few bike lengths. ¤ My reward? I could see a few people jumping up and down in the stands for me. Whatever I did, they seemed genuinely excited. I did my best and although I didn't get a trophy, it was much more than I ever had expected. I also put in a lap time of 1:42.80 — my best time yet! Soon I should be able to break into the 30s. For sure I'll need an umbrella boy at that point (John P, I hope that collarbone heals up quick cuz I'm gonna want you to hold up a huge umbrella to protect me from that bad desert sun). ¤ And Just Why Was My Race Start So Lame? Chris told me to rev the engine up to 8 grand before letting out the clutch. Instead of having "8" in my brain, I was fixated on "6." This is probably like revving up to 2 grand on a four-stroke. If you want to see a whole lot of leather-clad asses fly by you, by all means try to haul off the line on a two-stroke at 6 grand. March 31, Mama Gets New Leathers I finally committed to a one-piece from Z Custom Leathers. I've been riding with a ten-year-old Hein Gericke jacket zipped to First Gear pants with the knee pads removed (the knee pockets are great places to store money). There's no armor anywhere. In a good crash, the zipper will likely tear apart and a cactus will get wedged down my pants. I got measured by Adolph and I'm hoping to get my suit in a month or so. I'll be getting a character put on the back of my suit (to the right)...it's the HAG! (Hollerin' Asian Girl) April 2, One Bent Bike Chris dropped off my Aprilia at Computrak last week to get it straightened. There's a chance that they can't fix it. The forks and frame are pretty fubared. I think we learned that one should never buy a crashed bike unless one has had a chance to inspect it firsthand. It pretty much turned out to be worse than we were told. The bad news is that I'll probably end up spending as much money on this as I would've on a used, uncrashed bike. The good news is that Chris sure knows that bike inside out by now. He could probably assemble and dissasemble it with one hand tied behind his back and the other covered with an oven mitt. April 13, Fastrack Friday Friday the 13th. Can you ask for a spookier day to be pushing a bike with the numbers 666 at the track? The devil was on my side because I didn't crash. (And to all you Christians who are going to tell me that I will burn in hell, you're wrong. I'm 40% Existentialist, 40% Humanist, 10% Buddhist, and 10% For Rent. This means I have a spiritual "get out of jail free" pass.) April 14, Race Practice Another uneventful day of practice. I rode well, but had no spectacular drop in times. Probably averaged around 1:44 lap times. April 15, Race Day I'm the last stinkin' race of the day, #19. I had hoped that by my fourth month of racing the jitters would be gone, or at least more greatly subdued. Well, they're not. The same damn executioner still follows me around all day, breathing down my neck. The executioner tells me, "Today is the day turn 3 puts out your lights." Yeah, you can see that I brim with self-confidence on race day. ¤ I'm actually hoping I can podium today. I figure the fast guys had to have been booted from our class by now, and if I finished fourth last month, I've got a chance to podium this month. When my race finally comes up and I head out for the warm-up lap, I am moderately shocked: the other guys warming up are flying around the track. Oops, perhaps I do not podium today. ¤ I'm gridded on the inside of the first row. When the starter waves the flag, I've got the revs up to 8 grand and I feather out the clutch. The start is good and I find myself barreling into turn one alongside two others. I feel safe on the inside so I don't back down. ("Show 'em the wheel and keep showing 'em the wheel!" my unofficial Aussie trainer Frank always tells me.) Although I don't see the action take place alongside me, I'm told that the guy in the middle ran wide and pushed out the other guy with him. I lead into turn 2 and push on, trying to remember every good thing I've ever done on the track. ¤ Fortunately for me, racing causes this incredible clarity. I see the track and I know what I have to do. I might be all hinky and lame in practice, but during the race the fear dwindles. After a full lap nobody has passed me. I keep on the gas and ride as if someone's on my ass. I'm afraid to look back because I'm scarred from watching Ben Bostrom look back in the final turn at Laguna Seca, letting Corser blow by him for the last podium spot. At the halfway point, I feel like I've been on the track forever. I have lots of time to ask myself if this is how Ben felt when he led most of the race at Kyalami. I wonder if some version of Colin Edwards is behind me, waiting to stuff it under me in a turn. I just have to keep my focus. If Ben could do it at Kyalami, if he could handle the stress of maintaining a lead lap after lap, I could do it. I'm just a chump on a backwater track with no pressures. I could do it. There's too much time in my life to be a loser. I could do it. ¤ And hell, I did it! I took the checkered flag, apparently by a solid five or so seconds. I immediately rode over to the podium, put a Ducati ballcap on my head (interviewees always wear ballcaps), and jumped onto the top box. There were two empty bottles of champagne on the box so I hoisted them into the air victoriously, having just outrode 11 other fellows for this honor. Chris snapped a picture for posterity. (Check out the dude who was sitting on the podium when I jumped onto it. He's looking at me like I'm SuperDork.) And the icing on the cake? I broke into the 30s with a personal record of 1.39.36. (Hey umbrella boy, you reading this?) ¤ A special public thanks to my coach and mechanic, Christopher G. Kelley. Without him, I'd still be doing the speed limit in the slow lane on the freeway. Through his relentless browbeating, I have learned to suck it up and stop being such a puss. Next, I suspect he will put me on a tuna-only diet so I can get down to 80 pounds and really fly. May 20, Race Day It's summer in the high desert. In the morning the temps are already in the 90s under the sun. There's no way to describe it other than "painful." I skip the first session as two days of practice beforehand have started to dessicate my brain. I do one practice session and then hang out of rest of the day. I'm race #18, which is second to the last. ¤ It seems that an adjustment to life as a racer is occuring. I am no longer nervous during the day. Maybe that's because it is just too hot to really care. I spend the many hours shuffling back and forth under our 8x8 foot canopy wondering which corner of it was the least hot. I resort to perching my ass on a small ice chest because sitting in a canvas chair is just too hot. I come from San Diego, a land moderated by coastal breezes. Maybe once a year we endure these type of temperatures. Out in Rosamond, California (where the track is at) the locals must be born with all heat receptors removed. ¤ My race rolls around. I've been told to be aggressive on my warm-up lap so I take off behind two guys and work on passing them before we get into turn 3. I speed around the rest of the way and win the warm-up lap. I roll up over grid position #1 and wait for the others to roll in. Once everyone is set, I rev the Aprilia up to around nine grand. When the starter throws the flag I ease out the clutch. The bike roars off beautifully and just as it starts to pop a wheelie I pull in the clutch and pop it into second. The bike pulls again, and just as it thinks about its second wheelie I drop it into third. Throttle wide open, I see no one near me as I take it through turn one. ¤ The race is a repeat of last month. With nobody in front of me, I continue my charge. This time is a little different, though. Not wanting to throw the bike away on this hot day besieged by crashes and long delays, I take a look behind me down the straight to see if there is any real threat. I see nobody. This is license for me to ratchet back on turns 1 and 3, the two turns that cause my testicles to recede into my stomach. (Wait, I have no testicles? No wonder I can't shave off seconds from my times like the guys do.) In exchange for spanking it on 1 and 3, I pick it up in 8 and 9 so the other riders don't become a threat. ¤ When I take the checkered flag, I do the one thing I've always wanted to do: Pump my fist in the air after winning a race. It always looks really triumphant when I see the pro riders do it on TV. To those of you who plan to do this in the future, here's the one important thing I learned: Punch the air with complete dedication. I didn't and at the speeds I was still carrying, my arm about ripped out of my shoulder socket. When one sticks out an appendage at high speeds, one must remember to hang onto that appendage. ¤ Although I had anticipated a win, it's every bit as glorious as the last one, especially knowing that this is very likely to be the last one of my life since this race win will force me to leave the novice class. From hereon out I run with the experts. It's back to the days of trying to stay out of last place. It's back to the days of seeing my ass handed back to me on a platter. As I have been telling just about anybody who will stop long enough to listen and therefore be my psychiatrist of the moment: I now have the rest of my life to suck. June 15, Fastrack Friday I was asked by Tom Sera to help with the first all-women session at Fastrack. Why me, when there are so many capable and fast women? Because my pimp Jay McDaniel — and a current Fastrack instructor — said I'd be a good candidate (check out Jay's site at The Interactive Motorcycle). Probably also helps that I've contributed lots of money to the Sera retirement fund by attending numerous Fastrack days and have grown into a bonafide track rat. ¤ I think there were six of us women. Not a huge turnout, but you have to start somewhere. One woman was particularly intimidated by the track so I worked with her. I set a pace for her, hoping that she'd at least trust me enough to not lead her into a turn at a speed she couldn't handle. Helping others ride is a lot of fun, especially knowing how far I've come from my humble origins. June 16, Practice and GT Solo Series The temp is somewhere above 100. I'm having a hard enough time staying alert for practice; I'm not sure I'm willing to go through with the 50-mile endurance race (GT Solo Series) in the late afternoon. But it seems that a few other lightweight racers are clamoring for more competition so the scoring structure is more favorable to those who complete. They harangue me to the point where I'm a little pissed...and you know the story: I love riding pissed. ¤ The race is in three waves: heavyweights, middleweights and lightweights. After the first two waves go, I take off with the others in my class. I start out somewhere mid-pack and it doesn't take long for the field to stretch out. After about 8 laps into the race, my hands begin to go numb. Yes, of course I'm gripping too hard. I'm a girl who's easily flummoxed by high speeds and have this weird tendency to hang on for dear life. Fifty miles is not far to go on a motorcycle, but it is kind of far for a race (at least for us with weaker constitutions). Everything I've learned from racing has multiplied my respect level for professional racers. This latest half-hour drill of physical exertion makes me fully understand why there are no world-class riders who chain smoke and subsist on pork rinds. ¤ Chris's Aprilia loses power near the end of the race so I step up from fifth to finish fourth. Would I liked to have taken first by having all my competitors dnf'ing due to mechanical issues? Oh, hell yes. I want to win, not compete. Competing requires so much effort. June 17, Race Day Chris goes out in the morning practice session and his Aprilia flakes out again. He's making maybe 50 hp, probably less. It appears to be time for a top-end rebuild. So that neither of us has to sit out the entire race day, Chris runs my bike in the Aprilia Challege while I enter the 550 Superbike race. Although Chris finishes penultimate-last, he still has a great race, turning 36s. Considering the track record holder for the 125cc class is in his race, he has some high-caliber competition. ¤ My first expert race went well. Although I also finish penultimate-last (could this be a new Kelley tradition?), I felt like I rode with some amount of aplomb. I'm still turning 40s, but I think once I get a few things sorted out (like establishing landmarks so I can quit wondering if it's time to turn), I can drop a few seconds. ¤ Sad news: We lost a rider during a race. His name is Paul Wright and he had two young children. If you'd like to show support for his family, please send a donation to: Paul Wright Memorial Fund, P.O. Box 2803, San Bernardino CA 92406. July 15, Race Day Another hellish desert-hot race weekend has come and gone. It was more or less a repeat of last month, except for the Sunday race day when Chris and I finally go head-to-head on two Aprilias that work. ¤ In the Aprilia Cup Challenge I get a fantastic start and roar off ahead of Chris. He spends the next three laps trying to get past me. I'm not fast enough to be a podium contender (four racers are weeeell ahead of me), but I am fast enough to annoy the shit out of those aching to get around me. Chris finally stuffs it under me half way through the race. He is relieved at the prospect of not losing to his wife, who would surely give him eternal grief each morning when his eyes opened at dawn's light. What Chris is learning from racing against me is that he needs to stop showing me the proper race line, as that places me right where he wants to be. Better to let the Little Woman continue to early-apex her way around the track. ¤ In the 550 Superbike race, Chris learns from his first mistake and overtakes me in the first lap with another inside move. I stay a few seconds behind him the entire race but am still not competitive enough to give him a good challenge. Perhaps when I get down to 80 pounds what I lack in skill I can make up in the power-to-weight ratio department. I do manage a breakthrough in that I turn my first 38s during the final race. |
JANUARY PIX 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 FEBRUARY PIX Chris's painted 916 Borrowed pimped- out 900ss Todd's hospitality suite MARCH PIX Anger = energy! The Beast's new ride Can o' Whoop Ass! APRIL PIX Interview me, baby! Black just looks fast MAY PIX Hugging up to #1 My last win? Fighting the heat |
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