. Life as a Racer .................... |
. 2002 Season |
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JANUARY IS A HARSH MISTRESS It might be the start of a brand new year, but there's already plenty enough to write about. I'll start with the drive up to the track. We didn't drive the usual route up the I-15 because we had to swing through Newhall to pick up two canopies that had been repaired after a violent high-wind pretzeling in October. We take the 5 to the 405 and what a bleeding mistake that turns out to be. It wasn't bad until we're near the L.A. airport, at which time the traffic ceases to move. Although we had left San Diego at 1:00, we were in danger of arriving in Newhall after the shop's closing time of 5:30. At 5:20, realizing that we might miss them by about ten minutes, I call up the shop and ask if they all run out of the place at 5:30 like roaches scattering from the light. The indifferent female employee at the other end says, "Pretty much, yeah." To that, I explain, "We're coming from San Diego and we've been driving for four and a half hours to get there so don't leave on us." She sounds confused and unhappy, but at least says "Uh, ok." When we show up - only five minutes late - we see all the lights on. We grab our canopies, let the dogs urinate on their shrubbery, and leave. I NEVER WANT TO DRIVE THE 405 AGAIN. EVER. We resume our drive on Hwy 14, which is also plagued with bumper-to-bumper traffic. People with non-high-paying jobs are trying to get out of L.A. and back to their affordable homes out in the high desert. The drive is not made easy by the fact that it's a healthy ascent with lanes that vacillate between two and three in number, with the occasional big rig jerking along like a painful intestinal blockage. When we finally arrive at Willow Springs, we are exceptionally relieved to find that the gates are open and that we can get in to unhitch. By now it's 7:30 and we are fried from the traffic. (Both Chris and I work at home so our commute involves getting out of bed, scratching our crotches, and shuffling across the cold hardwood floor and into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. We don't deal with traffic well. We are not trained for it.) Saturday morning is butt cold. (While I was at the hotel getting ice from the ice machine - doesn't matter the weather, I still like my drinks cold - I checked the thermometer by the pool and it claimed to be in the high 20s.) Everybody at the track looks like they're suffering. Chris and I take our time getting teched, as we opt to pass on the first couple of sessions. We're a little gun-shy from our recent cold-weather crashes. We do, however, have a tool that we hope will keep us upright: Pirelli Supercorsa super-soft compound front tires. (Instead of just the "soft" version we were running when we crashed. To quote the Pirelli web site, the super-soft tire has a "grip like hell.") In the early afternoon, it appears that there is a tag-team weather assault going on: an icy cold morning segues into a tear-jerkingly windy afternoon. As is customary with the high desert, it suddenly and violently comes out of nowhere. Like the assassination of JFK, you knew exactly where you were when it happened. In my case, I was going into turn 8 pinned, when the bike refused turn. I was going to drive straight off the track and I was plain scared shitless because I couldn't quite calculate what was going on. Then some rote physical process thankfully took over and I let off on the throttle and hung hard off the bike to make it turn. The bike and I turned, and then I shifted around uncomfortably because there was a stack of poop in my drawers that Adolph at Z's Leathers didn't take into account when he measured me for my suit. As it was in December, Sunday, race morning, dawns cold and offers no motivation. It's freezing. What aspect of freezing does a racer learn to embrace? Is it the icy cold track that lets the bike slide around? Is it the freezing pain in your hands that make you want to jump off your bike and shove them straight into your exhaust pipes? Is it the nose from which the mucous won't stop dripping? Is it the wind trying to work its way through all the perforations in your leathers, the very same ones that seem to offer no relief in summer? I sit out the first practice session and grudgingly go out for the second one. When the lightweights are up, I take my multi-layered, REI-garbed ass out onto the track. Instead of really trying, I park it behind the guy with the vintage Ducati and just reacquaint myself with the track. "Let's not pitch this bitch in practice," I think to myself. The 550 Superbike race is third on the schedule. I finish 10th, with five people behind me. I was close to moving up another spot, but I wasted a lot of time getting around one gent with more horsepower. By the time I got around him, I came up close on another guy, but he ended up beating me by a bike's length. Although there is disparity in horsepower, I realize that's not a valid excuse. I've got this problem called "letting off the throttle," or so the very supportive husband tells me. The Aprilia race was interesting. See, I've had this massive problem lately with absolutely shitty starts. In this race, I bog the bike. I let out the clutch too quickly and I'm going nowhere. Instead of pulling the clutch back in and getting the revs back up, I upshift into second gear. Hello...is this the "Special Needs" Superbike race? After watching the ass end of all the Aprilias head towards turn 1, I recall the concept of downshifting and execute accordingly. I'm in despair; just how will I catch up with any of them? I put my head down. I tell myself I've fucked it up and the only hope I have is to pretend I'm Troy Bayliss...You know the deal: Ride like hell, ride like my life depends on it, because if I fail, they're going to send me back to Australia to a life of supporting a wife and two kids by painting cars. I let the bike do what it wants to do and if it flings off into outer space while I'm dragging my knee through turn 2, so be it. That's the price I will have to pay for being a poor starter. Slowly, my strategy works. I pick off one rider on the outside of 2, the next rider going into 2, and the last rider on the outside of 8. By the time that's done, there is little chance to get near Chris, who is in third. Still, the race was good, and as always, I rode as hard as I could. Since I don't get paid to do this, the best I can do is curse curse curse and try try try. Annual Awards Banquet This took place Saturday night after practice at the Park Plaza (formerly named the Essex House, aka the 'Sex House). Chris was getting a trophy for third overall in the Aprilia Challenge so that's why we had to go. I'd never been to this event so I had no idea what to expect. For some reason, I had a picture in my mind of racers in their jeans and t-shirts loitering around a room with plastic cups of beer in their hands. Imagine my surprise when I show up in my jeans and tennis shoes to find a convention hall full of guys wearing slacks and women wearing sparkly stuff. I mean, I guess it's a real event for the folks who attend. Chris and I were most decidedly at the "lower end of the spectrum." Note to self: Next year, at least wear the black Sketchers instead of the white running shoes...should make me look dressier. Thankfully, we got to eat before they did the presentations. After stuffing our faces with some pretty decent food, Danny Farnsworth and Kenny Kopecky got down to the business of presenting the myriad of trophies. We had to get through roughly 60 trophy presentations, and much to my surprise, most of the speeches were brief and a handful of them were downright funny. Being of the attention deficit nature, I had to excuse myself at one point to take a walk around the parking lot with the dogs so they could have a "bio break." Because it was really cold outside when I walked the dogs, I put on my Patagonia kayaking jacket. I don't kayak, mind you, but anything designed to more or less keep water out is pretty good at keeping the wind out (which is why this was my first motorcycle jacket...I rode a Yamaha Radian - what the hell did I know about proper motorcycling gear?). I didn't feel like taking off my jacket when I came back into the convention hall. So in the Saks Fifth Avenue department we had representatives like Larry Cochran sporting his red bow tie and black suit. In the Salvation Army department we had Zina Kelley wearing her red, rubber-coated, ten-year-old anorak. Second note to self: Anything rubber-coated probably doesn't belong at a fancy dinner event. Oh, and what was the absolute confirmation that this was a fancy event? They served five ounces of Sprite in a glass for the inflated price of $2. Blood-sucking bastards. You can change your name to Park Plaza, but you'll always be the 'Sex House to us... FEBRUARY...ANAGRAM FOR "BARE FURY" I ask myself, "Why am I writing race reports anymore?" The rookie year is over. The shine is off. I'm just another escapist stiff going out once a month to pretend I'm some highspeed superhero I'm not. Who gives a crap, right? Well, I need to continue to write race reports for at least another year because...because...anticipation mounting...I GOT A SPONSOR...yes, someone willing to give me something for FREE. Mind you, California Cycleworks doesn't even remotely count since it's the husband's business and lack of sponsorship on his part would be lack of conjugal favors on my part. I never said racing wasn't a sordid business. The company that's sponsoring me is Racersden.com. They're providing me with bodywork (to clarify: the bodywork is for the bike, although I could use some botox shots...), which is unbelievably timely since both sides of "Akos the Terrible" are heartily disfigured. When they first talked about sponsoring me, I told them that I was not a bright star in the night sky. I was quite average and that perhaps they should search for someone who could do them proud. They didn't care. They said that they knew that the real hotshots could easily find sponsors. It was the "working class" riders like me in whom they were interested. I think that's an admirable approach, and as a recent inductee into the lifestyle of the fiscally challenged, it was good timing. I received the bodywork just before race weekend so Chris didn't get a chance to put it on in time. Since I don't have photos of the new stuff put on yet, I doctored a photo (in the right photo column) to honor my new sponsor. It's impossible to write a race report without extensively bitching about the weather at Willow. Saturday was actually pretty nice until the afternoon winds started kicking up as usual. I wore shorts and t-shirt most of the day...quite unusual for February. But then by evening the chill was on, which segued into a rude Sunday morning. When I opened the motel door on race day, I looked upon a damp and silvery world. I think I've seen it lightly rain once before in in high desert, so this meteorological weeping was an absolute freak show. By the time we drove from our motel in Lancaster to the track (maybe 15 minutes away?), the rain had lightened up considerably. It was declared a wet practice so no slicks were allowed. I didn't give a shit. I wasn't going out there on slicks, DOTs, snow tires...anything. I was going to sit on my ass until it was time to race. Chris was game, though. He hopped on his bike and went out and tip-toed around the track like someone's grandma, spooging up his bike with moist grime for nothing. His words upon returning to the pits (and I do quote): "Well, that sure sucked." 550 Superbike, one of my two races, is the first one on the docket. By now the track is mostly dry so they declare it a dry race. I'm good with that so I get geared up and do the warm up lap with all the other homies. When the race starts, it's the usual traffic jam through turn 1. As the traffic thins out I find myself in a four-way battle. My worst skill - passing - is illustrated in my inability to capture the lead (in our little race-within-a-race) and maintain it. I know for sure I can go faster than two of the people in front of me (I beat them later in the Aprilia race), but the fact that they're in front of me swapping leads makes it hard for me to make any move. The only place I feel comfortable making my move is in the long sweeping curves of either turn 2 or 8. I eventually pass two and head towards the finish line behind another Aprilia rider...little did I know that another rider was in my draft and slingshotted right past me before the finish. It was a fun race for our little group of four and we give each other some well-earned thumbs ups on our cooldown lap. The Aprilia Challenge race is 9th. The pecking order gets sorted out very early in this race. After an acceptable start (which is anything but last through turn 1), I make my way past a few people in turn 2 and settle into the fourth spot behind Chris. For several laps I'm on him and in a moment of preposterous thought, I entertain the idea of passing him, but realize that all I would do was get around him and be a doorstop through turn 9 for him. I finally lose some ground to Chris when we approach a waving yellow flag. I don't exactly back off upon seeing the flag, but I know I slack off a touch while Chris keeps going full bore through the turn. I tend to be a looky-loo; I have to repeatedly tell myself, "Stay focused! Look away!" All this mental self-coaching results in cranial noise, which eventually causes my throttle hand to limpen somewhat, which results in people getting away from me. I still finish in fourth, but I would've preferred to have been on Chris's ass upon crossing the line. That would've been a great acheivement for me. But as I get better, so does he. MARCH MADNESS Nubile cheerleaders? Millionaire coaches? Mercedes-enticed collegiate hoopsters? Uh-uh, not that kind of March Madness. This March Madness simply continued with the tradition of January Madness and the February Madness: Specifically, racing in the high desert during winter. So, due to an impending reaming from Uncle Sam, we've had to scale way back on everything lately. Go to far fewer track days. Keep the heat-cycled tires on a little longer. Skip that extra night in the motel. With regards to the lodging, we were leaving San Diego early on Saturday mornings to get to the track (instead of staying at a motel on Friday nights). There's one thing we Kelleys knew but tried to ignore: We're not morning people. If we wanted to get up at 5:00 a.m. against our will, we would've had kids. So we decided this month we'd drive to the track late Friday night and sleep in the van overnight. We get to the track just after midnight. Much to our relief, a guard is working the shack so we could get in. (His had the 11 to 7 shift...what, by the way, does one do with oneself for eight hours in a 3x6 shack? Or is this something we don't want to know?) Once we unhitch the trailer, I unfold the mattresses, put the dog bed at our feet, and get the blankets out. The dogs are extremely perplexed by the arrangement as we had never all slept in the van together before. They continue to sit up for a while and stare at us, like we were really hogging up the place. We had fully expected it to get cold during the night, and it did...probably down to freezing temps. Although I had gone to bed with all my clothes on and although I have a fairly good quality mummy bag, I woke up frequently during the night thinking how cold it was. Chris didn't have a mummy bag but he did a pretty good job of burying him under the blankets I packed. His main complaint was cold feet. I'm not sure what specifically wakes me up in the morning: motorcycle engines revving, the cheery announcer welcoming us over the p.a., or the wind that was rocking the van. Regardless of what woke me up, it is the wind that keeps me awake. I am astounded and disturbed that the sub-gale-force winds are already upon us (they normally come in with a vengeance in the afternoons). I tell Chris he can go out and do whatever he wants to do, but that I'm not moving from the van until some time in the distant future. I finally get the gumption to go out onto the track in the late morning, but by then the new racer school is thrown into the rotation and then the lunch break would follow. I don't get out onto the track until early afternoon. The winds are slightly calmer after lunch, but that's kind of like saying a fart stunk a little less...it's still no more pleasant. I get in three sessions of wrestling with the wind and that is it for the day. At some point in the day I see ash rain down from the sky. I can't figure out what is on fire as the air doesn't smell of smoke. Imagine my surprise when the ash hits the van window and turns to water. Well goddamn, it is snow. I chat with some other folks about it - clearly lifelong coastal Californians because we absolutely soil our pants with fear and confusion when it snows. I could probably count on both hands the number of times I've seen snow. Sad news: Pat O'Rourke of San Diego died as a result of injuries sustained in a crash on Saturday. Cards and letters can be sent to his wife Taiko O'Rourke c/o WSMC at P.O. Box 911, Rosamond, CA. 93560-0911. Services will be held this weekend in San Diego, with a viewing on Sat. March 23 from 1:00 pm to 3:00 pm, and the funeral service on Sun. March 24 at 1:00 pm. The location is El Camino Memorial Park, 5600 Carrol Canyon Road, San Diego, CA 92121. All are welcome to attend. I go out for the second Sunday morning practice just to "sample" the track before the race. With the fatality the day before and watching a guy crash in front of me during the final Saturday session, I am feeling a bit hypersensitive to the negative side of our sport. Aprilia Challenge is my first race of the day, 7th on the schedule. I ride pretty well considering my concerns. I manage to turn 37s even with the wind that lessened only marginally from Saturday. Although I wasn't close enough to enter the Ryan-Chris fray that was taking place in front of me, I was near enough to monitor the little race going on between them. I was sure Ryan with his skinny 20-year-old ass would snatch victory while drafting Chris to the line, but somehow Chris narrowly beat Ryan. As Chris put it, "Age and treachery beats youth." I finished 7th. The 550 Superbike race is 12th. It isn't much of a race as nobody is near me for the six laps. I forgot to put in my back protector before the race so I feel kind of exposed during the entire race. I finish near the bottom of the stack: 14th. After the race is over, I head up to the Budweiser Balcony to watch the main event. If you haven't taken the time to watch the race from this vantage point, you should. I am amazed that every time Chuck Graves transitioned from 3 to 4, he howled the tires. Was that the sound of the proverbial ragged edge being ridden? Nobody else was howling their tires the way he was. In closing, check out my new Racersden bodywork. Looks good. I also did them right by not crashing this month and forcing them to send me another set. The curse of Ruben Xaus has yet to touch me in the year 2002... APRIL, THE MONTH UNCLE SAM HELPS YOU LOCATE YOUR ANKLES So the bad news is that April 15th happens to fall in April, making this the most despised month in my book. Did you get a tax refund? I got to send the United States Treasury a check that they could fund a small Central American war with. Bummer. To make up for The Day That The United Treasury Made Me Cry, we had a brilliantly beautiful weekend at the track. The weather was perfect; it's one of the two months of the year at Willow Springs when the stinging cold wind doesn't make you want to douse yourself with gasoline and light your own ass on fire, or when it's so hot your internal organs liquify and are passed out in the urine along with the ten gallons of Gatorade that can no longer be processed because you peed out your melted kidneys just a scant hour before. But before I talk any more about the weekend, I should mention that on Friday night at 11:00 p.m. we were a couple hundred yards from the entrance of Willow Springs when our van tire goes completely flat. We pull into the dirt, drop down the trailer door, and pull out the air compressor. We are hoping that the tire will hold air long enough to get us to our pit space so we could unhitch and address the problem. However, the gash in the tire is too large and the air escapes faster than we can put it in. So we unhitch the trailer, pull out the generator, and get down to the dirty and inconvenient task of changing the flat tire. Are we mad about it? Nope. We couldn't ask for a quieter nor safer place to have a flat. The late evening temp is also pleasant and there is scarcely a breeze. By the time we finish our task around midnight, the wind starts to pick up with a bit of fervor. All in all, we feel lucky about our unscheduled maintenance episode. After we get through the gates, we find a big sign with CHRIS + ZINA written on it. Ah, those kind folks from Montana had reserved us a space. We unhitch again and then settle in with the dogs for a night of cozy Ford van accommodations. Saturday dawns glorious, a day of true paradise in a usually inhospitable section of the planet. The weather, however, could not inspire Montana Eric's "Frankenbike" (a homegrown special which had the body of a Gixxer and the heart of an XR600) to behave in its maiden run. (See the pic for a close-up of the very unique gas tank and oil reservoir.) If you think racing is dangerous, try being the pit crew: Eric's dad (Larry) is pushing Frankenbike to help bump start it. The bike suddenly catches and Larry tumbles to the ground. Crystal (aka "Mrs. Eric" and a nurse) asks Larry to go to the hospital to get a resulting cut stitched up. It turns out that Larry had broken his hand and elbow in the fall. Between numerous mechanical problems and the pit crew accident, they decide that racing isn't meant to be. They pack up Saturday night and make the 21-hour trip home. Scott, another friend from a distant land where 200k probably gets you a 4-bed 3-bath castle on a half acre with a lake view, drove from Idaho with his pregnant wife Mel so he could get in his final track flogging before the baby arrived and the new household charter would become the preservation of bodywork on both man and machine (i.e., no more racing until some time well down the temporal road). Saturday's practice is good. I turn a few 37s and even a non-race-inspired 36. This is much better than I usually do during practice, when the key words seem to be "Lollygag" and "Spank it, spank it good!" Sunday is just as beautiful as Saturday. Our first race is the Aprilia Challenge, fifth on the docket. I'm gridded on the front row next to Chris and as the starter throws the flag I see Chris out of the corner of my eye go backwards. He bogs his start like someone had dropped 50 pound weights down his shorts without him knowing it. Unfortunately, I'm a bit of a menace for him. Slow enough to fall out of the touch with the leaders, but fast enough to make it hard for him to pass me at will. Thankfully, he brakes later than me into turn 3 and makes his pass early. I'm sure in past races he's had to deal with where on the track would be the "ideal" location to make an aggressive pass that would cause the least damage should it go wrong (see the past entry about him trying to kill the Kelley family in turn 9). I finished fifth behind Chris in the race. 550 Superbike is 10th. I like this race less and less each time I do it. I might like it more if I could get a little more power from the bike and feel a little more competitive. As it currently stands, the race feels like a bit of a flogging. I finish 15th. "Fifteenth"...Christ, that does not roll of the tongue with ease. Problem is, if I don't do at least two races, I probably won't make top 100. I would like to do my gender proud and try to get more women into the top 100. So, I guess I better keep trying. The most interesting part of the weekend was having fans show up to specifically see us race. Ngoli and Cindi (pictured) came by and introduced themselves. If I have his story correct, he is Amish (from the little-known Zambia sect) and she was his child bride. I think they have two kids, allegedly their offspring, but possibly midgets on the run from the circus. It was really nice to meet them; who wouldn't like to know that their less-than-heroic finishes on a puny bike truly entertains someone? It's a part of why going to the track is so fun. MAY? NO, MAYDAY! Mayday! is a distress signal that suits this month perfectly. As usual, we arrive Friday night and camp out in the van. On Saturday morning, we get our act together and actually make first practice for once. With an extra rotation thrown in to separate the novice and expert heavyweights, it takes longer between our practice sessions which means we need to quit spending two hours to blow-dry our hair in the morning. First session out is ok. As always, it seems like I need to relearn the track and figure out where my turn-in points are. In the second session, I start concentrating on turning a good lap or two when out in turn 8 with the throttle pinned the bike goes silent. Uh oh...full, utter, thorough, and resplendent power loss. So what does a dead engine make one think of? Well, it makes me think of that hideous thing called "engine seizure," complete with an image of a rider flying over the bars, so I pull in the clutch and run off the track. Turns out that another gent on his vintage 70s bike was chillin' out in the weeds of turn 8 so the crash truck is immediately at my disposal. (During our ride back on the truck, I learn that this poor guy had started 6 races but due to various mechanical failures had only completed one.) Once back under the auspices of our friendly red canopy, I find that Chris is not surprised at my situation. He too had experienced power loss during the session, although he had enough to limp back home. Like an ebola virus outbreak, our bikes are struck down fast and hard. Perhaps the same urine tainted our gasoline? You never know what lengths competitors will go to... Time for forensics. We do a mini teardown to find that one of my pistons is fried and the cylinder is scored. I might be a girl, but even I can tell this isn't one of those things where I can dial on the pouty face and ask Chris, "Can't you make it work right?" I see a grenaded engine. I see time and labor. I see "premature pack-up-ulation" for the weekend. We hang around and watch the 50-mile Solo Series. What grief and torment. We had only been waiting for this race since we ran the last one the previous September. We were so looking forward to remembering what it was like to have a bike double our horsepower - and then some - go by us carrying an extra 40 mph. We stood in the grandstands and cheered for those who raced, envious but supportive. With all that has gone wrong, one thing is still right: my bodywork. Bike sucks, but the lower fairing was easy to remove so we could get to the engine. My apologies to Racersden.com for not being able to circulate the bike more this weekend. At least I kept the shiny side up! Saturday evening we are home, with two crappy ass two-strokes in tow. Feeling very cheated by our misfortunes, I request that we go dirtbiking, something we really enjoy but hadn't done in several months. Chris agrees and on Sunday we head out to Corral Canyon, land of ya-hoos and helmetless punks on quads. We get in several hours of good riding before we find our way back to our truck and have a snack. At around 5:00 p.m. we go for round two and head back up a new-found trail I like. I see two trucks parked at the head of the trail so I figure I should take it easy as the owners of those vehicles are likely to be heading back down the blind single-track. Over halfway up the trail I round a corner and suddenly see a flash of blue. The other rider shouts and I try to bail into the bushes to my right. Too late. Our bikes clip hard and I'm thrown to the ground where I end up facing backward with my bike on my foot. I sit there stunned, wondering if the pain in my hand or arm means something is broken. I ask Chris to pull the bike off of me and stand up to survey the damage. I'm not worried about the other rider as he has long since been on his feet ranting and raving about how this is his second or third head-on and that they should make the trail one-way and blah blah blah. The gear shifter on my bike is completely folded back on itself and the mirror was sheared off with such force that it's nowhere to be found. If it weren't for my Acerbis wraparound handguards, my hand would've been broken by the impact. The handguard took the initial impact and was bent down. The mirror took it next and then his bar slammed my arm, leaving me with a bruise that nearly wraps around my arm. Chris has nothing civil to say to this guy who was obviously carrying too much speed, so he keeps his mouth shut and works on getting my bike functional again. The point of interest in this near-catastrophe is that when I approach the other gent to talk to him, I can smell alcohol on his breath. There was no reason for me to have suspected that he had been drinking until the moment I caught a whiff of him. One never truly appreciates sobriety and vehicular conduct until one is on the receiving end of the lack of sobriety. Either one of us could easily be in a coma right now; probably me since drunks always stay relaxed and bounce their way out of accidents. So this is May. The holiday weekend is coming up and we're going to lay low until next weekend. If we thought drunks were out this past Sunday, the upcoming one should be full of 80-proof folks in search of an impact... JUNE GLOOM (BUT AT LEAST I GOT TO WAVE THE FLAG) We spent much of our time between the last race and this race up to our armpits in pistons and power valves. Chris did the true craftman's work; I was relegated to such apprentice chores as cleaning, safety wiring, and general reassembling of parts suitable for sweaty and inept hands. Since we got the bikes done in time, we decide to go to Fastrack Friday so we could do a little testing on the bikes before race weekend. The first two sessions out I keep a close eye on the temperature gauge. It rarely goes past 70 degree celcius, so it looks like the engine's not overheating. On the third practice session, I'm going into turn 3 when that feeling I've come to know so well - total power loss - revisits me. This time, though, the bike's ass-end starts wagging around like the bike's about to seize and spit me, so I pull in the clutch and quickly choose a place to go offroading. As soon as I come to a stop, I realize I'm in an impact zone and need to leave, so I take a quick look down at turn 3 to see if anybody has put me in the crosshairs of target fixation. Not seeing anyone, I gingerly lay the bike on its side before I scamper up the small hill to safety. While I'm standing there waiting for the crash truck, a gent with a video camera walks up to me, puts the viewfinder a few inches from my snout, and asks me what happened. Being somewhat adrenalized, I present a rather animated story and then add for the record that just because my bike was down there laying on its side didn't mean that women couldn't ride. As the truck was hauling me off, he asked me to give a thumbs up, which I gladly did, along with my heartfelt declaration: "I love crash trucks!" In my short racing career I have taken six rides in them and the gents hauling me off have been nothing less than courteous. Once back in camp we take the spark plugs out to see what's happening. They look normal so Chris peers down into the cylinder and doesn't see metal bits or other signs of distress. We don't want to take the bike apart only to face a problem we can't fix anyway, so the bike is down for the weekend. They shoot horses don't they? We're in the high desert where people only love their air conditioning more than their guns�surely I can walk up to any house and borrow a gun so I can put the Priller out of its misery�? I spend the rest of my day just tolerating the 100+ temps and taking the dogs out for an occasional sniff-about. The dogs look miserable. I had fully intended to leave them at home this month since I knew it would be hot, but they had been skunked twice during the week leading up to our race weekend and I wasn't comfortable with forcing our septuagenarian neighbor to deal with two rancid dogs if it came down to that. I had yet to build the fence that would prohibit their access to the lower part of the yard where the skunks roamed, so the dogs got to experience Rosamond in all its hellfire splendor. On Saturday morning Steve Moonitz offers to drive back to Los Angeles to get his "rent-a-racer" bike, an FZR400 that he rents out to anyone who wants to try out the track. After a little cogitating, I decide that it's better to try the bike (I adapt to bikes very slowly) rather than lose another month - a double-points month, at that. As the day is mostly shot by the time we get the bike set up, I decide to skip practice and go straight for the "solo series" (the 50-mile race). When the flag is thrown for the solo series, I find a handful of my lightweight compadres ahead of me as we make our way on the first lap. Going down into the hard left-hander of turn 5, the front end starts to wobble badly. I'm wondering to myself if I was grabbing on the brake without realizing it. "Note to self: Do not brake next time through." And next time through I didn't, but the front still wobbles enough that I'm sure I'll eventually tank slap and crash out if I carry on with any speed. After I crest turn 6 I move to the far left of the track and throw a leg out: I give up. No point in getting run over by a heavyweight while I bounce down turn 5 on my ass. I pull in, get out of my leathers, and watch the rest of the race. At least the race is enteraining, with Chris pulling off some great laps (read his report on www.ducatitech.com). On Sunday morning we go into the office to get our credit for skipped practices and races. Myra, who works in the office, asks if I'm going to be hanging around all day even if I'm not racing. I say yes and she asks if I'd be willing to score the races. Why not? I got a whole day to kill. After the rider's meeting I head over to the start-finish line with clipboard in hand. The mission was simple: The sheet was divided into columns, with each lap being recorded down a column; when the leader came by, I would start a new column. They had already warned me to not look down while I wrote, as this would cause me to miss too much. Sounded easy enough...until the first race actually started. First off was 750 Mod Prod (first wave) and Open Superstock (second wave). There must've been a few dozen bikes in this race. As they came around on the first lap there were so many riders crossing the line together that I wrote what numbers I could and drew lines for the bikes I couldn't get. After the first lap went by I reviewed my column: it was infested with slashes for all the riders I couldn't follow! I thought to myself, "I need to turn my clipboard in after this race. No way I can do this." Fortunately, they had recruited another racer to score who after the first lap was exasperated beyond belief. He was very vocal about his confusion and feelings of inadequacy...I knew that at least I was sharing the honor of being class retard. With each lap the scoring became the smallest bit easier and easier. After the race ended, the veteran scorekeeper told us that we had experienced a serious trial by fire, as the size of the field and their propensity for staying in packs as they crossed the line made it especially hard to score. Over the course of the day, I learned to stop reading the numbers. It took too long to interpret the symbols, formulate them into numbers, and then send the message down to my hand to write it out. It was an amazingly slow process when I only had tenths of a second to write one number and then another and then another. Eventually, I stopped interpreting the numbers and simply started writing down the symbols I saw. It removed the interpretation process and saved me some time. If there are any racers reading this, please listen to your racing authorities when they tell you your number plate sucks. Imagine reading a smallish number going by you at 100+ mph with a harsh glare tossed into the mix. You quickly learn what looks fine sitting in the pits looks like ??? on the track. Particularly bad are small, angled, or cramped numbers. Backgrounds that are not bright white or bright yellow also don't help the cause. And another special problem: numbers in electrical tape. Something like "273" that looks like a "Z1[backwards E]" really takes a while to figure out. Like is it a number or a fraternity sign? As a reward for my willingness to stand in the sun all day and endure the good-natured abuse of the Usual Suspects working the races, Craig let me wave the checkered flag on the last race (Lightweight Novice/Nervous). (My favorite hazing incident was when Rhonda poked Craig in the ass while his back was to us; when he turned around Rhonda pointed at me and said, "She did it!" My reply? Dumbfounded silence.) As the winner came around turn 9 they told me to start waving so I leaned into the track and hurled that flag around and around. What I learned was that waving that flag is an art. With the wind tugging at the fabric, the flag felt heavy, even though it wasn't. And as the flag moved around and around, I had to consciously keep a real firm grip, as it felt like the flag wanted to fly out of my hand. What a catastrophe it would've been to have the flag escape and wedge between the spokes of a rider going by at 100 mph. Or to spear him/her in the chest like a toothpick in an hors d'oeuvre. Yikes! I don't know if Craig is left handed or not, but to "look normal," he has to wave the flag with his left hand; this allows his body to face the oncoming traffic. Being right-handed, I must've looked weird with my side facing traffic. Well, I must've looked weird because a) I wasn't Craig, who is the person everyone expects to see at the end of a hard battle, and b) I was clad in a running bra, shorts and sandals...like who let the "brolly dolly" start waving the flag? When I returned to the club office the end of the day I was very surprised to learn that Myra liked my efforts and wanted me to work permanently as a scorer. At first Chris didn't like the idea much since it meant his "pit mate" would be gone all Sunday, but I explained to Chris that he was such a social butterfly flitting about from camp to camp that he was never in our pits anyways. I spent most of the day sitting there, unable to concentrate on much except for the occasional crossword puzzle. He conceded to this observation and said that I could score if I wanted to. July's goals: 1) Make the bike run for more than three sessions and 2) remember not to wear sandals while scoring so I don't sunburn my feet again. Note to Racersden: Although the bike saw limited track action, it looked outstanding in the pits. We kept it parked under the angry sun all weekend to see if the bodywork would melt. Good news...it didn't! It's Mojave tested and I'm willing to make a stand and say that the bodywork is suitable for the Saharan, Australian and Arabian deserts... JULY, AND FAR FROM HOME Shortly before leaving for Laguna Seca to cover the World Superbike races for Ducati, I got a request from a PR person at Ducati to come and test the new 999 superbike at Misano. Other than living in Mexico for a year, I'd never left the country before so I had to hump to get my passport straightened away and to figure out what electrical doo-dad I needed to buy so that when I plugged my hair dryer into the wall socket I wouldn't blow things up. As soon as I was done with the Laguna Seca weekend, I was on a plane the following morning headed for Bologna, Italy. (I was on the same plane as the entire GSE team. They were in business class and I was in cattle class. Ben was also on the plane. That's why I knew we weren't going to crash...there's no way the gods of the cosmos would let all that talent perish at the same time.) So why is this in my race report? Because traveling to Italy resulted in my missing the July race at Willow. Although I enjoyed my trip to Italy, it was a disappointment to miss a month of racing after two months of having my bike blow up. I just wanted to get back on a bike and race. Chris did fix my bike and he took it to the track to try it out, but it was so different from his setup that the bike didn't handle well for him at all so he didn't stay on it. So my bike was out there, but without its true master. I'm hoping August will find me performing well on the track. That will be three months without much practice and I'm not thrilled with the idea of relearning the track. Since I don't have any WSMC track shots for July, I've posted one of me on the 999 at Misano. I also posted the one of Chris on my Racersden-clad baby; he's probably experiencing how 70 extra pounds on a lighter rear spring makes one bounce oddly down the track... AUGUST SOUNDS LIKE "AW BUST!" After Julius Caesar's grandnephew Augustus defeated Marc Antony and Cleopatra and became emperor of Rome, the Roman senate decided to name a month after him. I'm thinking Augustus must've been reincarnated as one of the many crickets that I've found in my house – and violently smashed with my trusty flyswatter – and this is karmic payback. Simply put: My bike broke down. Again. Third times a charm? In fact, I just got done helping Chris hammer out a piston that was wedged in the cylinder. Think metal-on-metal. Think more-money-go-bye-bye-to-fix. The silver lining in this otherwise dramatically gray cloud was that up until I broke down, I was riding without concern. I turned my first '35, and it wasn't even inspired by having anyone to chase (critics, please remember this is done with only 60hp). Things just felt right; could be the new Penske rear shock Chris installed. But probably it had mostly to do with a ride I took in Imola... I was out at Misano for the release of the Ducati 999 to the press in July. While I was there, I finally met my boss after a year of working with him. I also had the opportunity to take a ride as a passenger on his Monster S4. David James is a former three-time sidecar world champion. Before I took the insightful ride, I hadn't anticipated anything too nutty; he was the sidecar passenger, after all. If you ever watch the sidecar races from the Isle of Man (we Americans don't seem to get to see it otherwise), you're probably thinking the same thing I'm thinking: "Oh, so the passenger is the guy who gets rudely hurled off the back when the driver clips one of them walls while going through town..." We headed out of Imola for Florence. There are incredible twisty mountain roads between the two points, the stuff that motorcyclists wet their beds thinking about. At first we go along at a sporty pace; nothing too radical. Maybe he's getting adjusted to me on the back. Maybe I'm just in tourist mode. Then, as the roads get tighter, I'm thinking, "Gee, seems like we're going pretty fast." I have to focus on every turn and brace myself firmly so my weight doesn't shift around and my helmet doesn't smack the back of his. There were a few turns that we entered with such speed that I thought to myself, "WE'RE NOT GOING TO MAKE THIS TURN." I closed my eyes (I am not exaggerating) and waited for the disaster but somehow we arrived on the other side of the turn. I was pleased. I was baffled. My "girly physics calculator" computed that we should've run off the road. This was enlightening. What was even more enlightening was that his performance was limited by me on the back. God knows how semi-suicidal he gets in his preferred riding attire of shorts and t-shirt and without a passenger keeping him from hanging off. I thought to myself, "He can ride like this...what could possibly preclude me from approximating it?" So, on that fateful weekend (I begged for another ride the next day), I resolved to find the "man" in me (sorry Chris!). You know my ongoing lament: At every turn my estrogen tries to sabotage my courage with impure thoughts of how I should be sewing pillow shams or making floral arrangements instead of racing. I might have excessive soft hairs on my face, but I still seem to lack this fundamental ingredient that men pump out in excess thanks to the two body-temp nuclear reactors they call testicles. Lecture me all you want about sexism and how there are real fast women out there, but let's talk about ratios: for every one super fast woman who works at it, there are a few thousand guys with loose screws for whom throwing all caution to the wind comes as naturally as breathing. I'm just asking why I couldn't have been one of them. I will credit my new personal best time as follows: 65% to David James for scaring the shit out of me 20% to Chris Kelley for getting me a Penske shock 10% to Racersden.com for sponsoring me (resulting in guilt if I didn't try my best) 2% to caffeine 1% to my parents for not dropping me off at an orphanage because I was a girl 1% to TV because it taught me not to be overly cerebral 1% to my realtor who, years ago, helped me get a house with a garage in which broken bikes are fixed I'm looking forward to next month in a big way. I want to redeem myself and my bike before I go onward to Imola for the last SBK race of the year. SEPTEMBER TO REMEMBER My luck is changing. Chris rebuilt my original bike (the one on which I managed to get two novice wins) and it ran all weekend. What next in this lucky streak? Maybe Claudio Domenicali decides to scrap the Ducati MotoGP project and gives me the "junk parts"? And maybe he tosses in an extra hundred grand because he's never met a middle-aged Asian woman who races and thinks it's kind of endearing in a freak-show way so why not support the cause? (Anyways, mad props to Chris for doing such a great tuning job. Now I just have to finish sorting out minor suspension issues. The cornerworkers in turn 1 tell me the bike was looking bouncy through that turn.) Not only did the bike run all weekend, I podiumed in the 50-mile race, getting a third. I like this race more than the six-lap sprint races because being in shape does buy you a little something if you're not a wildly gifted rider (e.g., Gobert in his fatty-pie phase with Vance & Hines). The race takes place around 5:00 in the afternoon and at that time the temperature is still solidly in the mid-90s. It's easy to fade and lose focus if your diet consists of Cheez Whiz and McNuggets. When I realized I got third, I thought about how excited James Toseland must have felt with his very first Superbike podium. To a lot of the better racers, a third must be at best another generic notch in the belt and at worst, plain disappointment. Wow, what a luxury it would be to have that line of thought. This is only my second expert podium, and god knows when I'll see another one again. I've thought about going to another class where it would be easier to podium, but I'm a little loathe to give up my bike. The Aprilia is fun (please nobody at Ducati be reading this) and I don't want racing to stop being fun. When it stops being fun, I will gladly quit wasting one weekend a month in a god-forsaken region with the shittiest weather on the planet. (Chris, by the way, got his first expert win in the 50-mile race.) I had a good dogfight in the Aprilia Challenge. Two other gents and I swapped spots a few times and I suppose it was an interesting battle from a spectator's point of view. I'm sure each of us were convinced that the others were slower through the turns...that's what it always looks like when you're not the lead dog. In the end, none of us took the others out like bowling pins so it was a great race. When I race, I need some level of motivation. It's true that when the starter waves the flag I turn into a bit of a weirdo mouthbreather on autopilot, but it really helps to have a little spark. It just so happened that someone on our WSMC club email list asked me if the letter on Troy's tank was the letter "Z." It's actually the letter "N" and it stands for "Nuvolari," but if you think about it, when Troy lies on the tank, he's looking down at a "Z"...so could it be he is secretly thinking about his Warrior Princess? That's all the motivation I needed. To return the favor, I taped TB on my fairing (see photo)...and what do you know? His transatlantic karma guided me to the podium. It was either that or what my boss told me just before I left for the track: "You're nothing, and you shouldn't have an entry...who ever heard of girls racing? Fucking crazy idea..." He's from the school of "tough love"; figures if I'm pissed enough I'd run it in deeper everywhere out of spite. I was pissed alright...pissed it was 100 degrees out and miserable. And you know what? Two months from now it's going to be 40 degrees out and miserable in a different way. Goddamn desert. So another month down of racing and only three more to go before I head into the year in which I get to soil the Formula 40 pool. I don't know if I'll be the first woman to race Formula 40 or not, but I'll probably be the first Asian woman with really wide feet to do it. OCTOBER, AND BONO SAYS "KINGDOMS RISE AND KINGDOMS FALL" Make no mistake, mine is rising, baby. Well, ok, I don't have a kingdom, but I do have a tiny castle that is my mind, and it is occupied by no more than a few voices at a time. There is a period in most every racer's life – usually early in the career – when he or she says, "Why am I here? Am I not perpetrating a fraud being amidst these skilled people who regularly visit the point of extremis while I casually sniff out an apex as if I were touring the New England countryside in autumn?" That was me. I tried hard, but I always had doubts about my skills when I heard the warrior tales of the he-men on big bikes turning times in the 20s. But this is October, my month since I was born into it decades ago. And things were going to change... Saturday practice is usually just that – practice. I go out there and turn moderate times. But this month was different: I immediately went out and turned 35s and 34s, something I normally pull out of my arse only for a race. Everything felt natural, and no turn was my enemy. Holding the throttle open longer was not an issue; it came without hesitation. To suddenly have no fear on the track is a bit like being a pagan and stumbling upon the Holy Grail: It's great, but you're not sure it's real and yours to keep. We thought this month would be colder so we had the supersoft Pirellis on the front and the soft on the rear. It was around 80 degrees and the tires were getting prematurely ragged so I skipped the last couple of practice sessions so I'd have enough left for race day. Chris also skipped the last few sessions and went so far as to flip his rear tire as his Large White Man's Ass (tm) had really done a number on it. The weather on race day was perfect. So perfect, in fact, everybody ran around commenting on its perfection since Rosamond, California is home to the shittiest weather on the planet (go ahead and tell me I exaggerate; it falls on deaf ears). To have such a beautiful day was yet more of that Holy Grail magic. The first race was the 550 Superbike race, aka The Ax Murderer's race. Fifteen people on bikes ranging from tricked-out SV650s to bone-stock EX500s. A potpourri of horror...I mean horsepower. Our beloved starter throws the flag and the filthy hoard roars off towards turn 1. I'm somewhere near the back of the pack so I get to watch the clusterfuck piling into the turn. Turns out that an SV screamed its way to the front, but backed off hard going into the turn, causing several tailgating pursuers to check up. The SV continues to plague the masses as it goes mach speed between corners, but once there, slows up like he's spotted a cop in a school zone. Finally, the riders start getting around him and mid race we spread out a little. I slowly pick my way through the pack, making passes where I never would before. The Grail floats before me and makes me chase it. At the end of my race I am proud to have finished in the leading half of the pack instead of the finishing half. That's new for me in this race. I also broke into the 33s with a 1.33.33. The number astounds me. I'm beginning to think I may just see a 30 some day. For sure I can get there if I hopped onto a big bike...but maybe, just maybe the Priller and I can claim the prize on our own. I'm gridded 4th in the Aprilia race so I'm on the far left side. Craig throws the flag and off I go with a good start. I see out of the corner of my eye that someone is drag racing me to turn 1 so I just put my head down and go for it. Much to my shock, I get the holeshot. With this bit of luck, I put my head down and rail through my favorite sweeping turn that makes up 2. Still leading I head into 3, fully expecting the late brakers to stuff it up the inside, but nothing happens. I'm stunned. I've never lead this far in an expert race. It's the Holy Grail-est of days so I just run with my luck and barrel ass into all the turns. One lap is complete and I'm still in front. Frankly, at this point I am saying to myself, "There is something seriously wrong with this picture." Around the sweeper again, through the omega again and then, finally, Chris slides it under me in turn 6. I'm a little surprised to see him there, but it's a beautiful and clean pass. Then somehwere later, Ryan passes me. I know those two are faster than me so I do my best to get a tow from them. Like Ruben watching Colin and Troy battle it out in the last race at Imola, I'm transfixed by the event. There's something about an ass-end view of a race that's entertaining. Not to sound like a loser, but I think there's a bit of "Better them than me." I know they're sweating it out, busting a gut trying to make a pass stick. Meanwhile, I'm back there enjoying the fact that I led for a lap and half. The underachiever in me was riding high. In the end, I came across the line third, giving me my third expert podium finish. So this was October's story. May November find this pagan in possession of the Grail once again. NOVEMBER, MONTH 11 AND COUNTING I had a chance to ride Rich Headley's Ducati 998RS this month. It's the real deal. It's racing with Viagra. It's a loaded gun. Read about it here: Welcome to the World of Horsepower. About finding the Holy Grail last month and worrying about losing it: I no longer have to worry about using it because I lost it. I rode the 998RS without any concern but once I got back on my Aprilia, I was a bit lost. Last month I knew what I had to do. This month I had to work for it. I'd like to blame it on going from a Superbike to a Stuporbike, but really, I need only to look at myself to blame. Just when I thought I was perfect, just when I thought I rocked my own world, I get dropped like a burning bag of dog crap back down to earth. Well, it's all good. I worry about how well I perform on a bike instead of how I'm starving from hunger or how I'll be stoned to death for some religious transgression. I'll never complain...at least not too loudly... Practice was fine except for watching a guy crash in turn 3 and the guy right behind him mad maxing the downed bike. I had to work not to run over bike or man. Took the piss out of my vinegar, watching that. Race day was nothing special. I was profoundly glad to at least turn a 34 on race day, which meant, once again, I was vindicated by the red mist. God bless the fire in the belly, the willingness to throw oneself away like there is no ramification more serious than getting up and checking the cool new scuff marks on your leathers. And speaking of scuff marks, after November's race weekend I went to Spain to test the new 749. Since I have so little news this month, I'll share the story I wrote for Ducati.com... The Rain in Spain There's a track in the southern coast of Spain in a place called Almer�a. While there to test the 749S recently, I recalled the phrase from My Fair Lady: "The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain." More correctly on that day, it was "The rain in Spain pelts mainly on my brain," as this desert region of the country was doing its level best to reverse the drought situation in a single day. It was the 749S track event for the American press. Those in attendance had flown up to twelve hours to be here, only to be greeted by this cold, hostile weather. Ruben Xaus was scheduled to be out on the track with us, but as the morning went on, it was clear that he would most likely miss the chance to show us around since he had to leave at noon. Ruben came up with the idea that we all get on the bus and drive around the track while he gave us a "talking tour." It probably wasn't how he envisioned teaching others about the track, but Ruben described the nuances with all seriousness, even as the bus pitched and rolled its way across each apex with the grace of a whale on casters. When the rain finally did stop, the deep gray clouds miraculously dissipated and a bright sun made us feel hopeful. Three cars circled the track, trying to create a dry line for us while we hurriedly geared up, not knowing how long our luck would last. I was in the first group so I got on my assigned bike and revved the engine. Slapping me on the back, Ruben made some comment like "It is always the girls who are not afraid!" Looking at him standing there in his warm fleece jacket, I took the subtext of his encouragement to mean "Better you than me, honey." The other journalists didn't seem to be in a hurry so I took off first down the pit lane. This way, were I to do anything embarrassing on the track, no one would be there to see. At first, I felt very hesitant with the bike as I was coming to terms with the curvy wet track on a shiney new bike. As the session went on and the track slowly began to dry, I started to enjoy the bike. Like the 999, the 749 is a comfortable bike whose fit is a non-issue (whether it's on a bike that's too tall or has a reach that's too far, woman � even those of us not on the real short side � usually have to put up with something). The power delivery of the bike was smooth. Being accustomed to handling a two-stroke in which I constantly snap the throttle in hopes of wringing any last bit of power out of it, I found that my brutish style did not come back to haunt me. The power that went to the back wheel was crisp but even. And my propensity for staying in any given gear much longer than I really should? Praise be to an agreeably broad midrange. I'll admit to the fact that I can't tell you all that much about the top end. There was a long straight in which I could hold open the throttle, but because of a headwind that only grew stronger and stronger, I never could ascertain what the bike was really capable of in the top gears. In fact, in my third session, a new gray wall of clouds had blown in and the first drops of rain were starting to fall gain. As I was going through the first of a double-apex curve just before the long straight, my world suddenly went sideways on the once-again rainslicked track. While sliding along, I listened to that familiar harmony of plastic and metal grinding against asphalt. I traveled for a while before hitting the mud and coming to a stop. I quickly jumped up and looked at the track to see if anyone was target fixating on me. Seeing that it was safe, the guy who was behind me when the accident occurred helped me upright the bike. In lieu of telling you about the top end, I can at least tell you that a 749S crashes great. In spite of the fairly hard slam, all I did was snap off a mirror and shave the plastic down a bit before coating it with mud. I rode the bike back into the pits and handed it to the mechanics with a sheepish look. It was a great day. But how could it be a great day if I crashed? If you can bin a beautiful new 749S and hand it back to someone without being cursed at or sued, it's a great day. DECEMBER, AND WHAT HAVE YOU TO SHOW BUT A STACK OF USED TIRES? This is it, my last race report. Maybe not forever, but for a while. I wrote my race reports as a journalistic exercise, and after 24 months of documentation, just how much new and interesting stories can you come up with? Few, methinks. You either went fast or you didn't. You either crashed or you didn't. Add all the salt and pepper you want, but the recipe still uses the same primary ingredients and the dish comes out looking, tasting and smelling more or less the same. Certainly in my case, it's nothing gourmet. If my racing career were a culinary dish, it would be macaroni and cheese: slightly bland, but simple and serviceable. In 2002, 316 racers scored points. Most of them probably didn't go home with a trophy, let alone any cash prize. What, then, is the point of being at the track every month of the year, through the painful heat of summer and through the painful cold of winter? And if that pain isn't enough, what about the part where you spend $500* per month, enough annual waste to pimp out your street bike with all the trick shiznit you can get your hands on? Here's what it's about, at least for me (and I know you've heard this theme before): Transient Penile Accessorization. Basically, I get to put on my "Ghost Penis" for the duration of a race. I'm just one of the guys. I'm one part testosterone, one part red mist. I'm out there to turn the best lap I can, come highside or lowside. If I beat someone while in my altered state, all that much better. If not, I'll blame it on the tires. I don't want to be a girl who races. I just want to be one of the guys. If that makes Chris gay for the time being, he'll have to work that out on his own. We attended the Friday practice session, showing up late and not getting on track until the afternoon. This wasn't a big loss since we had free passes and the morning had been chilly anyways. My (selective) memory of an elephant reminded me that almost a year ago to the day I had crashed in turn 5 on a cold morning. It was fairly windy so my practice times were on the high end for me. On Saturday it was more of the same except with a little stronger winds. We didn't rush to get to the track and started our practice late in the morning. More ok times; nothing to call up Mom about. Sunday, race day. Chilly. Breezy. About as motivational as getting your teeth drilled without novacaine by a dentist who hates his job, his wife, his kids, his dog and his car. It was cold enough that when I went out to score the first few races before my own race came up, I kept my leathers on from practice (with several layers below it) and threw a thick jacket on over everything. Still, I was shaking in the cold. And this was technically a warm December! I ended up finishing 5th in the Aprilia race and somewhere in the back of the 550 Superbike race. What I was most pleased with was that I at least did a 35 in the stiff wind. At this point in my racing career, I like to see at least one 35 each month, just to confirm I can do it. Something even lower is, of course, quite welcomed. I remember when Chris used to turn 37s on his Ducati 916. I thought he was a god and that I'd never approximate his skill. This just goes to show where perseverance gets you, because I sure wasn't born with "the right stuff." Chris does accuse me of being "carelessly suicidal," but I don't believe my predisposition for trying to "Darwin myself off this planet" really helps me on the track. Neither of us have gone to a race school yet; maybe if we do some day, it'll open a positive can of worms for us. Until that day, all the skills we have to work with are what we taught ourselves by going around and around that 2.5 mile track. There are no planned changes for next year. We're both going to continue to race our Aprilias and Chris might also pick up an FZR400. I finished 83rd overall (having missed four months). Overall ranking is interesting, but it's not really indicative of the rider's skill. If you show up every month and enter a lot of races, you can easily amass a lot of points. What I care about most is working on my times and having fun pretending to be a guy. Low 30s would be great gift for 2003...we'll see what the gods of motorcycling have in store for me. If they'd just send me a sign, I can sacrifice all the chickens they want, or whatever it is one does to have good fortune come her way. Thanks to Chris, who babysit me through my early days of poor riding, when he'd have to wait eons at stop signs for me to catch up. Had he not patiently put up with me weekend after weekend as I sat bolt upright through every turn on my 95 900SS, there's no way I would've developed into the rider I am today. Props also to The Large White Man for taking care of everything at the track so I could just concentrate on riding. To show my gratitude, I occasionally put out without too much complaining. Thanks also to DJ for telling me not to be a pussy in spite of the prima facie evidence. It's great having a world champion in your corner goading you like a kid poking at a wounded dog with a stick...you do sort of want to bite back. So this was my year. When this racing business ceases to be entertaining, I'll go back to doing whatever it was I did before I started spending a weekend a month in the land of wind and rocks. Until then, I'll keep trying to do my best. * Expenses for one person per weekend include tires, fuel, hotel, meals, track fees. |
JAN PIX Chris and Scott with their awards FEB PIX My new sponsor! Jamie shares his rum and Diet Coke  This underaged alien raced up and down the pit lane "Pinky" gets ready for her first WSMC race They can't possibly get paid enough to enjoy this Jane laughs at me giving Cracker a manicure  It's actually 70° out but we Californians are pussies! If you can't work an umbrella, you certainly don't get a motorcycle MAR PIX The new bodywork looks sweet... ...but does it make my butt look big? Angling the camera guarantees an artsy shot I dig the red front fender The blue metham- phetamine strips evenly coat both tires with "speed" APR PIX Fans? You have got to be kidding.  Guard dogs waiting for Mongol invasion The Montanans fussing over Frankenbike Love the "cheese wedge" oil reservoir MAY PIX The face is a prediction of the day...  Behold the image of suck-atude. A ride nobody wants to take. Chris holds his sick baby's hand. Tribal wraparound tattoo using hematoma technique. JUNE PIX Fri: Nobody dumb enough to ride in 100° but us Heat takes its toll on the weak San Diegans Only 155° on the pitbike's seat Steve readies the "rent-a-racer" Scorers huddling in the tiny bit of shade JULY PIX 999 at Misano Chris killing my bike AUG PIX Bad posture helps my reading Post-race engine teardown DJ on his 125: before he learned to ride in shorts SEP PIX This month's featured motivator Xaus in the house? Look at that wayward knee Sold at gift shop cuz every racer soils himself sooner or later OCT PIX  Why tree-huggers hate two-strokes  Chris finds the "all you can drink" Bud barrel The guy my bike "Akos the Terrible" is named after Life flight helicopter kicks up a storm landing (rider ok) Moonrise over the Erion Racing truck NOV PIX Dark clouds coming my way Warming up with Ruben  Move to Spain? Sign me up. DEC PIX A "MiniMe" was racing on the kart track |
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Want to read more about fear and loathing at Willow Springs? 2005 season | 2003 season | 2002 season | 2001 season | Race Report Generator Z!na's home page. |