. 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 have 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... |
2002 SPONSOR!
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 Racersden bodywork. More pix here 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. |
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Return to current month. Want to read more about fear and loathing at Willow Springs? Then check out my 2001 season. Go to Zina's home page. |