DAYTONA: From Dismay to Despair. Part I:
Pregnant Cats and Bloody Knuckles
Posted by Krash on March 7, 2002
I left for Daytona, a passenger in a 25 year old van, with a man I had only
met once before and his pregnant cat. My racebike was in Virginia, hopefully
all prepped and ready to go. The plan was to get to Zooke's, put the
finishing touches on the three Sundial bikes and be off to practice at
DeLand FL. Sounds like a simple plan, had I (or Eric) known what we were in
for, we both might have stayed at home with our feet propped up and a frosty
beverage close by (non-alcoholic in my case), watching re-runs of the Andy
Griffith Show and nary a thought to the way things could have been. If
only.......
A tense 14 white-knuckle, nail-biting, speedy prayers to my maker, eyes
clamped shut, teeth gritted for impact, hours later I arrived in the lovely
state of Virginia. My driver was a man with no need for useless conventions
such as lane markers, stop signs, signal lights, one way streets, no
u-turns, ect. A gentleman who truly believed in using the whole road,
breakdown lane, rumble strips, grass median, the space currently occupied by
another vehicle and so on, not to mention his pregnant cat that found
standing on the dashboard blocking the driver's view the most comfortable
spot. One particulary tense moment when the interstate split and we were
given the choice of going sharply to the left or to the right, saw our
vehicle travelling decidedly straight, into orange barrels and guard rails.
Somehow we avoided the barrels and made our way back to the tarmac, but not
before I needed a change of shorts. Racing at Daytona would be easy, if I
didn't end up a greasy spot on I-81 trying to get there.
I emerged from that rolling tomb a bit shaky, but still intact, at Sundial
HQ in Pulaski, VA. Zooke informed me that we had a busy night ahead of us,
as he was behind schedule with the bikes. It was a daunting task he had
undertaken, preparing three bikes to run the banking at Daytona, but he
showed no signs of worry, so I was encouraged. That was until I saw how much
work was left to be done. The front end and brakes needed to be assembled on
my bike, as well as a plethora of nuts and bolts still to be drilled and
wired, fork seals installed, hydraulics bled, calipers assembled. We worked
until the night was old, and the dawn rapidly approaching, before retiring
for a few brief hours of rest.
We awoke to a cold day, with winds and some snow. Even after living for
years in upstate NY, it felt bitter. So much for sunny VA. It was at this
point Eric began having trouble with his bike, it wouldn't fire. Suspecting
a bad crank, he began the first of what would be at last count four (yes 4)
engine swaps, and many trips up and down his driveway in the freezing cold
trying to bump start the bike, to no avail. Not once did his enthusiasm or
determination waver. I wish I could have said the same for me. Still
recovering from the flu, I felt weak and congested. Not the way I would have
liked to start off my racing season. In the end, Eric and I finally got all
the bikes together and loaded up on the trailer and began the 12 hour trip
to Deland. It was 1:30 am, the practice day I had paid $75 for began in 6.5
hours. At least we were on our way.
Part II: From Pissing Gas to Practice Laps
Zooke and I were headed down to Deland in the hours of the night when only
the insane are awake. Surely our mental stability was in question at this
point, only we were far too exhausted for our brains to function at any
measurable output. We were the Driving Dead, our only goal to keep the truck
and trailer between the white and yellow lines. Staring unflinchingly ahead
into the abyss of blackness before us with burning, blinded eyes. Our shifts
of sleeping and driving lasted just twenty minutes, because neither of us
could stay awake any longer. I found I could sleep quite nicely while
driving, if it wasn't for the tractor trailers passing us and waking me up,
usually just in time to yank the truck back onto the road. Even asleep,
Zooke and I were better drivers than some people (mentioned in Part I).
At the noon hour, we were rolling into the Deland Airport, where a section
of runway had been cordoned off by hay bales, garbage bags filled with
something and orange cones, to form some kind of makeshift, ramshackle
"racetrack". It looked like the kind of thing some kids might build for a
go-cart race, not a prestigious AHRMA event. Team Sundial had arrived, roll
out the red carpet!
Practice was already underway, so we quickly unloaded, bought some fuel from
"Super" Dave Rosno and fired up the bikes. Or at least tried to.
The second I put gas into my tank, it came pissing out the bloody petcock. A
cursory inspection revealed a fiber washer was missing from one of the
screws that holds the petcock on the tank. Ever tried to find a fiber fuel
valve washer at the racetrack? They're all over the friggin' place, but
nobody wants to take one off their tank to give it to you! I stood and
watched the $5 a gallon petrol piss and dribble all over the ground, trying
to come up with a solution in my already bruised and battered head. All I
could do was manage to drool a little bit and grunt. Zookerman to the
rescue. In his hand he held a tiny nylon washer used on the Titans to seal
the injector lines and banjo bolts. Apparently these things seal out gas as
well, because my incontinent tank soon held it's own water (gas?) better
than Grandma's Depends. I might get to do a couple of laps today, although I
had completely forgotten how to ride a bike. Was it clutch on the left,
brake on the right? Four up, one down? How did you get the silly thing to go
around corners? Countersteer, what's that, a new kind of beef? Yes boys and
girls, Mr. Krash was a little rusty. But never fear, he was determined to
put on a display of riding tactics to make even the most idiotic of cage
drivers wince. This is how NOT to ride a motorcycle. I managed not to kill
anybody in my first few laps. OK, I managed not to kill myself, they're
still looking for the riders I put off into the swamp. Alligator bait I
suppose. Sorry.
I came back into the pits to find Eric grimacing over his Production bike
that was supposed to be raced in just a few short hours. "Bad crank seal,"
is all he mutters as he puts the bike back on the stand. Without time to
swap another engine for today's racing, it looks like Zooke will be
sidelined. Frank Melling has arrived from England, with his "tuner", but the
GP bike is having some teething problems, suspected fuel starvation and/or
jetting glitch that will require further testing to rectify. Zooke is not
worried, he has taken the "I will work harder" creed as his own and is
sticking to his guns. I am impressed, by now others would have been reduced
to tears, valiantly he soldiers own, without heed to his own weariness or
frustration. He is the rock that Sundial is built on, the thread that held
us all together. I would have thrown at least half a dozen temper tantrums
by now, but that's just me.
Just when things aren't looking so hot for Zooke racing that day, OH NO Mr.
Bill Vernon shows up and offers his T500 proddie bike to Zooke to race. If I
am correct, Zooke built both of Bill's bikes, his T500 and the T350 Bill
would be racing. The fight is on and Zooke makes a hell of an effort on
Bill's bike, coming in Third in the Historic Production class, despite
handling problems and his unfamiliarity with bike. It's a credit to his
smooth and careful riding, even on a bumpy, sandy bunghole of a track like
Deland, and it pays off with a podium finish, "wood" if you will.
We load up the bikes and drive 90 minutes to Zooke's parents house, where we
will be staying, (much cheaper than a hotel). The Kalamajas are extremely
gracious, making me feel a member of the family, not just a mere guest. I
would have gladly stayed another two weeks with such warm and friendly
people like them. Truly their kind of hospitality is rare in this day and
age. My hat is off to them, as well as a heartfelt thank you.
I am falling asleep standing up as we exchange greetings with the Kalamajas,
and my need for rest is abundantly clear and quickly fufilled, as they offer
me the spare room and bed which I am soon sound asleep and snoring louder
than the racebike in. Alas, no rest for Zooke, who will spend another late
night, swapping the motor in his Production bike for another with hopefully
good crank seals. I don't envy him as he plods out to the garage. His hands
and knuckles are already swollen and bloody from long nights wrenching, and
it appears this one will be no different. I think about this for nearly four
seconds before passing out.
Only to be awakened by Zooke way too early in the morning. We must get to
Deland. Today, Frank and I will be racing Formula 500, and already the
butterflies are swarming in my gut.
Part III: Frightening Finish and Friggin' Fork Seals
For once on this trip, Zooke and I arrive on time and almost prepared. My
bike is running well. and the front brakes are just starting to bed in. I
might be able to stop if I really yank the lever! Practice goes much
smoother than yesterday, but I am still very anxious, and with good reason.
Upon inspecting the bike after practicing, it appears the steering damper
has puked it's oily guts out all over my front fender. The only thing that
saved be from a nasty crash was that skinny piece of fiberglass. I nearly
chose not to run a front fender, because we were running short of time and
it was a pain in the ass to put on. I will never run without one now.
I think anyone who has raced before will agree that the worst, most anxious
time at the racetrack is the period in between practice and your race.
Doesn't it always seem that practice ends far to early in the morning and
the race is way too late in the afternoon? That's definitely the case as
practice wraps up and I begin the long wait for lunch break and the five
other races that will occur before my Formula 500 debut on the Sundial GP
T500. Plenty of time for the body to stiffen up, the mind to wander and the
weariness of the last four days to catch up with me. You can't sleep because
your heart won't slow down, you can't eat much because it feels like you're
going to vomit your intestines out. I don't like to watch others race before
I do, inevitably you will see a crash and the imagination takes over. I must
have pissed thirty times before I got into my leathers, and another twenty
after. The human body is 70% water, and I'm sure I lost at least 50% of
myself down the port-a-pottie. It's always like this for me before a race,
only it's amplified due to lack of sleep, a new bike and a long winter. I'd
love to know if the other racers feel this way, or if I'm just a candy-ass.
Of course, when the green flag drops, a metamorphasis occurs. The fear is
gone and the adrenaline surges. I change from the little girl quaking in his
Alpinestars to a full-fledged idiot, capable of the most incredible acts of
daring (stupidity?). I run off the track wide open, drag my knee in the mud
and flog the bike past it's limits. My brain tells me to slow down, pay
attention to the line and be smooth. I kick it in the balls and send it off
to some dark corner of my skull. Every so often it will yell from the corner
to go easier on the machine and not over-rev it. Another kick sends it
yelping back to the depths. If I listened to it I might finish more races
and crash less, and even become a better rider. "He will never be a Jedi. He
is reckless. Adventure? Excitement? A Jedi craves not these things."
That's exactly how I'm riding out there as my race starts. I get over-eager
and come close to jumping the start. I'm away, but the leaders are already
into turn one, and I can hear some angry two-strokes chain-sawing up behind
me. One of them shows me a wheel and I miss the line in the first turn, and
get passed. This thoroughly pisses me off and I rev the snot out of the bike
to catch up. If I don't calm down, I'm going to kill someone, or detonate
the motor. Two laps into it I get a little better, but I'm having trouble
with the power delivery of the engine. It's deader than my grandma below 6
thousand RPMs. If you get out of the power, forget it. Stay in power and it
pulls like a freight train. I take my entry speed up a few notches and start
feeling the front end going away from me in the corners. I downshift to an
insanely low gear to keep the revs up, somewhere around a crankcase bursting
9500 RPMs. I'm sure I could ride this bike well if I had had more time to
get used to it, but I can't seem to figure it out here in the middle of the
race. I'm still not doing too badly position-wise as we reach the halfway
point of the race. I pass an RD by coming into a corner way too fast,
hopping the back end on the downshift and blocking his line. It ain't
smooth, but it's a clean pass. He hangs with me for another lap and gets by
me when I slide the back end getting the power on too early in a tight right
hander. Now I have to play catch-up, determined not to lose another
position, especially to a friggin' Yamaha. I'm still close to him as we hit
the front straight, when a rattling noise comes from the Titan. It sounds
like the whole bike is coming apart. I look down and the screw that holds my
flip-up gas cap on has come off, and there's race fuel sloshing all over the
top of the tank and my legs. Needless to say, this put me off my already
sloppy game even further. I have to hold the cap down with one hand going
down the straights. In the corners I let the gas go anywhere it pleases.
Despite this set-back and my questionable riding style, I finish seventh.
Frank retires early, still having problems with his bike. I am exhausted,
not pleased with my riding, and upon post-race inspection of the bike it is
discovered that the right-hand fork seal has given up the ghost and is
vomiting the fork contents all over the lower leg. Great, another problem.
And we haven't even made it to Daytona yet.
Frustrated and over-tired, we load the bikes and leave Deland to the
airplanes and skydivers. If I have to look at the bright side, I didn't
crash, blow up the bike or finish last, and we have two days off before
Daytona. Looking at the dark side, I am in desperate need of a fork seal for
a late model GT750, tomorrow is Sunday, nary a bike shop within a thousand
miles will be open, and Zooke is so busy with Frank's bike that a fork seal
is the least of his worries. And the icing on this dung cake is that I don't
have anywhere near the seat time on my machine to feel even remotely
confident in it, or my riding. Part of me wants to shitcan the whole race
and spectate, check out all the cool bikes that will be there. Of course,
the maniac part takes over and growls that as long as the bike will move, I
will race, even if I have to empty the oil out of both fork legs, or put a
girder front end from a '37 Sunbeam on it. There's no way out.
Zooke and I spend a semi-relaxed day running errands, checking on his rental
property, and trying not to fret about the bikes. But I know Zooke is
concerned about Frank having a good ride and a good showing, having
travelled all this way. It doesn't make a very good article to tell about
how you didn't race at Daytona, somehow I don't think Classic Bike would
pick up Frank's tab for that one. I met a friend of Zooke's that had a GT750
he was using as a streetbike, but I couldn't con him into lending me his
fork leg just for a few races. He thinks he might have some seals at home,
says he will check and get back to me. I am not holding my breath. I'm
starting to wake up to the grim reality that even when they have good
intentions, you cannot count on other people. You truly must do it yourself,
and leave nothing to chance. A lesson that was soon to be driven home with a
sledge hammer. But I am getting ahead of myself.
As I did not here from Zooke's friend about the seal, much of Monday is
spent trying to find one at the local bike shops. I might as well have been
searching for a head for an AJS Porcupine with all the luck I had.
Everybody's willing to order them, but I need them NOW! Frank wants me to
drain the one fork leg and fill the other with 50WT oil. His rationale is
that the legs are clamped together, and will move together, even if one is
empty of oil. That will be my last resort. Others have suggested stuffing
paper towels into the leg and duct-taping them in place, sort of a Maxi-pad
type deal. One guy even told me to use JB-Weld on the seal, but I think he
had spent too much time around uncapped inhalants in his dirt floor garage.
In a final attempt to procure a seal, I checked the box of spare parts I
brought with me from NY, what seems like a lifetime ago. Buried in the
bottom of the box is a used, grungy, distorted fork seal that I had
forgotten to throw away at Zooke's because I couldn't find the garbage can.
I knew there was no way this would work, defying all fork seal logic I had
ever been taught, but there was nothing to lose. With the front end of my
menstrating Titan jacked up on a log, bits spread out all over Zooke's
parent's lawn, I began what I assumed would be a fruitless venture.
While I was dissecting my front half, Zooke and Frank were running his bike
up and down the street in front of the house (somewhat illegally, I might
add) trying to pinpoint the niggling fuel delivery problem that had plagued
them for days. Finally Frank suggests swapping out both carburators for the
set on the Sundial Production racer. Zooke, at a loss, concedes and the swap
begins. Within thirty minutes Frank is tearing up and down the desolate
stretch of central Florida backroad at speeds approaching triple digits, a
distinctly English grin spreading from ear to ear inside his fiery red Arai
brainbucket. Zooke decides to celebrate cowboy style, whooping it up and
smacking his hat back and forth on his leg, shouting expletives of happiness
and hugging anyone who would come near. You'd have thought he discovered the
cure for cancer. I only share partly in their happiness, as I am waiting to
see whether my ancient fork seal will stand the test. I sanded the slider
with 600 grit wet or dry and used a jewler's file on a nasty gouge that had
previously escaped our notice, probably the cause of the first seal failure.
Nothing good can come of rushing a project.
I test ride the bike over all the bumps I can find, trying to get the
sliders to use their full travel. I dirt track it across the lawn (sorry
about the ruts!) and take to the pavement. I jam the front brake several
times to compress the suspension. At least the brakes are coming up. So much
so that I do a pretty cool "stoppie" and nearly end up on my head! Didn't
know vintage bikes could do that! After about fifteen minutes of these
shenanigans, I roost back across the lawn to inspect. Nary a drop of fork
oil to be seen. I push up and down on the forks, determined to get them to
leak, but can't. I am happy. The bike will be ready for the banking at
Daytona. The only other question is, will I?
After an excellent dinner cooked by Ma Kalamaja, I head to bed, pre-race
jitters already beginning. But I have some hope, and that's a good thing.
The evening before the race at Daytona was the most relaxing time during
this crazy trip, by far. Frank Melling, Zooke and I enjoyed a tasty meal
prepared by Zooke's Ma. The food was good, the company was great and did
much to set our minds at ease. The bikes were running well, tomorrow would
be easy, provided you didn't crash or blow up the bike.
I was again awakened by Zooke at some ungodly hour of the morning when only
ghosts are stirring. Time to go. We had loaded the bikes and gear last
night, so without further ado, we departed for the track. The temperature
was in the high 20s, low 30s. The news on the radio was talking about frost,
the citrus farmers were covering up their crops. So much for sunny and warm
Florida. Ninety minutes later Zooke and I are descending into the tunnel
that leads to the pits at Daytona. Immediately we are swarmed upon by a
gaggle of annoying creatures known as "Track Nazis", demanding credentials,
and barking orders. The only way to be rid of these draconian insectoziods
is to appease them. They love subservience from their victims, and this must
be feigned at all times. Any hint that you might be disgusted with being
told to park on the left, after another one of them told you to park on the
right, just moments before another told you to park in the middle can cause
them to attack. The sting of a Track Nazi can lead to a sudden rise in blood
pressure, red blotchy face, a red veil before the eyes and the
uncontrollable urge to rip one of those bastards to shreds and eat his heart
for lunch, and spleen for dessert. Be warned.
One of these dreadful nincompoops comes over to the Sundial truck and shouts
that we can drop off the trailer inside the paddock, but must return and
park the truck in the outside lot, a walk somewhere between 1/4 and 1/2
mile. I am about to say something to this silly little man with the badge
and walkie-talkie, when Zooke shows me the Zuki Knight Mind Trick. He bows
his head and humbly aquiesces to this weaver of red tape webs, promising to
bring the tow vehicle out forthwith and stable it in yonder lot. There is
not a hint of annoyance in his tone, he sounds as if he's trying to talk a
state trooper out of a speeding ticket. The bugman is fooled and we are on
our way. Zooke mutters something under his breath about "bring the truck
back, my ass". I have so much to learn, Master Zooke.
The sun is out, but the morning is freezing. I am forced to drop a heat
range in plugs just to get the bike to fire. Finally it does, billowing
forth plumes of two-stroke and 112 octane fumes. Many riders have opted not
to head out for the first practice session, due to the cold. Zooke puts his
leathers on over all his clothes for added warmth, I will never fit in mine
if I do the same. We head out on the track. I have seen Daytona on tv, and
listened to the racers talk about the banking, hell I even visited the track
once as a kid. But the first time you come out of the infield and head out
onto the banking any pre-conceptions you had disappear. The first look down
is rather intimidating. A lowside here, would be very low indeed. I can see
small specks moving around in the grass on the infield, only to realize they
are corner workers. I take a quick look back up at the angled cement wall on
top of the banking and can see the tire marks where NASCAR's finest have
their red-neck wreckfest. Then I become aware of my speed, somewhere over
the ton, and my attention snaps back to what I am doing. I back off the
throttle, not wanting to harm the bike before the race. Learn the track,
save the motor. Suddenly the wind catches my bike from behind, hits the
fairing and pushes me down the banking. I had heard about the wind here,
that was scary. I slow for the chicane, trying to find the best line through
it, then head back out onto the banking. I give her a little more stick. The
bike feels like it's down on power, then I hear the sound that became all
too familiar to me last season. It's a fluttering, spluttering sound that
can mean only one thing, the headgasket is blown. And if the head gasket is
gone, the probable reason is that the head has cracked. I thought when I
bought Zooke's specially prepared bike that this head cracking that plagued
me last year would be over. Apparently not. I limp the machine back down the
banking and to pit-in. I kill the motor to avoid further damage to the top
of the cylinder (a lesson hard learned last year when I tried to finish a
race with a bad head). I started pushing, and sweating and huffing and
puffing in all my gear. Thankfully a young man decides I look utterly
pitiful doing this and begins pushing me and the bike. I never got his name,
but thanks to him anyways.
Frank, Zooke, and a tuner (whose name has been changed to prevent
embarassment and a possible international incident due to circumstances I
will later reveal. We'll can him Jim.) listen to the bike. Jim assures me
that the head gasket is not gone, and sends me back out to practice again. I
don't even get to the banking, the sound is so bad coming from the top end.
I putter around in the in-field and begin the long push back to the paddock,
this time with no assistance. My anger is starting to rise.
Back at the truck, my friend, and new sponsor (thanks!), Dave, owner of
South St. Cycle in Philadelphia, has arrived. Just in time to watch me push
the bike he's sponsoring back into the paddock. Inspection reveals what I
have known for almost an hour now, the head is cracked, the head gasket is
toast. Zooke thankfully has spares of both. Dave and I jump into the job,
removing the gas tank and the bad head. It's the right hand side, an
annoying first. It's always been the left until now. No one has any
definitive answers, just the vague opinion that I am over-revving the motor.
If it had any power below 6000 rpm, I wouldn't have to over-rev it by
shifting into too low a gear to pull out of the corners. A quick discussion
of my riding style (or lack thereof) has me wondering if I am the cause. The
bike is re-assembled and I only missed one practice session. Back out on the
track, I am trying to change my riding and be easier on the bike. I start
using the back brake, planning my downshifts better, just trying to be
smoother on the machine. I feel appallingly slow. The bike is running well,
but won't pull the over-tall gearing we've got on it, and it still won't
pull coming out of corners without a nasty downshift to keep it in the
narrow powerband. I decide not going to worry about it any more, just to
ride and have as much fun as I can. I know I'll probably get my ass whooped,
but I'm here, the bike is going and that will have to do for now.
Practice is over and the wait for the race begins. My prehistoric fork seal
is holding, and the motor is running, the Florida sun is shining (still a
bit chilly, though) and I'm at one of the most famous race tracks in the
world, with a bunch of the greatest guys in the world. Zooke is happy, Frank
is happy, I'm starting to become happy. We're just one happy family. Why
can't I enjoy it though? Maybe it's a quirk, or a downright personality
disorder that keeps me looking for the black cloud on the horizon.
Constantly finding the glass not only half empty, but also very likely to
crack the moment I pick it up. Call it pessimism, narcissism, whatever, if
it's one thing I have learned it's that Murphy's Law is the ONLY LAW. It's a
habit I can't kick. Despite smiles in the paddock, my mind is going over all
the things that can still go wrong and probably will. It's a self-fulfilling
prophecy, expecting things to go awry all the time. So much so that a friend
of mine once asked me if I truly wanted to win the race or was content to
break halfway through and be able to b###h about the bike. My knee jerk
answer was of course I wanted to win, that's why I was there. I think I
understand what he was saying now. If you really want to win, you find a
way, whatever happens. You can't keep throwing obstacles in your own path,
like what ifs, should haves and could have beens. The race is half lost
already, like that. Failure is practically a guarantee. There are plenty of
things to go wrong, without imagining more. That's exactly what I was doing,
and using the bike breaking as an excuse. I'd be damned if I was going to do
that again. I did want to win, and by hook or by crook I'd learn how. Maybe
Daytona wasn't the best place to start, but then again, maybe it was.
My new sponsor, Dave of South St. Cycle, Philadelphia, GO THERE, HE'S THE
BEST!!!!!! (is that a good enough plug for the shop?) and I head to
start/finish to watch the Great Men, Great Machines Parade Lap. There are
some beautifully prepared race machines alongside some real tatty looking
buggers. My info is probably wrong, feel free to correct me, but here goes:
There's an ex-Cal Rayborn KR Harley, a brutish American machine with high
pipes, in somber Halloween orange and black, belting out that v-twin throb,
a pair of Yoshimura-tuned Honda CR750s, one of which actually won Daytona in
1972. Gary Nixon will pilot that machine, resplendent in sunshine yellow
paint, the other, a more sedate metallic blue will be ridden by "Super" Dave
Rosno. There's a couple of snortin' Norton Manxes that you couldn't afford
to buy a shift lever for, and some "barn fresh" Indian, freshly coated in
rust, smoking profusely, that springs a gas leak before he even gets off the
line and a couple of Egli Vincents that don't sound quite right.
Photographers and moto-journalists are elbowing each other to get that
quote, or perfect shot. Old men stand astride their old machines. Though I
hate to say it, the machines look better than the pilots. There are other
Great Men there I'm supposed to remember, but you'll have to forgive this
whipper-snapper, as I only had eyes for the Yosh Hondas. Possibly the finest
in-line four snarl I have ever heard, and when the flag for the parade lap
dropped, I was in heaven. Gary Nixon stood that yellow CR up on it's back
wheel and wheelied that son of a b###h almost to turn one, Rosno right on
his tail. Some could call it a graphic display for a parade lap, but I
thought he gave the crowd a great show, lifting his hat (wheel?) to Pops
Yoshimura's dynamic tuning. I loved it, trying not to remember that I would
race against both of these CRs in my second race of the day.
Back in the paddock, Frank is pulling on his leathers in anticipation of our
first Formula 500 race. I follow suit, surprisingly calm. Whatever happens,
I can tell people I raced at Daytona. How many hillbillies can say that? I'm
not even worried about the bike. To hell with it, it breaks, it breaks. I'm
not sure where we're supposed to go for the grid, but I know where I am
gridded. In the back, as usual. I follow Frank, trying not to over-heat the
clutch on the way. Motor sounds good, everything seems to be attached.
Houston, we are ready for launch! The minute board goes sideways, bikes
clonk into gear, revs up. I am screaming/laughing into my helmet. The guy
next to me must hear, because he glances in my direction. Not for long,
because the flagman twitches and I get one hell of a start! The bike is
geared too tall to take off like a rocket, but it is like being shot out of
a softly sprung catapult. The power kicks in and I am nearing Frank up at
the front. Traffic is hellacious as 30 bikes all go for the same line into
turn one at the same time. Bars are banging, I can see a wheel on each side
of me. Discretion gets the better part of my valour, as I avoid making a
couple of brave passes coming into Turn 2. I have had some trouble with this
section, a fast right hander, and don't want to do anything stupid. If I'm
riding well enough, I will catch them before the banking. I'm smoother, but
not smooth enough, as the bikes stay ahead. I'm somewhere in the middle of
the pack, not too bad, I think, as I make my way out onto the banking for
the first time. Nobody in front to draft, though. A quick look back tells me
there are quite a few bikes back there. I know I can't make afford too many
mistakes. The straights at Daytona are long, even at speeds well in excess
of 100mph. You are going so fast for so long, it stops feeling, well, fast.
You can relax a bit, plan strategy, listen to the bike or do like I did,
start thinking about an ex-girlfriend (don't ask). I can see the chicane
ahead and prepare to dive in. I slow down earlier than I normally would, and
downshift carefully. If I screw up and get the motor out of the power now,
it's all over. Any second I expect to get passed in the chicane, as I am
surely going too slow, but no one comes by. I think I'm about 12th at this
point. The next time around the banking I think, not bad for a rookie, at
Daytona. The front-runners are so far gone I don't have any plans to catch
them, and I'm not worried about it. I am concerned about not letting anybody
else by me, though, so I try to ride as well as I can. Not as fast as I can,
just as smooth. It seems to be working, because no one comes by, even when I
make a few mistakes in the infield. Don't get me wrong, they were there, I
could hear them and sometimes see a wheel, but no one came by. I get the
crossed halfway flags and realize the bike and I are going to finish this
race, and really start having fun, when disaster strikes.
I came out of the infield onto the banking, just two laps to go, upshift,
fourth, roll on throttle, upshift fifth, throttle to the stops, nothing.
Just a waahh sound, and no power from the motor. I drop back to fourth, open
throttle, still no power, just waahh. I figure I cooked it, and in a bad
spot. The 33 degree banking is no place for a motor to die. You couldn't
walk up or down it, and I know there's many, many angry bikes getting ready
to come by me, some at speeds approaching 150 mph. I signal with my arm, I'm
coming down, and coast into the infield grass, before the chicane. All the
bikes I was so worried about getting past me, continue on without a second
glance. The corner workers have noticed me, and are heading in my direction.
Strangely, I notice the bike is still running. What the hell? I rev it up a
few times and it seems good. I look onto the track, have to wait for some
back markers to come by before venturing forth, and dive back into the
chicane. So far so good. I know I've lost a good ten spots, but now
finishing the race is the only thing
Unfortunately, finishing that race was not in the cards for me. As I left
the chicane and hit the banking again, the bike continued with it's waah
waah bullshit. It wouldn't run with anything over half throttle. I coasted
down the banking, along the pavement skirting the infield and dejectedly
rode back to pit-in. I'm not sure of the problem at this point, but I am not
ready to give up. There's still one more race, and I aim to finish it.
Everyone is talking to Frank about his tenth place finish when I pull in.
Zooke asks what happened and a quick discussion begins. We all agree fuel
starvation must be the problem. I quickly unscrew the fuel filter and the
friggin' thing seems to be packed with sand? Jim comes over to help, and
requests some paper towel. He empties the float bowls and gives us the good
news that there's no sand in there. It's between the tank and the filter.
The tank has a lousy cross-over line that makes it a pain to remove, but we
get it off. There's about four different people including me, working to get
the bike ready. Just one race before Formula Vintage, we'll never have the
bike done in time. But wait, there's a red flag, the whole race will have to
be restarted. The gift of time is given us, will we make it? There's not
enough time to clean the brass filter element entirely, so I opt to run
without it. Dave recommends pulling the petcock apart, which we do, then
drain the tank. I begin replacing the tank when first call is given for my
race. Jim tells me to get my helmet on, says he will put the tank back on. I
zip up the leathers, fasten my lid and pull on my gloves. There is no way to
know if we solved the starvation problem until I get out on the track. Frank
is off to the grid. Jim has the tank on just before second call. I start the
bike and ride toward the grid, when I notice the odor of race gas. I look
down and it's pouring out all over my right leg, from somewhere under the
tank. I call Zooke over and he comes running up. I figure it's just a line
we forgot to hook up or something dumb, but he can't find the leak. When he
finally announces the tank itself has sprung a leak, I lose it. I threw the
bike down on the ground and walked away, chucking my helmet and glasses at
least twenty yards. Dave (South St. Cycle, go there!) comes over and tells
me to calm down, we're not out of it yet. He begins canvassing the whole
paddock in search of some miracle gas tank sealant, which he does indeed
find, only after my race has started. Heading over to the Sundial trailer, I
play punching bag on the aluminum door with my left hand, (sorry about the
dents, Zooke). If Dave wasn't there to calm me down, I might have gone for a
knockout on the poor, unsuspecting trailer. It wasn't until about five
minutes later, that I got really pissed. Dave was still looking at the bike
and tank, trying to figure out how it could have started leaking. There was
no rust, no bad dents or anything. Finally he asks if I put the tank on last
time. When I reply no, he tells me to come have a look at my tank. Dave
says, "Whoever put this tank on last, has cross-threaded both the bolts that
hold it on in the back. See how cranked down that bracket is? It broke the
weld on the tank, which is what caused the leak. They cross-threaded it so
badly, it pulled the bracket sideways. See?"
I am livid. Put out of the race by something so dumb. All that money, time
and effort, wasted, because of someone else's error. I feel like smashing
something, like puking, like crying. I wished I never came to Daytona. And
of course, I looked to lay the blame elsewhere. I mean, I didn't cause the
tank to leak, it was somebody else. I didn't build the bike, it was somebody
else. I didn't cause the fuel filter to get clogged in the first place, it
was somebody else. And so on....
In retrospect I realize that kind of blame laying wouldn't get anybody
anywhere. It was a tense time before the start of that last race, with a
group of people all working feverishly to get me out there. Somebody turned
a wrench just a little too much in the wrong direction. It's an easy thing
to do, especially if you don't want to be the one blamed when the tank falls
off in the middle of a race. So you give it just a half turn more, and
something breaks. I could ask, why me?, but then a thousand racers will
stand up and tell a story of something even dumber that somebody did
(themselves included) that kept them out of a race, or worse yet, from
winning it. As long as there is racing, there will be stories of heartbreak,
I just wish I didn't have so many to tell this early in my career!
It was a damn good effort on all parts. Zooke built one hell of a bike, and
if I ever learn to ride it, I may just win some races, (thanks). Frank kept
it entertaining with his racetrack tales and anecdotes. (By the way, if
you're in the UK, you've got to go to the Thundersprint that Frank puts on.
It's sort of a motorcyle racing carnival, with all sorts of wonderous
things. Check it out at thundersprint.com)(is that a good enough plug,
Frank?) Of course there's everybody else, Dave at South St. Cycle, Matt
Parrow gave me a $3 donation to help out, my friend Phil (without him I
never would have seen a racetrack, he also gave me twenty bucks), all the
people who helped (or tried to). Thanks. Hope this clears the air.
Frank told me some Isle of Man stories, unloading the bike, firing it up,
riding literally 10 feet and having the crank go. Or getting the bike to the
line and having the blasted thing sieze right before the start. There were
quite a few more. The one thing he kept telling me was to get out while I
could. "You're young," he said, "There's still hope for you. Stop this silly
racing business and you can still enjoy a normal life. Do you really want to
be a daft old bugger like me, riding around with a bunch of other old farts
on old bikes? Get out now. Your wallet, your family, your girl and your body
will thank you." I knew he had a point that any sane, reasonable person
would have taken to heart. That's why I chose to ignore it.
When someone asked Mick Hemmings what it was like to go roadracing he said,
"You go to the toilet three times a week and flush all your money away. Then
you get on a bus and when it gets up to 60mph you jump off it." I'm
beginning to understand exactly what he means.
I eventually made it home from Daytona, my only souvenir an 8.5"x11" AHRMA
Participation Certificate and a wallet with nothing but my driver's license
in it. This time I drove the 25 year old van most of the way, exhausting but
much less stressful than being a passenger. We arrived at my home and
unloaded the bike in the middle of a lake effect snowstorm. (The next day, I
used a snowbank to load the bike into the back of my pickup, really.) I
sprawled out in bed, ever so grateful that I took tomorrow off from work.
The only thing I wanted to do was listen to some music and pass out,
forgetting about motorcycles for awhile. I put a disc in the CD player,
pressed play, nothing. The goddamn CD player didn't work. This wasn't my
week.