Last Rides
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SPOONS! you were trying to take a motorcycle tire off using SPOONS????? Are these metaphorical spoons, or real dinner table spoons?  . . |
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In reply to this post by Allred
SPOONS! you were trying to take a motorcycle tire off using SPOONS????? Are these metaphorical spoons, or real dinner table spoons?  . . Dinner spoons. I have big spoons. I like to eat healthy. . You meet some of the best folks behind bars. |
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In reply to this post by Fatfatboy
Bummer guy. I'd just take it easy, screw that dye. And an mri. 7 grams of some medical marijuana, prescribed by the doc and paid for by the health provider, now that I could see....... The tire thing, I've got a nice set of spoons, or tire irons. Long ones that give good leverage. But, I've noticed I still ding or scratch the aluminum rims. And ya, it's a hassle. 2 months ago I looked around. Every bike shop wanted $50 to $75. Screw them. I found an auto tire store that does it for 20 bucks. Not a lot of wear is gonna put on those spoons from now on, I'll tell you guys that. |
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This post was updated on .
Trackday Sears Point
Headlong out of Turn One and hard to the left, eyes scratching for meaning and direction in the grizzled asphalt ahead, and then up, up, up the rising face of Turn Two - the reverse sister of the Corkscrew to the south. For a panicky moment, there’s nothing but a vertical wall of road filling my visor. Feeling the compression come, the Buell and I are squeezed into the hill by the gravity that despises our ascension; it claws at us and steals our speed. And in an eternal second, we plateau to nothing - open air and cut-face embankment, and I realize that Gertrude, once again, is wrong. The poor girl. It’s not her fault. It is still there, 32 years after my last race. Sears Point exists. I mean, it’s not really fair, at all, for the millions of times a day she is right, that the scenes of our crimes and victories have shuffled away in our absence. Poor ghost of Gertie Stein; people always give her shit when they dig up a relic of their hoary past and find it even remotely intact… But there’s no time to pause on the reacquaintance; the blind entrance and sweeping right exit of Two overclock a terrified mind poisoned with fear of falling. Action is demanded to corral the Buell into ordered motion down the receding face of these Seussian hills. The right hand remembers to roll on power. The Buell bogs and blaaaats forward on a late downshift. Saucer-size eyes let go of the dry grass hill crowding the run-off, and they lift, down track, searching for The Way, and find it in Turn Three calling out ahead, its apex at the bottom of a swale. Like riding down and through the inside of a taco shell, Three offers a hard left at the fold, and another blind, crested, faith-based righthand entrance to Three”A” as you come up the other side. These crazy hills are like frozen ocean sleeper waves caught in the act of double humping up to smash a dozing tuna boat. And then there’s Four ahead. “Come down to me’” it says… …. The adventure started all wrong, bathed in failure… The plan was to roll out and ride out to Sears Point last afternoon, camp overnight in the pits, and then ride home like a hardass. All in an effort to stretch the 60-mile self-contained journey to Laguna Seca out to a 250-mile roundtrip to the North Bay and back. But the heat came, with a projected high of 102 for Sunday. And it made me think I would not have the energy to complete the leg home. I may even need the truck’s air conditioning between sessions at the track. So Saturday at noon I crawled out of bed way too early to load the pickup. Rear wheels in the gutter, the truck dominates the street for a few minutes, flashers blaring. The Buell easily burbles up the ramp, our pas de deux as I step up beside it on the ice chest, letting the feathered clutch do the lifting. There’s the worry of every little thing that must be loaded (oh Jesus don’t forget the ignition key), as opposed to leaving with all the gear on my body. Lists and anxiety - check. By three p.m. Saturday, I’m ready for gettin’ gone with the intent to sleep in the bed of the pickup at Sears Point. And I don’t leave. Can’t leave. I feel like shit standing in the afternoon sun of my driveway, overly hot already, absentmindedly checking the tie-downs again and again. It’s like I’m getting sick. My body aches all over. No energy. I text my brother for advice, asking - ‘Undecided. Leave now and sleep at the track, or get up at 3 a.m. and drive then?’ He replies, ‘I always sleep better at home.” That’s it. Absolutely no hardass this time. A compete capitulation. Be normal for once. I set the alarm. Crawl into bed. And it works. I knock over and silence a 3 a.m. alarm to get up and slip into the driver’s seat. A handful of hours. I just needed some goddamned rest. I feel better than I have for days. The GMC starts in the dark, and I rub its dash affectionately while idling in gear for the ritual three minutes to put some heat into the slushbox. “Okay. Big trip.” Sliding my hand gently back and forth and staring out the dew-free window at Mars high in the west. “We’ll go easy today and keep that transmission together.” 7-11 has ice for the chest and we’re free, a dozen and a half green lights blessing us all the way to the highway… “go… go… go….” Is this not the sleepiest Labor Day Sunday ever seen in this ‘ville? The Buell nods in agreement at its tethers. Pandemic. Firedemic. No one else is out. Hwy1 is stone empty and hot. 72 degrees at four a.m. Outrageous. It should be 52 and foggy. When you feel this temp now at sea level, you know there will be pain later. Hwy17 is direct and is the way, even with the strain of 1800 foot Patchen Pass. Just stay smooth and ask only for the power needed. One car passes us on the hill, and then another out on 280. Surely the world has ended. I repeatedly turn on the bed light to check on the Buell and make sure I’m not totally alone. The City offers more benedictive green lights for our 19th Avenue transit, and a near private audience with the Golden Gate Bridge…  Corte Madera. San Rafael. Cities in the dark strung with streetlight pearls. All the old places of my early ‘80s. The turn off to eastbound Hwy37 - we meet again. And again with a motorcycle in the bed of a pickup. It’s all swamp land out here in the North Bay. The primordial muck-stink of sloughs and marsh and wetland glory comes in through the lowered window. Crickets dopplering away in the dark. All telling of wet, dirty life just off the roadway. So not bone-dry California. Very ‘east.’ And then, turning with the traffic light across the deadly highway into Sonoma Raceway. A man dozes in the single open guard shack, but he’s happy to see me and happy my paperwork is filled out. “Are we good?” I ask. “Go on in,” he says with a smile and a nod over his shoulder. The pits are sleeping. There are half a hundred setups arrayed throughout. With a short tour, I park the truck and set out on foot to see what’s up. RVs, large and small. Cars with trailers, short and long. EZ-ups compressed down on chained bikes and gear, waiting for the owners to return from home or hotel. Under the giant front-straight NASCAR grandstands, dozens of riders lie on the ground in sleeping bags next to their ridden-in trackday bikes. I was directed to pit here by the same Pirelli man who I met at Laguna Seca. Earlier in the week, he swapped out my tired Michelin Road5s for a set of “Pirelli Diablo Supercorsa TD” tires. They’re a street-legal trackday tire with a compound that doesn’t need tire warmers, but comes up to temperature quickly once rolling, offering a good compromise for the squid amongst us. Of the grandstands, he said, “that’s the place for you. Under there, it’s all shade and the wind roars through in the afternoon. You’re going to need it.” But I can’t. I’ve brought the truck, and schlepping my stuff will wake everyone. I decide against it, and head back to the GMC. One coyote up on the hill above Turn Two agrees, I think. He’s yammering once more as the sun threatens to rise in the east. There will be no ‘golden hour’ of gentle California sunshine. Today, it’s a blood-red road rash stain through distant fire smoke. That’s not a new mountain range. That’s the Hennessey fire. So as not to wake anyone, I curl up next to the Buell in the bed and shut my eyes until I hear vehicles idling around. Looking over the bed rail, I see the guy nearest me is out of his sharp little RV trailer and looking over his Panigale. He offers to lend a hand rolling the Buell down the ramp. ‘Yes. I could use some help. Thank you. I appreciate it. Always sketchy with the transition over the lip of the tailgate.’ He’s Paul, from Los Gatos. He offers coffee and I offer any assistance he may need, but we’re both equally good on each level.  Another guy just beyond is prepping an Aprilia next to a really clean Suzuki TLR1000. It looks perfect in its yellow and blackness. Asking the Aprilia guy if I can take a picture of the Tiller, the guy says “sure. It’s not mine.”    Three pickups roll in and fill the remaining local spaces. A jacked up Dodge with an R6 and a girlfriend, A white Chevy hauling a 18’ trailer, and then a first gen’ Tacoma bearing a ratty artifact wedged sideways in its bed. It’s piloted by a young guy who’s clearly the junior to the worn 1988 Honda Hawk 650 onboard. It’s filthy, and missing parts, and looks highly unloved. The pilot’s name is Ken, and he accepts a hand getting the motorcycle down to the ground. He’s worked on the front and rear suspension. Did the rear brake line through the swingarm mod. It’s his street ride, but he’s glad to be at his first trackday. He has a chair and an umbrella to go along with his ice chest.. and that’s it.  The Chevy guy is unfurling his grey trailer. An R6 comes out. Rolling tool chest. Carpet. EZ-Up. I give him a hand with the canopy. Turns out, it’s busted, so I lend him my roll of duct tape to graft a leg back on. His name is Joey, and he’s from Indiana. Recently. Actually has landed in Hollister. “Why move out here from Indiana?” I ask, as he hands back the roll of tape. “Why Not!” he actually exclaims. “You got the hills and ocean and mountains and these roads! I love it!” It’s refreshing to hear the straight-up southern twang in his voice. Maybe from the Kentucky edge of the state. The top is open on the tool chest, and I see there’s setting data written in black marker on the inside of the lid. There’s a line for Road America, so I ask if he’s been there. “Yeah, I was there earlier this year. Mostly I run at Blackhawk Farms,” he says waving a hand at the rest of the list. I mention I remember that Blackhawk is just about the only track in the area. “Yeah,” he say, “that’s about it. I run CCS there. It’s sketchy, though… Dayhn-gerous…” The jacked up Dodge has their gear out all by themselves. They get their EZ-Up… ah, up easy, and install the side screening for wind protection. I ride over to tech and wait in line to be reminded that I need to go to registration first. Embarrassed, I get it all done and pass tech without a problem.  The rider’s meeting is again run by Mike the owner. He stands up on some grandstand stairs and shouts the same safety messages at us as he did at Laguna. There’s even a Neighbor Issue. “If you’re not running a stock pipe, use a dB killer! It’s 103 decibels here - which is incredibly loud - but we’ve got a neighbor across the way… A winery. And they want it quiet! When NASCAR comes here, the track sends the guy on a vacation for a week! But we’ve got to be quiet! Don’t blow sound!” Got it. The photo guy sends his pitch, and the rent-a-racebike guy announces he has an open space on an unreserved Ninja400 today…. Hmm… I’ve been very curious about those since they were walking my Buell at Laguna out of the corners… The seed is planted, for sure…  I swing by the tire guy’s set up in a garage and ask him for tire pressures. “Hey! The maniac from Laguna!” he says with a smile. “Ahhhh…” he says, staring at me. “32/26 for you today.” I thank him again for turning around my rims this week, as I can’t get it done at the track.  First session. The led lap at the trolling speed is both orientating and un-useful. These are the corners. These are the short straights. This is the large radius turn called the Carousel. ‘Are they following my path?’ wonders the instructor, looking back over his shoulder. One feels like a child being led through the unnamed corridors of a university. The doorways have meaning only to the degreed. Some of us have trouble literally following the path, even at this speed. Hey! there’s something he’s trying to teach us! The point is not to drive from apex to apex. Oh well. We’ll get it later… Then the first lap at speed brings the mental shift. Through the looking glass and into a new reality. A transference of time and space. Everything about the track warps on the real introduction. It’s true shape at speed is revealed truly at speed. Feeling the tires GRIP as they come in. Feeling confused and scared of some of the tight corners. Turns 2 through 5 are hill based, while the rest of the track is flat-ish with a couple of high speed kinks at the far end that each time test one’s arm strength and nerve. Each time running them, I’m thinking, ‘I could do that much faster.’ And it ends quickly. Back at the pit, I check in with the neighbors. Joey is unsure about traction. Ken, enjoying his first outing. Very relaxed. I finish building my shelter for the day by arranging a silver tarp over the roof and over the open doors of one side of the extended cab. A place for my chair and stuff, facing north. It’s getting hot, but I feel good.   Session 2 is better. Better lines. Better turn in, but Turn Nine is a mystery. And is the five-speed gearbox a hinderance? I’m often between gears. Either bogging on the way out, or causing the backend to wag under rear wheel lock-up. Session 3 is a crash-fest. Right off, a huge cloud of dust at the exit of Turn Two obscures several bikes. People are off at the far hairpin after locking the front. Long fresh scrapes in the asphalt point to their prone machines. Turn Nine has bikes in the dirt on both the inside and outside. And the Ninja400s are walking me again. I decide to rent one for a session. Back in the pits, Joey is swapping out rear wheels. He shows me the current tire and it’s beveled flat on the side. “This is duhn,” he says. He stores his spare wheels on the tie downs at the corners of his EZ-Up. This time, I drink an entire gatorade while negotiating the session rental with Ryan of feellikeapro.com. It’s $75 for the 20 minutes, and for another $75 there’s insurance with a $700 deductible. With all the crashing, I take the insurance. His crew chief Mario sets a Ninja to street-pattern shifting, and I make it out for the last session before lunch. And it’s broken. I’m out of gears climbing the hill to Turn Two, bogging, going slow. Looking down. ‘Am I missing the shift lever???’ But then I realize I’m shifting by Buell ear. I have to WRING this engine. It spins nearly to 12, and I’m already in top gear. Whack a bunch of downshifts and get on with it. The whole machine buzzes like an unbalanced lawn mower. But it’s so light. It really goes anywhere on the track and the braking is effortless. If you build confidence, if you want to try to hurt the internals, this thing will rail. I get it now. Maybe I should get one of these. Norton Motorsports sells an entirely new, entirely race-prepped Ninja400 for $12K. So many decisions. So many thoughts, I try to focus on exploring the Ninja while not crashing from absent-mindedness.     Ken on the Hawk650 comes flitting past with a wave out of Turn Eight and casually rolls around the outside of a group stuttering their way into Nine. He splits the group on a bias through the apex without disturbing anyone and then passes those ahead, again around the outside on the way out. He looks absolutely without fear and purely happy. I’m relieved to return the Ninja to Mario’s waiting grasp at the pitbox. Like a pro, they take it out of your hands. You do nothing but swing a leg over, Rossi-style, (or how I do it, slithering and struggling off the side) and walk off to the air conditioned transporter. The extras aren’t for me today, but I engage Ryan in a discussion about R6s, Ninja400s and my desire to buy a Kawasaki ZX25R site unseen. “Oh YES!” he says while finishing my credit card payment that didn’t go through earlier. “I would buy four of those!” He has seen the videos from Kawasaki Indonesia that have entranced me and wants to add them to his rental fleet. He also offers to sell me either of his two R6 “cripples.’ They have a disabled cylinder so they can qualify for the AFM’s 450 Superbike class. I’m tempted, but they’re made from parts and lack titles.   Lunch from the cafe. I see the admired Aprilia from the morning has been among the fallers. The owner is trying to brush dirt off of it with a rag. Ken asks if he should move up to Group B. “Yes!” I say. “I saw you out there passing everyone. You look like pure joy - without fear. I didn’t want to tell you to do it, but I’m glad you asked.” He wants to know why I wouldn’t suggest it, so I tell him about an incident I witnessed at Buttonwillow eight years ago. “There was a fast guy parked next to me. Really quick B Group guy on a brand new GSX-R. 750 or a thousand. His whole day was going great, and at lunch a friend swings by. Tells him - ‘Dude! You are so fast out there! Get out of B, man! You’re too fast! Move up to A.’ The guy says “really?” and heads out to registration. So after my next session, I roll back into the pits and there’s my neighbor, limping around his stuff. No Gixxer. And while I’m stripping off my gear and offering condolences for his highside. The crash truck rolls in and delivers his Gixxer that’s now shaped like a potato chip. I’m not gonna tell you to move up, but I was thinking you have the skill. They’ll be fast. They’ll come around you. But I think you have it. Without a doubt.” Ken heads off to registration to move up. 1:20 p.m., and Joey heads out for Session Five. The heat is starting to bite. Crouched in the lee of the truck, I ask my phone, and it says 102 degrees. Dragging my leathers out of the bed to get ready for my session, I discover one of the knee pucks has melted off of its velcro backing. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to set them out to dry. Before heading out, I wait to see if Ken comes back in, and he does, near the end of the group. Whew. Curse averted. Session Five and Six, and the lines and tires get better and better. The binning continues apace in each session. I admire a guy’s survivor-‘90s YZF600R in the queue at the start, and a lap later it’s leaning up against the wall outside of Four. The upside - the heat and the crashing are thinning the ranks. There’s more room to act and plan one’s course through the track. An instructor drops in front of me and leans out his clutch-side mirror with a thumbs up. I get it that this is a lesson happening, as he matches my pace. I follow his lines very deliberately, and I learn something about Turn Nine. My line IS shit - all baroque and wide. Make it tighter, tidy and short and trust the exit to go wide out to the kerbing. Use less of the track and use more of the track. And lift your eyes off of the apex early. In fact, don’t look yourself into any decision point. Learn the track and learn to hit your marks without seeing them directly. Willful practice to learn these tracks will be key to growing in this sport. I need to know these tracks as well as I know my house with the lights off. Returning to the GMC, I find Joey packing up his R6. “It’s too slick out there, man. I’m spinnin’ up everywhere. Three guys went down in Turn One, and I nearly hit one of ‘em…” He shakes his head ‘no…no…’ It’s 108 degrees to start session Seven. I’ve soaked my head and shirt to try and get some evaporative cooling effect going and it works great for a while. There’s enough traction and confidence to start feeling centripetal gravity in the corners. Turns One and Two and the hairpin Seven start to feel delicious, offering a taste of a life without fear. Making passes and closing down on riders. I start chasing a guy ahead of me. He’s on a Husky 701 Motard and I try to push through some fatigue, but I realize I can hear my breathing become ragged. And I can’t focus my thoughts of line and attack. I’m crossing into heat exhaustion. I roll out and just maintain to see if it goes away, but I have to back off the last lap and a half before pitting. In the pits, everyone nearby is packing. I’m determined to make the last session. I never quit early, and I want to have this honor today. But nothing is really working on my body. The breathing is labored by something I’m not in control of, and my hands barely make the zippers work. I start to make insidious deals with myself. Okay. Helmet and gloves off. Just rest and drink. (and maybe you’ll like relaxing and not go back out) Fine. Just get them boots off. (Perhaps you’ll like the coolth more than wrenching them back on) Sure. Just get out of the leathers and you’ll feel better in time for the last session. (and maybe be too tired to put them back on) For some reason, I can’t even get enough cold water into my body. It feels right to pour it on my head and skin, too. I hear the call for Group B and I know I’m done. The final reality is that if I go out out for even one lap (my last dumb bargain), all my neighbors will be gone and I won’t be able to load the Buell into the bed. I quit. I set to helping my neighbors with their loading. The jacked-up Dodge couple would really like some help pushing the R6 up the ramp. He wants me to push from the curbside, but I need my gloves as every point on the bike is as hot as the exhaust. Everything is roasting. He has to play with the throttle and clutch to get the right pulling power. Ken gets a simple assist into his low Tacoma, and Joey needs a bit of help to compress the wounded EZ-Up back into a smaller space. He can’t handle the act of putting it into its case and just chucks it into his trailer. Everyone gives me a hand with the Buell. Joey in the truck to catch. Ken and Dodge-man pushing. The bike floats up on its idle circuit, and Dodge-man exclaims “oh my god, it’s all torque!” Thank you kind people. We part our ways.   I see a few riders come in from the last session of the day, and feel respect for them. I also see a man walking out of the tiled bathroom near the cafe, and I notice he’s carrying a towel and shaving kit. A quick inspection reveals a shower waaaaay at the back of the long bathroom. Without waiting, I strip all of my clothes off into a pile on a chair and stagger into the cubicle, making crude sounds of relief and shock at the full cold blast. After a handful of minutes, I get the sense someone may be hovering, so I wrap it up and drag my clothes on over the wetness. It’s not enough time, but I’m way better now. A look in the mirror on the way out says I’m homeless. The look on the faces of the returning corner workers gathering outside also says I’m homeless. But I get in the pickup with a motorcycle in the back, so I must be legit in some way. The GMC tells me it’s 113 degrees at 5:43, and the ride home takes forever. Not because of the non-existent traffic. It’s because I have to repeatedly have to stop for coffee and carbs to stay awake.  In the door at 9:16 (classic!) and unloaded by the ten o’clock hour.  The last act is to pour out the ice chest on the part of the lawn that isn’t reached by the sprinklers. In the morning the grass is taller and greener. Trackdays nourish many creatures. ***        .
Supports splitting everywhere.
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Thank you! I wil also see you out here sometime for a comprehensive Cyclevisor Ninja400 test. 
Supports splitting everywhere.
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In reply to this post by oldironnow
Ohh I wish. That would be so much. Do they make leathers in short -n-round? . You meet some of the best folks behind bars. |
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