The Curse of the Second Red Seat

I'm giddy. Like a little girl the night before Christmas. Indy is just around the corner, and who will be representing Ducati as their #1 factory rider? None other than America's own Nicky Hayden!

OK, it's not really so glamerous. Casey Stoner was firmly in the thick of the title chase before his "mystery illness" struck. Maybe everyone is just too embarassed to say he's got mono...who knows. So now he's out for 3 races. That leaves Hayden carrying the Desmo flag at the Brickyard. But his 6th place finish in the Czech Republic was his best finish this season. Not exactly awe inspiring from the 2006 World Champ.

I thought he was going to be a perfect match for the Desmosidici. His dirt tracking past is similar to Stoners, and Stoner is the master on that Duc. Casey laid down the most dominant season in GP history over the top of the greatest racer ever to throw a leg over a motorcycle. He is freakishly, perfectly matched to a motorcycle nobody else can ride. In fact, I asked Nicky about the bike when I called in as a guest on Wind Tunnel. His response? "The bike is trying to kill me at ever turn."

Um...so what gives? That second bike is cursed, man. That's what. Marco Melandri, probably as talented as anyone on the grid this side of Rossi, rode the second Ducati last year and was absolutely humiliated on it. He's doing much better this year on the underfunded, underdeveloped, underdog Kawasaki. That says something about how impossible it is to ride the D16RR, unless of course your last name starts with "S" and ends in "toner".

The fact that Nicky is scoring any points on that thing at all is a testament to his work ethic, because I don't really see him being a master of bike development. He just lays down LOTS of laps in practice, changing his style to addapt to the bike, probably leaving the bike development to the data aquisition guys and the engineers.

Still, he pulled a 2nd place out of Indy last year on the RC212V (even if he was saved by a race cut short by the remnants of a hurricane. Lorenzo would have overtaken him had the race gone the distance). I'm hopeful he can pull a podium spot behind Rossi and Lorenzo this year (they seem to be unstoppable), but hoping for more than that is probably silly.

Nicky's contract is up this year and there's already talk of where Nicky will end up. There isn't much talk of Ducati retaining him for another season. Whispers of WSBK are swirling, but I doubt he's done with GP. It's where he wants to be. Hell, put him on the Honda Gresini Satellite team as a second rider with Melandri and watch the Ducati alumni's take the series by storm!

And when two wheels aren't enough...

The Ducati is my second vehicle. As much as I’d like to be the perpetual rock star, all Joe Rocket and dark visors, I cannot escape my true destiny. My primary mode of transportation? Let me tell you a story…
Two women…blonds…pulled up next to us in their little red convertible. They laughed and danced to the house music that beat-beat-beat from their woofers. They were all teeth, toes and…well, you know.

Lee is a friend and co-worker who was sitting next to me, jabbing his elbow into my shoulder. “Whoa…look at this!”

I gripped the wheel tight with both hands, gritting my teeth, wishing this god-awful light would just go green. Just get me to Taco Bell, damn it.
“Are you hearin’ me, man? You’ve gotta see this!” he said, still jabbing.
“I’m not lookin’” I sneered.
“What? Why!?” he said, flirting and winking out the passenger window. Was it because we were both happily married? Was it because I prefer red heads? No and (I love you, Baby!) no. “What’s with you!?”
“We’re in a mini-van.” I said, scowling.
Now, Lee is slick. Cooler than cool. But powerless in the grip of domesticated transportation. I hate that van.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t change the fact that the 1998 Pontiac Trans Sport is the greatest road going vehicle ever created.

Yeah, I said it.

It is close to vehicular perfection. Every enthusiast reading this is, at this point, is calling me four letter, hyphenated names. Tell you what, you name the greatest road going vehicle, and the Trans Sport has it beat. Yes, I’m serious.

It seats 7 passengers. That’s a boring start. But it also get’s a combined 24mpg while it’s hauling said extended family. Those are stats that some brand new vehicles aspire to.
It’s hauled wood for me. Vacuum up bark crumbs and repeat.
I brought a refrigerator home in it. Yeah, a major appliance. Who needs a half ton?
Pull the seats out on a cold October night in Michigan, blow up an air mattress in it, and you’ve got an instant insulated camper.
Later, when we starting taking camping more seriously, we bought a pop-up camper and now I pull it with the van. Towing package? We don’t need no stinking towing package!
When my job relocated me, it towed a trailer crammed with two motorcycles and half a household through the Appalachian Mountains!
Oh, and it’s great in the snow. I mean, in 11 years, it’s never even been stuck in lake effect accumulation. It just pulls itself through whatever you throw at it. I own a Volvo Cross Country and have a hard time justifying the AWD because the damned Trans Sport works so well!

It’s got 137,000 miles at the time of this writing, and all I’ve ever done to it is replaced a front drivers side wheel bearing and kept the van full of fluids. I’ve always made sure it had good shocks, good brakes, and good tires. The rest seems to take care of itself.
Oh sure, it has its quirks.

I hate the name. Trans Sport is a lame play on words. Later they called in the Montana…also dumb. Olds called theirs the Silhouette, which is funny because the shadow of this thing looks like pointed brick. Chevy called their version the Venture. I guess that’s more appropriate.

Other quirks? I believe GM decided to spray every plastic fascia they produced with PAM cooking spray before they painted them. The painted plastic on GM bumpers peels like an albino on the equator. The driver’s side door speaker is shot. The radio randomly blinks what seem to be digitally coded messages rather than a station number. And the power windows moan like old dogs every time I roll them up after I stop at a Burger King window. Also, the air conditioning stopped working this year along with the rear wiper.

But…

Under the peeling fascia is black plastic that doesn’t rust. Three working speakers out of four isn’t bad. I don’t need to see the radio numbers. My presets have been set for years. When the power windows quit completely, it’ll force me to stop eating at fast food drive-through’s, and the AC quitting happened during the coolest Michigan July in history! Oh, and who needs a wiper for a vertical window anyway!?
So even when it’s broke, it isn’t really broke.

I have no facts to back this up, but there have got to be more dark blue and pewter Pontiac Trans Sports on the road than the single make and color of any other car. Maybe they’re just more noticeable than blue Taurus’s…I don’t know. But it seems like there’s one in every parking lot and on every stretch of road. A testament to their durability.
Performance? It wheezes out a little on top, but it’s pretty agile in stoplight to stoplight driving. It’s certainly faster than that stupid kid’s fast and furious Kia (you know the one), all ground effects and no motor.

So, it’s Achilles heel?

You can’t be…No, scratch that…Nobody can be cool in one. Think of Johnny Depp in a ’98 Trans Sport.
See what I mean?
So when I strap myself into in my mini-van, it’s sort of ego crushing. The best impression that it gives other people is…um…that you like to breed? But, you know what? It’s taken my wife and friends wine tasting on the Old Mission Peninsula. It’s been on thousand mile trips countless times and has always gotten us there safe. It’s been the taxi to the ice cream shop, packed with laughing little girls and a wife I adore.

I want to sell it. I want to SO BAD.

So that inferno orange metallic Camaro RS, the one that calls to me in my sleep, the one with a 300hp V6 and 19” factory wheels, the one that flexes its muscle and growls and snarls before you even turn it on…it’ll have to wait. Why?

The van is paid for.

Stinging in the Rain

Die-hards check the Doppler on their iPhone before they zip themselves into neon yellow nylon. "You don’t look right on your GS if you aren’t in your Aerostich."
Pansies.
Me? My $30 LG doesn’t even have a camera, let alone an internet connection, and I’ve never owned a rain suit. I can’t bring myself to spend even a small amount of money (a cheap set can be had for around $20) on something that I’m only going to use a couple times a year.
Don’t get me wrong. A rain suit is on my list of things to buy, it just ranks below a new helmet, aftermarket pipes, fender eliminator, bar end mirrors, soft bags, Moto GP tickets, uh…fast food three times a week, and most every other whimsical useless item I see in Best Buy. As a matter of fact, I usually only think about a rain suit when it’s actually raining. I’m no boy scout.
One night a few years back, I was leaving work and was stopped by some people at the front door.
“You’re going to get soaked. Look at it out there! Do you want a ride home?”
“Nah. This’ll just wash my bike off!”
I have never been so scared in my life. Cats and Great Danes. The frequency of the lightning was biblical. I left the parking lot, which was standing under 3 inches of water, and headed home. It was a quick 15 minute ride, but there was nothing to hide under. No overpasses. No gas stations. Nothing. I made it about a mile before I started laughing inside my helmet. It was either that or cry. I couldn’t decide whether I was more frightened of the hydroplaning or Zeus’s bolts crashing down every half second. Just when I decided that the hydroplaning was too much and I’d better slow down, a lightning bolt struck the top of an unfinished billboard and sent a shower of sparks down about 10 feet in front of me.
Hydroplaning was acceptable.
As I pulled into the driveway, I that I knew I had married the right girl. Aimee was there on the covered porch waiting for me. She ran down the steps and threw open the garage door so I could pull in without getting off the bike. It was futile. I was already more soaked than if had I jumped in Lake Michigan. But that’s love, man.
The following year, a few of the supervisors in the plant I was working in were transferred to Charleston, South Carolina. We all had motorcycles and were excited about the weather. Most of the weather, anyway. Now, the rain coming off the ocean is…different. Thunder BOOMS and raindrops seem to be the size of extra large eggs. You get beat up by the rain in The Low Country.
Lee Smoot is a good friend and was one of supervisors who had transferred down to the new plant. He was thrilled to find there was no helmet law (I know…I know). So, anyway, one morning, Lee comes into the office having been blasted by rain, no helmet, on his GSXR 750. Now, how can I put this delicately? Lee is a black guy. So when he walked into the office and said “Man, that hurt my lips!” most of us fell on the floor laughing! Terrible, right? He laughed too, when he got the joke. Thing is, there was a time for me, a moment of weakness, when I decided I wanted to see what it was like to ride without a helmet too (I know…I know). Of course I got rained on, and you know what? It hurt my lips! One more reason to always wear a helmet. My bad, Lee.
Headed to bike week in Myrtle Beach that year, the skies opened up on me and another supervisor/buddy, Rich Kossen. I could just make out the stupid grin on Rich’s face as he yelled “Riders on the storm, Baby!” from the other lane. His Indian Chief didn’t even have a windshield. He was wearing a half helmet. I bet his lips were killing him! We arrived clammy. It sucked.
A year ago, and back in Michigan, I organized a rally that took friends and co-workers along Michigan’s West coast, and up and over the Mackinac Bridge before a return trip home. It started raining right away and didn’t stop for 6 hours. At one point we had to pull over because we couldn’t see. As we sat there on the side of the road, miserable, a guy who didn’t have a pot to piss in opens his front door and says “Hey! I opened the garage if you want to pull your bikes in!” Awesome. My faith in humanity had been given a boost. I discovered that my Alpinestars boots were indeed waterproof, though my blue jeans weren’t. So water ran down my shins and into my boots which were, as a co-worker put it “…water tight in both directions.” I poured them out in the driveway. It was comical. The guy who opened up his garage for us then brought me a slightly yellowed (but dry) pair of socks and asked if we wanted coffee. My faith in humanity? Completely restored, amigo.
I still don’t own a rain suit. I’d probably never wear it if I did have one. I’m dumb and lazy. Luckily, if I do get rained on, I don’t have any high class functions that I need to arrive prim and proper for. I’m not expected for that GQ photo shoot. Hell, I stuff a ball cap in my back pocket for the helmet hair.
This year’s Bridge Hop is coming up soon. I remembered back to the soaking we blasted through last year. It was miserable and isn’t something I’d want to relive. So, I did something even cheaper than buying a zippered poncho. I set a rain date.

Something Old, Something New

“I beat you. You didn’t know I was racing you, but I beat you” Dave Hall, a co-worker, said to me. Dave, as a matter of fact, told anyone within earshot that would listen. “These bikes are more closely matched than you think.”
“Whatever” was my blistering rebuttal. What a squid. I refused to play into this testosterone saturated banter. I’m not into the mine is bigger than yours crap. I’m mature. I’m a professional.
OK, first off he’s right. I didn’t know we were racing. Cheater. I remember him blowing by me while I was doing 40mph down a back road. I remember thinking “What’s his deal?” There’s no way I would have tried to beat him in a drag race on public roads. How immature.
Besides, I decided there was no way I could have caught him. I may have considered trying fro a brief moment.
Stupid, right? The reason this all burns me is because he tells everyone we work with that my shiny red Ducati Monster 696 isn’t all it looks to be. He also lets anyone who’ll listen know that his 25 year old Honda CB700 SC Nighthawk is every bit the snarling beast my Monster is.
Right. Whatever. I’ll show you, Dave.
So I did a little research. Numbers don’t lie and neither does the internet. (ahem) But seriously, you can’t mess with 25 years of motorcycle progress…right? I mean, we’re talking the difference between the cassette tape and the MP3, the Atari 2600 and the Playstation 3, Transformers the cartoon and Transformers the Movie…er…the new movie, not the cartoon movie…you know what I mean. Anyway, to start, both bikes are standards, the Monster being a little more where’s-that-next-corner hunched than the ride-it-like-a-Stingray Nighthawk. The Monster is more aggressive, but you’d expect that from 25 years of progress. What I found on paper wasn’t expected. The 696 has, well, 696cc’s. The Nighthawk 700 S actually has…huh…696cc’s. Why not 750? Back in the time of zebra stripes and shoulder pads, Harley Davidson actually succeeded in having legislation passed that levied heavy taxes on any motorcycle imported over 700cc’s. Hmmm…The Nighthawk S sold in Europe at the same time was a 750! Guess Harley-Davidson saw the Japanese writing all over their big, heavy, archaic, chromed wall (No, Cletus, I don’t much care for Harley’s...and no, I won’t move out of the country). OK, so the displacement is the same. Big deal. Surely my modern Ducati dominates this comparison in horsepower. Um…nope. The Monster deals 80 crank horsepower @ 9000rpm. The antiquated Honda? 80 crank horsepower @ 10,000 rpm. Sunuva… Air cooled? Check. Steel frame? Check. Wait. The wheelbase is about an inch different. Ha! “That old tank probably handles like a …um…old tank!” I sneered, going over my hand written stats. “You’d be surprised at how well it handles with those 16” wheels” Dave said cheerfully. “Yeah?! OK! The Duc weighs 359lbs dry, and she rips (…and by rips I mean meanders) through the quarter mile in 11.23 seconds at 111mph!” Breathe, wheeze, snort. “Your Nighthawk weighs in at 469 lbs dry, and crawls through the quarter in a time measured best by a sundial! (12.35 @ 107.46mph) You and your damned AHRMA queen! Did I mention how mature I am!?” I actually came upon a couple realizations here. One was that these two bikes are indeed closer in performance than I would have guessed. It looks like (deep breath) Dave was right. Seriously, there’s little doubt that the Monster is the better performer here, but not by the margins you’d expect from two motorcycles separated by two and a half decades. Hell, it isn’t a stretch to argue that the CB is more advanced in some ways. It’s shaft driven, air and oil cooled, goes 147mph, and doesn’t push your tenders into your lower spine the way the new Monster’s gas tank does (though, this only seems to be a problem with males).
The other thing I realized is that I’m sort of comparing apples to oranges. While their stats are similar, they are at near opposite ends of the performance spectrum for their intended pilot. While the Monster 696 slots in as Ducati’s entry level (don’t say girl’s!) bike, the CB 700SC was near the pinnacle of the performance bikes in Honda’s line-up for 1984, surpassed only by the VF’s of the time. This isn’t so much an excuse as it is a fantastic realization that in 2034, Honda’s entry level motorcycle will probably perform about as well as a 155hp Ducati Streetfighter! The nicest people will be haulin’ ass!
I like my Monster, I really do. I’m not embarrassed by its stats. It’s done exactly what it advertised it would. It’s allowed me to enter Ducati’s family without breaking my fragile bank, and by allowing me to grin a stupid grin while still riding within my fragile limits. It gets more attention than a gun toting, bikini clad Sarah Palin (Photoshop is great id’nit, Cletus?) and I could honestly just sit with a beer and look at its beautiful lines for hours. The bike, not Sarah and her M-16.
Honestly, Dave has eye candy of his own. The Nighthawk he’s owned for about 3 years is cherry. Clean, Baby. You can hear hair bands rockin’ in your brain while looking over its angled, muscular lines. Its twin aftermarket pipes snarl. It’s Black and Red and Badass. I could sit with a Guiness and stare at his bike too (looking isn’t cheating, Sweetie).
25 years proves that tough lines on a motorcycle are timeless. 25 years hasn’t changed the tingle that creeps up the back of your neck when you hear the shriek of a 4 cylinder, or the roar of a twin at speed. Old bike, new bike, borrowed bike, blue bike…they’re all cool, man.
Mine is just a little cooler than Dave’s. What do you say to that, Dave?
“I paid $1600 for mine.”
#@$%&!

Fathers Day

The leathers at an AHRMA event are gnarly. Rashed Vanson’s make for gritty, grizzled-looking racers. They’re worn from the waist down between races, the torso hanging off the back as though it was skin being shed. Under tents and out of pick-ups, old guys with aches and limps wrench and fuss over their iron. Conversations about push rods and ex-wives are yelled over the blat of vertical twins and the ping of two-strokes being revved…revved…REVVED!
My old man and I were standing in the hot pits at Grattan, wearing matching T-Shirts. Dorks…unless you know the story behind the T‘s. A silhouette of my Grandfather, my Dad’s Dad, emblazoned the front of the shirts. I had them made from an old black and white photo a while back, Grandpa straddling his Harley 45 in his coveralls and boots, hat cocked. Bad ass. We miss him, but he’s always with us. Our love of motorcycles is rooted in his war era affair with two-wheeled machines. Los Alamos weekends on his Indian 841. Circle tracks and saddle bags. I wasn’t even a little surprised to see that my Dad had chosen to wear the same shirt I had that morning. After all, it was Fathers Day.
We squinted and baked in the sun watching the Sound of Thunder class. Cheesy NASCAR name, wicked bikes. Doug Polen (Yes, that Doug Polen) was holding down 3rd place on a not-very-vintage Ducati something-98. 3rd place? A guy on a Buell 1125R was rippin’ it up at the front, taking it to the two Ducs behind him, one of them the SBK season-win-record-holder. Polen seemed content to sit back where he was until the final lap, when turned it loose, passed the bike ahead of him, and wheelied over the finish line just a few feet behind the winning Buell. Why’d he wait? I found him post race and asked.
“Did you let the Buell win?”
He blinked hard. The look on his face said it all. He was disgusted by the question.
“No, I’m not out here for that today” he said with a tolerant grin, straining not to punch me in the face. “I’m here for my 1-on-1 rider’s school working with Brian.” Brian Larrabure placed 2nd in the series championship last year and wants to lose the Gibbernau status. Having a 4 time world champion following your racing line, giving you the grasshopper speech will make you faster. Those interested can go to GoPolen.com.
Meeting Doug Polen was cool, but it wasn’t really the story I was looking for. I walked the pits wanting to meet the people that make AHRMA a living thing.
I walked to a tent where a lanky guy in thin shorts and a billed Laurence-of-Arabia-cap was crawling under an old Triumph twin. It didn’t look like rocket science, which was good, because Ken Rayna was only a nuclear engineer. Him and his wife, Patty Kay, were there from up-state New York racing their Triumphs. They were beautiful. Ken had a couple 650’s and Patty Kay was racing…uh…a Trophy 500?
I like vintage bikes but admittedly don’t know much about them. I can’t tell the difference between a Tiger and a Bonneville. Stop sneering. Points scare me. I started paying attention to motorcycles after the drum brake was already a relic. I think an F2 is vintage. I had it in my head that there’d be museum pieces at the track, babied and polished on the infield before their proud owners did half assed honorary parade laps between flags.
My bad.
There were old bikes, and some were definitely pretty, but some were decidedly not pretty. Old Japanese twins with rattle-can paint jobs and oil over-spray were ridden in anger. Frame up? How about off the frame, hack saw, hack job, duct taped, zip tied, slapped back together and filled with 3 quarts of Wal-Mart’s best. Now beat the ever living hell out of it chasing down that fancy hi-tech 4 cylinder from the 70’s.
Cool.
64 year old Eric Pritchard was racing for the first time since his get-off in Daytona.
“Gentle with that” he said in his English accent as I went to shake his hand. He had broken his wrist in March and was obviously still smarting.
“What keeps you doing this, man?” I asked.
“Well, it keeps you young and it keeps you poor” he smirked.
I have little doubt that the beautiful little Ducati 250 he races helps to keep him poor, but if I were a bettin’ man, I’d guess his half clothed, infield tanned, French wife, Ariane, has a hand in keeping Eric young. Together they own a bed and breakfast in Quebec. Eric has been riding bikes of every kind for 44 years. He doesn’t seem to be slowing down.
Robert Goodpaster was belly laughing under his tent with his family. A big man with a thick handlebar mustache, he was sitting in the shade next to his son, Wes. Their pair of hand built Norton’s looked the business.
“I used to run a couple different classes with these” he motioned toward the bikes. Then Wes started racing, so I sleeved the 750 down to a 650 and replaced the front, going back to a drum. Now we race together.” Robert races number 80 and son Wes races number x80.
“Who wins?”
“Last time out I won and we took 1st and 2nd” Robert said. Wes was smiling but didn’t add anything. It was time for them to line up in the hot pits.
It turns out AHRMA road racing isn’t so much a vintage bike show as it is people fulfilling dreams, living life, and chasing youth, metaphorically and literally.
On the way out, we watched number x80 slide around the outside of number 80 on the final turn. Tucked in and flying, this time, Wes had beaten his ‘ol man to the finish line. Happy Fathers Day.

WWJR?

To be blessed is to be favored by God. At least, that’s how Wikipedia defines it.
The Blessing of the bikes happens every May in Baldwin, Michigan. Ten thousand motorcycles make their pilgrimage to the Holy Land (played by the Baldwin Airport in this case) in search of…I don’t know…divine intervention?
Does the creator of the universe really give a rat’s ass about my bike? This thought pretty much dominated my ride to Baldwin the Saturday before the event. So WWJR? A Goldwing? A Harley? Nah. I was thinking he, with his divine inspiration, would go for a Ducati, but those Romans didn’t really do him any favors did they? In the end, a co-worker suggested that Jesus would ride a Jet-Ski…on land. Awesome.
Since I’ve been riding, I haven’t missed the Blessing…well, that once. Five years ago I was working in South Carolina and wasn’t able to make it. My RC51 hadn’t been blessed. A year later it put me in a wheel chair for two months. And now that I think about it, I don’t believe my old man ever had his ’82 XV920 blessed. I threw it down a ditch when I was 18. And when I really think back, I don’t remember the JR50 ever making the trip. Perhaps that’s because I was only 7 years old. Still, Lord knows I ate enough dirt on that beast. Too much lead content and not enough Holy Spirit?
The Honda CL. My first bike. Yep, made the trip on that. No crashes.
The Kawasaki Eliminator? Blessed. Not so much as a speeding ticket.
I rode the ZRX to The Blessing in the snow one year. Kept the rubber side down.
The CB550 café? Never a problem, and darling of the ’08 Blessing.
Had the Monster there this year. So far, so good. Huh…
Coincidence? It’s gotta be. See, I’m not religious. Born, raised, and confirmed Catholic. I was an altar boy, then I got older, started questioning things…took Survey of the Old Testament and Western Civ back to back in college. Ironically, that crucified any faith I had left in me.
I’m member of my own religion, I guess. Is there such a thing as hopefully Agnostic?
Still, I’m putting up a strong argument against myself here. Every motorcycle I’ve ever owned, without exception, has ended up on top of me if it hadn’t been to that airport in Baldwin. All the bikes that were breathed on by God kept me out of trouble.
Alright, forget what I think. What are the cattle looking for? Ten thousand bikes can carry a lot of believers!
I know they’re not all there thinking their hog is going to heaven. Some want to camp and party and get drunk the night before. Some are vain weekend warriors, riding their kid’s college fund, piss-poor Frazetta Death Dealer air brushed on the tank. Some are just there using the destination as a destination…a reason to get out and ride. Some are just following friends, looking for a motorcycle show.
There are those who show up with crosses stitched to their leathers. Right wing Goldwing gangs that met in the church basement that morning over fresh coffee and day old doughnuts.
I’ll admit, it’s difficult to find Jesus through all the vendor’s Vietnamese made POW flags. But there is substance here. There is good at this gathering.
No beer in the streets. No smoky burnouts. I didn’t see a baby feeder all weekend, not out from under its “This bitch don’t fall off!” T-shirt, anyway. There was a huge, scary guy dressed head to toe in bear fur, but after listening to him converse, he seemed…well…like a big Teddy Bear. There’s definitely an air of Take it easy kids, this one’s for the Lord. People here are genuinely respectful, whether they’re a believer or not.
Bikes file into the airport Sunday morning and line up single file, a hundred rows deep. The riders walk around, looking at each others bikes, mostly afraid to talk to each other. Northerners can be so stand-offish. There are the ice breakers, bold men who ask bold questions like “What year is that?” It’s a start.
A local southern-fried cover band plays swamp music over too-loud distorted speakers as disciples ponder whether to eat vegetable covered brats or the more pedestrian burger. Pop cans are thrown into specially marked, plastic lined 50 gallon drums. Ten cents back for each returned pop can in the Great Lakes State, where early May is too cold for the bees to swarm.
At one o’clock in the afternoon, Gimme’ 3 Steps is cut short by an event organizer asking everybody to quiet as the Blessing is about to begin.
Seeing a man dressed in robes is an odd sight at a motorcycle rally. He seems out of place, like a…well…like a priest at a motorcycle rally. He adjusts the mic stand and raises his arms. There’s no big build up. You’d expect more pomp and circumstance, like he should be riding around in the Popemobile to the soundtrack of Amazing Grace. Instead it’s quick and to-the-point. Nice.
Nobody is making a peep. I’d be surprised if a tenth of the people here were good Christians (I’m certainly not), but it seems every last person understands that the holy man with the microphone wants to keep everybody safe. For that one minute, when a man is asking God to “Bless these motorcycles and keep their riders safe…” you could hear a pin drop on the runway. And regardless of your beliefs and habits, you can’t help but think there is something bigger happening. Many think it’s the Holy Spirit at work; I think it’s the human spirit. Either way, it’s a powerful thing.

School of Sqiud

I’m a poser.
For years I’ve been riding around on machines faster and more capable than I am. Crotch rockets and street legal race bikes that are ridiculous to have on public roads, ridiculous if your intent is to stay within the confines of the law.
I always wished I had taken one of those bikes to a race track, learned how to ride a sportbike as it was designed to be ridden. Instead, inevitably, I wadded one up on public roads.
Three years later, I convinced my wife that I had learned my lesson and was ready to be responsible on a motorcycle. I wanted something tamer and better suited for the street. By this I mean my wife would have the final say in what I’d be riding. So I was looking for something “…around 600cc with handlebars. No clip-ons! I know you.”

Damn. She knows me.

So I settled on the new Ducati Monster 696. There are faster bikes and there are bikes that make more financial sense, but when I laid eyes on that thing…oh, baby!
Plus, it fit the parameters listed above (She read somewhere that the 696 had been beat in a drag race by a Volvo) >ahem<. Fast forward 3400 miles on the odometer and I’m standing in the tool room at work talking to Dan Durham about all things two-wheeled. Dan, beside being a hell of a tool maker, is a track official at Grattan Raceway in Grattan, Michigan. Now I know my way around a racing discussion. I know the facts. Rossi, V4’s, tire profiles, passing on the outside, built in frame flex, traction control… I’m a poser. The closest I’d come to racing a motorcycle was tilting my head while I watched Hayden’s on board camera on my big screen. It was something that was always a little shameful to think about. I could talk it…but could not walk it. So when Dan told me that the Team Chicago Motorcycle Racing School was coming to Grattan in a few days, I was excited, but a little apprehensive. Racing schools are expensive, right? What would I have to do to my motorcycle? Safety wiring scared the hell out of me. Never mind that I knew I didn’t have the proper safety gear for a track day, specifically leather pants, let alone a one piece. “Do I need leather pants, Dan?” I already knew the answer, but I was fishing. “Yes. Do you have a jacket that pants can zip into?” “Yeah, a good jacket actually. But no pants. I’ve never needed them for anything, and I don’t think I can buy a pair online by this weekend.” The truth was, I didn’t want to blow a couple hundred dollars on a pair of pants that I might never use again. “What size do you wear?” Dan asked. Bingo! Hook line and sinker. “I’ve got a pair you can wear. You can wear them, but if you use them…” “Of course! I break ‘em I buy ‘em.” Dan brought the pants to work for me the next day. The stark white leather pants matched my black jacket and boots perfectly. I looked like the Oreo Power Ranger and there was only the fuzzy side of Velcro where there should have been knee pucks, but screw it, I was going to a track day!

Next I set to work looking up the Team Chicago Motorcycle Racing School on the web. I was floored to see that the fee was $25. That can’t be right? I thought it was an initial fee that would be supplemented by a much bigger fee when I got to the track. It turns out; $25 would have been the entire cost, had I gotten the fee and paperwork in on time. As it was, the pre-registration deadline had already passed, so the cost was $55 at the gate…still way below what I would have been willing to pay.

The registration stated you needed to have your bike taped up, safety wired, and have the kick stand removed. I have no bike stand and I already mentioned that I was intimidated by safety wire, so I duct taped the Duc, put it on a trailer and hoped the rest would fall into place when I got to the track. That’s terrible preparation, I know, but I was relying on the fact that I’d heard the people at a track day were all very helpful. I wouldn’t be let down.

I didn’t sleep a wink the night before. I was like an 8 year old trying to sleep on Christmas Eve. I looked at the alarm clock every 11 seconds for about 7 hours, got up, and headed to the track.
I live about 40 minutes from Grattan and was surprised at how many people made the trek from the Chicago area to be there. Later guys were telling me how lucky I was to live so close to a track like Grattan.
I pulled into the line of trailered bikes, handed the money to the attendant, got my wrist band, and headed inside the track.
After exchanging pleasantries with some of the guys I was parked next to, I walked up to the small building where registration forms were being turned in. I signed myself up for Group #3; Riders with no racing experience, but desire to race motorcycles over 600cc. I was worried the supersports were going to be too fast, but remember hearing one of the guys near my that it was a relaxed atmosphere and that nobody needed to worry about anyone else’s pace. Cool.
So imagine my surprise when Dan Schmitt, long time racer and the guy running the school, asked me what I was riding and promptly put me in Group #2!? Group #2 is the same as Group #3, but with bikes over 750cc. I guess the word Ducati demands respect! My air cooled 67hp monster was going to be in the same group as a Gixxer 750 and a pack of R1’s! Now I was really worried that I was going to be holding up the group.
Group #2 split into 3groups of 7 guys, each with their own instructor. Kevin, our very young, John Hopkins racer-boy looking lead man, asked our group “Who’s out here on the track for the first time?”
I quickly raised my hand and looked around.
#@$%&!
I was the only newbie. Six other guys were in the group, all who new each other and had ridden this track about 15 times. Kevin echoed the sentiment I had gotten earlier.
“We’re not out here to race. Nobody is going to get sponsorship today. Take it easy and have fun.”
We walked out to the starting line and started to walk the track.
Let me stop a second. It should be noted that the temperature that morning was frigid. Freezing. Literally. The first week in April in Western Michigan is not what you think of when you think “Spring Day”. There are pictures of this school in years past with snow on the ground. That’s not a joke. I was freezing my ass off having thought that a hoody, gloves, and a ball cap were going to be enough to keep me warm outside. I live here, I should have known better.
As we walked the straight, Kevin explained the line going into turn 1 and that you could carry quite a bit of speed. He was going on about how much room there was if you got in hot, but all I could seem to concentrate on was a 2 foot wide patch of ice that ran the width of turn one…you know…the turn where you’d be scrubbing off all the speed from the straight?
About 3 guys in unison; “Um…!”
“It’s OK.” Kevin assured us. “That should be melted and gone by the time we’re out here on the bikes.”
#@$%&!
I knew we had a couple hours of classroom stuff ahead of us, but I still had visions of me low-siding into the next county. We continued to walk and noting the blind turn 2 where I said “I’m surprised by all the elevation changes.”
Some of the guys laughed and heckled, because I hadn’t really seen the elevation changes yet. They exchanged glances and were delighted by my apparently obvious terror when I realized turn 3 drops like 20 feet! There was one guy in our group who seemed particularly giddy about my starting to look scared. He was about the size of an NFL linebacker, and had a menacing grin permanently affixed to his face. “You’re gonna shit your pants when you get to this corner” he said.
Great.
Kevin went on to explain that Grattan’s turn 2 is one of the tougher turns in the U.S. It’s like half a corkscrew, but with an immediate left at the bottom, climbing back up the hill…You’re short-shifting in preparation for the fast right hand sweeper at the top.
“If you can ride this track well, you can ride anywhere.”
Next we walked over the hump/jump (that’s what Kevin called it) on the short back straight. The guys were firmly having a riot now, watching the look on my face as Kevin explained that the fast guys catch air, and then jam on the brakes before tipping it over into the right hander just over the hill. Thank God my Sport/Touring tires would be nice and grippy on the hot pavement…Oh, wait…
We walked our way through the corners, Kevin explaining the racing line, until we reached turn 10…the Bus Stop. Finally, the ribbing and laughing turned to somebody else…the Linebacker. Turns out he lost it in turn 10 a while back. The grin gone, he turned to me and said “Do not try to go fast in this corner. It will get you.” I can’t say there wasn’t some semblance of satisfaction in knowing the bully had been spanked here. The Bus Stop is so named because it has a little pavilion for corner workers to stand under and you are putting along in first gear to get through it.
Then it’s straight up the hill into the final two corners. Walking up to turn 11, Kevin offers this fine pearl…
“You’ll know you got into this next turn too hot if you find your head buried in the tires at the top of the hill.”

Turns 11 and 12 are blind except for the cones they had out.
“Races are won and lost on this corner. You have to know where you’re going” Kevin said. “I race here a lot and only hit it perfect about 60 percent of the time. But when you do get it right, it’s a lot of fun!”
We walked back into the pits, but before riding, each group moved from garage to garage to listen in on short classes being given on subjects like track personnel and flags, racing lines, starting grid protocol, and…Safety wiring! You know, it’s not so scary. Somebody else asked if there was going to be a tech inspection. You couldn’t really show up with a safety wired bike if you hadn’t learned it yet…right? After going through what to expect at “Tech”, the answer came back “No, there probably won’t be a tech”. It was never actually said out loud, but it was implied that you shouldn’t be riding hard enough to need an inspection anyway. In other words, don’t crash. Bring a good bike, do the easy stuff (tape and mirrors), be safe, and have fun.
They were serious about your gear though. Full leathers, boots, gloves, and of course a good helmet were a must. Proper gear was discussed in the first class. Chest and back protectors also came highly recommended.
I stopped by the concession stand, got some lunch, went back to my pit area (a trailer being pulled by a minivan), and put on my gear.
The groups were called out one by one, and as group 1 rode the track, my group lined up in the hot pits. The first session was just to get you familiar with the track. I made sure I was near the back of the pack, as I really didn’t want to piss these guys off. We started the first lap at about three tenths pace, crawling onto the straight and into turn 1 where…the ice was gone! The sun had left only a wet line where the glacier had once been. Just as I was feeling relieved, we got into turn 2…and I shit my pants. OK, I didn’t really, but it was very intimidating.
We worked our way around the track leisurely until we got back to the front straight. Those bikes in front of me just left. I mean turned into dots on the fricking horizon! So I dug in and caught the group again by the time I reached the Bus Stop. The next couple laps were faster, but still manageable. I was going my own pace and riding within my limits…and I was having the time of my life! There wasn’t supposed to be any passing in that first session, but I didn’t mind at all when a couple guys who were behind me went by on the front straight. The last lap gave me an idea of what the rest of the day was going to feel like. I had made it a sort of game, catching the group after they left me in the dust in the drag race. I always caught them, just in time to watch them disappear again. Damn this was fun!
When we pulled back into the pits, I went back to my van, pulled off my helmet, and realized something terrible. I was getting motion sick! I’m a puss. I get sick riding in a car…on the highway. This was like being on a roller coaster! There was just enough time in between sessions for me to get my bearings back, but this certainly wasn’t something I had considered.
We played a sort of round robin in the second session. Each rider in the group would get to lead 1 lap, falling to the back of the pack after crossing the start/finish. Kevin always followed the lead rider. I again started near the back, and so got in a few laps before I had to lead. I was really starting to feel confident, getting on the gas earlier going into the straight, and keeping up a little better there, despite my horsepower disadvantage. Then it was my turn to lead…
I was determined to show these guys I wasn’t worthy of the ridicule I got while walking the track that morning. Alright suckers, keep up with this!
I blew turn 2. Not having someone in front of you is more nerve racking than you think. I went wide, hard on the brakes, but managed to get it down the hill OK. I went back up over the hump jump, got really light there and then got bent out of shape into the next series of turns. I went ‘round the Bust Stop but then managed to nail turns 11 & 12. Kevin was right, those turns are a blast. Hard on the gas through the finish line, I let up and waited for everybody else to come around. As Kevin went by, he was waving his hand up and down at me as if to say “Slow down, Dumbass!”

When we pulled in I followed my group to their pits this time. I wanted to hear the discussion. We were all talking and smiling (I was dizzy as hell) when Kevin rode up to our group and looked at me.
“You are riding way over your head, man! You’re on the edge of your tires, draggin’ stuff all over the place. I thought you were going to lose it! Take it easy out there.” Right in front of everybody. Even my brother and sister-in-law who were there to watch. Ouch.
I deserved it. Then something interesting happened. Kevin stopped with the deserved scolding and moved on to advice.
“I can see part of your tail light under the tape. You’re trail braking into almost every turn. Stop your braking before you tip it in and you’ll ride smoother.”
We heard it 20 times that day. “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”
All those guys that were laughing that morning had become helpful and supportive. One guy asked what tire pressure I was running, and had a gage to check it. We dialed it down to 30 psi because it was so cold, which really helped.
The last session was the most fun. You were allowed to pass on the straights this time. Not that it was going to do me any good. But wait! A Honda CB 750 and a BMW R90 were suddenly lined up ahead of me. Were they in my group all day? I didn’t care. I might be able to pass somebody today!
I rode a couple laps staying close to rear wheel of the Beemer, thinking I’d be able to get by the two of them on that straight. We were on the back part of the course when I watched the BMW break traction and start a slow slide. It seemed like ages, and I thought he was going to save it, until that wing-like cylinder kissed the pavement and spun him like a top! Apparently motion sickness and target fixation aren’t related because I managed to get around the crash. I was concerned, but the instructors had made it very clear that it’s best to let the corner workers do their job and stay out of the way, so I decided to try to catch and pass the CB.
It was easily 30 years older and 150 pounds heavier than my brand new Ducati, so having a sense of pride while passing the CB was ridiculous. I don’t care.
I graduated by not crashing. I know those are pretty weak standards, but there were 4 riders who didn’t graduate that day back in April (all of them escaping serious injury). I got a certificate stating I was now qualified to compete in a novice / amateur division. Cool. Not that my wife and children would let me (I am completely domesticated, I can admit it), but there is some satisfaction in knowing I could. Maybe someday I’ll ride on a track that hasn’t seen ice in 24 hours, but it won’t deter me from returning to Grattan every April.