The Game - Part One Forfeit the game
I stood in the pit garage door, looking at the beads of water as they streaked down the sides of the fairing, dribbled off the bottom of the carbon fibre bellypan, and melted into the asphalt. The rain was drizzling slightly, making the track wet, but not wet enough to think about crashing, or pulling out. My crew chief came up to me, looked up at the sky and asked if I wanted to go out for the practice. I nodded a little uneasily, butterflies in my stomach making me feel a little queasy. Or maybe it was the tacos and chili the team had had for dinner the night before. When the team dog doesn’t want a second helping of chili, you know there’s something wrong with it. I walked back into the garage, just in time to hear one of the mechanics behind me, cursing. He had somehow managed to crimp his fingers in between the chain and the rear sprocket as he was mounting the rain tires. I cursed as well. This wasn’t shaping up to be a good day at the races. We weren’t in the running, or out in front, or anything. Maybe I could justify it as just a bunch of guys out having fun. Racing motorcycles. |
 |
And somewhere along the way, what started out a friends spending a weekend together having a lark became a semi serious effort, which was attracting the attention of some of the manufacturers. Now it was so much more serious. The team's livelyhood depended on how ell I rode. Racing on a shoe string, as we were, meant that parts and consumables were always in short supply. We had even considered renaming the team to something like “American Express Racing” because all of us, to one degree or another, were in debt to the card, because of the constant financial demands of running a race team. And some of the other better funded teams tended to look down on us. It didn’t matter none to any of us. We had all decided early on that we would quit and fold the team up when it stopped being fun. And it was now, in my feeling, approaching that point. One of the other competitor’s came over, and wished me a good morning. He looked at the chaos that was going on around the bike, and the blood stains in the water that was now puddling up on the pit lane beneath my bike, and gave me a wry grin. “Could be worse,” he said, “the wheel could have gone on, with his fingers still in there.” I gave him a wry grin myself. The one thing I have experienced, racing with Americans, is the mental strength inherent in her sportsmen. And all motorcycle racers have ample helpings of mental focus, and ego. Hence a game we all played in the pits, trying to psyche each other out. Some succumbed to the pressure. Others rose to the occassion, going on to be at the top of their sport. You know their names. I played the game along with them. I like to think that some of the lessons I learned in those halcyon days have stayed with me. |
Things like dropping your wheel into the inside of your opponent when both of you are heading into a corner, threatening to take him out if you low side. Rubbing his rear wheel with your front wheel when approaching from behind. Banging fairings and knees and elbows. None of this gentleman racer bullshit for these guys. Hard as nails, and twice as sharp. If you dropped your guard for just a moment, you were either being left behind, or eating kitty litter. As was oft quoted in those days when a certain Tom Cruise film was all the rage, “there are no points for second place.” My crew chief gave me a thumbs up, and rolled the bike off the stand, getting her ready to be started. I sighed, and walked over to where I had left my gear. This was not fun anymore was a message my brain was trying to tell me. My girlfriend saw the look on my face, and walked over. She walked alongside me, grabbing my hand, and holding it. I looked at her, blonde hair blowing in the wind, which smelled of rain mixed with ozone and high octane fuel, threatening an even heavier downpour. And she smiled at me, blue eyes flashing. I tried to smile back, I really did. But something inside me was not working. The adrenaline pumps in my body, which should have been gearing up right about now, were out for an extended coffee break, it seemed like. She stopped me, and held my shoulders. I gave her a hang dog look. She put a finger under my chin and raised my head. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Then she spoke. |
