One of the things that attracted me to Nikki Nienow, in only the way a straight girl can be attracted to another, was her independence. This pleasant looking blonde girl had pulled up to Infineon in a little white truck last spring, with her R6 tucked neatly into the bed. There was no drama and no commotion; she snuck in practically unnoticed and went about unloading her things, and her bike, by herself.
I noticed.
I invited her to come pit in my garage; it was a Friday before a race weekend and I was in the garage, also by myself, so I thought I would be nice and share my space with this quiet, pretty mystery girl.
A few months later, as James and I were going through some tough times and I was also starting to pit separately from him, I shyly asked her if she might be interested in helping me out at the track. Although we had always shared a garage or canopy, and I was fortunate enough to benefit from the fast guy’s high level race program guidance, I had been handling my trackside support on my own for a couple years. So I felt pretty independent, and had done a couple WERA race weekends by myself, but I wanted the moral support more than anything.
I didn’t feel entitled to have someone helping me at the track. Racing was hard, it was supposed to be hard, and only it’s only when you’re really fast, or really rich, that you get to have the helpers. But she said yes. I was thrilled, but I also wondered if it’d be the kind of thing where she’d come out, sort of pretend to help, but mostly use it as a springboard to go flirt with boys, talk to her friends, etc. Nope. She showed up with a very serious toolbox, taught me the benefits of torquing and axle grease, and had a smart, single-minded focus rare in any track person – guy or girl.
It wasn’t possible for her to be any radder, and yet she was.
She got her race license last fall, had a very successful first race weekend at AFM Round 2, and then I convinced her to race, not just help, for the first round of the California State Championship at Buttonwillow. Surprisingly, she was concerned about our both racing without a pit helper assisting us. For rizzle? If any two girls can do it, we can. There was no question in my mind. So like the rad chicks we are, we loaded up the Sprinter van and jammed down I-5 to the beautiful ‘burb of Buttonwillow.
Saturday morning we unloaded our things and got down to business. I was planning to only practice in the morning, as the afternoon was booked with the WERA Solo 20 lap endurance races and although I should do it for the fitness and practice, I wanted to be frugal with my fuel and tire money. Nikki used it as extra practice to spend more time getting to know an unfamiliar track.
My bike seemed reasonably alright. I think we changed the gearing on it. I had heard from a friend of one of Nikki’s friends, who’d been there Friday for a track day that AMA fast girl Melissa Paris was also riding in, that Melissa was doing “sub two minute laptimes all day long,†and this was what I was aspiring to. It wasn’t happening. I think the best I saw all day might have been a 2:02, which, if I went the generally expected two seconds faster in the race, would put me nowhere near my personal best of a 1:58.
I just want some 59s in practice. Just some. I didn’t feel this was a lot to ask for. And yet, try as I tried, I couldn’t make the bike go where I wanted it to go. Turning it was difficult. We made some minor suspension adjustments but believe me when I say they were “minor.†I’m no pro when it comes to adjusting my suspension, and I’m usually afraid to try anything drastic. Which, if you only have a few practice sessions, I guess means you don’t get anywhere fast enough.
I was just so frustrated by my laptimes and feeling a bit defeated. My bike was mechanically sound, thanks to the expert help of my friend and sponsor, Alex Torres of Fastline Cycles. My Pirelli tires were awesome as always. My lovely lilac and white ACT Racing suit unfortunately still was too tight on my still healing bruised hip (from a bicycle crash that happened, oh, two months ago), but my old Helimot suit still felt great. The problem was the rider. Or, maybe the suspension. I really felt like I was doing something wrong with it and needed some major help.
So in the races Saturday, first up was Women’s Superstock. Krystyna Kubran and her R1 got another amazing start and I followed her around the track on the first lap, noticing how cute she looks with her Spidi Lizard suit and blonde curls flying out the bottom of her helmet, but then it was time to get down to business. I passed her into the Star Mazda turn and then worked to build up a lead. I passed some twins racers, the Heavyweight Twins Superbike race being gridded in front of the girls, but for the most part it was a pretty lonely race. I finished first of six women, and sixth of 15 total racers on the grid. 1:59.3 was my best, and I was disappointed.
Why keep doing something if you’re not getting better at it somehow? I know, I know…because it’s fun. But for me, it’s fun when you’re improving, if not overall, than at improving on least something. It’s a curse, sort of. Sometimes I feel like I wish I could just enjoy something because it’s fun, even if I’m terrible at it, but really, where is the fun in that? I suck at wakeboarding, but at least I can drink mass quantities of cheap beer while I’m doing it. Bowling too for that matter. Sports you can play relatively safely while consuming alcohol (yep, been injured at the lake and the bowling alley), those I don’t mind sucking at. But karting, racing, cycling…I want to win. Even if I’m only beating my past performances.
The second race was B Superstock. I tried so hard to latch on to the faster group in front of me, but watched them pull away, each turn the gap growing larger and my heart sinking faster than a motor chucked into one of the local farming waterways. I was three seconds a lap slower than the slowest guy in that group, and then a few seconds faster than the guys behind me. Again, a lonely, slow race; I finished 8th of 13, with a fastest laptime of 1:58.966. Practically not even a 58. Definitely a number that would be quickly rounded up in a third grade math assignment.
Finally, last race of the day, I got to have some battles. B Superbike. I jostled for position through Cotton Corners with Robert Chavez and some guys I don’t know, and I was pleased with the aggression I was displaying. At some point Robert passed me back. I like Robert. Compared to the average racer, he seems to have more money than god, and brings the most pimpin’ Sprinter van and a hot girl mechanic to the track. He’s always smiling and having fun. I used to beat him regularly, but then he got faster. I had nothing for him at Fontana, and maybe even not at Vegas, but I felt like I could get him today.
I followed him for a bit plotting my domination, and set up with a good drive out of Lost Hills to slide up on his outside for Star Mazda. Too fixated on the back of him, when I looked up it was way too late to start braking, and I blew the turn, flying straight off the track and around the access road, back onto the track approaching the esses…but having lost about six seconds. I slowly reeled him back in, but then the race was over. I finished 12th of 17, with a best laptime of 1:57.665. Just barely below the acceptability threshold. Phew! I could keep racing. I was worried I’d have to quit, like I often do when I plateau. It’s really not rational, or mature, and honestly I would probably encourage myself to push through it, but that spoiled little brat in me would seriously have wanted to just throw in the towel. I did 58s here a year ago, not just one, but several. I really didn’t know why I was struggling so much.
We drove home, stopping at Harris Ranch for some fresh cow and a big glass of red wine. Nikki felt somewhat “eh†I think about her racing results, and so did I, but we were having fun anyway, on our own, two girls in the world. Makes me think of that song “Tonight, Tonight,†by Hot Chelle Rae.
La, la la – whatever!
La, la la. It doesn’t matter.
La, la, la – oh well!
La, la la.
