Hobbies: AFM Round 2, Infineon Raceway, April 16-17

It doesn’t make any sense at all that I race. It doesn’t make sense to me, it doesn’t make sense to my family and it doesn’t make sense to my co-workers. I didn’t grow up in a motorsports family, or a particularly competitive one. I had never even piloted a motorcycle myself until the ripe old age of 30. So why does it feel so good, not just to go fast on a bike, but to go faster than that guy? And that guy? And that girl? I don’t dislike these people, in fact, I usually like them very much. It’s just fun to beat them, and although I wouldn’t say I love it, I’m supportive of my friends when they beat me; racing is just fun. And it sure as hell beats sleeping off a hangover or going to garage sales on Sunday mornings.

No judging here, but humans sure do entertain themselves in pretty interesting (and uninteresting) ways. There was a “millionairess” on the Millionaire Matchmaker last season who considered lavishing her purse dog with pampering a hobby, and when asked about other interests over cocktails at Patti’s mixer, she answered “pink” and “Hello Kitty.” A grown woman! She also ended up choosing to go out with the hot plumber, and he made the mistake of trying to take her on a bicycle ride around Central Park. It didn’t last long and she quickly took control of the date (a big Patti Stanger no-no) and paid for an expensive, romantic dinner on a yacht. She told him he was hot and that she’d buy him a Maserati. I don’t think it ended well.

Millionairesses and plumbers aside, racing is physical, it’s dangerous, and it’s fun. It’s like flying, with a little adrenaline button that goes off every time I pass someone. I’m sure that sometimes my mom wishes that I’d trade the bikes for a magnificent purse dog and spend my fuel and tire money on pink dog sweaters and rhinestone studded collars. My mom’s not particularly girly, just, she’s so concerned about her baby risking life and limb for a nonsensical hobby that almost anything else would be better.

Friday, April 15, 2011. I’m at the track with Rick, a longtime friend and colleague, and Ross, our rocket scientist mechanic. Rick and Ross were both on ZX10Rs and, like most casual track day riders, having more fun than coke whores at a Pablo Escobar party. Serious racer girl on the other hand, well, I rode around, got my bearings, contemplated my gearing, and chatted weekend strategy with Ross between sessions. I idly wondered who would be pitted in the garage to my right, and looking to my left wondered why any man who likes women would ever name his business after “the shocker.” Even better, and little did I know at that point, this would finally be the weekend when I’d come to understand what the Team Cycleheads battle cry of “beat guts” really meant.

Lucky me. I can’t even imagine my boss, a classy dame and brilliant lawyer from Woodside, being here right now. She’s so cool, and would handle it graciously, but thinking about our occasional get-togethers at The Rosewood Sand Hill, and juxtaposing that against my tattoos and cheap beer racing scene, well, it makes me giggle a little bit. I love both worlds the same…but different.

So I was slow on Friday, but working on some suggestions that Ken Hill had given me a few weeks before. Like when everything’s sucking on the tennis court and you decide to just focus on executing great footwork, I decided to just think about leaving the brakes on 15 more feet in every corner. It at least gave me something to think about besides my laptimes.

Dinner was at The Fig Café and Wine Bar in Glen Ellen, on the way up to Santa Rosa. Gourmet burger and a free wine flight, courtesy of my old tennis friend Kristy Lee, their best server.

Saturday I started to adjust my suspension a little bit. We’d taken all the preload out for Bumpywillow, and I was continuing to ride it this way at Infineon. I asked Randolph about it, asking him if maybe I should have more preload here since this track was smoother, and he looked at me like I was asking, “so, should I put on my pants first, and then my shoes?” “Um, yeah.” So I toddled back to my garage and added preload.

I actually used that phrase on Facebook during the weekend to describe a little epiphany that Mike Canfield and Ken Hill helped me have on Friday afternoon. I’ve always had a hard time turning for turn 8, and never realized that people use the brakes there to help the bike turn in. On the gas hard out of 7, some brakes, turn. Of course braking can help you turn the bike better. Why had I never tried that? I felt so silly.

Formula AFemme makes me really nervous. For one, I actually care a lot about the race. Call me an anti-feminist, I don’t care, I love the girls’ race and I want to do my best in it. Joy is an extremely worthy opponent, who beats me more often than not, and I never know how hot she’s going to be that day. And I don’t know if Jenn will suddenly turn off that smart, sexy brain of hers and dip into the sub 1:50s. On top of all that, I have massive anxiety over murdering lappers. I know I need to get by them quickly in order to outwit my opponents at this tight track, but I also worry about their erratic moves and the possibility of an error in my passing.

Starting around 11:30 on Saturday I started to feel like I had Satan’s venemous offspring inside me, trying to get out. I was beside myself with anxiety.

Turns out it was all for naught. I had a good wheelie on the start and helplessly watched Joy zoom out to take the holeshot, and I told myself to stay calm and wait for a good moment to pass. I didn’t have to freak out and pass her back right away, I could take my time. If her laptimes from practice were any indication, I would be able to remain in control of the situation. I think I passed her on the brakes going into turn 7, something I wasn’t stoked to do because she’s usually so much faster than I am through the esses. But the pass stuck and I rode like my panties were on fire the rest of the race, imagining her to be right on my butt. She wasn’t…but I don’t trust the talented Miss Higa. I’ll never let up even if she’s a mile behind me. I was relieved when I whizzed by the checkered flag in first place.

I got to enjoy a nice dinner with Randolph Saturday night at Café Citti in Kenwood. The most amazing lasagna I have ever had in my entire life. Like eating a sausage, cheese and tomato sauce-filled cloud. Their Kenwood table wine is a fine companion to it as well.

Sunday was great. I’m starting to feel like this race report’s getting super long, so I’ll give you the nutshell version: I beat most of my rivals, a few of whom are some of my friends’ boyfriends, and I especially love that. It makes me think of this:

I did 48s all day long like it was no big deal, I was pleased. I wasn’t trying to go fast, I was just trying to faster than the guy in front of me, and it worked. Wish I could do 48s in practice, but with having experienced so many of them during the race, maybe now I can remember the feeling and carry it over to my practice sessions, then step it up a little more in my races. My goal starting the season was top tens in the boy classes, and my 48s might have gotten me that last year, but everyone was going really well this past round. I’m going to have to work my ass off to see a single digit finish this year, but as long as I keep improving, if only by tenths of a second, chances are good I’ll be happy. Shoot. I’m pretty much always happy as long as I’ve got some wheels.