…why it is I do the things that I do.
Sometimes I act, literally, without thinking. Almost on instinct. Like some force greater than myself is putting one foot in front of the other, while carrying a hundred pound Honda EU2000 generator to put in my race van, or when suddenly deciding to do my first bicycle race on a notoriously dangerous course and with ultra light race wheels I’d never used before. It’s such a freeing change from my anxiety-filled twenties, when my big brain would work itself up into inconceivable tizzies, throwing up roadblocks to just about anything that might have been, oh I don’t know…FUN.
Anyhow, older and hopefully wiser, the brain simply detaches sometimes and the body, just…does things. This can often be good, in the case of racing, or opening my heart up, or bad, in the case of my big bicycle crash, or, well…opening my heart up. I’ve managed to find my body and soul a bit more battered and bruised, but I sleep a lot better than I did ten years ago (as long as I have plenty of Tylenol).
So last weekend was pretty rough, and I might have done things differently if I had actually thought things through a little better. Knowing what a busy little honey badger I’m going to be September 9th, 10th and 11th, I scheduled a track day August 7 with Fastrack Riders at Auto Club Speedway in Fontana, California. September 9th and 10th, I’ll be practicing and racing with the AFM at Thunderhill, then after I race Saturday afternoon, I’ll pack up my stuff and drive to Fontana, to race with WERA on Sunday. What happened was that the AFM rescheduled a rained out race weekend for the same weekend WERA was running. Kind of a big deal (but the afternoon at the Long Way Home Saloon made it somehow worth it).
In motorcycle racing, you can win a race, or place well, and you can also accumulate points over the course of a season and attain an overall placement in your class for the year. Currently I’m leading points with the AFM, WERA West, and in the California State Championship. My points lead in WERA West is tied, however, with Marisol Lacour, who will likely be racing WERA on this weekend, so it’s important that I make it down there.
This past weekend, I left Saratoga at noon on Saturday, and got home at 1:00 a.m. Monday. I rode every session Sunday except the last one, and stayed out for every lap. At least I made the most of it, right? But it was hellish getting there, and coming home.
Saturday morning began with a good, hard bicycle ride up one of the local hills, Montebello. Showered and packed, I plugged my phone into the big sound system in the Sprinter Van and started enjoying Pandora. Normally I like seriously ass kicking music like Notorious B.I.G., Nicky Minaj, the Chemical Brothers, Lady Gaga, the Beastie Boys, LCD Soundsystem, and the like, but on this day, for again reasons unknown to me, I made a Natasha Bedingfield station. I actually enjoyed listening to Natalie Imbruglia, John Mayer, and all the other pathetic girl music that came up. Probably the most private thing I’d ever be willing to admit publicly. Moving right along.
I got a pocket, pocket full of sunshine
On 152, past Casa de Fruta and before the Reservoir, traffic came to a stop, and was at a crawl for 45 minutes. This was the problem:
Oh no
Finally that was behind me. On to Interstate 5. Almost immediately I could see smoke far away in the distance. It got closer.
Where there's smoke...
And closer.
There's fire.
I picked up a friend in Bakersfield who would help me with tire and gearing changes. That night, we enjoyed some food in the small college town of Claremont, which is about 20 minutes away from Fontana. It’s also the home of my Alma Mater, Pomona College. No disrespect to my fellow alum, but if you took the top five nerds from about a hundred high schools and put them in one college, it’d be Pomona. Brilliant minds, present company included.
I took a photo of this tiny, hidden restaurant called La Piccoletta. We parked near it, but didn’t eat there because they were away on vacation. So Italian!
La Piccoletta
When I was in school I ate here with three friends, and an older couple that had been sitting near us picked up our bill, saying they remember how college was and they enjoyed overhearing our college conversations. It was a special moment that I haven’t paid forward yet, but still plan to.
Sunday was exhausting, yet productive. I decided I liked 15/45 for gearing. I decided that I did not like the new chicane they put into place before the back straight. I also decided that I am a no talent ass clown, as there is a young novice lady who was out there that day going just a touch faster than me. At this point it seems I get through traffic a bit better than she, but that’s just the experience. I’m officially feeling threatened, but also psyched to have a new carrot, and psyched to have more fast girls on the grid. No, seriously. I hate her, but I love her too. I refuse to type a smiley, but I totally mean one here. I love being inspired to dominate competition, but it’s a very friendly thing with me.
And for whatever reason, I just don’t get as inspired by men who are faster than I am. But when a girl comes along and smokes me, it makes me think, well, what has she got that I don’t? The answer is obvious with the boys. But seriously, what is it? Is it bravery? Fitness? Coordination? Support? Lack of experience crashing? A childhood spent dirt biking and doing other motorsports that I had no exposure to until the ripe old age of 30? Whatever the reason, the answer is clear, I must Step Up My Game.
We packed up in a record twenty minutes and hit the road. We stopped in Pasadena to dine and drink at the Yard House. I went to one in Newport Beach back in the nineties, and thought, hey, cool place. They recently put one in at Santana Row, in San Jose, and you can go there at three o’clock on a Tuesday and there will be a two hour wait for a table. It’s quite possibly the stupidest thing ever. No wait at the Yard Houses in So Cal, because hey, they’re just cooler than we are down there and are actually spending time waiting for tables at places like CommeCa or Nobu.
I dropped Gene off back in Bako and was surprisingly alert the entire drive home, with a little help from Jack Johnson, KT Tunstall and friends. I was rolling along through 152, again, and then suddenly traffic was dead stopped. It was 10:30 p.m.
I didn’t really move again until midnight. I fell asleep in my van. I got out and peed alongside it, largely hidden from view, but in such a desperate place that I almost didn’t care who saw my bare bottom. When we started moving again finally, I saw so many little wet spots along the pavement, so I guess I was in good (or at least similarly desperate) company. Apparently a big rig had crashed and spilled oil all across the road.
Oil is slippery.
I finally got home around 1:30 and was asleep by two. My kitties fell asleep with me, one on my head, the other on top of my man pillow (not a man shaped pillow…just a pillow).
All this work and trauma just for bragging rights. For all the hassle, I really should have ridden both days and gotten more bang for my buck. But I think the trip was worth it, though it did get me thinking about racing AMA next year. Why would I? I don’t want to be a professional motorcycle racer when I grow up. Shoot, I’m already grown up, and I have a real job. It really would be just to say that I’ve done it, that I can race like the pros race. That’s simply not a compelling enough reason to go to the expense and hassle of making the AMA grid.
But it’s also quite possible that the brain will yet again detach from the body and I’ll find myself putting one foot in front of the other, loading up some Dunlop spec tires and Sunoco race fuel into my van and heading to Infineon, or Laguna. It’s been known to happen.
