Thursday, October 22, 2015, 3:18 AM
This being Part X of a Racer's Final(s) Diary
It never ends, as far as racing is concerned. After arriving last night there was still the matter of unloading and setting up, a task that takes an hour all alone. Technical inspection was also open, but I found myself simply too spent to bother wheeling the bikes down there in the dark. I cooked a quick dinner on the camp stove, crawled into the van and went to sleep, forgetting to brush my teeth.
I am awakened from strange dreams with bad breath and a frozen right foot that somehow found it's way out from under the blankets. The night had turned cold and there was a heavy dew. My first thought is that the FZR is going to be a bitch to start later. This is a motorcycle that absolutely hates any weather below 60 degrees F. I dragged my electric heater all the way here to Alabama to assist, but that is about four hours off. I attempt to make my way back to some of the more pleasant dreams after brushing my teeth and thawing out my purple foot, but the inky, bruise-colored restlessness that is my usual sleep has all but evaporated from the chilly van. I close the windows I left open, put on the winter hat I bought at Tractor Supply with the baling wire and decide the electric heater is too far away to go crawling around for it now. I lay back, staring at the headliner I re-did myself, noticing all the places where I fucked it up and then fail entirely to stop thinking.
Much like our human opponents, the mental ones also seek any crack or crevice to gain a finger-hold. In these dark, cold moments of sleeplessness self-doubt tries to rust away the soul, leaving cancerous little rents in the fabric until nothing remains but a moth-eaten shell. All the voices of indecision, conformity and self-loathing grow into an obstreperous clamor. Defeat and failure loom out of shadows, more frightening than any childhood spectres. I chuckle softly at their attempts to sway me and their power vanishes. I have more important things to think about.