Down The Rabbit Hole To Hell

I raced one more time that year after getting the frame on the Suzuki straightened. It was bittersweet. I scored a third place, but the decision had been made. I would not return to the race track for the foreseeable future. There were many reasons, mostly financial, some personal.

Things changed. The blue collar guys left the sport as the economy tanked, people got divorced and remarried, died, real life stepped in. It was not the same bunch of friends it once had been, the new crop had more money, was more cut-throat, less likely to help a fellow racer out, more likely to talk shit behind his back. (True story: the new guy I shared a ride with to Mosport the weekend I cart-wheeled it down Turn 2 spent the weekend telling people he was lucky he "Got the gas money from Larrivee before he crashed", after I was carted off in the ambulance. The new executive members of the race organization did not appreciate my 'colorful' style. It felt like hanging around the same small town after graduating high school and everyone else had moved away. You simply were no longer welcome.

Eventually, even I can take a hint, although it might take the entire universe screaming at me to hear it. A laundry list of injuries had piled up since turning thirty. It was like hitting some sort of reverse lottery, with yearly installments of pain:

2003: Dislocated shoulder, torn rotator cuff, 2 broken ribs, cervical sprain

2004: Concussion, cervical sprain, 4 broken ribs, internal injuries, broken hand and ankle

2005: Broken elbow, severe road rash to elbows and back

2006: Separated shoulder requiring surgery/pins

2007: Broken collarbone, 2 broken ribs, ankle fracture

2008: No injuries (a good year!)

2009: Dislocated carpal lunate bone in left hand with damage to the median nerve requiring surgery and pins. Ended up with antibiotic resistant bone infection that lasted over a year, then severe reaction to antibiotics. Seven doctors, five surgeries and most of my sanity later the majority of my wrist bones were removed. Doctors wanted to do two more surgeries to plate the wrist, I told them to piss off as I was tired of quacks cutting into me.

2010: Boxer's fracture to 5th metacarpal. I refused surgery.

2011: Broken left collarbone, twice. Refused surgery.

Every time I thought I had finally hit bottom a trap door would open and send me down the rabbit hole back to Hell. I was physically out of shape and mentally exhausted. Obviously there was very little pity from me or others, as this crap was all self-induced, it was like a giant "I told you so". To continue on in this manner was surely suicide. I needed to back away from the breach and catch my breath, lest I catch something much worse. There was unfinished business with racing, but it would have to wait. The end came. For now.

Some of the various hardware installed in me over the years. No, I'm not proud of any of it. I wish it had never happened.

Next Time

"I am not without scars on my brain and body, but I can live with them." -Hunter S. Thompson


Every crash takes a toll. Physical, spiritual and emotional debts pile up like unpaid bills while the collections people are ringing the phone incessantly and the IRS at your door in a smart little business suit with a smarmy grin. You begin to wonder how much luck equity you have left to keep borrowing against. Next time it might be worse, next time I might...

You can drive yourself mad thinking about next time, cocooning yourself in fear. The more pragmatic worry only about this time, knowing the next is not a given, hell, you gotta die of something right? Would you trade a short, exhilarating fireball journey for a slow stroll to ruinous old age? If what you do today can kill you today, not in twenty, fifty years, next week, but right friggin' now would you be ok with that? Or would self preservation instinct rail against it and have you looking for actuary approved activities? When it comes to life, I don't know if quality is measured in length.

It isn't death that has me waking up in colds sweats wondering what the hell I am doing, it's the fates worse than death that do. It's the things that racers don't like to talk about, the thoughts I shove out of my mind that are always trying to creep back in. Thoughts that can make atheists whisper a prayer.

A racer needs a healthy dose of denial, else they cannot do what they need to do. A wall must be built around the debilitating notions. I believe that anyone wishing to function at a higher level needs this ability. It has to be about 'what I am going to do.', not 'what should I do?' or 'what might happen if I do this?", and that mental attitude makes all the difference.

The crash puts this attitude to the test while shattering the glass house of denial. It knocks you down, literally and figuratively. It is your decision whether to get back up as staying down becomes a much more attractive option. The willingness to get back up, after you know the consequences, finally understand fully the risks, fascinates me. I don't know if it is noble or stupid, perhaps a bit of both, but it is certainly a way to learn the content of your character. The wise seek fulfillment on other paths, while fools continue to tread, maybe to prove something to themselves.

I couldn't stay down. I couldn't walk away, until it was on my terms, until I was ready. I knew this wasn't the wise or mature answer, but it was my answer. I chose to rebuild my Temple of Denial, but the mantra changed slightly from "It Won't Happen To Me" to "It Won't Happen To Me, Again", this was the only way to carry on with it.

Five weeks later I removed the ankle cast, strapped the collarbone, taped the ribs and had my accomplices assist me into the saddle of a borrowed Yamaha RD 400 (the T500 was in a bad way with a bent frame), so that I could salvage some points in my championship bid. There was no longer any hope of winning the championship, but runner-up was still possible. I forget where I placed in that race, maybe 5th, enough to secure second overall for the season, which would have to do. Until the next time...

The final version of the T500 before wadding it up at Mosport

Hope Fades Ephemeral

In August 2007 I threw away a roadracing championship at the top of Turn 2 at Mosport International Raceway near Toronto. In practice.

I came to Mosport confident that I would finally win a championship. After several second place championship trophies, I was hungry for the top spot. It was going to be the culmination of years of effort on a motorcycle they said couldn't do it by a rider who did everything the hard way. It was close enough for me to taste it. It didn't happen. I left Mosport with a bent motorcycle, broken bones and broken dreams, but at least alive.

The bike was absolutely flying in morning practice, I had the quickest lap times for my class. Any finish in the top 3 would clinch the title, despite there still being another race on the schedule, no one would be able to surpass my points lead. The bike was better than it ever had been and I was feeling good, even though I had put on some weight over the last few years and the leathers were getting a bit... ahem....snug. Far behind were the days of cracked cylinder heads and piston failures, I had done my homework, and the results reflected it.

I didn't think much of it when I saw the slower rider in front of me as I exited Turn 1. My original plan was to pass him on the inside as we exited Turn 2 by simply tightening my line a little bit. It was a good plan until I realized just how slow he was actually going. I was closing at least 20 mph faster than him, and he was right on my line. I knew there were riders behind me, so clamping on the binders was not an option without getting ass-packed.

Turn 2 is a blind uphill crest to downhill that is tricky to do at speed. My turn in point was always just before the crest, about mid-track. You can feel the suspension unload as you crest the hill, then compress again as you head down the other side. I always left some room on the outside in case the bike ran a little wide on the exit. I was moving along very quickly and knew that jamming myself up the inside of this slower rider might result in a bad experience for both of us, so I widened my line by no more than 24 inches and moved my turn in point up about a half bike length to leave us both enough room.

This was all the space bad luck needed. By moving my turn in point up those few feet, I attempted to lean the bike over as the suspension was unloading. The front tire made a small howl like a dachshund being run over, and all traction was lost. I remember feeling my collarbone snap as my left shoulder hit the pavement, my elbow bashing into my ribs, breaking them, my helmet grinding along the pavement, sliding, then tumbling, then sliding again and finally my foot catching on something, ankle popping, ground, sky, ground, sky. Then darkness.

When I came to there was only dust, blocking my vision, choking my breathing. I was certain I had just crashed my dirtbike at home. I heard voices and realized I was not alone, but for the life of me I didn't know where the hell I was. It wasn't until the voices began talking to me that I discovered it was an ambulance crew, and they were actually talking to me. The crew later reported to my then girlfriend that I said two things: "How is the bike?" and "There goes my fuckin' championship." I do remember fighting the EMTs as they tried to cut my leathers off. I couldn't afford another set if they shredded these to ribbons. It was agony pulling my arms out of that suit with a broken collarbone and broken ribs, but the early effects of shock helped to dull it slightly.

No championship, no glory, just grit in my teeth, pain and the realization that if you ask "How much should I give?" racing's only answer is more, more, more.

It ain't me. It ain't me.

Up the hill into Turn 2

Falling Action, Epilogue

It was a long way to go and a lot of crap to deal with for a six by nine inch simulated wood-grain plaque with a single color stencil announcing me as the third loser in race soon lost to the annals of time, but it was my goddamn 6 x 9" simulated wood-grain plaque and nobody was going to take that from me. I had earned that stupid thing and it was going to go in a place of honor on my mantle so that I could trot out this interminably long narrative you are currently reading for anyone willing to listen and a few who weren't. That is if I ever got home, there was still the matter of the narcoleptic Snap-On truck.

I pulled out of that sweaty racetrack without too many goodbyes. I did not have the energy, and I knew I would need to save it for the sweltering trip home. My right foot had previously been partially roasted from sitting next to the engine cover in order to operate the gas pedal. Inevitably the truck died about an hour from the track. It was dark, I managed to limp it into a sketchy looking motel parking lot. I grabbed my flashlight, determined to figure out what the hell was going on with this jalopy.

I tore the doghouse (engine cover) off in a frenzy and started looking for the problem. My eyes were drawn to a rusted piece of steel tubing, maybe 3/8" diameter, laying against the exhaust manifold, as I followed the steel tubing I noticed it connected to black rubber line on both ends, held with hose clamps. That black rubber line looked suspiciously like fuel line. I hopped outside the truck and popped the hood to look at it from the other end. Sure enough that rubber line went into the carburetor and I knew that the other end had to run to the fuel tank/pump. So instead of purchasing enough gas line to do the job right, some cheap stupid dipshit decided it was a good idea to use a piece of steel line and run it right across the freaking exhaust manifold! In the heat the gasoline was boiling in the damn line! No wonder the thing kept dying, it's a miracle I didn't go up in a ball of flame on the side of the highway.

The next hour was spent making an improvised heat shield out of an aluminum baking pan I bought from a dollar store and safety wire. I took the header wrap off the race bike's exhaust, wrapped the fuel line from one end to the other and zip tied it out of the way as best I could. I got it started, put the pedal to the floor and didn't let up until I absolutely had to.

I pulled into my driveway sometime in the desperate hours before dawn, a bleary eyed rheumatic golem. There would be no welcoming committee, no trumpets to herald the hero's arrival, not even a write up in the local rag. Monday would bring a return to the vapid drudgery of work amongst the other automatons in an attempt to accumulate wealth. But there was the next race, the next lap, the next green flag. And that was something.

My very own 6" x 9" simulated wood-grain plaque (dust and fingerprints sold separately)

Calm Like a Bomb

The trip to Mid-Ohio was turning into a real shit fest with no apparent let up. At some point it becomes very hard to maintain a positive outlook. A copper head gasket failed during practice (apparently there is a limit to how many times they can be re-used), taking out a piston, which meant a top end re-build before I could race. The self-appointed Suzuki "guru" that built my motor was off with his entourage of internet groupies, so no help there. I had to wear my race gloves to remove the cylinder as it was still hot and there was not time to let it cool.

New piston, rings, base and head gasket, torque to spec, bump start the bike and ride around the pits. That would have to be enough for the break-in procedure. The motor seems to be running a little "muddy", which I attribute to the heat and humidity, I figure rich is safe, and I don't have time to mess with the jetting at this point.

At first call for the Formula 500 race I am dressed in my leathers, rivulets of sweat rolling down my back and face. At second call I take a last swig of water, mop my brow one last time, don my helmet and gloves and prepare to bump start the bike (if you are unfamiliar with this procedure please see blog post from Dec. 1). Third and final call, time to roll. And roll I do, right down from the top of the paddock to the bottom with a completely dead motorcycle. I frantically push and run alongside the bike in a vain attempt to get it to fire. Nothing. My heart is racing, head pounding, I can't breathe, leathers so tight, goddamn helmet suffocating me. My competitors are swarming around me, passing by, heading out to the track, I am still running and fighting to bumpstart the fucking bike. I am furious, but my strength is being sapped by the blast furnace that is engulfing me. I get one or two hopeful putts from the motor, but nothing else. I trip and nearly crash in another futile attempt. People are watching me, apparently this was very entertaining for them, but do you think one of those assholes would lend a hand? I think about my "motor builder" off getting his ass kissed by a bunch of hipster dorks and nowhere to be found. I rolled to a stop at the entrance to pit lane, slumped over the tank of the bike, blinded by stinging sweat, halfway through a heart attack.

"Do you need to use the rollers?", a voice asks out of the darkness. I look up and a gentleman is pointing to a set of Doc Z roller starters designed specifically to start motorcycles. It consists of two car batteries and two car starters geared to rollers. I nod affirmatively and he pushes me and the motorcycle onto the rollers. "Put it in third gear. Make sure the gas and ignition are on. You only get three shots, ok?"

First shot, nothing. Second shot the bike fires over a few times, but dies immediately. Third shot the bike runs for about four seconds and dies again. He looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. My eyes narrow, my voice sounds remote and cold, as if someone else is speaking, "HIT IT ONE MORE TIME." He shakes his head, I grab his arm, "HIT IT ONE MORE TIME."

He acquiesces and runs it again. The bike fires over, I am working the throttle to keep the piece of shit running, I manage to ride off of the starters and onto the track. One of the officials tried to stop me from heading out on the warm-up lap as I was so late, but I never saw him and I couldn't stop at that point.

As soon as I hit the track I know something is wrong. The motor is only running on one cylinder, probably a fouled spark plug. I drone around at half power all by myself, knowing that I am probably holding up the start. I have a decision to make, do I quit the race before it even begins or do I start it and see what happens?

When I come around the final corner I realize they did not wait for me to start the race, the entire grid is gone, out of my sight. I see the flagman waving the green flag, my head instinctively drops and the decision is made to race, I did not come this far to quit. I figure I will make one lap to see if the damn plug will clear. I pass the flag stand on my now single cylinder machine, screaming every obscenity known to man and a few unearthly ones as well inside my helmet. I hold the throttle wide open everywhere, because there really is no power. I come around the off camber downhill turn called the Keyhole and I can see a few straggling bikes off in the distance. I have no hope of catching anyone if the second plug doesn't start firing, and there is a very real possibility of getting in the way of the leaders as they lap me. The first lap ends on only running on one cylinder and I get ready to make my way off the track.

Suddenly as I round the last corner the second cylinder roars to life, nearly spitting me off when full power comes on at full lean angle. The fight to finish anywhere but dead last is on.

In those next few minutes, something happened to me. It started with furious anger, frustration, despair at the series of events leading up to the current situation and that translated into my riding. I attacked every corner with a vengeance, pushing harder than I had ever done in my life. Not for a moment did I think about crashing or getting hurt, my only thought was to catch and pass as many of the riders in front of me as possible. They had become my mortal enemies and I hated them, my only imperative on this earth was to dispatch them as quickly as I could. Not unsafe or out of control, but brutal and precise.

The anger transformed into a clarity I have rarely experienced. I am not conscious of actually having ridden the motorcycle in that race, but I can see myself doing so, as if from above. I know I made decisions, and I know there must have been noise from the engine, but I can only remember a quiet peacefulness, a stillness at 100 miles per hour. I began to pass the stragglers, by halfway through the race I made my way to mid-pack, no small feat considering how far I was behind. Slicing through traffic I again found myself alone, but the fire was not ready to die just yet.

With open track ahead I continued my rampage towards the front. All the negative energy that had me coiled so tightly unwound into a single, taut steel strand that I rode upon unflinchingly. I could not die, and I could not be stopped. Two more riders came into view on the back straight, I went up the inside of them at the end of the straight, passed both and left them wondering where in the hell I came from. I had no idea what position I was in and it didn't matter, there were other racers up there somewhere, and I was coming.

The flagman waved the white flag and I knew it was almost over, but the intensity did not diminish. I caught one more rider on the back straight, tucked neatly into his draft. I crawled as low as I could get over that gas tank, knees and elbows pulled in tightly trying to reduce every inch of drag, I lifted my ass slightly off the seat because I heard somewhere it helped with streamlining. I gained on him, inch by inch, determined to pass one more rider before my time was over. Without warning the racer clamped on the brakes, hard, I narrowly missed hitting him as I went by. As I looked ahead I could see what he was slowing down for, red flag. Race over. The last pass would not count because the race was stopped for safety reasons.

I would find out afterwards that several riders behind us went down together in the Keyhole. There was nothing to do but red flag. I also received the somewhat bittersweet news that I blitzed my way to fourth overall, from dead last in 22nd place, had the last pass counted I would have been in third. It was still my best finish ever at an AHRMA (American Historic Racing Motorcycle Association) event. My charge had not been in vain and while not quite enough for the win it certainly felt like one.

Somehow a door had unlocked to a secret world foreign to me until then. I spent years racing trying to get back to that world, only to come tantalizingly close a few times.

The National Academy of Sports Medicine defines "Being in the zone": "also referred to as a state of flow, that comes from activities that are intrinsically motivating. There are several common elements of flow in sports: a balance of challenge and skills, complete absorption in the activity, clear goals, merge of action and awareness, total concentration, loss of self-consciousness, a sense of control, no extra rewards, transformation of time, and effortless movement."

Yeah that was it.

Set the Spark

Once moving it is almost possible to forget about the godawful heat. There are many other things to occupy the mind, namely keeping it on two wheels while sussing out the quickest way around the racetrack. This is not as easy at it sounds, as most of the roadcourses we run have anywhere from 10 to 17 turns, both left and right hand, with elevation and camber changes, blind corners and a million other idiosyncrasies. It's like having multiple lovers in different towns and knowing by heart the way each one wants to be touched for fear of having your eyes scratched out. Mid-Ohio is no different, 15 corners and over two miles. All of these details must be committed to memory, available for reference at short notice, a good lap time and even your safety, depend on it. It is impossible to ride fast without knowledge gleaned from the constant river of data assaulting you as you circulate the course. This river is fed by four main streams that the rider must be intimately in tune with at all times.

The first: What is the racetrack doing? Not only does the track turn certain ways you must remember, but it will act differently as conditions change. This is crucial to understand, as many a hero became a zero by trying to go hard on cold pavement in morning practice. Rain, fog, sunlight, Oil-Dri spread to clean up leaking fluids all change the way a track must be ridden. Be caught unawares and you may be riding back with a wadded bike in the crash truck, or in the ambulance.

The second: What is the motorcycle doing? How is the motor running? How does the bike feel in the corners? Brakes? Tires? Shifting? Front suspension? Rear suspension? Anything and everything relating to the machine's performance must be cataloged in the brain for analysis upon returning to the pits. This is, however, not the time to be wondering if you tightened the axle nut properly or if your JB Weld repair to the cases will hold.

The third: What are the other riders doing? Where are they on the track? Are they faster or slower than me? How are they reacting to track conditions/weather? Can I pass them safely?

The fourth, and most important: What am I doing? Am I reacting properly to the data acquired from the other three streams or am I overwhelmed by it? Am I in a relaxed mental state or agitated? Are my inputs to the motorcycle having an adverse affect on handling? All of these questions and many more must be answered before the big one: How can I go faster?

That simple question consists of so many small parts it becomes infinitely complex. Lap by lap, corner by corner you have to take it apart, examine each component, then put it back together in the way that works best for you. Master it, then disassemble it and find an even better way. It becomes a difficult psychological endeavour that can have you chasing your tail. It is also very personal, because as you progress you discover walls of perception, individual impediments to speed that must be overcome before improvement occurs. A rider gets stuck in a rut and begins to think he cannot go any faster. Therein lies the rub, because you can always go faster. It is a given for most of us that we will NEVER put in a perfect lap, riding that edge the whole time, unable to push any harder not because of mental barriers, but because of the laws of physics.

Imagine having to face your fear that adding speed in a certain corner will cause you to crash and then making yourself go faster, because you know it can be done. The mental effort required is enormous because it has to overcome the self-preservation instinct. The trick is being able to push that little bit harder without disastrous consequences. And then be willing to push it even harder the next time. Unlike car racing where getting it wrong usually means a spin-out and some crunched quarter panels, the penalty for error is much higher with motorcycles. It can take quite a bit to move a man past the "protect my own ass" state into the "fuck it" mindset. Once past the inhibitions of fear a man can truly excel, but what does it take to get there?

Sometimes something has to set a man on fire. I was soon to ignite.

Kris Larrivee not quite at the limit.

Things That Go Bump In the Heat

After the restroom escapades I turn my thoughts to morning practice. The bike should fire up easily (relatively speaking) from cold, cold obviously being a relative term here in the bowels of Hell. The start procedure is just slightly less difficult than that of a hand crank Model T Ford you see, because, brilliant race engineer that I am, I removed all starting apparatus in an effort to save weight. While this practice is not without precedent in the racing world, I would have been much farther ahead to turn down some of the free pizzas my friend Tony was slipping out the back door to me and left the convenient little kickstart to prod the machine to life.

"Bump Start" procedure is as follows:
1. Turn gas on. Choke plungers up on carburetors.

2. Turn ignition on.

3. Locate 2nd gear with the shift lever using foot. If unable to do so with foot, balance the motorcycle with left hand on handlebar, kneel down and use right hand to find gear.

4. Regain breath after picking the motorcycle up because you really didn't have it balanced so well, note: your friends will be unable to assist because they are rolling around on the ground laughing at you. Repeat step #3 after cleaning up the gas that leaked everywhere and straightening the handlebar.

5. Rock the motorcycle back and forth holding the clutch lever in until the plates free. If unable to do so, adjust clutch at lever with motorcycle balanced against your leg.

6. See Step #4

7. Hopefully your dumb ass is parked on top of the largest hill in the area, in which case you merely sit on the motorcycle and coast down the hill holding the clutch in until sufficient speed is attained.

8. When sufficient speed is attained, wait a little longer so speed will be more sufficienter. [sic for you grammar nazis]

9. Lift fat ass off motorcycle seat and stand on footpegs.

10. Drop fat ass back down onto seat while simultaneously releasing clutch lever and engaging transmission.

11. Pray that you got Steps 1-3 correct, while being on the lookout for douchebags doing wheelies on pit bikes and for errant pets and youngsters running about in the pits. Parents tend to get upset when you run down their precious little snowflakes.

12. At this point the engine should begin to run. Reach down immediately and close the choke plungers to prevent the engine from flooding. Be sure to remain balanced as the motorcycle slows and you are still struggling to turn off the chokes while weaving through Chihuahuas and children. If unable to do so, see Step #4.

PLEASE NOTE: (If a suitable incline/hill is not available for this procedure, rider will have to provide adequate forward velocity by running his silly ass alongside the motorcycle and at the precise moment jump aboard side saddle, slamming down as hard as possible on the seat while releasing the clutch lever. Repeat until motorcycle is running, or is crashed (see Step #4 again) or the rider strokes out, whichever comes first. The publishers of this guide are not responsible for injuries, death/dismemberment or general butthurtness resulting from improper reading comprehension of said guide, that would be the fault of the public education system and yours for not leaving the starter on your bike like you should have.)