Forever Young

"I shall work harder." -Boxer, Animal Farm

"Work smarter, not harder." Dave Bishop (my former boss)

A return to the racetrack meant a return to decent physical condition. I knew from past experience that getting tired during a race led to mistakes. Mistakes hurt. That was unacceptable.

Since making the exodus south, I was working toward those ends. My diet improved greatly. I finally understood I was no longer 18 and the foods I existed on then would surely kill me now. Already exercising regularly, it grew into a six day a week affair, 1 to 1.5 hours a day. Workouts include weights, elliptical, stationary bicycle, stretching and a whole lot of swimming.

Neither easy, nor particularly enjoyable, I remind myself the true purpose of this torture whenever my enthusiasm wanes. Every rep, every mile contributes to the ultimate goal: Speed. The body and the mind must be tuned just as is the motorcycle.

Weakness in any of the three will be exploited by an adversary or by fate itself. At the end of the day, the competitor with the best combination of the three, wins.

While the piss and vinegar of youth may have mellowed slightly, the potency is now all the stronger owing to focus, efficiency and strategy.

Work smarter indeed.

Project. With a Purpose

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better... if they grasped your sword." -J.R.R. Tolkien

It was surprising how well the bike actually ran. All the gears were present in the gearbox and general mechanical condition was good. That discovery would dictate the next course of action: scrape the rust off, throw on a coat of paint and race the son of a bitch.

Obviously there was more to it than that. Front and rear suspension required rebuilding, brakes were rebuilt and the system flushed, carburetor overhauled, valves adjusted, chain, brake pads replaced. I figured out how to change tires using a bottle jack and the bumper on my truck so that I wouldn't have to pay $40 a pop for someone else to scratch my wheels.

I threw myself into the project with the goal of having it track-ready within two months. Everything that could would be done in-house (i.e. by me). It could not be a long drawn out process. I've met wanna-be racers that are always "building" their bike, they are full of excuses and totally lacking in action. I aimed to complete the task to the best of my ability, with function certainly well ahead of form.

There was another reason for choosing the two month time-frame, I found out about a "track day" at Summit Point Raceway in West Virginia late September. I had never been there, but it was only a three hour trip. I wanted to ride. The question still loomed whether my wrist and hand would hold up to the rigors of hard braking and operating the clutch lever repeatedly, it seemed silly to jump right back into racing without knowing for sure. A track day, a paid open practice broken up into groups according to skill level, seemed like a non-committal way to see if I still had the chops, or if I even wanted them.

Dollars were spent, hours invested combing the information superhighway for the best deals. Thankfully I still had my old leathers and a good helmet, other gear was sourced mostly from Craigslist and that crappy auction website that shall remain nameless.

I was pulled in a little deeper...

Starting Point

l'arrivée

The Resurrection and The Life

I lied to everyone, (including myself), that I might part the bike out and make some money. There were lots of great parts there that would allow me to at least quadruple my money without much effort. I was so full of shit.

The bike was quickly wheeled into the garage upon returning to my house. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein dragging in a fresh corpse for re-animation. The neighbors surely heard the mad cackling as I made my way around the machine. A battery was borrowed from my street bike to provide the electrical current needed to force life back into the engine. The carburetors were removed and cleaned to ensure proper delivery of petrol, that vital liquid necessary for internal combustion. A rats nest was removed from the exhaust (I wouldn't be needing him anymore). Within the hour mission control was ready for an initial test launch.

With baited breath my hand hovered over the starter button like a concupiscent teenager about to touch a real breast for the first time. Anticipation rose until I thought I should explode, a thought flashed in my febrile mind just before the climactic moment, 'If it runs, we are going to the racetrack.'. Unable to restrain my desire any longer I thumbed that red button lustfully, aching for sweet release and....... Nothing.

The dead remained dead and my nerve softened, but my passion remained unabated. Surely the recalcitrance could be cured with further foreplay? A light touch here, caress there, a poke, a prod? My sweet ministrations yielded only soft clicking from the solenoid, but it spurred me on. A more aggressive approach perhaps? I attached jumper cables to my truck and then to the comatose machine, I talked dirty to it determined to get a response. This time I did.

The beast awakened from it's slumber in a smoking, deafening bellow of barely muffled anger. Dust shook from it's old bones as life coursed through its veins once again. Like a demon summoned in a dark ritual this thing demanded to know who had brought it forth and why. I answered by mounting and riding the smouldering, bucking creature out of the garage. It attempted to throw me off as the rear tire spun in the grass but I was not to be denied the carnal knowledge I sought.

After a decade of death the mechanical Lazarus was alive again, and maybe just a little bit, so was I.

A New Chapter

Sometimes we are given signs. Being a glass half full kind of guy, I always assume that these signs are telling me to go do something, as opposed to warning against. I mean, who wants to be told NOT to do something, right?

That's why when the reply from the seller of the EX 500 came back with these words: "If you want this thing, we can definitely make a deal.", I naturally assumed that was the sign to hop in my truck and drive 2.5 hours to take a look at it. This is what I saw:

It was disheveled, mismatched, corroding, well beyond its prime, begging to die. And it was beautiful. Under the veil of ugliness, I could sense a heart of gold. The machine bristled with safety wire, and oozed patina (and oil, coolant, brake fluid, battery acid). The D&D exhaust, Keihin CR carburetors, Works shock, Air Tech bodywork, rear-sets and other goodies spoke of a true race track refugee, scars and all, begging for another chance to fulfill its purpose. Sure the brakes were seized and had to be freed with a hammer, sure the motor didn't run, the tires were dry-rotted, the shock and forks leaking, but there was potential there man, potential. For exactly what I can't say.

The owner told me he purchased the bike from a racer while living in Northern California, used it for 2 track days and then parked it. He dragged the thing with him all the way to the East Coast when he moved for work, where it sat in his garage for nearly ten years, rotting. And waiting.

"So are you interested?"

"What are you looking to get for it?"

"Make me an offer."

"$200."

"Make it $250."

"Ok, but you have to throw in the rear stand."

"Done."

The rat squealed with delight and a new chapter began.

Begin The Wildfire

I get myself into more trouble with Craigslist. No, not in the "Casual Encounters" section, but in the "Motorcycles For Sale". I find gems, these diamonds in the rough so to speak and they end up costing me my retirement. Like a woman who has to go out and adopt a stray animal every time she sees a weepy ASPCA commercial, I bring home these abused and neglected two-wheeled dregs soon to be euthanized by the crusher. Saving these marvels of Japanese engineering from an ironic fate being melted down and shipped to China is some twisted calling of mine I guess.

At the time I believed it was just aimless internet wandering, window shopping on the world wide web, but I suspect there may have been ulterior motives buried deep in my subconscious, a need to sate the hunger that could not be done through acceptable channels. I cast my net wider across the state, searching from town to town electronically for velocipedic offerings.

Trumpets may have brayed and a light could have shown down from the heavens when I clicked on the ad: Kawasaki EX500 Track Bike $500, but probably not. It was, however, like an attractive woman smiling at you from across the street. Your heart leaps, breathing quickens and soon you are travelling back to that corner every day hoping for another glimpse, unable to forget her hair, eyes, grin. I must have gone back to that ad three or four times a day for the next week, until I finally put it out of my mind. Or so I thought.

I have never slept well, being a restless sort, but the next fortnight was nearly unbearable as a contentious power struggle trampled on in the parts of my brain I am still locked out of. I was not certain what was going on, only that something certainly was going on. The fifteenth day I woke as if from a fever, feeling refreshed and relaxed. Whatever it was had passed. I went to work.

During my lunch break I perused the two-wheeled wares on Craigslist, passing time. A small voice spoke from the bowels of my subconscious. Thinking back, it was an almost rodent-like voice, and as I listened, my guts hurt a little. "Go check on that EX500 in Roanoke.". I obeyed, not realizing it was a command at the time. It felt like simple whim, a "what the hell" kind of half-ass decision, like the tossing of a lit cigarette out the car window that begins the wildfire.

A haphazard, nonchalant Faust, I thought just before clicking, 'If the ad is still up, I will email him'. How was I to comprehend the re-selling of my soul? I had no way to know the contract was truly binding. The ad remained, and I kept my vow, sent the email and flipped destiny the bird once again.

Somewhere in the distance, the rat was laughing.

These are the rose colored glasses of motorcycle induced poverty

Carpetbagger

Life continued this way for a few years. I rode street bikes during the summer and snowmobiles during the winter. I briefly thought about marriage and children but then came to my senses. I purchased a 1982 Yamaha RD350 LC that turned into a huge money pit. If I couldn't race, I would at least create the sound of a racing two-stroke for all to hear. I was lulled into a false sense of security and complacency. Racing still gnawed at my gut like a rat, but a quick kick would make it scurry back into the corner for a bit, staring at me with skulking, violent eyes.

The writing was on the wall, but this myopic vision failed to heed. My internet motorcycle parts business started to fail. After ten years of relative success being my own boss the days were now numbered. I worked twice as hard for half as much money, what once had been a joy degraded into a tooth and nail skirmish just to rub two nickels together. A sentence for execution had been handed down, there would be no last minute stay, no reprieve.

While northern New York State possesses incredible natural beauty, it is a shit-hole of poverty, drug use and ignorance, a cesspool of wasting forgotten humanity. There are very few opportunities, crushing taxes and an oppressive good old boy network that god help you if you are not a part of. I did it my way for as long as I could, but the piper was playing the tune, and dues needed paying. I left New York for the second, and last time.

I had a basic idea of what to expect when I accepted an employment offer in the urban South, the second capital of the Confederacy: heat, humidity, traffic, population density, but coupled with that was a fighting chance and maybe hope.

While the south did not fail to deliver on my preconceived notions, I soon became painstakingly aware of how much slower things moved here. There was less urgency, now was not as important as some time, things got done when they got done. For someone whose main focus was doing a thing as quickly as possible, the slow pace was almost interminable. I found myself longing to explode out of the 9 to 5 drudgery and push right to the edge just to feel something other than boredom.

That goddamn rat kept gnawing.

The money pit RD that failed to fill the void.

Constants

I threw myself into my new non-racing life while the race bike sat in the corner of a barn gathering dust and sneering at me. One day when I got sick of its taunts, I stripped it down and sold all the bits on that crappy auction website which shall remain nameless. I got back about 1/5 of what I invested in it, but twice what I would have gotten selling it as a whole functioning motorcycle. Sad really, after 8 years of development into a race winning machine, to end up as a collection of parts sent to the highest bidders.

I renewed my focus on my first love: skating. It might seem odd that a 35 year old man would even consider riding a skateboard, but I had actually stuck with it for more than twenty years. I could live with the ways skating would hurt me. I have always gotten a similar thrill and the same sense of oneness from skating that I get from motorcycling. Some things do not change with age, girth, pain, responsibility. There are constants.

Photos courtesy of Isaac Wasuck
http://www.wasuckphoto.com