(Part V tomorrow!)
Friday, January 5, 2018
Thursday, January 4, 2018
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
Tuesday, January 2, 2018
Thursday, December 28, 2017
A Season of Reflection
The 2017 race season did not go as planned. Racing is like that sometimes. After finishing 2nd overall in 2016, the assumption was that there was nowhere to go but up. Competition is a cruel mistress and her designs often differ greatly from ours.
The first race, back in March, set a tone for the rest of the year, taken out first lap by a rider in another class. Then there was the disqualification for accidentally bumping a rider coming through timing and scoring. That sucked. Followed by three stupid mechanicals, one occurring with a huge race lead just minutes from the checkered flag. Stupid. Accused and accosted by sensitive souls who did not like my riding "style", one certainly could not help feeling besieged and beset on all sides.
Twenty years ago I would have lost my fucking mind in frustration, and while I may have considered it in 2017, I did not. Hare scrambles are long races, anywhere between two and three hours. The easiest thing to do is burn yourself out in the first twenty minutes. A seven month race season is the same way. Both become about energy conservation, going like a bat out of hell, but always saving a little meatloaf for later. Chip it away and build it up. And then it still doesn't go your way.
At final tally, I ended up third overall, good enough to see me ranked as a "B" rider by the AMA. Things will change for 2018, becoming once again a goldfish in the mighty big sea. What am I going to do about it? Chip it away. Build it up. Watch. And learn.
The first race, back in March, set a tone for the rest of the year, taken out first lap by a rider in another class. Then there was the disqualification for accidentally bumping a rider coming through timing and scoring. That sucked. Followed by three stupid mechanicals, one occurring with a huge race lead just minutes from the checkered flag. Stupid. Accused and accosted by sensitive souls who did not like my riding "style", one certainly could not help feeling besieged and beset on all sides.
Twenty years ago I would have lost my fucking mind in frustration, and while I may have considered it in 2017, I did not. Hare scrambles are long races, anywhere between two and three hours. The easiest thing to do is burn yourself out in the first twenty minutes. A seven month race season is the same way. Both become about energy conservation, going like a bat out of hell, but always saving a little meatloaf for later. Chip it away and build it up. And then it still doesn't go your way.
At final tally, I ended up third overall, good enough to see me ranked as a "B" rider by the AMA. Things will change for 2018, becoming once again a goldfish in the mighty big sea. What am I going to do about it? Chip it away. Build it up. Watch. And learn.
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
RIP Racer
"Grieve not that I die young.
Is it not well to pass away ere life has lost its brightness?"
-Lady Flora Hastings
Kurt Kesler shined bright and died young at the age of 51, leaving behind a wife and two small children. For his family now, nothing will ever be the same. My heart goes out to them.
I knew Kurt, as so many of us did, through roadracing with WERA. You learn a lot about a man, when you race against him. Especially as it comes down to the final few races of a season with a national championship on the line. The two of us were neck and neck for the V5 title in 2015, less than a handful of points between. He wanted it badly. So did I. We went at it hammer and tongs, neither giving an inch. I didn't worry about racing closely with him, even though given the slightest opportunity Kurt would shut the door on you, but he always did it gently. I trusted him, quite often, with my life. He never let me down. A rider, a competitor, a sportsman and a gentleman to the core, off and on the track.
Kurt did not win the V5 championship that year. It came down to the final race at the Grand National Finals in Leeds, Alabama, where I beat him by one position and just three points. But in the end, Kurt won in ways I never did. He took more enjoyment and gave more back to racing than most of us ever could. He garnered a respect and admiration, a love, from his fellow competitors and officials identical to that of Moto GP Champion Nicky Hayden (also lost too soon this year). If Nicky was the ambassador on a national stage for our sport of motorcycle racing, then Kurt Kesler was the Southeast regional statesman for it. The mere mention of his name in any paddock in the South and racers will tell you tales of Kurt's humor, the willingness to take new racers under his wing, lend parts, tools, his own motorcycles and aid without a second thought. Beginning racing is a daunting, overwhelming experience, if not for the man's patience and guidance, many a greenhorn might have quit in frustration. He was a mentor, a rival, a role model. And a friend.
The greatness of a man dies not with him, but is scattered like tiny seeds among all those he touched. We have but to till the earth and tend the soil so the greatness should flourish and not die. It becomes the duty of the living, of those who would remember. Let us remember.
-Kris Larrivee
(Kurt's Hat Road Atlanta Raceway photo above by Craig "Huey" Stewart)
Saturday, November 18, 2017
Grief's Alchemy: Ashes To Ashes, Dust To Dust, Iron To Gold
Part IV The Hard Way
October 1, 2017
Rural Retreat, VA
Round 12 Virginia Championship Hare Scrambles Series "Iron Mountain GP"
Languishing on the start line, trying not to think about the last few days or the exhaustion creeping its way in to my bones and soul. Crashed hard at speed in practice yesterday. Was a good wake up call that I need to pay the fuck attention to what I'm doing. Today promises lots of dust, mud, rocks, sphincter clenching ascents and descents fit for a billy goat.
And pain.
I just wish it wasn't starting so early. A 1000 foot long drag race through a poorly mowed field until the first turn. Engine screaming in 4th gear, brain screaming, begging for common sense. Ignore it. Jockeying and jostling into fifth place. Trying to get my head into go mode. A steep downhill with an undercut banking at the end puts me on my ass right quick and I wonder if it's going to be one of those races. Don't think like that, get up and ride the fucking thing, stop whining.
There's a lot of self-wrought pressure weighing down the day. Some dream of a fitting tribute to Phil, sending him off with a race win, holding that trophy high overhead, wondering if somewhere in the cosmos a little sliver of his soul might see it. The good always leave us before we are ready, before we've gleaned all their wisdom. It is then up to us to figure the rest out. What a bitch. Shrug off doubt and lassitude and third rate philosophy. There is work to be done.
Wheedle my way to third place. Pete Jenkins in second, Jason Miller somewhere out there in front, enjoying the life of the blessed. I push Pete, but don't do anything stupid. He catches a downhill rut funny and gets tossed like a bad salad. Slow just enough to ask if he's OK. Getting the nod, I carry on, trying to bring the golden calf to slaughter. Gonna be five laps of this dusty, rocky, hilly hell. Still got three to go. With Pete behind, gunning all the time, amped on adrenaline after falling down.
Course deteriorates, ruts lengthen and deepen, air full of fine silt waiting to clog noses and lungs while dropping visibility to zero at the worst moment. Carrying on at speed like this requires a very good memory to know what's coming next, as well as stupidity. Body beaten into submission acquiesces, loosening up, performing more like a 40 something than an 80 something. There is much more ahead. Guys are stuck all over various dry hills, turning their motorcycles into smoking trench-diggers, falling down. It becomes a game of thread the needle through steaming bikes and tumbling bodies. Every instant decision gains or loses. The good ones pick up tenths of a second, the bad ones cost, big time. Pun intended.
And somewhere in the dust, I come out ahead. Scoring screen confirms it after lap four, flashing "P1" at me. Sinking feeling follows elation. Never saw Jason. I can only assume the self-proclaimed "Holeshot King" is close behind, preparing a pounce, to take his rightful place and remind me of mine in this world.
Nothing. Racing by the timing booth, green fields on one side, cement trout runs on the other, full of fish wondering what the hubbub was. All the while waiting. Up the hills, down the hills, sideways across them with rocks skittering, setting off a dozen smoke bombs to obscure. Through ashen clouds that make Dune look like an island vacation. Still waiting. A negative corner anticipates the moment an orange and white KTM XC300 blurrily blows by my faded red heap to dash hopes.
But another part, an idea, begins to grow. Conquest is at hand. The will shall hold every nut and bolt on, keep the spark plug sparking, crank turning, engine running, the body will perform well the tasks necessary to ride this outdated pile. And the mind, a clattery contraption that so often fails, is going to oversee all, and make it happen. Fuck Jason, fuck Pete, fuck this course and fuck all the blasted bad luck I've had this season. This one is mine. And fuck the universe too, if it thinks it's going to take it from me.
There will be no failures this time, mechanical, mental or otherwise. I'm going to win this race, not because I deserve it, not because it is a nice end to the story. I'm going to win this race because I can. And it's high time I proved it.
So I do. Fifth and final lap ends with a cautious river crossing before the finish line taped off like a crime scene. I am alone, running the gauntlet to a computer screen that will tell me if I've done it. "P1" flashes as I roll through, not breathing. Dust is surely to blame for my watering eyes as realization sets in. There are no cheers, no pats on the back, just two officials who record the race number, sending me on my way. The moment is austere and reflective.
No celebration emanates, rather slumping forward on the handlebars a little bit. A great weight comes crashing down and is lifted off at the same time. I might have briefly looked up in an unstained sky for something which may or may not have been there. A moment of great loneliness descends and forces me to face it, stare it down.
Today is the best possible outcome: a victory. The thing I work for like an idiot with obsessive devotion. But I'd give it back, all the victories of twenty years racing back, for just a few more hours listening to my friend tell his stories.
October 1, 2017
Rural Retreat, VA
Round 12 Virginia Championship Hare Scrambles Series "Iron Mountain GP"
Languishing on the start line, trying not to think about the last few days or the exhaustion creeping its way in to my bones and soul. Crashed hard at speed in practice yesterday. Was a good wake up call that I need to pay the fuck attention to what I'm doing. Today promises lots of dust, mud, rocks, sphincter clenching ascents and descents fit for a billy goat.
And pain.
I just wish it wasn't starting so early. A 1000 foot long drag race through a poorly mowed field until the first turn. Engine screaming in 4th gear, brain screaming, begging for common sense. Ignore it. Jockeying and jostling into fifth place. Trying to get my head into go mode. A steep downhill with an undercut banking at the end puts me on my ass right quick and I wonder if it's going to be one of those races. Don't think like that, get up and ride the fucking thing, stop whining.
There's a lot of self-wrought pressure weighing down the day. Some dream of a fitting tribute to Phil, sending him off with a race win, holding that trophy high overhead, wondering if somewhere in the cosmos a little sliver of his soul might see it. The good always leave us before we are ready, before we've gleaned all their wisdom. It is then up to us to figure the rest out. What a bitch. Shrug off doubt and lassitude and third rate philosophy. There is work to be done.
Wheedle my way to third place. Pete Jenkins in second, Jason Miller somewhere out there in front, enjoying the life of the blessed. I push Pete, but don't do anything stupid. He catches a downhill rut funny and gets tossed like a bad salad. Slow just enough to ask if he's OK. Getting the nod, I carry on, trying to bring the golden calf to slaughter. Gonna be five laps of this dusty, rocky, hilly hell. Still got three to go. With Pete behind, gunning all the time, amped on adrenaline after falling down.
Course deteriorates, ruts lengthen and deepen, air full of fine silt waiting to clog noses and lungs while dropping visibility to zero at the worst moment. Carrying on at speed like this requires a very good memory to know what's coming next, as well as stupidity. Body beaten into submission acquiesces, loosening up, performing more like a 40 something than an 80 something. There is much more ahead. Guys are stuck all over various dry hills, turning their motorcycles into smoking trench-diggers, falling down. It becomes a game of thread the needle through steaming bikes and tumbling bodies. Every instant decision gains or loses. The good ones pick up tenths of a second, the bad ones cost, big time. Pun intended.
And somewhere in the dust, I come out ahead. Scoring screen confirms it after lap four, flashing "P1" at me. Sinking feeling follows elation. Never saw Jason. I can only assume the self-proclaimed "Holeshot King" is close behind, preparing a pounce, to take his rightful place and remind me of mine in this world.
Nothing. Racing by the timing booth, green fields on one side, cement trout runs on the other, full of fish wondering what the hubbub was. All the while waiting. Up the hills, down the hills, sideways across them with rocks skittering, setting off a dozen smoke bombs to obscure. Through ashen clouds that make Dune look like an island vacation. Still waiting. A negative corner anticipates the moment an orange and white KTM XC300 blurrily blows by my faded red heap to dash hopes.
But another part, an idea, begins to grow. Conquest is at hand. The will shall hold every nut and bolt on, keep the spark plug sparking, crank turning, engine running, the body will perform well the tasks necessary to ride this outdated pile. And the mind, a clattery contraption that so often fails, is going to oversee all, and make it happen. Fuck Jason, fuck Pete, fuck this course and fuck all the blasted bad luck I've had this season. This one is mine. And fuck the universe too, if it thinks it's going to take it from me.
There will be no failures this time, mechanical, mental or otherwise. I'm going to win this race, not because I deserve it, not because it is a nice end to the story. I'm going to win this race because I can. And it's high time I proved it.
So I do. Fifth and final lap ends with a cautious river crossing before the finish line taped off like a crime scene. I am alone, running the gauntlet to a computer screen that will tell me if I've done it. "P1" flashes as I roll through, not breathing. Dust is surely to blame for my watering eyes as realization sets in. There are no cheers, no pats on the back, just two officials who record the race number, sending me on my way. The moment is austere and reflective.
No celebration emanates, rather slumping forward on the handlebars a little bit. A great weight comes crashing down and is lifted off at the same time. I might have briefly looked up in an unstained sky for something which may or may not have been there. A moment of great loneliness descends and forces me to face it, stare it down.
Today is the best possible outcome: a victory. The thing I work for like an idiot with obsessive devotion. But I'd give it back, all the victories of twenty years racing back, for just a few more hours listening to my friend tell his stories.
 |
| Always graceful and mistake free...bloodthirsty spectators love a good crash. I aim to please. |
 |
| I know my fucking dignity is around here somewhere, I think it's in the gas tank... |
 |
| No throng of cheering fans, not even a friend to greet me as I cross the line for the last time. |
 |
| A dirty selfie, because when you are on your own, you gotta do everything yourself. |
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