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Track Day for Old Blue

Old Blue is my 1987 Honda CBR600 F1, the Hurricane.  This bike and me go way back.  I found her on Craigslist.  I still clearly remember the day I bought her for $1200 and rode home. I had not ridden a motorcycle for twenty years, yet, the economic need for affordable transportation pushed me to this guy’s house on the outskirts of Atlanta, at dusk, fifteen miles from where I lived.   Old Blue was as forgiving as she was gracious.  My clutch and throttle control was raw but she never stalled out.  I remember that to keep myself calm and focused I repeated the mantra “We are one, rider and bike.” and then I kept a steady, slow pace home through the darkness, breathing a sigh of relief when we got there. She got me safely back that first night and then went on to carry me over 40,000 miles on every back road through fifteen states between Atlanta, Georgia and New York, New York.  After every trip I would replace, upgrade or improve certain parts.  Adding a pair of high beam spot lights here, new petcock there, a completely upgraded digital speedometer and engine temperature gauge. Always something better, piece by piece after each trip and before the next. I would estimate that only twenty percent of that motorcycle I bought in March 2012 still remains, replaced with little pieces of myself.

 The natural challenge for this motorcycle and myself was to take her out on a track day.  Begin that familiar nervous feeling of trying anything new.  Sport bikes within the last ten years will all go above one hundred and fifty miles an hour in capable hands.  My 1987 Honda CBR’s top factory speed was one hundred and thirty-five. Add on top of that my skill level and I’d be lucky to exceed one hundred and ten. It’s not the speed that is dangerous on a track it is the speed differential.   I looked long and hard for a group that catered to vintage bikes and left ego far from the track.  I found it in the Spooktrackular classic track day sponsored by the Cretins Motorcycle Club.  Just the tongue in cheek name was inviting and aligned with my dad joke sense of humor.

 There are minimum safety requirements for the rider and the motorcycle before you are permitted to ride the track.  Leather riding gear, either two piece or one piece, Snell rated helmet, track boots and gloves are all required.  The motorcycle also has to pass a basic safety inspection.  Things like all lenses must be taped over, no oil or fluid leaks of any kind, mirrors and license plates must be removed, anything that could vibrate off.  As a beginner, though, it is understood you are not really going to be riding the razor’s edge.  There’s no need to wire bolts or secure oil filters.  This all made common sense to me.  On the track you would be going three or four times faster than anything permitted on roads, by removing cross traffic or just cars of any kind your focused attention will be one hundred percent on riding technique, cornering and getting the most out of your bike.  Having bits and pieces of other bikes litter the track or lay oil slicks anywhere will go unnoticed that when combined with speed would have immediate disastrous effects. Beginners are given due leeway and grouping them together put the highest risk into one manageable mass.  While the intermediate and expert riders could be free to explore their upper envelope limits without the risk of a beginning level motorcycle dropping a muffler in the middle of turn three.

Three anxieties played prominent the day before the track ride.  I did not want to break any safety rules, none of which I had practical understanding of. I mean I could read the rules, of course, but none of them were grounded in experience.  I did not want to ruin or wreck my motorcycle.  To me she was one of kind.  I did not want to be “That Guy” the one that is just a little late, the one holding up the show which is actually comprised of parts of the other two anxieties with a little aspect of its own thrown in for good measure.  All of this anxiety and nervousness were unfounded of course.  I read somewhere that when you are nervous it is just because you care.  If that is true then I must have cared about this more than anything.  

It is five am on the morning of track day. I woke up in my tent in the bed of my truck.  Everything is silent. Even the coyotes I heard howling four hours ago have quieted down.  I open the tent to look around and the paddock is pitch dark, illuminated only by the night stars.  This was the beginning of my day.  The nervous energy insisted that I should get into my track suit. I had no idea how long that process would take. The suit has to be close fitting to do any good but made from leather, it was very stiff and awkward to get into, each put on movement needed a great deal of effort. I started in on the task, while trying to keep quiet for the others still sleeping nearby in their tents.  After twenty minutes of wrestling, it was done and I crawled out of the tent and got my boots on.  I was a full three hours early. There’s no way I’m going to be “that guy” now. The next couple hours were just me passing time.  I was so green at this activity that I didn’t even know how to pretend to look busy.  I sat on the tail gate of my truck, had a light breakfast and drank coffee and watch the track pit area wake up.  Here were professional racers just arriving with their track bikes on trailers. Pulling into open spots, setting up shade tents and getting their motorcycles on pit stands. These bikes were so specialized they did not even have kickstands. Every nonessential part removed to reduce weight.  Nearby was a group of Harley Dyna riders braced against the cool morning with their hoodies up and coffees in their hands.  Rider’s families emerged from trailers and children from age five to preteens passed the time by riding scooters through the paddock while their fathers put all their focus on their motorcycles. Across the way was a local coffee shop setting up for a brisk morning’s business of being the only place available for a pastry and a coffee, at least until the track cafe opened at eight.  Scattered throughout were every conceivable type of sport motorcycle that has been built in the past thirty years. By now the pit area was flush with the early morning sun and in full track day activity.  The loud speakers installed high on telephone poles came alive with music. It took a moment but I recognized the sound track from “On Any Sunday”  That familiar tingling sensation on the back of my neck put the exclamation point on a perfect moment. The morning sun, the kids on scooters, the motorcycles, smell of fuel and race leathers all swirling together. 

I had to break the spell and get Old Blue over to the bike inspection.  I had no idea what to expect. Would thirty year old motorcycle even pass? I walked her over to where folks had lined up and the race inspectors gave each bike a review.  The inspector took one look at my bike and said, “Hurricane! Wow! I used to race these back in the day!”  He was primarily looking for stray fluid leaks and pointed out my right fork seal.  “You’ll have to cover that up, if that blows you’ll put fork fluid all over the track. Just take a rag and a couple zip ties and secure it here and here.” He said pointing to the spot above and below the fork seal. Then he turned his attention to my throttle. “This needs to snap back faster. You may need to replace or modify the throttle but for now just squirt some WD-40 in their. If you go down you don’t want your bike going on without you or worse spinning your tire into your leg.  Get those two things corrected and then bring it back here for another look.”  I pushed the bike back to my truck and hurriedly set up the rag cover on the fork and worked in some spray lubricant into the throttle until it snapped back with reasonable responsiveness. Then started up and rode back to the inspector.  Checking her over, “Good! Good, see that throttle response is fine now and the fork cover looks excellent. You’re good to go.” and he put a sticker with the number three on the front fairing indicating I was in group three, the beginner’s group.  

By that time the mandatory rider’s meeting was about to start.  It was being held in the track cafe. Early as usual, I found a seat and watched the other riders filter in.  What I thought was going to be a very formal laundry list of safety procedures, instead was a pump up the crowd session and the safety talk boiled down to three things.  Enter the track and stay on the left until the first turn.  This was drilled into the crowd and was all about mitigating the speed differential.  As bikes would be coming down a long straight away hitting their maximum speeds they would be naturally aligned to the right of the track to set up for the first turn. Having someone enter from the pit at a much lower speed and swing into their path would be a disaster for all.  Next point was when exiting the track keep at speed but move to the left and raise your hand and do so from as early as turn seven.  This would tell the riders behind you what you intend to do.  Finally, there was review of the flags, red meaning accident and everyone off the track, checkered is the end of the group’s session and black meaning you’re leaking fluid stop, immediately at first safe point. There were a few more but those were the ones I focused on.  Meeting over, the track instructors asked all beginners to stay behind.  We were about ten riders in total and the instructors explained how they would introduce all of us to the track.  We’d begin with a slow review ride of the track with one instructor in the lead and another at the rear to familiarize us with the turn lines and just get through that first nervous adrenaline phase.  “I could go on and on about a lot of different information but you’re not going to remember any of it, it’s better to just get out there, remember the safety points and have fun.”

I went back to the truck to wait for my group’s turn or “heat”.  First up was group 1, the professionals, then would come group 2 modern, the intermediates on modern motorcycles, group 2 vintage and finally my group 3, beginners.  They each lined up at the track entrance and waited for the all clear then filed onto the track.  Racing down the straightaway at peak RPM, each motorcycle’s sound was unique.  Some engines were high and sounded like a jet engine flying by.  Others were low pitched growlers whose bass tones hit you in gut.  Everyone had that distinctive Doppler effect, as the bike approached the pit area the pitch grew and grew and until it hit peak pitch then suddenly the sound dropped away as the motorcycle disappeared around turn one. Each group was give 3 warning calls by the announcer, “Ten minute call out to group three, ten minutes!” That was for me and being preoccupied with nervous energy I put on my helmet and gloves, got on Old Blue and started up. “Five minute call out to group three, five minutes!” I sat there with the engine running, giving the old carburetor system plenty of warm up time.  “Two minutes for group three, two minutes!” I watched for the instructor and seeing him roll over to the track entrance I followed suit putting myself in third position behind one other beginner.  The other beginners lined up behind me. The instructors asked that we go in single file so we could see the corner lines more easily.  The ten or so engines filled the air with noise and vibration, The group on the track, 2 vintage got the checkered flag ushering them off the track.  Flag men around the track signaled back the all clear and ahead of me the lead instructor started forward. I eased out the clutch, rolled on the throttle and glided in measured safe distance cadence behind the rider in front of me.  A short entrance ease way and we were on the track. The grin under my helmet was ear to ear.  We cruised through turn one and then into the long sweeper of turn 2 and up the hill to turns three, four and five.  The turn banks were at a much more pronounce angle than could be seen from track side and even though the first lap was  introductory and promised to be slow, slow was probably in the sixty to seventy-five mile and hour range just to stay in line through the banked curve.  I was careful to fall back from the rider I was following. It felt like I was naturally riding aggressive.

The instructor exited off the track and we were given free reign as a group. I increased speed through the corners holding my own and just as the thought crossed my head, “this isn’t so bad, I seem to have got this pretty good for a first timer…” five other bikes passed me in rapid fire.  I was the slowest person on the track.  That ego slam was quickly followed by guilt. Was I getting in the way and being a speed bump?  I refocused attention and tried to decipher the cornering lines doing my best to look deep into each curve and avoid hyper attention to what was right in front of me. Powering through the corners to give my Honda the traction she needs. On the straightaway I would put in some juice but still very conservative, unsure how much braking it would take to safely get through turn one and the quick succession of turns after that.  

And then it was over. Our beginner heat was done.  The three checkered flags located at different spots on the track went out and I could see the one nearest me easily. Each of us raised our left hand while maintaining speed and exited to pit row. Soon afterward the beginners all met at the class room.  My point of freak out was quickly addressed. I ask the instructor about my concern of being in other’s way.  He quickly squashed it.  “It is their responsibility to pass you, don’t worry about it. The track is wide and the passing areas are all over the place. You just focus on learning the lines, looking into the corner, being smooth and consistent, the speed with come later.” 

There are no relative markers of speed on the track. On normal roads there are markers everywhere, other cars, speed limit signs, your own speedometer both on the vehicle and in your head.  All giving you information, how fast you’re going relative to traffic, the safe speed to take the corner coming up how much risk you have to be snagged by a cop. All of that goes away. I read before coming on the track and followed advise to mask my speedometer so I wouldn’t have that distraction. Without mirrors I had no idea who was behind me or if I was impeding their path, another distraction removed. All I had to worry about was to try and get the turn lines right and ride consistent and smooth.  If I don’t do anything unexpected or jerk through a corner, the riders behind me will be able to safely set a pass line around me. The focus narrows to just the sound of my engine, look as far into the corner as possible and decide which line to take.  For the newbie with no experience that blank slate brings its own confusion. How fast should I take this corner? I have no idea.  Where’s the traction envelope? Again, I got nothin’. What line should I focus on? Good story, you got Cliff Notes on that?   Without input on any of these things it is my inherent reaction to respond with less speed.  I am just not one of those guys who jumps in with both feet into the deep end of the pool. I have to start easy and work my way up to the edge of the envelope.

The second heat felt really good.  I could now see the cones on the side of the track for what they were, reference points. One was at the apex of each turn and based on that I made my beginner’s attempts at learning how to corner for speed. Other series of cones were at the entrance to each turn to give a reference point of when to brake and or change gears.  From them I was able to start to explore the path toward higher acceleration.  I knew I could continue to accelerate right up to those cones and begin braking as they came near.  I knew my Honda could handle much more than I was asking of her just based on the performance as viewed against those two reference points.  The Hurricane even surprised me when I finally got a good approach and exit out of turn nine and into the straight away, I hit the throttle at about seven thousand rpm with yet a lot of straightaway in front of me so I pushed her even further. I had never heard Old Blue sound like that, she was ten thousand rpm and the Hurricane was waking up and asking for more. From experience I know that seven thousand rpms on the Honda is about ninety miles an hour. Eight thousand pushes me over a hundred miles an hour so ten thousand rpms is probably in the one hundred and ten mile an hour range.  Although at the time there was only surprise at the new sounds coming from the engine and the firm stable feel of the suspension as we screamed across the straight away toward turn 1. This is what we were there for.  To push the limits and feel good about it.  This time though the heat was cut short by a red flag as someone’s muffler had fallen off.  All the riders raised left hands and exited.  I was not disappointed, I was exalting in the feeling of having performed solidly despite being just the second time on the track.  

My heat was separated by a forty-five minute interval as the other groups rode.  The advanced with their blistering sounds of one hundred eighty miles per hour or more and knee drag cornering were followed by intermediates on modern bikes that from my unaccustomed eyes looked just as intimidating as the advanced.  Then the intermediates on vintage bikes with their cornucopia of engine sounds that were highlighted by the announcer.  The announcer really enjoyed their day, bringing all of us calm with fun comments and his genuine awe and appreciation for both the variation of motorcycles on the track and the talent of the riders.  Where necessary chastising those that crossed the safety lines presented at the early morning rider’s meeting.  No comment wasted as each statement was a subconscious learning of what to do, what not to do, what to look for and spark that seed of appreciation. 

The third heat was coming up and I was feeling much more comfortable. I didn’t have the need to get myself in position on the first call.  I waited until five minutes prior to start up Old Blue.  The starter cranked but the engine didn’t fire.  Three attempts each progressively longer told me the old bike was feeling a bit winded by all the activity and the battery was lagging on being recharged.  On the fourth attempt the engine finally turned.  That alone made my third heat heavily conservative.  Old Blue wasn’t giving up, but I didn’t want to push her. We went in nice and slow on heat 3, just for the experience of learning together. The track instructor road in front of me signaling to follow as he showed me the lines but several times he had to wait for me to catch up. My envelope chasing enthusiasm was gone for the day, replaced by concern for the mechanical soundness of the old Hurricane. Still I learned a tremendous amount just by following the coach for the sixty seconds that we rode like that.  The third heat went the full fifteen minutes and the Honda kept it together and finished. My confidence was gone. I decided to pack it in rather than push the old girl.  

I have a winch in the back of my truck that makes loading easy and safe.  After securing a couple lashings, a bit of nostalgia swept over me and I patted the tank as one might pat a horse. “We did good today, it was a good day.”  We’d ridden several thousand miles together, even taking on seven hundred miles in one day and there was certainly a connection in that endurance.  Today was a different kind of connection.  One that we’ll have to do again before I can really describe it for you.

[skaalpaul-blog]

Formula One Racing in Mexico City

I had never been to Mexico City.  It surprised me how far south it really was yet, I guess because the altitude and the season it wasn’t really that hot and humid.  We landed in the late afternoon and I looked out the window to see the low-level houses and apartments right beside the airport all clustered together in ramshackle close formation.  It set off every memory of every movie I had seen about the darker side of Mexico but I pushed that stereotype out of the way. Hollywood has a way of presenting only the extremes.

Before take-off in Los Angeles I watched the other passengers embark, stow their gear and settle in. I noticed baggage in odd ball shaped hard cases. Must be musical instruments and the cases are meant to protect their fragile contents.  There were too many to be a coincidence.  After my seat mate had stowed her instrument and sat down, I asked if she was a part of an orchestra or something?  Her eyes showed the panic of someone who doesn’t speak the same language as I do.  I raised my voice and started shouting the question, because English Only Louder is on the same level as Esperanto as I understand it, at least in terms of usefulness.  I’m joking, of course I didn’t do that. Instead I made a hand gesture like I was playing a violin and said “orchestra” which I think is more or less the same word used in several languages, maybe pronounced differently. Then I pointed to her and several other passengers that had odd ball shaped bags. She smiled and nodded vigorously using her only English phrase, “Yes, we are Russian orchestra.” in a thick accent.  That same broken English meant that she got booted from our exit row when she couldn’t answer the flight attendant’s “duty of an exit row passenger” spiel.  I had the entire row to myself with the extra leg room.  

We exited the plane and got in the very controlled environment to guide us through the international entry procedures. I had filled out the customs and immigration forms on the flight.    There just isn’t much anyone can do to make that experience of waiting in line with a couple hundred other people for immigration and customs clearance any less pedantic.  I passed the time by guessing the different nationalities in line with me.  Of course, the Russians were there, but also French, German, and Americans too.  Funny but I was confronted by stereotypes again.  The French were dressed very stylish, even the elderly group standing in front of me all had matching bags.  The Germans seemed preoccupied by making sure they were in the proper line with the proper process and the American close to me seemed bent on exaggerating all the places he had traveled to anyone that would listen.  The French nodded in agreement to the American but turned back to their group to continue a completely separate conversation.

After a bit of a shuffle trying to find the quickest immigration officer I was on my way through Customs.  I never check bags. This would be a three-day trip after all.  My backpack was all I needed and I wasn’t even asked for my customs form.  A quick question at the information desk to find out where I could catch an Uber and I was on my way. Although slowed slightly by a bit of panic in trying to get my phone to perform local roaming.  After a bit of finagling where I felt very much like a Jason Bourne’s less talented younger brother, I managed to get a data signal and make a connection with a driver.  He was in front of me in an instant.

Language barriers always strain conversation, but interestingly my Spanish was coming back quickly. I was able to conduct an entire basic conversation.  I was careful to mention my friend lived locally and called him while in the car but none of that seemed to matter.  Ubers are very safe in Mexico City.  We spent over an hour together maneuvering through traffic to get to my hotel in Santa Fe. There’s no huge eight or ten lane highway system like there is in Los Angeles. So, the trip to the other side of the city was like a tour of every neighborhood. I began to feel more and more at ease. This wasn’t the drug lord city of Hollywood movies.  This was an up and coming city more populous than New York that was constantly improving itself and providing a living for millions.  

I was able to call my friend, Jose.  We worked together in Atlanta seven years ago for about three months, but we had stayed in touch as we both had similar struggles to work through and a lot of shared interests.  The last time I had seen him was three years ago in San Francisco where he was interviewing for an open role at a pharma agency I was working for.  Funny how one can spend considerable time away from friends yet pick up right where you left off the moment you see them again. I looked forward to that.  First, I checked into my room, dropped off my bag and went down to the lobby.  Jose had suggested a steak restaurant in the center of the city.  I was back in another Uber for another hour picking our way from Santa Fe to La Condesa through continued Friday night traffic.

I ran across the street just as rain was starting. Up the stairs and there was Jose.  Good friends are hard to find but once you find them easy to keep. We chatted away the evening while enjoying probably the best steak I’ve had in years.  The food and brews were tremendous.  My cuisine experimentation took me off into a dessert I could have done without though. The combo of olive oil and chocolate mousse was too fringe for this Americanized pallet but not a complete deal breaker. I still finished it. 

We moved on to a bar just down the way from the restaurant and enjoyed more good conversation while watching the dodgers in a marathon win in the World Series.  We were joined by two lovely ladies, the one that spoke English naturally combined with me.  By midnight even the mild flirtations couldn’t keep me awake and I left Jose there while I took another Uber back to the hotel.

Jose had a few things to do the next day so we didn’t join up.  Instead I made the way, by Uber again, to the Formula One race track on my own. It didn’t feel as lonely then as when I just typed it here.  It was a good day.  I had tickets for the Blue section.  I went straight to my seat to watch the Porsche class first race. By the time the cars made it to my straightaway the position jockeying was pretty much set.  They made their turn out of my eyesight and passed my grandstand at full speed, just braking about two hundred yards to my left.  The engines screamed in rpms and my thrill was augmented by the two large screens showing the rest of the track and especially the areas of passing.  I’m not a fanatic fan.  I just enjoy the machinery.  This trip opened my eyes to the strategy, especially when the whole race field is driving more or less the same car with minimum modifications, everything relies on the driver’s capable hands.  I could pick out where the passing areas were, and how the drivers would set themselves up laps in advance.  There actually was not any spontaneous passing.  When passes happened it was completely the result of careful and precise set up.

That race over, I walked the grounds in search of food and souvenirs.  Formula One in Mexico City is a family affair.  There were dozens of picnic tables all set up for groups of friends, relatives, husbands, wives and children all to enjoy the event.  I found my t-shirt commemoration and got tickets for some drink and popcorn then stood in line to collect the goods.  Today was just the Formula One qualifying rounds. I didn’t expect huge crowds. At least when I went to Long Beach Grand Prix that’s the way it was, the benches were empty, the California fans preferring to see the main event race rather than the whole process.

This is Mexico though.  I was surprised that on returning to my seat in the blue section, the entire track was packed. Every seat taken.  These fans wanted to see the whole process.  They were there to cheer their teams and favorite drivers.  Here was a whole group of people in Ferrari red, another group with yellow Pirelli emblazoned on jackets and shirts.  Others with Red Bull logos.  They cheered on their drivers as they passed and debated the qualifying approaches and times as they were posted to the screens in front of us.  At the end of it Riccardo edged out the field to capture the pole position by zero point two six seconds and as cliche as it sounds, the crowd really did go wild.  It was a nail biter finish to an awesome day.  

After the qualifying rounds the surrounding streets were flooded with people. Each grabbing taxis or Ubers.  I ended up walking about a mile north to find an open area where I could get an Uber Pool driver to pick me up.  We spent an hour and a half together in traffic heading for La Condesa again. Pretty much in silence though the lady and an older gentleman behind me would occasionally have conversation or share funny videos.  When we got to the city center, I got out and stopped for dinner, then went across the way for a whisky and waited for the traffic to die down.  Jose wanted to meet up again that evening but I blew the budget the night before and wanted to extend my money to make Sunday at least comfortable.  It was back in another Uber and the hotel for me.  

The Westin was well above my pay grade but made affordable by the package deal I had landed six months earlier. A beautiful view, it overlooked the tree covered hills to the west of city which made for a very pleasant morning sunrise view. Mexico City is far enough south that the tropical absence of twilight is apparent.  In the morning, one minute it was dark, lit by little sparkling city lights and then next minute full broad daylight.  

I met Jose at nine in the morning after getting confused by the Hilton and the cheaper Hilton in the same area.  Santa Fe is corporate park area, while pleasant, it was hardly local. Jose and I shared an Uber together to the Formula One stand and made our plans for the day. I had checked out of the hotel, my flight home being at seven pm that day. All I had was my backpack anyway, it was not burdensome.  Jose had an extra ticket in the orange zone.  We determined to try and scalp the blue zone ticket I had. Another hour and forty-five minutes later and we were at the Formula One track looking for scalpers to sell my ticket to.  After a cursory check we didn’t see anyone that looked likely. I went up to an elderly man hawking knock off Formula One caps and gave him the ticket.  I hope he decided to take the day off and enjoy himself.  More likely he found a willing buyer and was able to earn himself a little extra money that day.  Pay it forward, old man.

Jose’s seats were practically right in front of the track line fences. We had a clear view of the pit exit as the straight away fed into turn one.  The day started again with the Porsche race final.  The same driver that won on Saturday won here too but it was fun to see them from a different point on the track. This entrance to turn one was one of the passing points and made for some exciting moments.  

Then came the run up to the main event.  Jose and I went out to the grounds to sit in the grass and talk about future plans. The intention to go watch other races together, Daytona, Indianapolis, Isle of Man.  Then Jose turn the discussion to his dream of riding in the Baja 1000.  That perked up my ears.  I’m all down for that.  Both of us being project managers we dived willingly into preparation details. Suspension, extra parts, travel, chase vehicles all of which were mentioned.  We watched the drivers parade on the screen behind the benches.  True to form the fans were all at their benches cheering on their favorite teams and drivers with as much enthusiasm as a football game.  

We went back to our seats as the event was made official by the singing of the Mexico national anthem while a helicopter with a gigantic Mexico flag flew by accompanied by 6 airplanes trailing smoke the colors, red, white and green, flew low overhead. Fifteen minutes later the smoke filtered into the crowds signaled by increased coughing and bouts of sneezing.  The Formula One cars did their warm up lap turn moving quickly from side to side on the track to warm up the tires and took their places in the starting grid. We watched the large screen as the race started.  Everyone was on their feet as the tightly grouped cars screamed past.  The difference between the Porsches’ top speeds of one hundred fifty miles per hour and the Formula One cars at over two hundred was clearly evident as the race laps ticked off.  Whereas the Porsches zoomed by, the Formula One cars gave fans whiplash.

Early on Max Verstappen took the lead and held it.  He was disappointed by his qualifying rounds and determined to improve his performance.  A five second lead became, eight then ten then twelve. Jose turned to me and said,”Verstappen is just killing it today! twelve second lead is incredible!” to which I answered “Nothing’s Verstappen him now!”.  By the time we were three quarters of the way through the laps it was clear Verstappen was going to win.  Further back in the race, Lewis Hamilton was in a battle for third with Daniel Riccardo.  We saw them go by and saw a puff of white smoke from Hamilton’s left rear tire.  His brake seized up and he went off track at turn one, giving Riccardo the opportunity he needed to get by. Hamilton was the only possible threat to Verstappen’s race and with him out, the finish order was established.

Jose and I knew the crowds would make traffic very difficult and I had a plane to catch. We walked together to where we could get an Uber reassuring each other we’d keep in contact to prepare for the Baja 1000.  Jose’s car arrived first and off he went.  Mine took longer due to the closed roads around the track but I made it to the airport with plenty of time to enjoy a nice dinner and a couple of drinks before getting on my plane and returning to Los Angeles.

[skaalpaul-blog]

1000 Miles in under 24 Hours on a Motorcycle

One thousand miles in less than twenty-four hours, on a motorcycle.  It is a simple challenge.  Do it at your own timing, your own route, your own pace. I prepared for over a month and now I was between Ludlow and Barstow in pitch darkness being hypnotized by far away red tail lights lulling me to sleep.  This was the most dangerous moment of the entire day.  The mints I put in my mouth at the last fuel stop had just dissolved. Gotta stay awake.  I lifted my helmet visor to get fresh air on my face, the air was warmed by the desert’s 110 degrees that day and felt like being wrapped up in a warm down comforter. Blinked hard. “Knock it off, gotta stay awake, don’t stack it running off the road and die now”  Blue sign emerged from the darkness, REST STOP 20 miles. Cool, I can do it, I’m going to make it.  Motorcycle safety course, Atlanta, 2012, accidents follow a chain of events, break one of the links that you control, and you stand a better chance. Speed, fatigue or traffic.  There was no traffic, but I had no more stamina to give, so my speed was modest to compensate for the lack of reaction time.  The miles dragged on.  Then the exit, I took my Indian Scout into the rest area, laid on a picnic table and grabbed fifteen minutes shut eye.

The first time I had ever heard about the Iron Butt Saddlesore 1000 challenge was in Atlanta 2013. I saw another motorcyclist with a license plate cover declaring his membership in the association. One thousand miles at one go felt insurmountable for my 1987 Honda CBR600.  The most I ever got was seven hundred miles from South Carolina to New Jersey one summer, and man, I felt that for days after.  I filed the challenge in the back of my mind and when I had a ride that could handle it, I’d make my attempt. 2018, now was the time, I’d do the challenge on my 2016 Indian Scout, 1133cc would be perfect to cut down the highway.

The route would tell me the rest of the necessary preparations.  I needed something that would minimize traffic congestion.  Nothing would kill my attempt faster than trying to lane split my way through bumper to bumper cars and trucks.  Even then I would only be able to lane split in California. Easiest route would be a loop, do it in twenty-four hours on a Saturday and then Sunday to sleep and back to work on Monday. To make one thousand miles in one day, the average speed would need be between 60-65 mph, that’s including stops for fuel and rest.  So I was looking for an interstate out from Orange County, into rural low traffic that could loop back home by the evening.  Not that many options given those parameters so I went with east on Interstate 15 past Barstow, to 163, 93, etc. then Interstate 40 to Winslow Arizona and back via Interstate 40 west direct to Barstow I15 and Orange County. 

Then there was the approach to timing.  Should I ride for five hundred miles, get a hotel, sleep for four to five hours and then ride back?  Or ride straight through but then how to get in and out of LA basin and the traffic timings.  I poured over traffic statistics online for my area.  Saturday, when does peak traffic hit on the route I had chosen,  when does traffic die off in the evening when I’d be riding back.  How can I fit this into my diurnal rhythm for the best use of energy.  All factors dumped into the calculating mind box and out spat: Sat five am start, back by nine pm, missing traffic both east bound and west bound.

Next consideration was that I’d need a witness.  The Iron Butt Challenge is offered by the Iron Butt Association.  This is not just something to do on my own for bragging rights. I’d need to document the effort fully and credibly to peer review. A witness would need to be at the start and finish of the event.  I’d need to log my odometer and location at each and every stop and I’d need to collect verifiable receipts as a paper trail detailing exactly where I was and when.  I put a call out to friends and one answered. I’d need you at five am on Saturday and late night that same day.  No problem. This friend was fully in to action sports and the clock was just a reference.  

Week before go time.  The timing fit with my witness and my availability.  My Indian just had new tires and I was down to final preparations.  At a week out the weather forecast was more or less reliable.  I went through the process of logging the weather predictions for half a dozen locations on the route, by time of day.  I knew Barstow would be hottest, hitting a high of 110-114 degrees but I’d be riding through at seven am and past eight pm.  The rest of the route was at a more or less comfortable 92-98 degrees.  Here’s a twist, Flagstaff Arizona was 62 degrees around the times I’d be passing east and west. wow that’s nice, unexpected but nice…wait a minute, the reason it was so cool was from thunderstorms.  I’d have to make sure all my gear was waterproof.  Should I wear the rain coat insert? It would mean I’d be overheated in the one hundred plus degree spots or I could stop and put that on then stop and take it off…each direction but that would be a time kill on the clock.  I’d bring it but wear it only if absolutely necessary or if I broke down in that area. 

Last thing but most important, water.  I’d bring a soft sided cooler that I sometimes used on road trips and lash that to the back rest on the Scout.  It was lightly insulated and would allow for a bag of ice and a couple liters of water, plus the camel back’s liter gave me four and a half liters of water with ice to put in the camel back when I hit the hot zones.  

The night before go time and I knoll all my gear. The tool roll, the bag of food with protein, dried  fruit, crackers, gum and mints. The para-cord bracelet, full face helmet with mirror tint face shield, the Olympia four season riding jacket and riding pants with armored knees.  Under the riding gear I would wear a compression base level and a pair of gym shorts.  Finally, the inflatable air cushion.  I had a gel seat cushion but I knew that would wear thin after four hours.  So this trip I’d also bring this air cushion, shove it down my motorcycle pants and only look like I shat my pants when I stood up during fuel stops.  Small price to pay for avoiding excruciating pain in my lower back. 

I wrote out route numbers on PostIt notes to put in the clear sleeve pocket on my riding jacket.  405S, 55N, 91E etc.  The most challenging section would be east bound after Barstow.  In order to make the entire route over a thousand miles and apex at Winslow I’d be riding a slightly different route eastbound versus westbound, not just interstate 40 there and back again.  It would be challenging but in a good way, variety being the spice of a good trip.  Once past Barstow I’d need to find Nipton Road and exit there, then on to 93S to 163E, a short ride on 95S and merge to I40E. Based on a cursory Google Maps view, that whole section appeared to be a four lane highway, two in each direction with a median.  Perfect.

Four fifteen am.  There’s no dragging ass now. I’m up, shower, dress, put the ice and water in the bag and I’m on the way to start point, a Chevron in Costa Mesa where I’d meet my witness. It’s dark, little traffic and my mind is hyper focused, did I remember to bring my wallet? yes I checked it five times, did I lock the door, yes, is there enough air in the seat bag? Did I give the cat enough food for the day.  And all that evaporates as the Chevron comes to view.  Naomi is already there. I pull up to a fuel pump so I can get a start receipt.  We fill out the log, grab a photo together, I take a picture of the odometer and the receipt and I’m off.  Back on the highway and at cruising speed in the darkness of the morning. 

For me the first part of any long road trip is a blur.  It’s like one of those films where the camera is in the car and the film speed is set extra fast and you see the highway snake along in curves with changing scenery blur by left and right.  The Scout has an effective range on highway of one hundred and ten miles.  Then the fuel light comes on and you have thirty more miles after that.  I brought two half liter fuel bottles in my bag, not to use but to give me mental security to push the limit as far as I could otherwise my fear of running out of fuel would put me in stops every seventy-five to ninety miles and I needed to limit stops and maximize road time today.  This first section, traffic got a bit thick at places but did not slow.  I climbed up I15 canyon and onto the high desert plateau at Victorville and watched the sun rise as I rode for Barstow and my first fuel stop at a Chevron at the first exit.  About two years prior I was driving my 1990 Ford F250 en route for Las Vegas. I stopped at Victorville for fuel and about midway between Victorville and Barstow the alternator stopped working, snapping the belt.  It made a tremendous noise but the truck seemed to keep going so I gritted my teeth and kept moving, trying to make it to a place I could get help easily.  I made it the twenty miles or so, took the first exit and swung into this same Chevron, I remembered how the brakes were super sluggish, probably the power interface was affected by the snapped belt. At the time, I literally stood up on the brake pedal to get the six tons of truck to a stop off to the side parking lot of the fuel station.  I looked at that same spot while filling up the five hundred pound Indian Scout.  Here I put my earphones in and started listening to music to keep my focus.  Nothing more dull than long straight desert highways on a motorcycle.

Back on the highway and I co-rode a little with two other early morning motorcyclists. A BMW GS1200R and a Harley.  We played tag until they exited at Baker.  Once I got off I15 I didn’t know where the next fuel would be so I stopped short of my one hundred and ten mile optimum at Mountain Pass. I took a moment to refill my camel back and have a protein bar breakfast.  Chatted with a old rider on a early 80’s Harley that he had a for sale sign on.  We talked about Indians and the novelty of it, he was curious about it but uniqueness in corporate products just doesn’t exist anymore like it did when Harley and Indian started. I didn’t have the heart to tell him Indian was owned by Polaris which made Victory motorcycles and snow mobiles. Or maybe he already knew that and we both basked in the illusion of a conversation about the qualities of Harleys and Indians that could have happened a hundred years ago. 

A couple miles outside of Mountain Pass was Nipton Road exit.  I followed a Crown Victoria sedan on to a two lane road with wash out sand residue in places.  It was long and straight and very straight. In the distance were some foot hills.  Even at eight in the morning it was heating up.  I didn’t take any chances with the wash out sand, it would be stupid to wipe out now.  I blinked and rode through Nipton, for the glimpse I saw, it looked quaint.  I’d have stopped if I wasn’t on the clock. Desert mining towns have a likable nostalgia all their own.  Nipton Road’s highway number is 164.  Past Nipton there were more severe road washouts and there was repair work.  It was down to one lane with a traffic lead. Luckily the sedan and I timed our arrival at the stop point with the arrival of the east bound traffic lead and we got underway at twenty miles per hour.  Parts of the road were halfway gone, washed away from flash floods during the season.  The construction was a slow down but I’d made good time and besides, the rest of the route should be clear.  

I rode into Searchlight where the connection between 164 and 95 was just a corner like one might find in the suburbs.  Stopped to take a photo of the crossroads and got behind a Honda sedan.  As I rode through town, behind the car, I thought I should probably get in front of them, 95 construction was coming up and well, the road was wide open ahead of them but prudence from getting a small town traffic ticket and faith that the driver in front of me would speed up outside of town held me back.  I was wrong on both points.  There were no police to be seen and when we got into the construction lane, no room to pass, the elderly driver in front of me slowed down to 53mph and would not budge for forty miles.  I was like water in a kettle.  Energy building, constrained, increasing pressure, moving forward then holding back trying hard not to get too close. Look in the mirror behind us, we had four miles of traffic backed up.  Still the driver would not budge.  

Nearly missed the exit to 163 east through all the orange construction cones and lack of signs if it wasn’t for the PostIt note on my sleeve reminding me of the highway number and spotting a tiny sign with that number on the other side of the road.  The elderly driver was also making a left onto 163 and I wanted so badly to go straight and leave them on their way.  But I followed left, the construction dissipated and two lanes opened up and flash, I was five miles ahead of them before they had accelerated up to their bodacious cruising speed. 

Couple of fun highway sweeper curves and I was down into the valley at Laughlin and across the Colorado River for the first time.  It was eleven am and hot. Pushed up into the hills on highway 68 and made my interchange to 93S.  That airbag was starting to give way.  My back starting to ache. I shifted around through the red lights down 93 finding a fuel stop, took the chance to add some air, a lot of air.  By the time I got on I40 I realize it was way too much air. I was bouncing around like a toddler in an air castle.  Every single bump sent me skyward and corners were a dicey proposition.  I still had massive miles to go so nothing for it but to pull over. Found an off highway/on again spot and let out some air, what a relief.  Got back going and shifted around, yep, absolutely perfect.  Now that the pain in my ass was gone, from there to Flagstaff it was as meditative as road trips should be. Mind clear of any specific thoughts, just road, sky, land and music. 

The scenery changed as I neared Flagstaff, more pine trees, interesting hills left and right.  I was slowed by two big sections of construction but it didn’t feel like I was losing time, although I definitely was.  On the east side of Flagstaff, the rain hit.  I could see the dry and wet points on the road ahead as I came down the hill.  The coolness was welcomed and I knew the next stop was Winslow and I’d be switching from eastbound to westbound and home.  Now it was fuel calculation time.  I was already at eighty miles on that tank, could I make it to Winslow which I figured would put me at one hundred and sixteen miles on the tank to refuel or should I be conservative.  What the hell, I’d go for it, I still had my two bottles of auxiliary fuel.  As I rode to the outskirts of Winslow ‘Take it Easy’ by the Eagles came on my random music feed.  “Standing on the corner in Winslow Arizona…”  I was there within the hour.  

My route looped Winslow so when I got to “The Corner” I was already heading west.  I had planned an hour in Winslow but I was running two hours late.  Plus I had the road energy.  The kind where you just want to keep moving.  I had downed five hundred miles and I had five hundred to go.  The air bag was working great, the cool water from the insulated bag with ice refreshing during the hot spots and I was feeling damn good.  Got a couple tourist photos at the Eagles statue and mural, nice old lady helped with that.  In the restaurant for lunch and I was itching to get on the road.  Everything was clicking and I felt more comfortably relaxed in motion than I did sitting at a table.  

Always the road back feels faster than the road away.  I’m sure it has something to do with seeing the familiar. I was counting on that effect to keep my stamina and focus up and the fatigue at bay.  The rain was much worse heading west.  Clouds had moved toward the road while i had lunch. I could see one very large storm off to the left (south west) with lightning flashes across the valley. Wish I had a helmet camera so i could share the impressiveness of nature.  I rode into the rain curtain and visibility dropped to a few hundred feet. Slowed down to a gingerly pace, that is the kind of rain that puts the oil on top and hydroplanes you right off the road.  Kept my distance from other vehicles, not trusting anyone’s skills but my own. Up the hill and into the next valley and that was the rain for the day.  West of Flagstaff and I gotta pee. I’m thinking through whether or not I could make it to the next fuel stop. I still have sixty miles left on the tank. That’s another hour. Nope, I gotta stop.  It is difficult to see if an exit is a quick off/on when there are hills and trees so I take a blue sign at faith and take the exit.  There was no fuel station around for miles, the directions led me back east for Flagstaff ten miles away. Not wanting to do that and kicking myself for the delay I loop toward an onramp and a quiet area.  I stopped in front of a highway repair equipment yard that was closed for the day and went walking off road in search for a lucky tree.  It is not a road trip unless you pee on a tree. Back on the Scout and continue on.

From there on it was a checklist of towns. Ash Fork, Seligman, Kingman. counting the miles to each. Throughout the day I was conscious of the need to keep drinking water. Staying hydrated is the best way to manage fatigue and keep mental acuity.  The increasing temperatures would heat up the water hose and I’d drink warm water for the most part, which is fine, easier to absorb. The knock effect of that was the bite nozzle was getting lose in the warmed hose.  As I was going 85mph, I start taking another sip and the bite nozzle comes out. Water starts spraying everywhere lifted from the wind draft and splashing it on my face shield, the motorcycle tank and windshield.  I take my hand with the hose, and get a better bite on the nozzle so I don’t lose it, then raise the open ended hose up high enough so the water stops running out, pinch it and shove it in my mouth, all while continuing at over 80mph. Then get my hand back to clutch so I can slow down and pull over and get it all sorted out.  Reminded me of the time I was riding in South Carolina on I95 on the Honda CBR, first time riding that bike on a long trip. I looked down, my eye caught by motion and I see the clutch handle screw rimming the edge. I took my hand off the handle bar to grab it just as it popped into the air…and straight into my hand.  I pulled over, secured it and continued on my way. 

Then into new unseen territory between Yucca and Needles.  It’s a barren, straight featureless section that is hot and just gets hotter.  Only thing going for it was the increase in average speed and the few number of cars.  Occasionally I’d be passed by someone going 110mph, 120mph or more but for the most part it was just me.  I found that the Scout with a windshield really helps with road fatigue but slows the average speed.  It will do bursts at 100mph or a little more but stay up there and it starts to wobble. Crossing the Colorado River here on I40 was just as hot as up north on 163. So hot that it was starting to hit my fatigue hard.  Stopped in Needles for an extended break, fill up ice in the camel back and prepare for the home stretch.  There’s no illusions here. I was hitting the seven hundred mile wall where you have to dig deep in mental strength just to stay awake.  Sun was setting so it would start cooling which was good because it was 109 degrees.  I was running an hour late but that still got me back to start point by 10pm and to fulfill the challenge I had ample time. It was a thousand miles in twenty-four hours after all.  As long as I didn’t stupid it, and go off road I’d make it.  Conditions change, approach change. I’d allow myself to rest at every stop available if necessary, I’d focus only on the twenty or thirty miles right in front of me. The next town, the next off/on fuel stop, the next rest stop.  Fenner next, then Ludlow. After Ludlow I was in trouble. There was nothing to focus on, no one around me only darkness, warm air to the face, and a hypnotic red light of some vehicle in front of me.  I knew I just needed to get to Barstow and more traffic, more activity to wake up my brain and stay reasonably alert.  I slowed way down as compensation for reaction time.  Coming toward Daggett was like emerging from the desert. Well actually it was exactly that, emerging from the desert darkness. 

Barstow to Victorville was all activity.  Still not trusting my reaction skills I was in the slow lane with people passing all over.  My goal now was to stay out of their way and figure out where I could fuel one last time before finish point.  Made it down the canyon hill into the LA valley and like a ball rolling, my momentum picked up.  My mental focus came back with the traffic and activity, and the knowledge that I was almost done.  The ride back to Costa Mesa went smooth enough, every familiar landmark giving me more energy.  There was 91W, there is 55S, 405N and Costa Mesa exit.  

Slowly I got off the Scout. Stretched a little. Filled the tank, sluggishly went inside to get my receipt.  It was done. Sixteen hours and nine minutes. The excitement would sink in later.  Naomi showed up with plenty of excitement for both of us. Sign the log, go home and sleep.