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skaalpaul-blog · 5 years

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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.

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