The clock says 3 when I wish it said 4…

It’s amazing how missing one hour of possible sleep seems like such a missed opportunity when you’re just a few hours away from setting out for the next great adventure to test yourself and your soul…

Rest after all is a weapon, as they say. Yet right now I’m feeling like the guy who brought a knife to a gun fight while laying in bed and listening to the void of silence that city life creates this early.

If it weren’t for the trash trucks and transit authority, I’m not even sure I’d know I was awake. Yet I am…

Rolling out of the bed, the dog slowly raises his head and quizzically looks at me, as if to say, ‘I know you’re totally insane and all, but this is nuts’.

I’d like to think it’s the only time this thought will cross my mind this morning but instead it’s just the first salvo of the day. Because to some extent anyone who signs up for a trackday and finds intrigue in seeing the bleeding edge of their skill set probably qualifies as slightly mad.

On one hand it’s a completely beautiful thing; when you can match the right bike with the right environment and take a purely mechanical object and transform into a magical creature that fulfills a fantasy. Yet you’re also taking your prized possession directly into an utterly combustible atmosphere that has dozens of both real and imagined landmines that you’ve got to navigate successfully in order to survive.

Perhaps at its core it’s exactly because of this conflicting duality that tracks provide such an intense draw and offer such challenge and intrigue. Or maybe as the dog seems to be suggesting perhaps I’m just somewhat nuts. Hard to tell when the even the coffee pot shrieks in disbelief when you fire it up before it’s timer has gone off.

photo by vanhap

A dozen tie-down straps later, I’m losing layers of clothing at a surprisingly rapid rate. Sweating in chunks in the back of the pick up truck bed as the mildly stifling heat of an empty and pitch-black neighborhood works its way over me when the local paperboy shows up.

No more then fourteen, the kid makes eye contact as I tighten the tensile strength of a hand built synthetic strap derived spider web. Disbelief scrolls across his face while he feigns indifference. No doubt he’s wondering who in their right mind would choose to not only get up this early but also start hustling when they don’t have to? It seems counter intuitive to say the least and at this point I’m not entirely sure I disagree with him. The idea of sliding back under the covers seems like a noble thought indeed. But then to do so would remove the possibility of today’s scheduled enjoyment.

A second later the kid tosses yet another paper, which lands with a unexpectedly loud thud, while I light my first smoke of morning and give into today’s temptation — The idea that in just a few hours I’ll be surveying a pristine track on a causal California Monday with my own weapon of choice.

It’s time to finally let the 1098S out to play again.

I suppose we all buy the bikes we do with certain images in mind; perhaps it’s a great sport-touring journey up a virgin coastline or an ever gaining adventure across a desolate landscape. Maybe it’s the crystallized picture of dirt flying over the front fender as you whack the throttle in between the dunes or a collection of pixels that showcase a grinding puck going down in the perfect canyon corner. Or perhaps it’s something simpler; the image of your own two hands wrenching on your beloved beast in the garage. I suppose I’m no different. A year and half ago when I first picked up the 1098S, the image of the bike hitting the track floated through my mind with the same sort of near-illicit romance that a pre-teen has when they discover the opposite sex for the first time. Between the images hovering through my mind and merely looking at the aggressive stance of the bike when it sat still, it felt like a forgone conclusion that it was ultimately destined for the track.

And it was – rather immediately.

photo by vanhap

Just three days in fact after picking the bike up. I never got the chance to post much about that adventure because it ended up being a few days before we departed for the around-the-world Twist The Throttle Shoot – But on that particular day I was consumed by the fear of doing the unholy. Wrecking the bike on its near maiden voyage. Whether by laying it down or over-revving it or a countless other of the million possible disasters that the mind can create when feeling uneasy.

Of course, I was equally consumed by the elation that comes from slowly wringing out a brand new engine in a limitless arena. My rational for taking the ’10’ directly to the track was to ‘break it in’ the hard way. As any long time Ducatista will acknowledge there seems to be a running discourse on what’s the best way to bring a new Ducati engine into the world – you can either follow the manual’s no doubt liability-inspired requirements or hit it relatively hard, right away. In the past I’d tried it the ‘easy’ way on the 749 and both 999’s, but the 1098 felt different. Instantly.

It spoke with a quiet confidence that echoed something beyond canyons and city streets. It felt alive. In a way that only highly communicative machines can. I could feel it’s breath rolling down the back of my neck and hear it’s unique voice as it scratched at the door of my subconscious, ultimately pushing me towards where it wanted to go – perhaps it was an early glimmer at its definition of ‘rails’. Each revolution of the engine pulsating with a hell bent and predetermined destination called the track.

So last year, just days before leaving the country, the old man and I headed North to Buttonwillow Raceway to let the bike bask in its arrival…

And that’s exactly where we’re headed once again…

photo by vanhap

An hour later we’re blazing up Interstate-5 when MotorMilt looks at me and says, “You know this is somewhere between really exciting and utter insanity”.

If I’m honest with myself, he’s not far off from the truth – we’ve been slinging the hash at an extreme pace lately and I can’t remember the last time I’ve gotten a lengthy, decent nights sleep. Seems like ages since I’ve slept more then five hours.

Yet there’s something about the landscape that seems surprisingly peaceful as the sun begins to rise – as if in the void of society that exists the further you move up the I-5 corridor can somehow bring a certain sense of calm to life no matter how much coffee you’ve consumed. There’s a certain reality at play which can oddly morph into something that’s in-between what’s real and what isn’t, filling the empty spots of life with promise and excitement and potential joy while also refueling even your most depleted energy reserves with just a little bit of extra juice.

This strikes me as somewhat ironic since most of my friends long ago came to the conclusion that driving through the central valley is about as exciting as taking a pilgrimage from Paris to outskirts of Kazakhstan in search of a Starbucks with a decent Wifi connection.
Yet today interacting with the rest of the world is not my priority, avoiding it is…

Two days ago amidst the chaos of our latest all consuming sportbike project, the old man and I devised the highly suspect and rather devious plan to squirrel away sometime for ourselves. While bouncing between writing scripts and cutting footage, it seemed like a brilliant way to celebrate his new MV Agusta F4 and my 31st birthday.

Of course in the hindsight is twenty/twenty tradition, given our collective lack of sleep, the yet to be fully amortized cost of the two bikes and the literally millions of things running through our collective heads, it doesn’t take a MIT grad to figure out that living in the here and now isn’t exactly the easiest proposition for either of us at the moment.

So an hour later, when we start to unload the bikes and the gear, I find myself caught off-guard when a trackday participant slings by and says with a smile, “I guess the Italian Contingent has decided to show up!”

Looking at the guy and then at the bikes, it dawns on me that today is going to be truly unique — This is the first time that Milt and I have arrived at a track with different motorcycle marques in tow. How cool is that?

Up until now we’ve always somehow managed to end up on derivatives of the exact same machines. I suppose one could argue that means we’re copy-caters but personally I tend to think that we simply have similar tastes when it comes to things with engines.

But not today. Which means that this will be different then any other shared at a trackday experience we’ve ever had because we’ll both be tasting different styles of the same regional cuisine.

With the bikes basking the Central Valley sunshine, we head over to the riders meeting, where Mark from The Track Club starts laying down the law…

At first the meeting starts off with the usual legalities and disclaimers that exist in any track day situation. The Do’s and Don’t of the day if you will. Around the room eyes roll and coffee cups lighten as the desire to hit the track gradually grows stronger.

But then comes an unexpected surprise.

Because of the lack of attendees today, no doubt due to this being a post holiday weekend track day, Mark decides to ditch the fairly typical three riding group formula and instead merge the three groups into two. So now instead of 1 twenty-minute session per hour, we’ve got 1 thirty-minute session per hour.

When he announces this the energy level of the room noticeably picks up.

Eyes widen. Smiles grow larger. People seem genuinely more engaged. As if they’ve just gotten an early Christmas present for free. Of course as Mark points out, this is somewhat illusionary because the day’s expected high-temps will force most folks to cut their time spent on the track down significantly.

Shortly thereafter, before the second group’s first session, I start zipping up the leathers while thinking I feel remarkably calm at the moment. No butterflies. No turmoil. No real fears. Rather, dare I say it, this seems perfectly ‘normal’ to me and somewhat ‘routine’ – even though it’s been awhile since we’ve hit the track.

Hearing the imminent sound of a flying engine coming, I peer out towards the straightaway and watch as the wickedly fast guys in the A group flash past the pits in a cacophony of high pitched roaring and I shake my head. It seems like it was only a moment ago when heading out the track and the moments leading up to the first lap of the day was the catalyst for a cauldron of nervous anticipation and energy. Yet today there isn’t any… What the hell is going on here?

Slinging my leg over the bike and twisting the key, I hit the starter button and listen as the 10’s engine kicks over for the first time and wonder, if you lose your fear of the track does that mean you’ve lost the ability to enjoy it as well?

It only takes a few laps to realize that fun and fear are not an equally weighted equation when you’re blazing around heated tarmac. Between the bark of the bike and the velocity that’s in play, I quickly remember what it is that I love about being let loose in a controlled environment - There’s an instant attraction to the boundaries of life. A sense that here, in this moment, life exists in a singled out and nearly perfect form. The rules of the real world can only watch from the other side of the hot pit wall.

Yet almost immediately it’s also clear that the lack of sleep I’ve been working on lately and the serious lack of anything remotely resembling regular riding has left its mark.

I feel rusty.

Very, very rusty.

Each shift, each slide in the saddle, each attempt to goose the throttle seems exaggerated and slow. I feel awkward at best and am pretty sure I’m holding everyone insight up.

However unlike so many other times when I’ve been off the bike for a while and feel directly at odds with the machine, today it’s fairly apparent that the bike is running flawlessly. I’m the one whose screwing things up. It’s all on me. Inside my head. And while I no longer seem intimidated by the track, it’s obvious that the thoughts running around under the face shield are preventing me from fully letting go on it.

Perhaps this is an all to typical response to moto-inactivity or maybe it’s not. I don’t know. Perhaps there are some guys, or gals, who can simply ignore months of minimal riding activity and in a snap of the fingers attack the track with controlled chaos.
But not me. Not right now. Not today.

A half hour later I’m sitting in the pits, sucking down the first of a dozen water bottles, like their Advil at a heavy metal concert, when another Ducati rider on a yellow 1098 strolls past and asks, “How’s the bike doing?”

“Great,” I answer without even thinking about it before adding; “I’m the one that’s the problem”.

And I mean it.

A few moments later Milt rolls up – god knows where he’s been – somehow even though we left the pits at relatively the same time we got severally separated out on the course.

I watch as he pops the F4 up on the stand and eagerly removes his helmet. Like a lab rat under observation, I watch for clues and in less then ten seconds immediately know that everything that’s transpired over the past several weeks; every choice, each decision, every moment, was spot on. The old man’s facial expression says it all and as he reaches for a water bottle, I feel fairly certain that it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve seen him smile this way. It’s not everyday you get a chance to see someone else’s dream transform into reality before your very own eyes.

Taking a sip and then a breath, he looks at me and says with a smile, “This thing is amazing! It’s got incredible torque”. I shake my head in agreement, knowing that this is one of those times when it’s his turn to do the talking, before he continues, “The book says not to rev it about 6 thousand but that’s really hard! It get’s there really fast! I mean I trying not to rev it too high, I think maybe I hit 8 a few times, but it just really goes”.

After another sip of water, I light another smoke and smile. Not sure how much torque he’s actually feeling at 6 grand on the tach, but it doesn’t really matter. What does is that he’s enjoying it.

Several sessions later, I’m back out on the track and feeling the confidence level gradually coming back. The bike starts bending a bit more freely and the day begins to carry the flavor of improvement. Yet I can’t shake the sense that wherever my limits on a motorcycle exist, today I have absolutely no chance at getting even remotely close to them.

This sentiment reminds of my previous Track Club experience at Buttonwillow, when I wrote the follow graph;

Because what these feelings speak to is something that doesn’t exist on the street, the opportunity to truly push not only the limits of your own motorcycle but also the very paradigm by which you view your own riding. Tracks offer the chance to see where your own personal edge lies and for the first time in a long time, the rev-limiter on my soul is about to be unbolted and tossed away.

On that day this thought was dead-on, but as I enter the “Cotton Corners” section of the track, a particularly enjoyable right-left-right up the hill and over into the “Grapevine” portion of the course, I find myself thinking a certain amount of modification is in order – Because the beauty of a track isn’t on the days when everything clicks, but rather the days when it doesn’t.

Hunkering down before the wildly right hand sweeping Riverside corner, where you can run the throttle damn near wide open in just about any gear, I short shift into forth or fifth and roll it on while making a pact with myself - From this point forward, for the rest of the day, I’m going to find a decent pace and just settle down and enjoy.

Dial down the competition factor, let the folks who want to pass get by, practice in the places I can, protect my line in the areas that seem like they’re vulnerable to foolish maneuvers, and simply take pleasure in the opportunity to bring the 1098S out for a long-winded stroll on it’s favorite kind of country road.

Because even amidst the speed and furry of the fastest guys in the group there’s a window of reality where it’s not all the lap times or the puck dragging, but rather the ability to exist in harmony with a machine that has the power to transport you and your soul while segregating your mind from everything else in life.

A lap or two later my pace for the day leads a new kind of faith.

I will end up never putting my knee down all day or topping 120 on the straights – and instead spend the day turning problem child corners into new best friends, as the rust of my regular life flakes off and the 10 and I begin to come together in a co-inhabited kind of moto-confidence.

By the middle of the afternoon, Milt decides to slide out his leathers for the day and says, “You ought to take the F4 out”.

It’s probably fifteenth time he’s suggested it today and while it’s a highly temping and a rather gracious offer, I keep finding myself regretfully declining – not because I don’t want to rush into Turn One onboard it, but rather because I’m having too much fun on the 1098 to even entertain switching dance partners right now.

A few added thoughts on the day:

First off, Mark and The Track Club folks are quickly turning into my preferred track day organization. My hats off to them for running a first class deal the whole way through.

Another aspect of The Track Club that it worth mention — The level of moto camaraderie that was on display was amazing. On an overarching level the group of riders who attended were friendly, safe and helpful. But more to the point, they were not there to prep for a WERA race (ok, some where…) but rather they were there because they love motorcycles and sportbikes and everything that’s good with the world.

Thanks to Greg from the MV Agusta Forum for snapping the pict of Milt and I — for all the photos we’ve got of the bikes and each other, we somehow rarely remember to take pictures with both of us in them together… Bizarre, right?