May 20, 2009

When Fate Says “NO”
This is the story of the race trip I took, which convinced me that there are times when, superstitious or no, one should heed the omens.
In 1977 the Orlando Kawasaki dealer wanted to sponsor me in the new AMA 1000cc Superbike class, as the AMA had offered to waive the usual novice year requirement if I would get a professional license. I was racing a Kawasaki 500 that I had modified over 2 years of development. I had won every amateur class 3 roadrace in the Southeast district that year, and they wanted to get a good field in the new pro class. I was divided about that opportunity. I saw myself primarily as a roadracer, and wanted to try myself against the best in the country. But I categorically opposed (and still do) professional sport, and I didn't trust the Orlando dealer as far as I could throw him. I put off the offer for a while, and planned to go to Louden NH for the Laconia Bike Week Classic. A win there would make me class 3 modified national champion, and I had no doubt I could win it. I had thrashed the current champion by over a half a minute at both Charlotte Motor Speedway and Road Atlanta. There were a few issues though.
. My old car was worn out, with 2 burnt valves and a pretty iffy clutch. My bike trailer needed tires and wheel bearings. And I was running a crankshaft in the race bike that I'd built up from used parts from the cycle salvage. My front tire on the Kawasaki was good for one more race meeting if it was dry, but there was not enough tread left to deal with a wet track, and it often rains in New Hampshire. In the end, Bob Lewis loaned me his car, Bill Higgenbotham loaned me a trailer, and I hoped for the best on the crankshaft and weather. A recipe for disaster that delivered in most ways. I took my girlfriend and her 3 year old daughter along for the vacation. We drove for 22 hours straight, and arrived in NH in the rain. I went out for first practice and was sliding all over the track, to the extent that Kevin Cameron, perhaps top tuner in the country at that time, told me to go get a front tire before I killed myself. I spent the last of the cash on a tire, mounted it, and went out for last practice. The credit card would get us home. My times were looking pretty competitive then until the gearbox started jumping out of second gear. I'd bent a shift fork while sliding around in the morning practice. I phoned around and found a shop in Boston that had the gearbox parts, and would wait for me to get there before they locked up. I planted girlfriend and daughter in a motel, and drove 105 miles to the shop and back in the rain. I put a tarp over the bike and my head, held a flashlight in my teeth, and pulled the motor. I took it in and laid it out on a scrap of plywood on the motel floor, and changed the gear set, then bolted it loosely back into the frame and went to sleep at about 2:00 AM. At six I got up and finished hooking up the motor, and arrived at the track at 9:00 for final practice. The sun was out. The girlfriend put her little girl on the gas tank of the old Yamaha we'd brought along for fun, and went riding around the pits and parking area. When she got back, she lost her balance and dropped the bike in the gravel. I remember sitting on the ground holding the little girl, brushing off skinned knees, trying to comfort her, wondering if I was entirely insane to be doing this. All of this. I know now that I was.
I went out for final, open practice. Anyone from any class who needed a last run. I lined up in the last row. They dropped the flag, and I passed half the field in turn one. Coming out of the last turn of the first lap I passed the open class bike who'd been leading the pack, and pulled away. I was ecstatic. Next lap, exiting the last turn, I heard the clatter start and got the clutch in just as the crank packed up.
I coasted all the way to the pit lane, then stopped and put my head down on the gas tank. A big, tall gangly kid came sprinting down the lane screaming about how I was flying, and what happened???? I told him the crankshaft had locked up. He said he knew a guy with a spare crank. I told him to go get it. In 30 minutes I had the engine spread out on the tailgate of the station wagon when the kid came back to say the guy had crashed and went home. No crank. I put the motor together finger tight, dropped it back in the frame, and loaded up to go home. A couple hours south of NH it started to rain torrentially. Up on the Blue Ridge I looked in the mirror and saw the bikes leaning perilously. I assumed the straps were slipping. I got pulled over, and got out to see that the trailer had been running on the wheel hub on the left side. One of Bill's mag wheels had gone off the side of the mountain. There was a spare. I put it on in the rain and we went down into Annandale VA to spend the night with my parents. The next day Dad helped me find a matching trailer wheel and tire to replace the missing one. I was getting the message from the gods; Racing was a sport, not a job. It was all too tenuous, and I was 30 years old. I started thinking about going back to university. A REAL job was going to require that I refresh my education. I wasn't PRIMARILY a racer any more. That was my sport, but I wanted something more important than that for a career. For the next 5 months I couldn't afford to fix the bike. Just pay off bills, and scrap the old car for an old but serviceable Ford van. It was clear to me then that when the car, the trailer, and the bike are all worn out, something is saying "Don't Go!!"