justalonewolf007
Member
- Apr 30, 2007
- 657
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Valentine’s Weekend Adventure
The following includes the last two races of Motokazie’s indoor season.
Friday night found me in a pretty low state of mind. I am not a depressive sort of person, but winter has finally gotten the best of me. I knew it was bad when I felt no motivation to even start packing my gear. Some classmates stopped by my usual haunt shortly before the lounge closed, and expressed some concern for my attitude, or lack completely thereof.
“Tolle, are you sure you’re going to be okay? It’s not right when you don’t smile.”
I politely declined their offers of company, and promised them that I’d be back to my grinning normal self on Monday.
13:30 and counting.
I bumped around my apartment for a while, not really finding anything to occupy myself but the trusty little Samick guitar sitting by my futon. I played quietly until 2am, when I finally felt like I could get some sleep.
11:30 and counting.
Seven sharp had my alarm piercing my eardrums with excruciating persistence, and my fingers fumbled quite retardedly for the snooze button. I literally felt like someone was sitting on my chest, and had to struggle to even sit up. Stumbling into the shower, I found that there was only lukewarm water this morning. Even so, it did seem to wash a little weight off my shoulders. After throwing a few foodstuffs into a small cooler and exchanging my winter gear box for the trunk that holds my race gear, I turned the key, and went to go pick up my ride.
7:30 and counting.
I hefted my still new companion off the stand, and threw a leg over for a moment, taking a lap or two in my mind. After a short look-over, the bike was loaded, ramps stowed, and I was off driving again. Northern Minnesota was graced by the brightest bluebird skies that anyone could have asked for. It was a beautiful drive. Pulling off on exit 50, I spotted the first sign directing me to the Red Horse Ranch Arena.
A small smile cracked my face.
4:30 and counting.
I registered, then unloaded and found an empty “pit” to claim as mine for the weekend. I made my way quickly to the track to fill my lungs with the sweet smell of dust and exhaust. The track was different, and I counted three sets of whoops/small rhythm jumps to my very slight dismay. After getting a small fix, I ventured the outdoors again to fetch my gear box, and cooler.
I started throwing stuff on my shoulders and back; I had so much crap to carry that it made walking pretty difficult. Between the shifting weight and the slippery parking lot, I felt and looked like a sauced up packhorse. Someone was kind enough to hold the door, but I didn’t fit through.
“Oops.”
Try number two went just as poorly, and I ended up having to drop everything with a very sheepish grin to the doorholder.
“Sorry…uhmmmmm…yea… I’ma just chuck this all through quick. Thanks!”
Doorholder person laughed at my predicament, and even stuck around to watch as I reloaded myself and started tottering off towards the pits. Having not thought ahead, I was promptly accosted by the pit guard ladies.
“Where’s your wrist band!?!?! Need to see it!!”
“It’s on my wrist…you’ll have to come roll up my sleeve if you want to see it. Left side.”
They weren’t really all that amused by my predicament. However, I wasn’t about to set my back-breaking pile of stuff down. We had a two second standoff before doorholder person stepped in (still laughing) and provided sleeve assistance. With another word of thanks, we parted ways, and I finally dropped all my gear in the proper place, and customized my pit area until I was satisfied.
I bumped around the track entrance and exits for quite a while, just watching the dirt and riders fly. I made note of as many ruts and lines as I could see, gaining a great sense of comfort from the simple observations I was making.
0:30 and counting.
A taller rider was standing next to me, and I finally glanced up (quite a ways up) to identify the person.
“Oh…Hi!”
It was one of the riders/racer dad from my circuit up north. After the greetings and a few track comments were exchanged, they announced that the last practice laps were going on, and we parted ways. It was time to gear up. In light of the very cold sandbox adventure, I threw on an extra layer under my jersey. It was noticeably warmer than the last set of races, but with my lack of “natural insulation” I still wanted to avoid a 6 hour shivering session.
Latching on my boots and pulling the chest protector and neck roll over my head had me feeling like a normal person again. It is a little funny how I can feel a sense of comforting familiarity just by putting my gear on. “Mmmm, yep, it’s race day…”
0:10 and counting.
The 85 practice was called up, and I threw on my helmet and dusted off my goggles, taking another moment to stuff some stubborn strands of hair away from my face. This was a rather frustrating minor detail, as I’ve never had my hair this long before (almost down to my chin). This process is normally a “buckle-and-go” sort of thing. Maybe I’m a little too resistant to change?
0:05 and counting.
The first group of faster riders was just flying out of the gate like an angry swarm of bees, and I pushed through the big bikes to pick a clear spot to throw a leg over. I decided that my best bet was to take one of the last positions for the slower group. I glanced to my right to see a familiar set of gear next to me; it was #457 from the circuit up north. We exchanged nods, because it the enclosed area served as an amplifier to the bikes on the track, and it was too loud to understand any sort of yelling.
The gate keeper swung his arm in a circle over his head, signaling that we were allowed to fire up. Two kicks had my supermini happily braaaping in tune with a dozen other bikes. It felt good. I shook out my arms, loosening my muscles as best I as I could while watching the other bikes navigate the track.
29…
28…
27…
The last few bikes started coming around the corner, and I took a few slow deep breaths, feeling my heart pounding in anticipation.
5.
The gate man pointed at the first two riders, and they blazed away, spraying the rest of us in a rust colored shower of flying dirt.
4.
The next bikes were out of the way
3.
I clicked down into first.
2.
I rapped the throttle…clutching my way towards the track.
1.
The gate man pointed at me...
0
…and I dumped the clutch, flying out on to the track with my front wheel off the ground. I still can’t describe the feeling of relief that I felt, but the weight of the world had dropped completely off my shoulders. Nothing else mattered but the dirt in front of me.
Riding was even easier yet in comparison to the two races before. I felt much more in control, and I even managed to try with a few different lines. I knew that the other riders in my class would be a long ways ahead, so I decided to play around with the big bowl turns that had been added. They were ridiculously fun! The whoops were a lot bigger than they had looked. I considered riding through them like doubles, but opted to play it safe until I was off doctor’s orders. They were a fairly hard to judge, and I decided to use those sections to practice less dangerous stuff…like hanging on!
The “real” world was a much happier place when I got off the track, even though practice ended far too soon. The dirt was perfect for playing. I was content sit in my pit stall, and wait for my first moto. I even had wireless access, so I fired up the laptop and browsed a few different forums and chatted with friends while I waited.
I somehow managed to take a nap, despite the chilly conditions and thundering 4-stroke engines. In fact, I was nearly late for the lineup. One of the pro riders had returned for the second weekend, and the other two riders were of higher skill levels too. I knew that I would take 4th out of 4, but that didn’t bother me much. I just wanted to get out and play in the dirt again. As they let us through, I noted that they had arranged us to double drop with the two pit bike riders. The helpful dude from before was there again, and set up my gate for me.
As it ended up, they let us all go at the same drop. I ended up getting sideways out of the gate because he had piled a little hump of dirt up to help me over the bar (I didn’t know why, but I made sure to ask him not to do it the second time around). It was just big enough that I did a microjump, and being slightly off balance, I nearly went directly into the rider beside me.
A few hops saved me from an embarrassing high-side, and I managed not to crash into 457. In the first corner, the bigger kid (rider 09 I believe) on the extremely pimped out pitbike got in front of me, and stayed there despite every line I tried. I made one attempt at doubling the big triple jumps, but bounced cased it both times and decided that luck was keeping me upright, and that I’d better not use it all up.
On the second to last lap, I got cross rutted and realized that I couldn’t save things. Time went into slow motion as I neared the ground. Just as I expected to hit, there was an occurrence of what I can only describe as purely divine intervention. The back wheel caught while I had the throttle still on (I think? No friggan clue on my end…) and the bike was suddenly upright. Being as I still had hold of the handlebars, I was flung right back in the saddle!! I saved from highsiding in the other direction with a “divinely” placed foot, and was around the corner even before I figured out what had happened.
The bizarre hilarity of it all sent me into a fit of giggles, and I nearly had to pull off the track because I was rapidly developing a painful stitch. I finished the race, still laughing even as I got lapped by the leader. I gave the faster pitbike rider a thumbs up as I got off the track and pushed my bike back to my pit stall. Moto #1 was a success, even if I did get shown up by a little dude on a pit bike.
I'll try hurry up and get the rest posted...
The following includes the last two races of Motokazie’s indoor season.
Friday night found me in a pretty low state of mind. I am not a depressive sort of person, but winter has finally gotten the best of me. I knew it was bad when I felt no motivation to even start packing my gear. Some classmates stopped by my usual haunt shortly before the lounge closed, and expressed some concern for my attitude, or lack completely thereof.
“Tolle, are you sure you’re going to be okay? It’s not right when you don’t smile.”
I politely declined their offers of company, and promised them that I’d be back to my grinning normal self on Monday.
13:30 and counting.
I bumped around my apartment for a while, not really finding anything to occupy myself but the trusty little Samick guitar sitting by my futon. I played quietly until 2am, when I finally felt like I could get some sleep.
11:30 and counting.
Seven sharp had my alarm piercing my eardrums with excruciating persistence, and my fingers fumbled quite retardedly for the snooze button. I literally felt like someone was sitting on my chest, and had to struggle to even sit up. Stumbling into the shower, I found that there was only lukewarm water this morning. Even so, it did seem to wash a little weight off my shoulders. After throwing a few foodstuffs into a small cooler and exchanging my winter gear box for the trunk that holds my race gear, I turned the key, and went to go pick up my ride.
7:30 and counting.
I hefted my still new companion off the stand, and threw a leg over for a moment, taking a lap or two in my mind. After a short look-over, the bike was loaded, ramps stowed, and I was off driving again. Northern Minnesota was graced by the brightest bluebird skies that anyone could have asked for. It was a beautiful drive. Pulling off on exit 50, I spotted the first sign directing me to the Red Horse Ranch Arena.
A small smile cracked my face.
4:30 and counting.
I registered, then unloaded and found an empty “pit” to claim as mine for the weekend. I made my way quickly to the track to fill my lungs with the sweet smell of dust and exhaust. The track was different, and I counted three sets of whoops/small rhythm jumps to my very slight dismay. After getting a small fix, I ventured the outdoors again to fetch my gear box, and cooler.
I started throwing stuff on my shoulders and back; I had so much crap to carry that it made walking pretty difficult. Between the shifting weight and the slippery parking lot, I felt and looked like a sauced up packhorse. Someone was kind enough to hold the door, but I didn’t fit through.
“Oops.”
Try number two went just as poorly, and I ended up having to drop everything with a very sheepish grin to the doorholder.
“Sorry…uhmmmmm…yea… I’ma just chuck this all through quick. Thanks!”
Doorholder person laughed at my predicament, and even stuck around to watch as I reloaded myself and started tottering off towards the pits. Having not thought ahead, I was promptly accosted by the pit guard ladies.
“Where’s your wrist band!?!?! Need to see it!!”
“It’s on my wrist…you’ll have to come roll up my sleeve if you want to see it. Left side.”
They weren’t really all that amused by my predicament. However, I wasn’t about to set my back-breaking pile of stuff down. We had a two second standoff before doorholder person stepped in (still laughing) and provided sleeve assistance. With another word of thanks, we parted ways, and I finally dropped all my gear in the proper place, and customized my pit area until I was satisfied.
I bumped around the track entrance and exits for quite a while, just watching the dirt and riders fly. I made note of as many ruts and lines as I could see, gaining a great sense of comfort from the simple observations I was making.
0:30 and counting.
A taller rider was standing next to me, and I finally glanced up (quite a ways up) to identify the person.
“Oh…Hi!”
It was one of the riders/racer dad from my circuit up north. After the greetings and a few track comments were exchanged, they announced that the last practice laps were going on, and we parted ways. It was time to gear up. In light of the very cold sandbox adventure, I threw on an extra layer under my jersey. It was noticeably warmer than the last set of races, but with my lack of “natural insulation” I still wanted to avoid a 6 hour shivering session.
Latching on my boots and pulling the chest protector and neck roll over my head had me feeling like a normal person again. It is a little funny how I can feel a sense of comforting familiarity just by putting my gear on. “Mmmm, yep, it’s race day…”
0:10 and counting.
The 85 practice was called up, and I threw on my helmet and dusted off my goggles, taking another moment to stuff some stubborn strands of hair away from my face. This was a rather frustrating minor detail, as I’ve never had my hair this long before (almost down to my chin). This process is normally a “buckle-and-go” sort of thing. Maybe I’m a little too resistant to change?
0:05 and counting.
The first group of faster riders was just flying out of the gate like an angry swarm of bees, and I pushed through the big bikes to pick a clear spot to throw a leg over. I decided that my best bet was to take one of the last positions for the slower group. I glanced to my right to see a familiar set of gear next to me; it was #457 from the circuit up north. We exchanged nods, because it the enclosed area served as an amplifier to the bikes on the track, and it was too loud to understand any sort of yelling.
The gate keeper swung his arm in a circle over his head, signaling that we were allowed to fire up. Two kicks had my supermini happily braaaping in tune with a dozen other bikes. It felt good. I shook out my arms, loosening my muscles as best I as I could while watching the other bikes navigate the track.
29…
28…
27…
The last few bikes started coming around the corner, and I took a few slow deep breaths, feeling my heart pounding in anticipation.
5.
The gate man pointed at the first two riders, and they blazed away, spraying the rest of us in a rust colored shower of flying dirt.
4.
The next bikes were out of the way
3.
I clicked down into first.
2.
I rapped the throttle…clutching my way towards the track.
1.
The gate man pointed at me...
0
…and I dumped the clutch, flying out on to the track with my front wheel off the ground. I still can’t describe the feeling of relief that I felt, but the weight of the world had dropped completely off my shoulders. Nothing else mattered but the dirt in front of me.
Riding was even easier yet in comparison to the two races before. I felt much more in control, and I even managed to try with a few different lines. I knew that the other riders in my class would be a long ways ahead, so I decided to play around with the big bowl turns that had been added. They were ridiculously fun! The whoops were a lot bigger than they had looked. I considered riding through them like doubles, but opted to play it safe until I was off doctor’s orders. They were a fairly hard to judge, and I decided to use those sections to practice less dangerous stuff…like hanging on!
The “real” world was a much happier place when I got off the track, even though practice ended far too soon. The dirt was perfect for playing. I was content sit in my pit stall, and wait for my first moto. I even had wireless access, so I fired up the laptop and browsed a few different forums and chatted with friends while I waited.
I somehow managed to take a nap, despite the chilly conditions and thundering 4-stroke engines. In fact, I was nearly late for the lineup. One of the pro riders had returned for the second weekend, and the other two riders were of higher skill levels too. I knew that I would take 4th out of 4, but that didn’t bother me much. I just wanted to get out and play in the dirt again. As they let us through, I noted that they had arranged us to double drop with the two pit bike riders. The helpful dude from before was there again, and set up my gate for me.
As it ended up, they let us all go at the same drop. I ended up getting sideways out of the gate because he had piled a little hump of dirt up to help me over the bar (I didn’t know why, but I made sure to ask him not to do it the second time around). It was just big enough that I did a microjump, and being slightly off balance, I nearly went directly into the rider beside me.
A few hops saved me from an embarrassing high-side, and I managed not to crash into 457. In the first corner, the bigger kid (rider 09 I believe) on the extremely pimped out pitbike got in front of me, and stayed there despite every line I tried. I made one attempt at doubling the big triple jumps, but bounced cased it both times and decided that luck was keeping me upright, and that I’d better not use it all up.
On the second to last lap, I got cross rutted and realized that I couldn’t save things. Time went into slow motion as I neared the ground. Just as I expected to hit, there was an occurrence of what I can only describe as purely divine intervention. The back wheel caught while I had the throttle still on (I think? No friggan clue on my end…) and the bike was suddenly upright. Being as I still had hold of the handlebars, I was flung right back in the saddle!! I saved from highsiding in the other direction with a “divinely” placed foot, and was around the corner even before I figured out what had happened.
The bizarre hilarity of it all sent me into a fit of giggles, and I nearly had to pull off the track because I was rapidly developing a painful stitch. I finished the race, still laughing even as I got lapped by the leader. I gave the faster pitbike rider a thumbs up as I got off the track and pushed my bike back to my pit stall. Moto #1 was a success, even if I did get shown up by a little dude on a pit bike.
I'll try hurry up and get the rest posted...
