Raging the Ronin

The primary race bike was finally complete and ready for the 2nd early practice weekend. It was worth the wait. I stopped by the Ronin shop Friday afternoon before heading out to the Lone Duck camp. The Ronin team were swarming around the bike buttoning up the last minute stuff. Saturday morning at 3:00 a.m. I stumbled out of my little old shit box of a camper to find Johny with the bike ready to go with a pot of peculating coffee. The life of a factory racer is really not bad. I was a bit apprehensive to ride the new bike for the first time on the mountain and at speed. After the first few runs I was getting used to the extra 40 horse power and the shiznit brembo brakes started to bed in and just about the time I felt like I could start to find the performance race bred soul of the bike the practice session was over and the highway opened back up to the public as it does at 8:30 every day except race day. Sunday was the bottom section. The serpentine flowing faster than a speeding bullet section. I was ready to find the soul of the Ronin that started out as an EBR1190. The thing sounds like a chili cheese burger dragon fart when it launches at the green flag. I tuck in and hold the fuck on with everything I have and drag my knees in the first few corners for my first time. The front end floats through the chicanes as we dance from side to side and then grab a hand full of break leaving nothing but air for the rear slick to grip. Riding something so powerful on such a road is just plain fucking bonkers! I have found a new plain of existence and am far closer to enlightenment than I ever could have imagined to exist. I can remember how fast I felt when I broke six minutes on the bottom. Yesterday I did it in 4 minutes and 22 seconds. With the time dropped I have to remember the respect that must be gained. Respect for the road, the machine, and my loved life.