As with all drugs, no high comes with out coming down. Except for those who take too much. A permanent trip is probably a real bummer. Every motorcycle racer that has ever been has had to deal with the come down. To live without that main line shot of adrenaline. Many find a dark existence trying to fill the hole. Some seem to try for the over dose. Some find the quality of friends, family and love to help them along through the days.
I often am asking my self how much is too much? Am I able to keep this all going for another year. Hopefully many more. I want to be like Malcom. I have a real healthy appetite. Flattrack bikes, DIRTBIKES, motocross, duel sport, road racing, hobby bikes, 14:1 compression 110 octane tire eating monsters. It is a large platter. Imagine what my tray looks like at the all you can eat buffet. Imagine the toilet bowl scrubbing that is needed.
"The post race blues", some call them. The yang to the ying I call it. The better the high, the bitter the absence. It has taken me a while to begin to process how cool my pikes peak experience was. Eight years of learning how to handle high speed, high risk road racing. Near misses with cliffs, spectators, trees, and wildlife. Six glory filled podiums, Many new friends. Some lost. The anger felt to others who tell me to hang it up. Who are they to make me feel selfish for living out my fantasies. everybody is selfish. If Gandhi and Mother Theresa had ever spawned, who's to say that the little fucker would not be the most evil roost slinging wretched wrist twisting demon to ever throw a leg over a motorbike.
Before this year's race to the clouds and all it's events unfolded I said done. Mostly because of the race committee's frustrating incompetence.
I certainly would not like to choose to live with fear and quit because of loosing a friend. Rather the opposite. Tell me what to do and watch the rebel rage against.
A few weeks ago I got a letter from the pikes peak race committee banning me from competing again. For giving negative press to a newspaper reporter minutes after my race run. laughable bush league bull shit.
So what I am really rambling about here is as known to me as Conan The Barbarian. I reckon I just like to write this shit so I can get it out and try to further understand it.
I am driven to push the limits.
For the last few days I have been talking with the many time class winning 300X Baja 1000 team. They came up needing a rider at the last minute and somehow my name was given to them. Now I am trying to throw any reason to the wind and lust like getting invited to a cocaine party some eight years after giving up the stuff. Thankfully I have some good clean burning hashish er, I mean flattracking friends to hang with instead and I think the quality of such company that I would rather forgo the friday party with all of it's heavy substance 1000 miles of unknown mexican nastyness that I have sworn off before in order to be well rested and ready for a saturday party full of the best vegas can offer. An Indian motorcycle set up by none other that Roland mother fucking Sands, The GNC final and superprestigio to spectate. The invitation to perform gladiator style (hooligan) in the arena of the Orleans. And best of all; My friends from all over the world to share it all with. Buy a plain ticket you, yes you! And you too!