Friday, January 22, 2016
This is Baja'a happy face. Seriously. She looks at me like this when she is trying to be charming. Back before I was a flattracker, I was a want-a-be flattracker and between bouncing over whoops and hitting dude booters on my dirtbike I liked to slide her as sideways as I could on the transfer roads. Like so many flattracker want-a-be dirt bikers, I thought it was all about getting more sideways than a horizontal line traveling through space. One time I got it past the comfort zone. I saved it but not expecting it I, it went the other way and we all know how tank slapping catapulting over the high side is a lot like getting shot out of a fucking canon. Result: Spinal hematoma requiring three large syringes of fluid to be drained. I love the feeling of hypodermic needles in my spine. Not really. Fast forward many years of back aches and I just had these tumors (the peach cobbler looking dessert jar) removed from the spot of the former injury. My favorite part of the operation was laying on my stomach and feeling the doc's fingers fishing around under my skin. No dirty talking or forplay, he just went three knuckle deep on me and when I turned around to see his face he was sweating and started to curse. apperantly what he thought was a little lipoma turned out to be a ping pong ball sized rock hard nugget and four other little tumors for a nice platter of chunk stew. yummy. That's about all the story time I have now. Reckon my back will feel better but I just have to make sure not to rip my stitches out and all I want to do is get on a bike and shred some fucking gnar godamitall!
Monday, January 4, 2016
At 3:55 in the A.M. on the first Sunday of the year my alarm awoke me to more pain than I awoke to today on Monday. And that is saying something because yesterday at full speed on the end of the front stretch I hit the ice hard and slid at 60mph like a ninja turtle into a snow bank. As I type this I feel like my chair is giving me a Mike Tyson charley horse. Ice racing in Colorado means waking up so damn early just to get to the track in the dark, find a sketchy place to park that will require a tow strap to get out of and then freezing your little piggies off all day. If I were not a full blown motorcycle racing junky I sure as hell would be doing something warm and involving more booze than this but there I was. Nothing like sriping off your one pice long underwear in a dark porta-potty and trying to un-clench captain sphincter enough to let the horse out of the barn when it is near zero degrees. After trying out my XS twin in the vintage class once a few years ago I swore it off. It was like Lane Frost riding a greased up bull on pcp. But the buzz has been big this year with many friends and since I still had the tires I figured I would mount em up on my proper 450 race bike and give it a modern effort. (Thanks for the fenders Garrett!) And of course I mind as well throw myself into the A class cause Momma didn't raise to powder pony piss ant. Just a dumb, numb, throttle twisting, high octane huffing, conversion van gypsy jockey. In my heat race I went for the holeshot like I have trained myself to always own like a mule. I may have taken it had I not lost the back end like a slug of lead leaves its shell casing in the first turn. Ice is hard and it slides a body a very long ways. In the main I led the first two laps and dropped to 4th. Not bad but I am looking forward to round 2 this weekend after I sort out my suspension some. Maybe I may win or maybe I may swear off this January sunday addiction for good. Peace, grease, and polar fleece. -Uncle Newbold