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!
Las Vegas is a naughty place. A vibrant, energy pulsing disco ball in the middle of a baron desert. Despite the fact that I find no comfort with in it’s dressed up dirty streets and over watered gardens, I keep ending up there again and again. When Sideburn got with Roland Sands Design and offered me a ride on a new Indian in the Super Hooligan race; How could I avoid being sucked back into another one of Sin City’s vortexes of naughtiness.
A Vegas Casino is a perfect place for a Hooligan race. A Hooligan bike after all is about being more show than go. An over legged, synthetic implanted, wig wearing, over weight show girl is exactly how I think of a Hooligan bike. The rules only said stock framed street bike with 19” wheels so I reckon I could have rode my trusty old gal, XS race bike but how could I turn down a ride with a show girl?
As with anything to do with Sideburn; The pits were full of friends both newly acquainted and old. After watching the GNC on the little diamond shaped boxing-ring of a track I must admit that I was a bit nervous about taking the long wheel based cruiser bike out to do battle with some tough looking competition. There was every thing from performance built cheater bikes, big name pilots, I think The Sons of Anarchy were there and Mad Max and of course five other bikes just like mine with competitive racers behind the bar, just like me. After putting my “factory Indian Race Team” jersey on I was told the Hooligans would not get any practice. (We were there to provide entertainment after all.) Then we were told that because it was being filmed for broadcast they were going to not red flag any crashes. (Gladiators must provide brutal blood baths in the Coliseum).
In the first timed qualifying session I was a bit sad to see my name in 16th position on the big screen. I figured I better try to pull the finger out somehow and honor my friends and family spectating. So I shared a beer with another racer in my “factory race van”. Onto the qualifying heats. Green flag race starts. I like these, I usually feel like a real wild west gun-slinging quick draw for a holeshot. After seeing the flagger wait longer than the time it takes a pile of ants to move a lead filled Hershey bar all weekend, he waived the green before I even had my steed in gear. The next five laps could best be described as a combination of a demolition derby, a bar room brawl and a refugee camp being invaded by C-130 dropped food ration bombs. I was happy to snag the last qualifying position for the main event. I was also scared for my life. I made it a point to spend some time with my wife and tell her how much she means to me. She said that what ever went down during the race, I must protect my face because she didn’t want a deformed monster. Fair enough.
The queue in staging was a very interesting place to watch my fellow competitors. Nerves were a bit on end. After all, many Hooligan racers have little race experience. This was one racer’s first flattrack ever. Another racer who lost his transponder was told to hit the road, despite finishing 2nd in is qualifier. Another racer was stripping off his protective gear preparing for a glorious battle. Some of the ticks and twitches others were making even got me to start freaking out a bit. And then, we were waived into the arena like gallivanting warriors. The King’s best gladiators. Or sheep off to slaughter. I had a second row inside gate pick so I hoped with some luck I would avoid the first corner carnage that was eminent. The green flag flew. The rest was a total blur, ever lap I saw another body bouncing off the ground or crawling for dear life to avoid being steam rolled by twin cylinder behemoths swapping violently out of control. I managed to keep it up right despite some heavy bumping and take a checkered flag with all my flesh intact. Hell, I didn’t even loose my Harley Davidson cherry. That little sucker is going to stay un-popped!
