Categories: all aviation Building a Biplane bicycle gadgets misc motorcycle theater
Racing yesterday was definitely story-worthy.
The schedule for the weekend was unusual. Normally, we'd have two practices on Saturday, followed by a practice then two races on Sunday. This weekend was the endurance race weekend, and so Sunday was entirely taken up with endurance races. That meant all the rest of the racing had to happen on Saturday. Thus, we had one practice in the morning, a race at noon, and a race at 3:20. I felt kind of shortchanged, since that meant I got 3/5ths of the time on the track I normally would.
The morning practice passed fairly uneventfully, although I had one notable occasion: I was trying to take corners faster, fully aware that this was one of the places I could stand to improve. As I was entering turn 2, which is a wide, sweeping left-hand curve at the end of the front straight, I decided to not slow down as much as I normally do. I remembered Jesse saying that he'd been able to take 2 at basically full throttle in 5th gear, so I figured I'd head that direction.
So I entered in 5th gear, going faster than normal (although how much faster, I couldn't tell you). I made it around the turn, but I had a slightly butt-clenching moment when both tires started drifting sideways. It was very controllable, and I didn't spaz (for spazzing would have certainly caused me to crash). But it was a data point: at least on those relatively cold tires, I'd reached the traction limit. I was also scraping the footpeg, which is getting to be a real irritant for me.
I didn't make as much progress on braking late into 3 as I wanted, but it was otherwise a decent practice. I had one other moment that was just dumb: coming into the bus stop, where one must slow way down and shift into 2nd or 1st, my foot missed the shifter, and I entered in 5th gear. Not a big deal, just clutch in and do some quick shifting, but it slowed me down, and the group of riders I'd been following disappeared.
I tried to turn off the camera after the practice only to discover that it was frozen again. I guess my new very-solid mount is transmitting too much vibration to the camera. Again. I'm not thrilled with this. I pulled out the shim I'd been hoping would keep down the up-and-down vibration I noticed in a test in the garage, and decided I'd try again for the race.
The first race rolled around at noon, and I got myself suited up. Turned on the camera, but it wasn't having any of it. It wouldn't even turn on. I gave up, and left the balky thing behind, since I really didn't need to be late to the race for this.
So I rolled out, and did my warm-up lap. Nothing notable there. Gridded for the start, although as I did, one of the new riders next to me suddenly turned, closing the path another rider had been aiming for, moving way too fast. He swerved right in front of me, and I caught it at the last minute, jamming on my front brake so hard the back tire came up and slapped back down. That was the end of that, but I have a vague memory that the rider who caused me to slam on the brakes was the same rider who I shall refer to as number XXX for the remainder of the story.
The start was fine, and I kept up with the back of the pack. I could have started better, but it wasn't bad. I followed the pack all the way into 3, but they were so bunched up in there that I fell back just out of a desire not to be too close to the crashing that seemed imminent. No crashes occurred, but somehow I found myself behind 146, Mark, and XXX.
Mark was able to pass XXX without too much trouble half a lap later, but I found myself utterly stuck. Every time we'd go through a corner, he held me back, but every time there was a straight or corner exit, he'd pull away. I finally realized he was riding a bigger bike, and learned after the race that it was a 350. But every corner, he'd slow way down, and I couldn't figure out how to pass him safely -- I don't have the technique, and I don't have the power to make up for my lack of technique.
So, I found myself thwarted at every turn, with a growing sense that I wanted to pass this guy no matter what.
As he ground down to playground speeds through the bus stop, I determined that I'd try to get him around turn 2, which was the next likely place. Of course, he disappeared hundreds of yards in front of me down the straight, but I knew I could get him in 2, if not 3 or 4.
So I tucked way down, and even saw the tachometer pass 10k RPM, which was my previous top speed. I was ready for this guy. I decided that since my tires were probably warmer, I could try hitting 2 fast again, like I had in practice.
I kept the throttle pinned, with barely a waver as I prepared to turn in. I turned in, following my usual line, and the following events happened very quickly:
I realized I was going too fast. I'd leaned over as far as I could, and the footpeg was starting to scrape. Damn that peg! My brain passed along the urgent, high-priority message: You're going too fast!
An agonizingly long quarter of a second later, I decided I'd better slow down, so I rolled off the throttle. I didn't chop it, but I reduced throttle a lot. As I did this, I traced out the line I was following. It crossed into the dirt on the side of the track.
As a result of rolling off the throttle, the suspension balance was slightly upset, which caused the rear tire to lose some traction (I think). This part isn't as clear to me. At no point did I touch the brakes, so at least I wasn't making that mistake (in a full lean, the available traction in a motorcycle's tire is basically all going into resisting sideways force; there's nothing left for slowing down). Something caused the lightened tire to skip, and my world went blurry.
Suddenly, my hip hurt, and I realized I was on the ground. I remember thinking, "Well, this does hurt a bit. I guess I shouldn't be too surprised." I slid nicely along the track, the leather suit and gloves doing their jobs perfectly. Then I started rolling, with my arms flopping around, probably about the point I hit the gravel.
I realized what was happening, and tried to hold my arms out to stop the rolling. That was also about the point I came to a stop. I looked up to see the bike lying a dozen feet in front of me on its side. I did the quickest body check I've ever done, and decided nothing was seriously damaged. I got up, still nothing causing pain; cool. I walked over to the bike to shut it off, and it blub-blub-blub'd to a halt just as I bent down to flick the OFF switch.
The corner worker on the opposite side of the track yelled something, and made expansive "come over here!" arm gestures. I quickly grabbed the bike and leaned it up against the tire wall. I wanted it on its sad little tires, but I realize now that I was also doing a service to anyone else who might crash in the same spot, so I'm glad I did it. I jogged across the track, since I saw some bikes rounding turn 1, which meant they would be passing me in a few seconds.
As I jogged, I shook the gravel out of my gloves, and tried to make further assessments as to my state of health. Certainly the first thing they'd ask was whether I was alright. I seemed to be.
I pulled off helmet and gloves. The gloves were dusty, and my thumb had a tiny numb spot on it, as if I'd whacked it really hard against something. There was also a dark red blood blister developing at the base of my left palm, but that was the extent of the visible damage. I checked over my helmet, but to my amazement, it hadn't touched down anywhere. That's $500 I won't have to spend again today, at least!
The woman who was working turn 2 asked me if I wanted to be examined by the medics. After some theatrical patting of limbs and checking of collarbones, I said I was fine. I knew my hip was going to bruise (although at the time, it really didn't feel damaged at all), and my thumb felt weird.
The bike, however, didn't look so good. The crash truck showed up and they loaded the bike in. I grabbed the number plate that had parted company with the bike at the track/gravel border, and hopped aboard as well. The big problem was that the front wheel was torqued about 30° away from where the handlebars were pointing. The left peg was pushed up into the bike, and the left numberplate holder was a comical mess of twisted aluminum.
They dropped me off at my pit area, and I stood back to assess things. The front end was definitely in trouble. The shifter rod was bent in a comical S shape, and the shift lever itself was pointing at the sky.
With the assistance of many of the other vintage riders, I was able to put it all basically right. I got the engine started again, and rode it up and down the pits once. I called Tim over to tech the bike again. I told him what I'd fixed, and my misgivings about the front-end: although I'd been able to get the wheel pretty much straight to the handlebars, it wasn't moving up and down like it should. He gave it a push, and said, "If you want, I can give you this tech sticker and you can go race, but I wouldn't do that if it were my bike." I agreed with him, and decided I wouldn't go out again.
The problem was that the front suspension was much stickier than it should be. I could get it to move with a big shove, but me sitting down on the bike, for instance, didn't move it a millimeter. That's not good. The suspension is what keeps the wheels on the ground over bumps, and particularly while leaned over, any inability to track over the bumps means the tire loses traction. And what did I just do? Lost traction while leaned over. I wasn't real keen to try that experience on again.
So, I sat out the second race, glumly sitting in the stands that overlook the bus stop as the little vintage bikes roared by. I noted that every lap, XXX fell further and further behind, sourly thinking, "I was behind that jerk. That would have been me."
Of course, what puts a bow on the whole thing is that this was probably my last race of the season. I am most likely committed to something else for the last race on October 4th and 5th, and won't be able to race. So my 2008 race season was capped by a dunder-headed mechanical failure on the first race of a weekend absolutely packed with vintage races, and then by a stupid crash after one lap (a 2:16 lap, I noted, stuck behind XXX) in the first race of the last weekend. Clap. Clap. Clap.
So I guess now I have time to do all those winter projects I was thinking about.
Postscript: While I was at the race, someone came up and said, "Ian Johnston?" He went on to say, "You don't know me, but..." and explained how he'd been reading this journal after finding my website in a search for BMW R65 information. That was pretty cool. We ended up talking for a long time about these vintage bikes, and racing, and all that. He came over after my crash and expressed his sympathy, watching with his two sons as I attempted to straighten a well-bent shift lever. Of course, I've completely forgotten his name, but hi! Thanks for reading. It's neat to meet people who read this stuff, and who aren't compelled to do so by familial or friendship bonds.
Post-postscript: In the cold hard light of morning, I'm almost exactly as damaged as I first surmised. I have what's going to develop into a grapefruit-sized bruise on my left hip. There's a small raised bump on my left forearm. My thumb feels normal, and the blood blister is ugly but painless. I added a few tiny scrapes in various places on my arms and legs. But that's it. No (new) joint pain, no exciting new aches other than the hip.
That was, in almost any sense, the perfect crash. A nice lowside while leaned way over. If it hadn't munged up the bike's front-end, I wouldn't even give it a second thought. Other than, you know, "Hey, don't do that again."
Posted at 09:39 permanent link category: /motorcycle
Categories: all aviation Building a Biplane bicycle gadgets misc motorcycle theater