Wild Will
05-23-2006, 08:07 PM
Infineon Raceway, formerly Sears Point, is about three hours from my little slice O’ heaven. The road twists non stop, like a six hundred turn racetrack, and although I’ve come as close as I can, I can’t memorize all those twists. In other words it’s always a challenge. It’s one of the premier roads in the west, Highway One, overlooking the ill-named Pacific as far south as San Diego. Ill-named because it’s a stormy, windy cross hatched vastness of green water, but it’s pretty, and it’s wild. Just like the road that hugs the bluff top a thousand feet above the swells. And there’s no guardrail. They’re probably not in The Governator’s budget.
Down I ride, ocean to starboard, rock cliffs to port, passing anything in my way, waving a friendly sign as I skate past in twin cylinder locomotion. Big jugs! Fat tires. Ohlins suspension. Pro taper bars. Sargeant saddle. Radar always on. No friends in the Sheriff’s Dept. have I. Au contraire, mon amis. One day I’ll tell you my sheriff story, and your heart will feel what mine did the day that miscreant from the flatlands held me, my wife and sons at pistol point for 10 minutes. The sheriffs gave him his Glock and Colt back next day. Sent him back to his personal hell with his new 80 lb. mail order wife who spoke only Tagalog. DA was too busy getting ready for elections. But as usual I digress.
Infineon is located in the most beautiful grape region you could find this side of France’s south. Lush, green (this time of year) and filled with miles of perfectly laid out vineyards, Versailles-like winerys and old stone farm houses. Expensive land. Taxed to the limit. I arrive at 7 a.m., and am directed to the Media parking area, and get ready for the long day of trekking around the 2.2 mile course, the one with nary a straightaway. A riders course, one you have to work hard at to turn a sportbike through the 12 turns just so. The track is quiet, belying the raucous and explosive nature of the beasts that’ll be running here all weekend long. Race teams are setting up, the gofers are after coffee, the mechanics are already assorting their Snap Ons and fiddling with the Penskes and Ohlins. Bodywork in carbon and fresh paint hang up out of the way. Free posters of Mladin, Duhamel, the Bostroms, Spies, and the rest await the autograph-seeking hordes. The umbrella girls are still asleep, alas.
Pirelli and Dunlop have their huge semi trailers with awnings set up and the race tires are all laid out perfectly. I always cruise them first to add to my collection of gen-u-wine race valve caps, weight saving dontcha know! I head to the Media tower, get my photographers credentials and have complete carte blanche at the track all weekend long. I know the head pixel guy and we shoot the breeze for awhile. He tells me about the lesbian neighbors who hate him. His wife is a mortician and they place a coffin in their front window, light it from below in full view of their neighbors’ living room window, and torment the married ladies into leaving them alone.
The guy is a master photographer; I’m just a pretender, but I know what I like, where the best shot can be had. I also shoot the stuff that they don’t; the crowds, the faces, the custom GSXR’s, the Buell with the see through gas tank, the facially metalled stunt area far from the sport bikes where wheelies and stoppies are done all weekend long. These guys are a counter culture for sure. They border on the Mel Gibson scenes where humans fight for a gallon of gas with crossbows. I’m glad that was a movie. So far. Mohawks and women tattooed as if they’ve been autopsied are in vogue. Some of these outsiders have children! There’s quite a scene around the dinner table, I imagine!
Around the track another half mile is the Supermotard area. There’s a $5,500 purse this weekend, and SM guys have come from as far as Canada and Europe. Damn! They must really need the money! More like the ego strokes that come from winning. SM racing is a contact sport, with KTM’s bashing Yamahas in the corners, and all turns made from a sideways stance. Cool! I approve and want to do it too.
Further along I reach turn 7, where the bikes are heeled over to maximum traction on the right side, 20 feet from my photographers spot, going about 80 mph. Some make eye contact with me. My synapses don’t work like theirs! Mladin, Spies, Bostroms both, Miguel, the three racers wearing the natty attire of Michael Jordan’s team. I notice that all the mechanics wear his $150 basketball shoes. I take a few shots at 1000th of a second, and watch the hyper pro right in front of me, the guy who has more Cycle World covers than I have old National Geographics, with his $12K camera, and I wish I could hide mine. I have a Tool Ho edition, with challenged pixel disorder, but I always get a few nice shots. I really wish I could include them for you, but I’m such a techno moron.
I chew the fat with the corner workers awhile. They’re some of the real heros of the events. All are volunteers.
One rider is down, caught with his knee pucks twisted on the severe turn 7, and the ambulance is deployed. Just before it stops a deer runs from out of nowhere right in front of the truck, and is wild with fear. It leaps over the concrete Armco wall and hits a chain link fence, knocking itself senseless. The fence has a permanent ‘dent’. I’m told that several riders have been killed by deer, impossible to keep out when the gates are open, since they began racing here in the 60’s. They have a special guy who takes care of the deer. I can’t say any more because they asked me not to. Something about the Sierra Club kissing their ax or something. A good deer is either in Sherwood Forest or on my barbecue. Deadly, tall vermin. But again I digress.
I walk back to the Media tower, get some sweet freebies like all the race team DVD’s from the Big Four manufacturers, and stuff like that. I wander over the the incomparable Ducati hospitality suite, where all media interlopers are welcome, and am treated to espresso with real Italian flavorings. And baked delicacies, nice ticket holders with lanyards, etc. My bag, as always, is brimming. I enjoy a 45 minute discussion with a history buff about the incredible talents of Tiberius of Rome, and how they killed his sweet wife in the arena. History is stranger than fiction. He tells me that reality TV should make somebody drive a Humvee through Baghdad, not spear drugged fish in a lagoon on Pitcairn Island. I have to agree. We are becoming a nation of lame voyeurs.
Buzzed on espresso with citrus, I wander into the vendor area, and am beset with the sights of all the moto splendor available in Titanium, carbon fiber and polished stainless. Wheels that are art, luggage that will carry your BVD’s to the ends of the earth. The 1200 HP2 is there to ogle, prod, bounce upon, and to buy! It comes with SM wheels at an non-nominal charge for a limited time. I curse my financial vacuum, and play on the nice ST awhile. And then I see the headlamp, the only sour note on an almost perfectly designed moto.! Brazen tee shirts with the F word your kid can wear on the school bus, umbrella teeny boppers in mini skirts preen as ogling pimpled faces stare in open mouthed lust. I buy a nice compact Slime brand 12V air compressor for the KTM, and a Canyon Dancer bar harness for trailering. The jewelry-like slipper clutches, rear sets and calipers are always a delight to see and fondle. The ltd. Edition Arai’s in lustrous paint at only $600+ catch my eye. I get a lesson in quick changing my Quantum visor. The food area has quite a variety as long as it’s fried or BBQ’d . Salad? Don’t make me laugh. I select the Polish nitromethane Sonoma sausage with grilled onions since I’m solo, and pop Rolaids the rest of the afternoon.
In one of the featured races, Yates blasts past Duhamel, bumping his bike and breaking the Honda’s fairing. Yates is always one who gives it his all. His rear tire throws up a smoke cloud as he re enters the pavement, throwing a rock clean through Duhamel’s windscreen. Later I hear Miguel’s mama tell Yvon how worried she was that her boy’d get hurt. He’s been thrashed plenty before, and she has the right to be concerned. Spies dominates the two Superbike races, with Mladin a second behind, and Miguel third; both races post identical results. The Buell doesn’t complete the race due to the mechanical problems encountered at Daytona. The winners circle is an explosion of champagne, and the podium guys attack the fans with this sticky effervescence. I stay away.
The weekend was interesting, but the racing predictable. Mladin’s days seem to be numbered with Spies completely on fire from the green light. I hear that Rossi’s Yamaha engine has failed in today's race, and he’s probably out of the running this year. Hayden leads in the points! Rossi will NOT turn to GP cars in ’07, but will race MotoGP yet again. That makes me happy; he is a worthy presence in moto racing. I wonder which factory he’ll ride for!
Down I ride, ocean to starboard, rock cliffs to port, passing anything in my way, waving a friendly sign as I skate past in twin cylinder locomotion. Big jugs! Fat tires. Ohlins suspension. Pro taper bars. Sargeant saddle. Radar always on. No friends in the Sheriff’s Dept. have I. Au contraire, mon amis. One day I’ll tell you my sheriff story, and your heart will feel what mine did the day that miscreant from the flatlands held me, my wife and sons at pistol point for 10 minutes. The sheriffs gave him his Glock and Colt back next day. Sent him back to his personal hell with his new 80 lb. mail order wife who spoke only Tagalog. DA was too busy getting ready for elections. But as usual I digress.
Infineon is located in the most beautiful grape region you could find this side of France’s south. Lush, green (this time of year) and filled with miles of perfectly laid out vineyards, Versailles-like winerys and old stone farm houses. Expensive land. Taxed to the limit. I arrive at 7 a.m., and am directed to the Media parking area, and get ready for the long day of trekking around the 2.2 mile course, the one with nary a straightaway. A riders course, one you have to work hard at to turn a sportbike through the 12 turns just so. The track is quiet, belying the raucous and explosive nature of the beasts that’ll be running here all weekend long. Race teams are setting up, the gofers are after coffee, the mechanics are already assorting their Snap Ons and fiddling with the Penskes and Ohlins. Bodywork in carbon and fresh paint hang up out of the way. Free posters of Mladin, Duhamel, the Bostroms, Spies, and the rest await the autograph-seeking hordes. The umbrella girls are still asleep, alas.
Pirelli and Dunlop have their huge semi trailers with awnings set up and the race tires are all laid out perfectly. I always cruise them first to add to my collection of gen-u-wine race valve caps, weight saving dontcha know! I head to the Media tower, get my photographers credentials and have complete carte blanche at the track all weekend long. I know the head pixel guy and we shoot the breeze for awhile. He tells me about the lesbian neighbors who hate him. His wife is a mortician and they place a coffin in their front window, light it from below in full view of their neighbors’ living room window, and torment the married ladies into leaving them alone.
The guy is a master photographer; I’m just a pretender, but I know what I like, where the best shot can be had. I also shoot the stuff that they don’t; the crowds, the faces, the custom GSXR’s, the Buell with the see through gas tank, the facially metalled stunt area far from the sport bikes where wheelies and stoppies are done all weekend long. These guys are a counter culture for sure. They border on the Mel Gibson scenes where humans fight for a gallon of gas with crossbows. I’m glad that was a movie. So far. Mohawks and women tattooed as if they’ve been autopsied are in vogue. Some of these outsiders have children! There’s quite a scene around the dinner table, I imagine!
Around the track another half mile is the Supermotard area. There’s a $5,500 purse this weekend, and SM guys have come from as far as Canada and Europe. Damn! They must really need the money! More like the ego strokes that come from winning. SM racing is a contact sport, with KTM’s bashing Yamahas in the corners, and all turns made from a sideways stance. Cool! I approve and want to do it too.
Further along I reach turn 7, where the bikes are heeled over to maximum traction on the right side, 20 feet from my photographers spot, going about 80 mph. Some make eye contact with me. My synapses don’t work like theirs! Mladin, Spies, Bostroms both, Miguel, the three racers wearing the natty attire of Michael Jordan’s team. I notice that all the mechanics wear his $150 basketball shoes. I take a few shots at 1000th of a second, and watch the hyper pro right in front of me, the guy who has more Cycle World covers than I have old National Geographics, with his $12K camera, and I wish I could hide mine. I have a Tool Ho edition, with challenged pixel disorder, but I always get a few nice shots. I really wish I could include them for you, but I’m such a techno moron.
I chew the fat with the corner workers awhile. They’re some of the real heros of the events. All are volunteers.
One rider is down, caught with his knee pucks twisted on the severe turn 7, and the ambulance is deployed. Just before it stops a deer runs from out of nowhere right in front of the truck, and is wild with fear. It leaps over the concrete Armco wall and hits a chain link fence, knocking itself senseless. The fence has a permanent ‘dent’. I’m told that several riders have been killed by deer, impossible to keep out when the gates are open, since they began racing here in the 60’s. They have a special guy who takes care of the deer. I can’t say any more because they asked me not to. Something about the Sierra Club kissing their ax or something. A good deer is either in Sherwood Forest or on my barbecue. Deadly, tall vermin. But again I digress.
I walk back to the Media tower, get some sweet freebies like all the race team DVD’s from the Big Four manufacturers, and stuff like that. I wander over the the incomparable Ducati hospitality suite, where all media interlopers are welcome, and am treated to espresso with real Italian flavorings. And baked delicacies, nice ticket holders with lanyards, etc. My bag, as always, is brimming. I enjoy a 45 minute discussion with a history buff about the incredible talents of Tiberius of Rome, and how they killed his sweet wife in the arena. History is stranger than fiction. He tells me that reality TV should make somebody drive a Humvee through Baghdad, not spear drugged fish in a lagoon on Pitcairn Island. I have to agree. We are becoming a nation of lame voyeurs.
Buzzed on espresso with citrus, I wander into the vendor area, and am beset with the sights of all the moto splendor available in Titanium, carbon fiber and polished stainless. Wheels that are art, luggage that will carry your BVD’s to the ends of the earth. The 1200 HP2 is there to ogle, prod, bounce upon, and to buy! It comes with SM wheels at an non-nominal charge for a limited time. I curse my financial vacuum, and play on the nice ST awhile. And then I see the headlamp, the only sour note on an almost perfectly designed moto.! Brazen tee shirts with the F word your kid can wear on the school bus, umbrella teeny boppers in mini skirts preen as ogling pimpled faces stare in open mouthed lust. I buy a nice compact Slime brand 12V air compressor for the KTM, and a Canyon Dancer bar harness for trailering. The jewelry-like slipper clutches, rear sets and calipers are always a delight to see and fondle. The ltd. Edition Arai’s in lustrous paint at only $600+ catch my eye. I get a lesson in quick changing my Quantum visor. The food area has quite a variety as long as it’s fried or BBQ’d . Salad? Don’t make me laugh. I select the Polish nitromethane Sonoma sausage with grilled onions since I’m solo, and pop Rolaids the rest of the afternoon.
In one of the featured races, Yates blasts past Duhamel, bumping his bike and breaking the Honda’s fairing. Yates is always one who gives it his all. His rear tire throws up a smoke cloud as he re enters the pavement, throwing a rock clean through Duhamel’s windscreen. Later I hear Miguel’s mama tell Yvon how worried she was that her boy’d get hurt. He’s been thrashed plenty before, and she has the right to be concerned. Spies dominates the two Superbike races, with Mladin a second behind, and Miguel third; both races post identical results. The Buell doesn’t complete the race due to the mechanical problems encountered at Daytona. The winners circle is an explosion of champagne, and the podium guys attack the fans with this sticky effervescence. I stay away.
The weekend was interesting, but the racing predictable. Mladin’s days seem to be numbered with Spies completely on fire from the green light. I hear that Rossi’s Yamaha engine has failed in today's race, and he’s probably out of the running this year. Hayden leads in the points! Rossi will NOT turn to GP cars in ’07, but will race MotoGP yet again. That makes me happy; he is a worthy presence in moto racing. I wonder which factory he’ll ride for!