Sunday, June 15, 1997

so, living close to 60 miles away from Willow Springs Racetrack (the
fastest road in the west) and having squidlike friends who actually
RACE, I got a group of friends to ride, taking backroads thru the
mountains to the highway to get to Willow on Sunday.

Now, my attempts to borrow a motorcycle for Steve Moonitz (who was out
visiting for a long weekend) didnt pan out. My friend's GS1000 needed
new tires which hadnt come in, and the guy with the extra ex500
WOULDNT lend it to me. (I'd offered all sorts of incentives, like an
oil change, and new tires if I could borrow it when folks come to
visit.) Fooey, I'm just going to buy an ex500 or a small streetlegal
race bike or if that raise comes thru, a cbr600f2 for people to borrow. 

Sunday morning, with pretty much a bottle of carb cleaner, a spoon, a
pair of vicegrips and a screwdriver, Steve manages to get the
carburator out of Pickle (honda ascot vt500ft) that I'd unfortunately
allowed to sit from Dec 7th with just a little too much gasoline in
the tank. There is a Lot of Crap in gasoline. The carb cleaner does
its work, I choke and gag and wheeze a lot from the fumes and look at
Pickle in amazement as she starts right up. *wow, steve!*

Deciding to test out distances with loaded luggage, I'd offered to
bring sandwiches from a local deli as well as soda and water for the
other bikers. (a '96 vfr750, yzf600, cbr600f3, katana 600, and a zx10
as well as my Sprint 900, and my ascot 500).

Steve takes the Ascot, and goes to prove again that its the rider, not
the bike. (no, really, both tailbags on the Sprint make a LOT of drag!
really!). I led the slow group, confident that I wont be left behind,
since _I_ have the food, water and soda. 

The roads are clear of gravel, and we head up Rt 2 up to what we call
'9 mile' and the gang makes me lead. I try very hard to ride smoothly
and never use the brakes. Only time the brakes are hit is when the
large sign appears: Rock Slide Ahead.

There was no rock slide. they'd cleared it out but neglected to move
the large orange sign.

The headspace leading is weird for me. Generally I can forget there
are people behind me, secure in the fact that _I_ am not going to be
going any faster then they can handle. I still get nervous when there
is oncoming traffic, and have to work on not target fixation (one
would think after skiing for a few years, one would be over this).

I just dont like feeling responsible for the folks behind me. I'm
still most comfortable riding alone.

Sammy, on the YZF600, who generally leads the rides, pulls ahead of me
just before the set of turns we call the 90mile sweepers and leads the
fast group ahead. I watch as Steve heads off with the group, wondering
if the tires on the Ascot are grippy enough...

I, Marshall on the VFR750, and Fred on his CBR600F3, take the roads at
our own pace. Having the bags on the back are a little disconcerting -
tho the bike doesnt really handle much differently. The roads are
clear and zoomy and zippy. The land around there starts to become
desert and the colours are Very different from what I'm used to from
living back east.

We finally hit Rt 14, and get on the rather boring highway for a Long
Time. I can finally keep up with Steve! (well, at 90 on the highway,
the Trumph handles JUST a little better then an unfaired Ascot). He
tells me later, following the YZF and the Katana that DOD Nominal was
acheived, and that he kept in front of the zx10 in the tight
stuff. (DOD nominal was 105. The Ascot goes 110.)

We get to willow and the first thing everyone does is empty my bags of
food and drink. We then watch the races - the 600 supersport was
amazing - this was the first race I'd ever seen with actual dicing for
second place - the draft passes were wild - I didnt know one could do
that and one rider squeaking UNDER two other riders in turn one caused
us all to almost fall out of the stands.  Chuck Graves walked home
with many first places. (just about every race he was in. must get
dull never seeing anyone in front of you.)

My favorite thing was to be able to recognize the Ducatis from just
the engine noise. I still cant tell the bikes apart except for the
fact they are motorcycles... *oo! a purple one!* was about the extent
of my awareness as they passed us in turn one. Fortunately, I had
Steve on one side telling me stuff, and Sammy on the other, and Brian
and Fred above me. 

hey, I found out what a Pit Tootsie is! I want that position!  well,
for Yves (novice racer on an ex500) or my friend Bob who races a 125
of some kind. Heck, I keep the labikers fed and watered all thru the
hot desert sun AND I had sunscreen. (I dont use it, but my male
friends with fair skin always seem to forget it if their GF's arent
around...)

Tuesday, 6/17/1997, I drag Steve up RT 2 to Newcomb's Ranch for lunch,
and end up sitting up there for a while talking to someone with a new
Bimota. Steve quietly tells me that had he been alone, he would have
followed them on the Ascot, to see if he could keep up with them in
the twisties - some of them are rather tight and a light bike being
ridden by someone who knows what they are doing can consistently blow
away raw power. I just sigh - after seeing him ride on Sunday - I know
it would have been no contest. Some day I'll be that good. *yea, like
when I'm HIS age, donchaknow...* but it was still fun talking to the
squids on the GSXR750, Bimota something and a FZR1000.

The weather was beautiful, the scenery gorgeous and the ride is just
fast enough. As much as I hate riding with people, riding with Steve
is fun 'cause I dont have to worry about him, he's right with me.

My coworkers hate me. (I paged them from the payfone on the mountain
to tell them how great the weather was) while they were stuck inside.

This upcoming weekend - 300+ mile backroads ride up to Bakersfield
with Jim Dutton (who reminds me suspiciously of Colonel Holbrook - do
you have relatives out here?). The section that involves Sand is
scaring me. I want to know what to do when one hits deep sand on a top
heavy bike.

I was suggesting pushing it thru it. :) no one likes that idea.