Passing, Pain, and Purpose

The moment after the best pass of my life

Indoor short track racing is motorcycle combat.
Greenlights on – you attack.
No quarters asked or given.
The competition crowds your personal space.
Passing is hard work,
you must be aggressive and totally committed.
The intensity makes it rewarding.
I look forward all year to indoor racing at Timonium.

The impossible was what I needed: a do-all motorcycle.
Big enough to race outdoor but small enough to race indoor.
And street legal so I could commute to work.
Searching the classifieds, a Buell Blast seemed to fit the bill.
Not that I knew of anyone who raced one.
It was just for fun – to make the show.
I had the tank and tail repainted.
She might not be fast, but she’d look good.
My competitors looked amused, strolling past.
The Buell was not a competitive ride:
too big and way too heavy.
The ice was broken when some kid admired the paint job,
gushing ‘it’s orange like the General Lee.’

On the Buell’s maiden heats,
the first few laps were get-to-know-you.
By the third session, I’m first in line in the cattle chute.
The safe bet is to start at the back:
you’re less likely to get run over.
If you’re first out, you gotta run
like you’re chased by wild dogs.
It was sketchy to start up front,
but how else do you learn?
You just gotta go for it.
The lights flashed green,
the back tire chirped as I dropped the clutch,
and the big single thundered down the straight,
the pack snapping at my wheel.

The brake squeals as she starts to slide sideways
into the first corner.
I spin up the rear tire coming onto the straight,
drifting to the outer wall.
Into the next corner,
a rider squeezes by on the inside.
Time slows down, he’s in front but drifting wide,
I squeeze the brake calmly,
swapping outside for in,
aiming the portly Buell beneath him.
Taking a squeaky line I re-pass him on the exit,
so close I can see WTF on his face.
My line had the drive out,
but his lighter/faster 450 motored past.

He was taking the inside, so I gunned around him to brake later,
blocking him so I could lead on the main straight.
He popped up braking as I was hard on the throttle,
and we went bar to bar, BLAM! Contact.
My bars snapped to the right,
and I slammed onto the concrete,
as the other rider ricocheted off the outer wall.
I’m told the third-place rider ran over me.
I slid to a halt, flat on my back with the Buell over my left side,
The engine still running.
I reached shut to her off.
The marshals waved red flags yelling ‘Don’t move!’
I hit the kill switch and leaned back
as the ceiling lights blurred.

It’s a warm summer day.
I’m 8 years old and my mom is so young.
We’re doing yard work,
Laughing and having fun.

Someone is yelling my name.
My visor yanks up and my eyes open.
Wow – I was racing a motorcycle.
It a second to sort which was real.
Sadness sweeps over me.
I miss talking with my mom.

The marshal asked the normal questions to see how hard
I’d been rattled.
What’s your name, where are you?
I said I needed to get back up for practice.
As the marshal helped me up the lights go out again.
I go limp and crumple to the floor.

It’s dark, I’m cold, and I can’t see anything.
Is this judgment day?
God, we had this conversation before.
You remember?
A certain AMA pro and I discussed dying.
I wanted to check out with my riding boots on.
To leave this world like a man.
Not to wither away with colon cancer
or some other horrible illness.
Yes God, that’s right, the Pro
who unwillingly taught me to make that pass.
You know I was going for P1.
I could check out like a boss.
Prayer is talking and meditation is listening.
It got quiet.
Ok God – I know my is job is to take care of Olive.

My eyes open as the EMTs cut off my body armor.
A fellow racer lurked in the background.
The EMTs repeat questions.
I impatiently asked
“can I get back out for practice now?”
The racer turned around and yelled
“He’s OK!”
The EMTs laugh “No!”
The female EMT asked to cut off my shirt.
I said “I like it when you tear it off.”
The male EMT started laughing again.
As I was wearing my lucky t-shirt,
I asked if she would kindly help slide my right arm out.
She looked over my bruised torso and noted
the broken left collar bone.
“You’ve hit your head too and need a hospital.”
I agreed with her but pointed out
it would be better if I went to my local hospital.
After much discussion they relented.
But they insisted I leave the track on the stretcher.
I felt embarrassed.
The female EMT said,  “Don’t look sad –
smile and wave to the people in the stands.”
I did, and was surprised by the relieved
looks and the smiles I got back.
As I was carried off the track, an upset Olive waited.
I made a silly face, “I feel like Cleopatra up here!”
She laughed.

I told her my shoulder was hurt so our day was done.
Several racers checked on me and offered assistance.
They loaded up my stuff and tied a sling around my arm.
I was touched by the friendship and warmth.
Every time my body moved,
I felt broken glass in my shoulder.
The pain kept me focused, driving my manual-transmission truck two hours home.
Olive and I talked the entire way, never turned on the radio.
If anything it made us closer,
and a trip we will both remember.

Pulling into the driveway both the truck and I were about out of gas.
I leaned my head on the steering wheel as my door opened:
my girlfriend is there to take me to the hospital.
I’m fresh from the track.
Still in my sweaty racing gear with my left boot taped on, my arm in a sling.
She looks me up and down.
“You look so damaged.”
Off to the hospital, but the ER doc can’t set my collarbone,
and I waited to see an ortho the next week.
I texted my brother John,
who drove up the next morning, unloaded my truck,
and insisted I use his truck since it’s automatic.

All seemed good, till the lecture.
“Michael it’s like you’re 50 years old
and have decided to take up bull riding.  What the f**k Michael?”
I hear where that’s coming from.
He cares about me.
I’m lucky to have a big brother like that.

Am I upset or disappointed with crashing?
Not in the least.
Those few brief laps were memorable.
I felt like Senna….a racer battling from position.
Not some voyeur sitting up in the stands or watching on TV.
It was real.

I came a long way from being a broken divorcee.
Racing gave my life purpose again.
It got me out of where I was.
It took hard work and dedication.
I train for racing. I push my limits.
But I found myself along the way.