Flat Track Hookup

After my teenage days dirt racing with Willy [see Doug’s previous article], I didn’t continue with racing for many years.  It wasn’t until my mid-40s that I discovered road racing with the USCRA (United States Classic Racing Association).  I raced solo bikes as well as a sidecar outfit.  To cross-train my skills, and also to race in another discipline during the long interval between road races, I took up flat tracking in the early 1990s. The bike I raced was a totally modified 750cc Triumph T140: I built that sled, but it was a lot faster than I was.  The engine literally came out of the boneyard at my buddy’s shop: the cases from a pile of cases, and every other part of it came out of a pile – all the bolts and screws, the cams, everything.  We built it with a stock 5-speed gearbox, with buttons on the rockers for a bit more cam lift, and big Mikuni carbs. It was a bear!

My first time racing at Weedsport, I did well in the daylight practice sessions.  It was my first time on a clay track, and laid out as a 3/8-mile in a D-shape.  I thought to myself, could I actually make the main?  At night when the lights came on, turn three was very badly lit; it was like going through a dark tunnel. I needed a headlight!  It was frankly dangerous, and I had a business and payments to make for my kids, so I rolled it back a little during the race.  I ran my heat, and almost got third, but they only took the top 3.  In the Last Chance Qualifier, I got bumped off the bubble on the final lap on good old turn three. I was not disappointed; I already had a bump on my left collarbone, and didn’t need another.  It was all good; the field is very big in these Nationals, and I was amazed at how fast some of those guys were. Having raced in many disciplines after re-starting my racing career in my 40s, flat tracking was the hardest of all.  So much to learn: backing that Triumph in, reading the changing track conditions, guys pushing you up or leaning on you on the outside, with speeds on the chutes that must have been over 80mph.  It was so physical, but at least on the half miles you catch a break on the chutes, compared to a short track.

I’d arrived at Weedsport with this hot blonde named Becky – I wish I had a picture [maybe…].  It was one of those ‘bumped into her at a bar and we hooked up’ things. As you know, flat track guys are horn dogs, so my pit in the afternoon was full of riders who came over to check her flirting ass out; fine with me, just a hookup enjoying the elite company, all in fun. Then David Aldana came sauntering in and said, “Oh, I can tell you’re one of the fast guys!” I laughed and told him the truth.  He was racing Ken McGuire’s 250 Bultaco Astro: Ken was the promoter of the race, and my friend of many years. As I didn’t make the main event in the race, Becky and I grabbed a couple of chairs, and watched the racing from the stage on the inside of the track. The 500/750 classic brakeless race came up, and it was some great racing: George Bejian (hope I got the name right) was pretty famous in the Northeast, and was running in the top pack.  But as he came off the sharp turn 4, he looked back under his armpit to see who was coming, and his KR’s front wheel climbed the boilerplate, and he wrapped himself around a telephone pole.  He was dead before he hit the ground, it was terrible. But the thing was, he had terminal cancer and didn’t have a lot of days left anyway. I knew him, and we’d talked about him finding me a Scout to run in vintage road racing.  In the end, is it not better to die racing than die from cancer?

Of course, it was a late night before the last race went off.  I went and took a shower with Becky at the campground. We’d set up a tent on a hill with no one around, but as we walked back to it, there were now tents all around ours, with a ton of choppers.  Biker gang, shit!  I’d been studying martial arts since I was 22, but no way was I going to come out on top of this mess. They had a big fire going near our tent, and were sitting around hooting and hollering.  We walked right into the middle of them; me carrying my leathers and boots in shorts, no shirt, Becky had short-shorts on with a tight tube-top. They stopped, looked at us, and we looked at them in a long silence.  Someone finally said, “Hey, you’re one of them racer guys, WHOO,” and suddenly everything was OK. By then it was late, like 1am, but we sat with them and had some nice cold frosties. They were chill, and just wanted to know what it was like to sling a 750 sled around a dirt track.  We finally climbed into our tent, with our sleeping bags already zipped together.  As we settled in, Becky said ‘What if they decide to collapse the tent on top of us and do their bad biker shit?” I pulled my compact Glock 40 pistol from my bag, showed her, put in under my pillow and said, “they’ll be sorry.”  But they were good. We got up in the morning, packed up and left.

Sometimes a lot more happens at a race, than a race.