Is Racing As Good as Sex?

 By Doug Boughton

A while back, my teenage son asked if racing motorcycles was as good as sex. I thought a second and responded with that old adage; ‘It’s as much fun as you can have with your clothes on, but it lasts a lot longer.’ *

Consider: my Ducati waits patiently for me in the darkness of the basement, until her leather clad rider flips the switch at the top of the stairs, exposing her to sensual lines to the light.  Rolling her into the sunlight, my eyes run over that lovely gas tank, the pert Corbin monoposto saddle, the modified 888 trellis frame cradling a masterpiece of an engine…elegant in its simplicity, fascinating in its complexity, pure form following function.  She’s been treated to braided stainless oil lines, an oil sightglass, carbon fiber belt covers, and a big set of jugs punched out to 944, the flywheel lightened, breathing through a set of Keihin 42 mm pumpers, with chunky D&D cans to do the talking.

Donning helmet and gloves I climb on, with a short prayer to the Almighty for traveling mercies and angels, then twist the key, roll the throttle twice to squirt the pumpers, and thumb the starter.  She bursts into life sharply, and I let her sit and idle for a minute before snicking into first.  Down we go to the lake road, and by the time we hit the mountain road she’s getting warmer, and we roll through the gears, taking it kinda easy while we both warm up.  We zip up to 60 in the chutes, the sun warms us, surrounded with the smell of fresh cut grass, the forest, and clean fresh air.  Nothing connects you to the world like a good ride.

There’s a stop at the bottom of the hill, where a 5-liter Mustang crosses my road. The driver clocks me, revs his engine, and punches it.  I’m all in.  A sharp right turn, then the front end floats nicely as I’m WFO, the cans bellowing as I shifting up through the gears and  blast by him at a buck.  Nowhere near wound out…cars are too easy. I brake and turn up another mountain road, the bike and I have merged, thought ceases as the real intercourse begins. We rocket down the chutes, the big twin booming with a sound between a built small block Chevy and a hot Harley. I tuck down behind the bikini fairing, sitting up at the last instant for corners as the wind rips at my body, I’m downshifting and braking hard. I slide my body forward to weight the front wheel and snap her down into the corner, where I hang off like a Pony Express rider ducking arrows. On tighter turns under hard braking, the rear wheel gets light and is easily stepped out to square the turn up flat-track style, then drive hard down the chute, in a regular rhythm of aggressive acceleration, pitched braking, and the gravity pull of cornering.  I’ve lost all sense of time and identity.  There are no problems, no past or future, and I’m never so alive as right now.

And it goes on, sometimes hard and fast, riding the edge in ecstasy, then slowing to recoup our focus and store the memory. We play off each other as I push her hard, then brake early to get a a good line so I can drive out hard; other times slamming her in roughly, experiencing some sideways drifting along with the brakes to slow her, and if I’m doing it right, we turn and burn on the way out, too. She responds to my every touch, my every thought. When I’m loose, relaxed and smooth, my partner responds to me in kindness, pleasing in every way. But when I’m tight through fear or doubt, she gets nervous and twitchy, threatening to pitch me from the saddle as punishment for my lack of focus.  It’s total commitment, a relationship pure and unfettered.

Dropping down on main roads again, cruising at 70-75 so we can catch traffic and engage in the boyish game of seeing how many cars we can pass, ducking in hard on the brakes. The Man of Kent looms ahead, promising great beer and food, and crowded with bikes.  We downshift and brake hard, enjoying the over-run boom as we turn in. A bunch of Harley riders stand by their bikes, I’ve got their attention so I back in next to them; Boom, Boom, Ba-Boom, the pipes punching drum beats into the warm afternoon air. I kill the engine, flip the side stand down, pull my helmet off…silence. “Italian Harley” I say, and they laugh. We are brothers. They, like me, are people of passion and sensation, in different degrees and ways; no one superior or inferior as long as their fervor is true and not feigned. The need to feel movement, to speed through the air, open to the elements and vulnerable to the dangers.  Flying on the ground., to risk is to live, and we all seek the oneness only a rider and their motorcycle can know.

• That depends on the race, or the partner! – Ed.