Michael Lawless
Praise for The Unloved
You and I have the same addiction.
We endlessly scroll the internet trolling for our next motorcycle.
Does the 'disease of more' impel the search for something better?
There are much worse addictions.
The price was beyond right for a newer street legal motorcycle with a title.
The ad had been running for weeks with no takers.
The Suzuki GW 250 is an odd little duck.
Not much info for the American market.
Small Japanese machines bear the stigma of gutless beginner bikes.
The road tests said the GW was underpowered.
Could barely keep up in freeway traffic.
Bad reviews are the kiss of death.
I know Suzuki has many versions of their 250 street bikes.
Both singles and twins.
For the record, the GW250 is a water-cooled, fuel injected parallel twin.
I drove out to the country for a look.
The condition was typical of a bike in a barn.
The seller was gracious enough to allow a road test before buying.
The riding position; classic UJM.
The instrument cluster just about perfect:
Analog tach with digi speedo, clock, fuel gauge & gear indicator.
All you need and then some.
The engine was a pleasant surprise.
The reviews shouted: counter balanced, long stoke, two-valver.
To me it was a twin that felt more like a four.
Very smooth revving out to a pleasant crescendo at 11,000 RPM.
Suspension and brakes were fine, considering.
Handling is good, even if the front lacked feel when pushed.
Which might say more about me being a ham-fisted rider.
While the GW250 will never be a freeway flyer,
It was a pleasant roadster on narrow lanes.
I took her home, removed the stock mirrors and a few logos, put on a pair of my favorite grips.
Plus the usual stuff; changing the oil, service the chain, set the tire pressure.
My eighteen-year-old daughter liked the Japanese Anime styling.
Enjoying the back roads.
You must carry your momentum,
This bike will never go down a gear and disappear. Ever.
But the motor has good character.
It sounds like a motorcycle should, even with a stock exhaust.
The GW250 is quite a refined little package.
I dubbed the little roadster "Lusso".
Clean bathrooms, lots of pumps & fresh coffee.
A young man rolled up on his Ducati as I refueled.
I nodded in his direction.
He took off his helmet and asked "Is that your piece of shit? Like are you just learning to ride or something?"
I laughed, mentioned the Ducatis I've owned, and that I was service manager at a Ducati dealership.
Said Ducati makes nice art work, but his sportbike is miserable as a road bike.
The riding position is a pain in the neck, the heat from your 1098's engine will melt your legs on a summer day.
Plus, we all know what they're like to get serviced.
He fired back 'Well I meet babes".
Shaking my head I replied 'If you want to meet women, buy a Vespa".
There is not much respect for small motorcycles.
The adage of the bigger the engine, the bigger the man is tiresome.
A brand doesn't define the man.
Are we not all riders?
I paid cash for my little bike, and will carry on riding it.
How I Got Here
How do you spend your Saturday nights?
We're at a flat track race run in conjunction with a state fair.
It's blazing hot and I'm sweltering in full race leathers, helmet on, ready to go.
Standing beside me in staging is my daughter Olive.
She's happily eating chicken fingers from the concession stand.
We would never have these adventures if her mom hadn't left me.
Yeah, part of me died, but that's no excuse not to live.
In my younger days, I blew an offer to road race because I was too busy partying.
I used to kick myself about that, but maybe this was God's way of giving me another chance.
I knew if I fell back into my drinking ways, none of this would be happening.
Regrets from my earlier decisions propelled me forward.
Chasing my dirt track dreams pulled me out of the hurt I was in.
Being out on the road and sliding around on dirt made life worth living again.
Kind of like the guy in the movie Electric Horseman wearing his purple cowboy outfit.
They say it's crazy for a man my age to be flat tracking.
But I'm just like him, trying to unscrew the damage I created.
These racing adventures with my daughter in tow are the best memories I have.
I can look back now, knowing the hurt was worth it.
I wrote down these stories for Olive to remember me by.
Just because the marriage didn't work out doesn't mean it's game over.
I had to accept it,
it was what it was.
I couldn't let it paralyze me.
It could destroy the good that's around the next corner.
I had to realize that my decisions put me here.
That it was me and only me that could pull me out of this too.
I got down to doing what I was doing when I was happy: trying to go fast on motorcycles.
Balance in life is the key for me.
Between work, being a dad, a writer, and yes, a racer.
Would You Risk Your Life for $1500?
The yelling is over.
Thinking of 'Fast Eddie'
My first motorcycle brought freedom.
I roamed twisty back roads,
flicking from corner to corner.
Lost and tired one ride,
I stumbled into a motorcycle shop I never saw before.
Not expecting much
this far away from the city.
Gobsmacked - how did it get here?
I walked over and soaked in the details.
A soft voice behind me said, "that's something, huh?
"Bikes like that take constant work,
you really don't want that.
See those FZ's over there?
All they need is an oil change every now and then.
You can ride'em all day."
He'd changed my focus in a gently paternal way.
We talked motorcycle for a bit.
I heard one of the guys call him Fast Eddie.
To me, he was always Mr. Fisher.
His humility inspired me.
He never bragged about the things he'd done.
That just wasn't how he was geared.
Years passed,
and my brother started racing vintage motorcycles.
We would leave Friday after work,
drive straight thru the night to reach Mid-Ohio by dawn.
Things got tricky when John switched from four-stroke Hondas to two-stroke Yamahas.
He had no time to test or tweak before getting to the track.
We couldn't get the bike to run right.
Practice was coming up soon.
Seeing our struggle,
Mr. Fisher and his friend Jimmy (AKA Mr. Varnes) came over to give us a hand.
They never asked for anything.
Just happy to see my brother make the show.
I was impressed by the way they carried themselves.
Humble yet gracious.
They inspired me to try and be that way too.
Regular Hospitals Hate Us!
Regular hospitals hate us.
Have they never suffered for their art?
Experience has taught me I'm better off saying I fell out of a tree.
They roll their eyes when we drive ourselves to the ER after declining the ambulance ride.
I need your help, not your judgment.
I know your words come from a good place.
The kindness is much appreciated.
I can get thru the pain and the bullshit
Cause I'm living to line up again.
At one point running close second to The King.
The Sound & The Fury
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
- William Shakespeare, 'Macbeth'
He knew by her stripper hug that he was going to have fun tonight
Dinner and drinks, her for dessert.
She makes the good nights better.
All week he struggled to sneak out for a ride but work got the better of him.
His buzzing wristwatch signaled it was time.
He slipped out of her body hug,
Climbed into his riding gear.
Grabbed a quick double espresso on his way to the garage.
He toggled through his choices.
The sun crests the canyons as he wheels out his machine.
He coasted down the hill, away from the house before firing her up.
The sound of a three-cylinder MV barking to life.
The engine makes the music,
Turning from growl to wail as she revs.
It's the soundtrack for this morning's ride.
The stress of the week melts away as he picks up speed.
That job sucks all the joy out of him.
But between her and the bike,
he was glad to be alive again.
Howling down the straightaway,
he drifts over to the double yellow,
flicks hard right, arching from the double yellow to white and yellow again.
Tossing her left, he tags a knee then rockets up the hill through the trees on the narrow two-lane road.
Smiling in his helmet high on adrenaline.
He follows his asphalt path as it snakes through the forest.
The rider is all in,
with the Armco keeping him honest.
Turning right the road follows the coastline.
The smell of the ocean and eucalyptus trees fill his helmet.
All good things come to end.
He silently glides back into his garage.
Electric motorcycles make for happy neighbors.
The sounds of the MV are just computer-generated.
His onboard system reads his throttle input, pumping in the appropriate engine sound into his helmet speakers.
The advanced system even mocks the power delivery and corresponding engine vibrations.
His bike is so quiet that the dogs don't even bark.
Heavy metal thunder is dead.
The future is silent.
The Perfect Lap: Don Emde
By Don Emde
I turned 18 years old in 1969, the minimum age to race motorcycles at the professional level in the United States. In those years dirt track racing and roadracing were combined in the same AMA Grand National Championship Series, so to contend at the top level, a rider needed to do both types of racing. I am probably best known for my roadracing—having won the Daytona 200 in 1972—but I did dirt track racing also and learned some things that served me well in all forms of racing.
My family lived then in the San Diego area, but the best place to go dirt track racing was Ascot Park, a half-mile dirt oval located in Gardena, south of downtown Los Angeles. Unlike other tracks where a race might be held once a month, Ascot ran every Friday night from April to October.
The AMA pro licensing system required first year pros to compete in their own Novice class and limited to 250cc machines. Second year pros were called Juniors and still competed in a separate class, but they could ride machines up 750cc, then if your scored enough transfer points, riders were at the top level called Experts and could then race in the National Championship races.
I learned real quick how to handle my X6, finding the happy medium between going fast enough to compete for the races wins, and not too fast to end up on the ground…or worse yet in the solid wooden wall on the outside of the turns.
Getting a good start was critical at Ascot. Most of the riders I was competing against also had twin-cylinder two-strokes like me—either Suzukis or Yamahas—and if I got stuck in the pack with them, then I just rode the track wherever I could find an opening to try to pass the other riders.
To have a clear track ahead, however, I could then set my own pace and take control of the race. I knew in my mind what the “Perfect Lap” consisted of and what I needed to do, including how far into the turn to go at full speed, and then how to use my only tool to help turn the corner, the throttle. In flat track racing, a spinning rear wheel under full power serves as a bit of a brake and forces the motorcycle to turn in the direction you get the machine pointed.
Once I understood how to use the rear wheel to turn the motorcycle, I found that instead of riding the track as an oval, the actual line to follow was more of a diamond shape. Just past the start/finish line I could lean the machine over, let off momentarily, then back on and get the rear wheel spinning. This continued about half-way into the turn and the rear wheel would eventually start catching traction and heading out of the turn onto the back straightaway towards the next turn and then do it all over again.
That season I won 11 of the 30 Main Events in the Novice class and came back the next and won more races in the Junior class on a BSA 650. In 1971, I was hired by BSA to join their factory team and was racing the full AMA Grand National Championship schedule. I wasn’t able ride at Ascot as much in the coming years, but the concept I had learned of figuring out the perfect lap on a racecourse stuck with me, even in roadracing at places like Daytona.
[Editor's note: Don Emde was the first child of a Daytona 200 winner to win the race as well. His win on a Yamaha 350 (tuned by Mel Dinesen) had other firsts: it was the smallest-capacity machine to win the race, the first two-stroke to win, and the first win for Yamaha. After a successful racing career as a very young man, Emde worked in marketing at Bell Helmets, then was editor of Motorcycle Dealer News. He later took up writing his own books, including Daytona 200, Finding Cannonball's Trail, and his magnum opus 'The Speed Kings', a history of board track racing, which we reviewed here. Thanks to our Flat Track Editor Michael Lawless for securing this article!]
The Spectacle of Speedway
EZ Does It
Doing it the hard way is painful:
Life over the limit beat me down,
And I grew gun shy from injury.
Tired of explaining the damage from my latest get-off,
and those hours of reflection in the ER.
Part of me dies at the track when I’m not suiting up,
and the dream floods back watching American Flat Track on TV.
The contradiction was killing me.
Lucky, I ran across Kenny Dahlin.
He runs a flat track racing school called 'EZ Does It',
named for his approach to racing.
We crossed paths on social media,
thumbs up & positive comments.
On the track Kenny looks effortless and in control.
Exactly what I wasn't.
I knew I could learn a few things.
So, I decided to invest in my riding skills.
Kenny teaches on the track.
He sent me out first, then joined me:
We rip off a bunch of laps elbow to elbow.
He dropped back to tail me, then cleared off to see what I'd do.
His feedback made me realize
a lifetime of sport riding had made me lazy.
On the road, to corner quicker I'd enter fast and lean harder.
This doesn’t work on the dirt.
Charging into a corner,
I’d lose front grip then pick her up to regain traction.
By then I'm running wide, struggling to change direction,
and grabbing throttle to make up for mistakes.
Out of shape and into the next corner too fast.
Over the limit is thrilling
but actually slow.
Just a hot mess on the edge of crashing.
Kenny helped me dial it in.
He said my leaning in is something bad waiting to happen,
and forcing it only compounds the mistakes.
He said use the front wheel to steer,
and roll the throttle earlier to make her turn.
Kenny likes to keep it simple.
Don’t overwhelm the student.
Focus on one or two things to make progress.
His approach paid off,
I was going quicker yet calmer.
Flat track can be brutal, so EZ Does It.
Kenny has coached over 100 students just this year.
For the first two years the average age of his students was 50.
Are you listening, motorcycle industry people?
Dahlin has spent a lifetime flat track racing.
As a kid, he rode to the races hanging on the back of his daddy's Harley.
Kenny climbed thru the ranks to carry an AMA Pro number.
You benefit from his experience by taking his school.
I think you'll agree it's well worth it.
The Highline: Morgen Mischler
What does it take to be a motorcycle racer?
Some outside our circle might say 'balls'.
But to a racer, risk is a calculated decision, not blind aggression.
Outsiders have no idea what self-control and self-discipline it demands,
from eating right to working out.
Time spent wrenching while others go drinking.
It takes more than dreams.
It takes hard work and plenty of it.
And for most, years of struggling.
And when you make the main event,
you're way back on the third row.
"Ever since I was a little kid, people would tell me I had balls of steel (lol). The first thing I’m thinking sitting on the third row is I’ve got 8 people ahead of me. I need to position myself on the line so I can get the traction I need to close that gap to the leaders. Starting is a big key in this sport, especially if the racing funnels down in the corner to a single file (which I loathe). The next thing is making sure the guys ahead of me are good starters and aren’t going to be roadblocks in the first corner, but also to hit a line I’ve found on the warm-up lap to give myself a chance to move forward."
Tell me about passing - are you stalking them or killing everything in your path?
"Passing on the highline. For me, it’s threading a needle others don’t think about threading. Trusting my bike placement won’t be in the marbles and having enough mid-corner speed to make the pass and keep it under control without running my clutch lever into their exhaust or knee, risking going down. If I’m the only one on the high line, it’s more about how fast I can run that line and find what else may be faster. Up there it’s more about finding your marks and hitting them while trying to find spots to improve and not lose time in the process of experimenting with the line. If someone else is on the mainline like Volusia, then it’s more like stalking and trying to find where you can squeak by. It takes a lot more commitment to thread the needle and come down to the mainline ahead of whoever was ahead of you."
"My Lima video kinda shows my bike on the limit. It’s a badass, the bike becomes an effective extension of your body, so much of it is bike feel. When you have the gearing right it makes everything a lot easier because you fall into a rhythm. My bike is built very well by Vance and Hines. I can't thank them enough for their support. I don’t like ripping my fast bike on the limiter unless it’s at a national, gotta take it easy on that thing cause these pockets are pretty shallow compared to some teams. Not a huge fan of rebuilding things, so I try not to beat up my equipment outside of nationals. Really fortunate Vance and Hines builds all my KTMs. My main bike is a stout. I'm working on getting a backup machine just as powerful too."
What it's like running high? (the high line AKA 'high, wide & handsome')
"The highline is the slower way around, but it carries your momentum instead of having to slow down as much for the corner. There are so many different approaches to riding the lines that form. Some tracks you can’t get off of the main groove where all the rubber forms or you’re going backward in a hurry. A lot of it is people ride defensive and guard the inside. Last year Indy mile and this year Volusia II for example you couldn’t get off the mainline, but people wanted to protect the bottom so they wouldn’t charge into the corner as fast. I had to leave it on longer and flirt with the top of the groove next to the marbles to get enough momentum to pass them and immediately close the door to get on the mainline to make the pass. It’s a tough needle to thread because just above where the rubber has formed on the track is marbles of dirt that will carry you up the track"
"It’s a large amount of being pleased with yourself and knowing you just whooped some ass. Along with the relief of getting first after the stress of it. But euphoric is an accurate description."
Tell me about race day?
"An overview of the day was that we switched shocks to something I thought would work, chased the setup with it and qualified 20th. We switched back to the shock from the other day and made some adjustments before the semi to see if it would help. Mark and I had the provisional card ready just in case I didn’t get into the top 8 😂 but went from the 3rd row to 5th in the semi. Nailed a start and picked my way through on the first lap and put my head down. If you look at the gap, I picked up .1+ almost every lap. I didn’t check to see the gap until there were 2 laps to go and get a better view of it in the last corner on the last lap."
Tell me about your plans for the future?
"I’m not totally sure what the future may hold for me. I’m so invested in my program, I’m just trying to piece the right support together to actually make my program remotely comparable to the factory teams. I’m sure if we’d compare budgets, it’d be laughable. I’d also want to take everyone that’s supported me this far along because they deserve it just as much as I do. I’m fortunate to have the support I do because I never thought I’d get this far. Also, I would like to give extra special thanks to Randy Triplet, Bill Mischler, and Mark Muth."
Morgen gives a good glimpse of what's in his head.
It all came together easily.
I was so stoked to be at the American Flat Track race in New York.
This was the first time back at the track with photographer/wingman Steve Koletar.
He's the 'Weegee' of dirt track. Be it sprint cars or flat track bikes.
Steve has a gift of capturing those magic moments seen here in this article.
We palled around the pits talking to riders and tuners alike.
This was the first time I talked at length with Morgen Mischler.
I was impressed by how talkative he was for a flat tracker racer, articulate too.
Morgen mentioned he was game for The Vintagent.
I knew he was serious when I saw Mischler started to followed me on Instagram.
We wrote this together without even talking.
Just using Instagram.
We plan on keeping these lines of commutations open for future updates.
The Man Who Beat Marquez
He was all of 20 years old.
Yeah, he had a Grand National Championship under his belt,
but no passport.
When the ink dried, he hopped a jet to Spain.
To face a man
even the great Valentino Rossi couldn't beat.
Marquez was the newly crowned MotoGP wonder-boy
whose speed seemed effortless
and victory inevitable.
The Superprestigio race
was created to showcase Marquez' ability
to dominate on dirt as well as asphalt in front on his countrymen.
Two worlds would collide in Spanish arena.
For the first time, a MotoGP World Champion would
face an American Flat Track Champion on a dirt track.
The idea was to jump-start the then-declining sport of flat track
and legitimize the sport to the nonbelievers.
Superprestegio was meant to bring the best of different motorcycle racing disciplines together,
but no American Flat Track riders were invited initially.
American journalist Mark Gardiner heckled the promoters via social media,
and soon after, the new American champ,
Brad Baker received his invitation
and an offer of a bike from the Spanish KTM importer.
Brad was hustled to a press conference,
suitcases in hand,
and met his competitors.
They may have been superstars,
but every one was friendly.
Brad was surprised by the sea of press
and the army of enthusiastic fans.
He'd never been put on such a pedestal.
Motorcycle racing is huge in Spain,
but American flat track racing
has a county fair vibe.
After the press conference,
a fellow racer toured him around Barcelona.
From the back of a scooter,
Brad saw the old city,
its architecture and its nightclubs.
Arriving at the oval dirt track,
was where Baker finally felt at home.
This was his world.
His European competitors were pleasantly surprised
and found him a fine ambassador.
The Superprestegio format had two categories,
dirt racers and road racers.
The top 4 from each final advanced to the super final.
Baker dominated the dirt
while Marquez had his way with road racers.
When the gates dropped,
Marquez came out swinging,
taking the holeshot.
But Baker was on him,
showing a wheel constantly.
A few laps in,
Brad ran around Marquez' outside in turn four.
but Marquez hit him firmly,
bouncing Baker off the outer wall
hard enough to bend his exhaust.
Baker said 'he was aiming for me'.
Marquez was playing for keeps.
But this wasn't Bakers' first rodeo.
He lived the unwritten rule in flat track:
you can bump but you can't knock 'em down.
He gathered himself up and set off in pursuit.
Baker lined up for a pass down the front straight,
charging hard up the inside.
Marquez tried to block him,
chopping his throttle and swinging to the left,
but his timing was late.
He bounced off Baker's side
and was slammed unceremoniously onto the track.
Sure seemed like flat track justice to me.
Baker looked back to see the MotoGP champ
lying on the track and thought "Oh F***!"
He took it easy for a lap or two
to show it wasn't intentional,
then picked up the pace and wheelied across the finish line
to take his win.
Marquez did not seem too happy at first,
but shook it off and congratulated Baker.
All was forgiven, and the party began.
Baker returned to Spain many times,
and now considers it a second home.
For years after, I badgered Baker for an interview
about that first Superprestigio race.
But every time I lined him up,
he'd throttle up and out.
Did he not see the significance?
In 20 years he'd be giving speeches about the night he beat Marquez.
I wasn't going to give up,
though I could read between the lines.
At that point, Baker was too busy looking forward to talk about the past.
For him, life was a blur of travel and racing, punctuated by victories.
who directed 'Take it to the Limit.'
As a kid, I saw the film and it changed me.
Suddenly, being a fan was not enough.
I sat quietly, soaking up his words,
trying not to say anything awkward.
But I had a chance to speak
of a race that deserves to be remembered.
Of a young American who traveled overseas
to face the World Champion,
on a borrowed motorcycle.
I confessed I'd been struggling to lock down an interview.
Peter asked "so what's the holdup?" and picked up his phone,
right in the middle of dinner.
"Tom, ask Baker to make time for Mike Lawless."
Peter encouraged me to keep at it.
Maybe I'd get my story after all.
A few weeks later, in the pits at Williams Grove,
it's after the main and packed with fans.
I'm just a fly on the wall,
but the sea of people parts
and Baker walks over to me, still sweating hard from the race.
'Hey, sorry I've been tied up.
I got stuff going on for the next couple of weeks.
Message me and we'll talk."
I was floored - did that just really happen?
I waited those weeks, then nervously shot him a text.
Several minutes later my phone rang.
Coffee in hand, I grabbed my notepad, and had that interview.
Flat trackers are a humble lot
and Brad is no different.
He plays the strong silent type well,
but warmed up as the words flowed,
about his wonderment for that Spanish experience.
The interview was worth the wait.
Thank you, Brad Baker.
The Last Victory
It's a long way to the top if you want to rock 'n roll.
Damn shame Baker is starting way back on the fourth row.
Seemed plenty fast all day but the Harleys kept breaking.
Guess they turned fragile in pursuit of speed.
Mechanical failure snatched him from contention repeatedly that season.
This was his final National for the factory team.
He won't win a Championship today,
but maybe redemption.
Conditions forced more than one racer into survival mode,
everyone ran the safer line down low.
When the lights turned green for main,
Baker dropped into beast mode.
He brazenly ran the high line out by the fence.
Spectacularly over the limit.
Passing competitors on a wide-open throttle, hopping through the ruts and blinding dust.
There's no room for error running high, wide and handsome.
Insiders stood with mouths open as Baker roared by.
Baker gloried in the madness,
passing the entire field, taking the lead on lap 3.
With no challengers, victory was his - if the Harley held together.
Baker later said he took the first ten laps WFO.
Blasting through lapped traffic, the blinding dust pasted his taped-on faceshield.
With eyes burning from the dust, he eased off but still won handily.
In their excitement did the cheering crowd notice Baker's win?
I knew I'd seen something special.
It wasn't until the post-race party I knew others saw it too.
Some racers spoke in awe of his riding, some shook their heads side to side.
One tuner joked he'd worried 'Baker's balls would get tangled up in his chain'.
I was floored by the honesty of the new Champ when he confessed,
he tried to hang on to Baker but couldn't.
He'd almost pitched it away in the chasing, but reminded himself
he was there to win the Championship,
not beat Baker.
I couldn't find Baker for comment.
A Media badge doesn't guarantee face time.
I saw my chance on a break at The Kentucky Mile.
Baker stood in the shadow of the transport, like a gladiator, looking lean and mean.
Waiting for the battle to come.
But a fan munching the largest chicken leg I ever saw beat me to him.
"Hey, Brad, you going to win tonight?"
The hard look of a racer dropped into a smile.
"I'm going to try - hey thanks for coming out tonight man."
The fan was aware Baker noticed his chicken leg.
"I guess you can eat all the chicken you want huh?"
"I'm allowed 6 ounces with lunch and it can't be breaded or fried."
"Really, wow, what's that you're drinking?"
"It's a gallon of water with lemons & cucumber.
At the end of the day, I gotta hand it back empty to my trainer or else I got to drink it right there."
The fan stood, comprehending that flat track racers had changed,
and as he drifted away, Baker eyed me wearily knowing I'm media.
"Hey Brad - what it's take to run high wide & handsome?"
He took a hit from his water jug and said, "Big huevos,"
smiling broadly.
"What's it like going that fast with that wall in your face?"
"You don't see the fences, you're looking where you want to go."
"Don't you think about..."
"You can't..."
"What would happen if it goes wrong?"
Brad laughed, "I'd end up face down in the parking lot."
He reached for his helmet as his crew fired up his bike.
"Hey, I was thinking we could do an article about your beating Marquez,
or about winning Santa Rosa?"
"Yeah ok, you know where to find me..."
That night Baker beat Henry Wiles for third place by mere inches
in one of the most electrifying battles of the season.
We did the 16-hour drive with our friend Barb Shoemaker.
Since we weren't hauling Jake's race bike she insisted we stop for Krispy Kremes.
Olive stopped calling her Ms. Shoemaker and switched to Aunt Barb.
I got to show her my favorite spots to observe the race action:
row one at start/finish line takes your breath away,
inside turn one against the rail is magic too,
the spooky tunnel under the track, and the media room.
Walking through the pits we bumped into Baker.
He's sweating hard in full leathers, right after practice.
Brad thanks me for the Marquez article.
I introduce Olive.
Much to her amusement, he reached out and said 'Hi, I'm Brad'.
They chat for a few minutes.
As we walk away she says,
"You make him sounds like such a desperado, Dad, but he's really nice."
For me, it was the day the music died.
Baker had seemed unbreakable.
But a wheelchair hasn't stolen Brad from the sport he loves.
He's a TV commentator for American Flat Track and an advisor to the Indian factory team.
He's set to be married this year to his sweetheart Kelcey Stauffer.
His passion for dirt racing led him in a new direction,
and he recently started racing a dirt track car with hand controls.
It reminds him of the old days - just him, a bike and van.
It's not easy, but that was never the point.
Life ain't over 'til the checkered flag is thrown.
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.'
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
The Rush Job
Where were you a year ago?
It all looks easy now.
James Rispoli is dominating American Flat Track:
7 Victories in Production Twins this season.
James is the fastest Harley Davidson rider on the circuit.
Finally, Willie G. and the boys have something to be proud of.
It's the synergy of right rider, right team and right bike.
Rispoli is in that magic flow state,
his riding burns with intensity,
his consistency uncanny.
The competition is rightly spooked.
James returned to America
after the high of European Superbike racing.
He came home to his roots - flat track.
To prove he'd lost none of his mojo.
Despite the wild contrast between those two worlds.
On our first conversation, the connection was poor.
"Where are you calling from?
Are you still in Europe or something?"
James confessed he was in Mexico
stunt riding for movies NorteAmericanos will never see.
He realized I was shocked into silence by his revelation.
"Hey man, I'm getting paid good money to do what I love."
I pictured him in some seedy bar checking out the local talent,
a Hemmingway-like existence.
He added that he was getting lots of seat time,
training every day,
but admitted the hours were long on set,
the endless waiting
before pulling off sketchy shit the locals wouldn't dare.
To James, he was living the dream.
Making bank riding motorcycles.
While working deals for next season's ride.
Here is a fighter who will not quit,
who knows how it feels to show up to a race with a negative $1000 balance.
There silver lining to the black cloud that is COVID
was the team had plenty of time to train.
They'd turned over 500 laps before the first race.
James spoke of a win-win situation
having the Latus team's professionalism
plus the savvy of former champ Joe Kopp as team manager.
great riding is not enough,
but a gifted rider like Rispoli puts wind in the team's sails.
At the Indy Mile, an issue in the Semi meant a 17th spot start for the Main.
James blitzed thru the pack to climb to 4th on the first lap
and brought her home in 2nd place.
The next night, he won the main.
He was 12.32 seconds ahead of the pack when the checkers flew.
Riding like that inspires everyone.
It warms my heart to watch this fighter see such glorious success
The Dark Place
I was in a dark place.
Home alone yet on the run.
Nothing left and nowhere to go.
Windows open on a quiet night,
I could hear the sound of a muffled twin approaching.
The rider shut her off about a block away,
then the quiet ringing of chains on sprockets
coasting down the street,
into my drive.
Brakes hissing to a stop.
Boots knocked my wooden steps.
A brogue in my doorway announced
'God Bless all here.'
Is this how it ends?
The running was over,
so I handed him a cuppa.
He poured out an inch then added some of his own.
For the sake of the craic, I asked if the exhaust was stock.
He shook his head,
"They don't need to know if I coming or going laddie, that's my business.
You're a good man.
It's fine to take what you want, but there's a price."
He told me what was expected of me.
And not to worry,
I'd find myself on the road.
It was safest for me.
"Follow your voice, you know the one.
Do what's right versus what feels good.
They need your words boy.
Nothing's free - there's a price tag on everything.
Even your freedom."
I gave him my word.
We locked eyes and shook on it.
"Thanks for the cuppa...be free."
He coasted downhill, dropping the clutch in second gear.
Odd such a hard man rides a quiet machine.
And just like that, Death rolled back towards New York City.
(For the riders Jack & Duncan)
Racing Towards The Dream
Cameron Smith is the only African American racer
in American Flat Track Racing.
But color doesn't matter in the rough and tumble of a dirt race.
Are you fast or not?
The Smith family calls Coatesville, Pennsylvania home,
where the several local tracks mean motorcycle racing is popular.
His mother and father started him on two wheels at age five.
Just like any other sport, or music - start 'em early.
Cameron competed against some of the same riders he's racing today.
His father is one of the nicest people you will meet at the track.
It would not be a race without the Smith family.
He was allowed to race all the way through high school
as long as he maintained his grades.
Racing has been a constant in his life thanks to his family.
Cameron is grateful for their love and support.
He feels the same sense of excitement while racing he did as a child.
All the hard work, blood, sweat and tears paid off that day.
His family was over the moon when he pulled into the pits.
As he prepared to take his Victory Lap with the checkered flag,
he offered his mom a ride,
but she wanted her son to enjoy his moment in the spotlight.
Cam had even won the sprint before the main event, the "Dash for Cash".
That's a day to cherish the rest of his life.
Race day can be hectic, exciting and dangerous.
But the everyday life of a racer requires discipline.
Racers are athletes in top physical condition.
Cam is on a strict diet, works out daily, has a personal trainer.
A monotonous travel schedule leaves little free time.
He is totally committed to the dream of being champion.
A racer can struggle with his/her machine,
pushing the bike to do what s/he wants, to be manageable at speed.
But flat track racing can be very unforgiving.
Things happen even with proper preparation and all the right moves.
in warm Georgia weather after the long winter.
The cold damp weather was a surprise after driving from Philly.
When the lights turned green, the pack charged into the first corner,
and one of the front runners spun out.
Cam was on him with nowhere to go and riders flanking either side.
Colliding with the downed machine,
he was thrown over the handlebars and slammed to the ground.
Cam was fortunate not to have broken any bones but the impact of
banging his head on the hard clay track
meant racing was over for that day.
Thank God for a good helmet.
Racing is a stretch for Cameron and his family.
It would be great to have two of the latest machines in his pits,
but Cameron does what he can with a 2015 Honda CRF450.
He never loses sight of that dream.
Cam hopes to ride the growing popularity of flat track
while finding new sponsors and keeping good people around him.
the street kids and 12 O'Clock boys.
Get them off the street and into racing.
Some of those kids are remarkable riders.
You can help Cameron Smith in his National Championship bid
by watching him at American Flat Track or on NBCSN.
Follow him on Facebook and on Instagram.
Flat Track Fite Klub
- Chris Carr, seven-time Grand National Champ.
Do they look ready to race? Were they ever not ready to race? [Taylor Bellegue]
Often memorabilia is donated from and autographed by flat track champions and racers.
The Vintagent would like to Thank Charlie Roberts & Terry Rymer.
What's Mees Got?
Do I have the best job in the world?
I get to hang out with the baddest flat track racers on earth.
The conversations might surprise you.
Humorously, everything but racing.
From dating apps to getting sponsors - it's all marketing.
More than once I've been asked: What's Mees got?
They're looking for a simple answer but it's more complicated than that.
There's no weak link in Jared's chain.
Everything is top notch: team, sponsors, and bikes.
It's not one thing.
Over time Mees built a total package.
His home life is serene,
Jared's wife Nichole is a retired racer who understands.
His has balanced his life for a minimum of drama.
Not playing Tarzan on Tinder or at the bars.
They're all just traps.
You can't take your eyes off the ball at this level.
Relentless training and a focused diet have sharpened him.
To some fans, he's an overdog.
Their voices dismissive
Yeah...Mees won again
But Jared shrugs it off.
Laughing "You're only as good as your last win."
He is staggeringly successful for his generation.
Six championships with 48 wins along the way.
Not to mention the Horizon Award and Rookie of the Year.
How did he get there?
Racing was a byproduct of his parent's divorce,
It was father/son time.
Jared had to wash his bike and do his chores if he wanted track time.
It taught him the work ethic he would later be known for.
And he loved to win.
Racing was fun.
He caught the attention of Moroney's Harley Davidson.
They offered to pay his entry fees if he wore their sweatshirts.
It was a lightbulb moment - hey, this could save dad some dollars.
Success equals money.
Jared's life is proof of hard work, as a racer and businessman.
We can't squeeze his career into a magazine article.
That would need a book.
What advice can I give the next generation?
Do the hard work.
Have a plan and stick to it.
He wishes he enjoyed those magic moments a little longer,
let them soak in a bit.
You think it will last forever but it doesn't.
He's seen a lot over the years, carrying a target on his back most of the way.
"Most people only see five feet in front of them and one foot back.
Racing is my life, my hobby, and my second love."
He is grateful for sponsors like Indian Motorcycles, and an army of supporters.
He respects the racers he battles and loves the fans for coming out...especially at Lima.
"Life could be worse - I could be digging ditches for ten bucks an hour."
You started on the penalty line, row four, battled through the pack to take the lead.
Fought it out with 8 or 9 riders to take an epic win.
"Yeah, it was a good one for sure. The last few laps were sketchy.
Lots of guys up front who weren't used to being there-just freakin' chaotic."
You came from a long way back brother.
"Ah thanks man, yeah, it was good.
If I had to pick one race though, I'd say Lima.
When you win Lima it's like you've conquered the world.
It's so physically demanding, wrestling that bike through that deep cushion.
Everyone wants to win there too.
I had a real duel with Carver, just slicing and dicing.
We make contact but I was able to get by on the outside for win.
It was super satisfying to win there, in front of all those fans.
I scored my first win there in 2005 on an XR750.
And now I'm the promoter for the event-crazy right?
Yeah, lots of friends and family there.
It was a helluva night."
and carries himself like a champion.
Sometimes a simple sentence reveals the life inside.
Like 'flat track is my second love.'
No need to explain his number one.
Nicole is always by his side.
