Michael Lawless
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.
Higher Powered
From the outside, I looked pretty normal.
Just another guy walking the pits,
keeping on with my best gunfighter face.
Behind the mask was turbulence,
the fallout from my day job and personal life.
Maybe Chaplain Ray Rizzo saw something.
He stopped me in my tracks and asked if I needed a prayer.
Caught off guard and not wanting to be rude - I said yes.
He didn't ask if I was Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim or even Buddhist.
Right there in the pits, Ray put a hand on my shoulder
and the other towards the sky.
"Father, we thank you....."
I walked away feeling my load a little lighter.
His words put me in the moment.
I realized I was grateful to be at the track enjoying a day with my extended racing family.
And that I was lucky, or dare I say blessed for the day.
It’s risky writing about religion in a motorcycle publication.
Years ago I mentioned God in an article.
The editor cut it.
When I queried, he laughed, "You can rap about anything but Jesus."
Maybe Kanye was right.
Chaplain Ray Rizzo is like spiritual glue
keeping the American Flat Track community intact.
He provides moral support, be it a kind word, prayer,
or even last rites.
He's at the center of every race weekend.
The Chaplain offers support to all, though not everyone is interested.
One racer flatly declined his offer of a prayer as they lined up in staging.
Unfortunately, he crashed heavily that day.
As they loaded him into the ambulance,
Ray asked if a prayer would comfort him.
This time he said yes.
Ray checked in on the racer during his recovery.
In racing, a dream can turn into a nightmare in seconds.
I shadowed a racer over a weekend for an article.
We met with his mother after work on Friday for a long drive out to the race.
In the race, another rider checked up into him,
and it was a heavy fall.
As he lay on the track motionless, his mother screamed his name.
Red flags and EMTs.
Relief as he opened his eyes.
The rush to the hospital,
then the waiting and anguish of uncertainty.
The comfort as the Chaplain arrived.
He offered us prayer and stayed beside while we waited for news.
Ray had ridden across town on a tiny 50cc scooter.
His concern was genuine.
I saw him differently after that.
Racing reminds us life is fragile.
Our clock is ticking.
A racer's life is under the microscope with media and fans.
Success or failure is around the next corner.
It's easy to go off center
and it can test one's beliefs,
but we know there is no other life for us.
Feeling connected to a higher power can bring peace
and lend balance.
I asked Ray how he got started.
He dreamed of being a crewman for Richard Petty, but found his calling in the ministry.
Motor Racing Outreach landed him in the flat track scene, and he's been spiritually supporting our community since 2010.
You can find Raymond Rizzo on Facebook, Instagram, or even email.
PS...You & Yours: Stay Well
Her sharp features made me wonder - is she French?
A group of hopefuls surrounded her at the party, competing for attention.
Striding by, I tipped my hat.
"Hey, you're that writer!"
"I read your article about that motorcycle racer who works in a coal mine.
You must be crazy to have gone down inside that mine."
All eyes shifted to me.
"I heard you write about motorcycle racing,
but that article conveys the human element as well."
The last comment caught me off guard.
She asked where she could find more of my work.
I was drowned out by the full-volume party,
so instead handed her my card.
Text if you have any questions ok?
Her lengthy the next day text floored me.
Fearing my reply might get lost in translation,
I suggested meeting for coffee.
I didn't realize coffee included dessert.
Our conversations were refreshing after the trauma of online dating.
The simplest things meant the most.
Holding hands and endless kisses - such a decadent treat.
We ate at my favorite taqueria or got coffee on the road.
Rolling down blue highways, her arms round my waist, her head resting on my shoulder.
It was a lifetime ago since I had a woman ride with me.
Pure magic after solitary ages.
It felt good to quit chasing fences.
Taylor spilled out her life over coffee.
Bad habits became a lifestyle,
hotel living, a step ahead of the marshals.
Being stripped of freedom.
Nineteen months of state time for doctoring cell phones and computers for a meth ring.
Detoxing on a cell floor.
Lock downs and 6AM counts.
The joys of having your cell tossed.
From so many shades to one eyeliner.
Longing for a pillow to put your head on.
A life with no comfort.
Stripped of your name,
given a number: PB7423.
Plenty of time to reflect,
learning to live in your lane,
and never wanting to wear brown again.
Her HP shone down on her
as she found her way.
With nothing left, she climbed out of who she was.
Clean and sober, and a walking-talking miracle.
Lying in bed,
she surveys the evidence of my life over the limit.
Ugly scars, bones that don’t line up.
So why do you do it?
I shrug my shoulders and look into her eyes.
I wanted to tell her everything,
but didn’t want to screw this up.
Her body presses up against mine, her lips touch mine gentle.
The magic of one on one.
She pulls the sheets up and covers herself like a lady.
Can you make me a Breve please,
and are you going to tell me what it’s like to race a motorcycle?
I try a diversion:
it's part of me I don't like to share.
Going over the limit and risking it all just seems dumb to those who don't.
Too often I've been misunderstood or dismissed as reckless.
Having to explain myself feels like backpedaling.
I'd rather just carry it with me.
Jail does something to people.
A cold harshness leaks out from time to time,
and her words sting: am I just too sensitive?
The pause tells me I wasn’t right.
She texts back ‘only tell you cause I love you.’
Shocked by her omission, I replied:
"And just then
the sun shone
through the clouds,
rays of her love
illuminate the sky,
the racer slows
realizing there is more
to life than just speed."
The Lost Boys
My plan was simple.
Do the racer school on July 3rd to sharpen my skills,
then apply what I'd learned on July 4th at the Barbara Fritchie Classic.
But I high-sided big time at school.
Couldn't get out of bed in the morning.
In no shape to race.
My left scapula was broken.
"In order to write about life you must live it"
Taking my cues from papa Hemingway,
I decided to race three weeks later
to feel like a pro-level racer
who has to perform regardless.
Racing with painful injuries is a bad idea,
but maybe the risk would force a deeper reach?
Nothing meds and red bulls can't fix.
My hooligan bike was too heavy for the next circuit.
The outdoor short track at Timonium Fairgrounds is 'loose',
kind of like riding in powdery snow,
'Moondust' in flat tracker speak.
I heard a familiar call as Henry Wiles ripped past.
He's quick and stylish and a pro.
I was surprised to see a racer of his caliber at this pro/am event.
Henry rides like Muhammad Ali jumps rope.
We wish we looked like that, but we don't.
but ran a wide line in the final, and
finished dead last.
Bummed with my choice, I headed to Henry's pit.
A crowd of people stood and stared, but Henry spotted me.
I was shocked he'd watched me, and confessed my broken scapula.
"Felt like you were having a heart attack huh?
Ya know what the good part of being a cowboy is?
We meet pretty nurses."
I finally smiled.
He looked over the crowd.
"My last woman was a nurse."
They love you for being exciting,
but the magic wanes
with our obsession for racing,
the constant threat of injuries,
or worse.
You cringe when she says 'be careful' as you line up.
"Ya know its over when they start to care."
They mean well but there's no room for two in my helmet.
You forget her when the lights turn green.
Felt like you were having a heart attack huh?
On the long drive home I thought of Nicole and her Latin looks.
It felt magic.
We shadow boxed over conversations and dinner.
She ran her hand through my hair saying she knew what I was
and that I would never change.
We parted as friends.
Seasons have passed since those summer nights.
Call me naive
but I didn't know handsome guys had relationship issues like mine.
She understands him,
knowing he's the star on Saturday night,
but the cowboy she loves on Sunday morning.
Their love gives him strength.
Her company, a quiet place in the storm.
Married now, expecting soon,
my pal Henry is in a good place
and ready to race.
The Man in the Chair
You never know who is going to sit in your chair.
I've been a barber my whole life.
My dad was too.
He always said the trick to a barber shop
is to keep them coming back.
You got to know your customers.
With some you talk, others you don't.
The Racer came into the shop with some guy in tow.
We asked the guy does he want a cut, but he says he’s good.
He must not have mirrors in his house.
The Racer doesn't know I follow his career.
I never bring it up.
Don't want it to get awkward.
Oh, I follow the gossip
on Facebook, and on TV.
He isn't a talker.
He only comes in before a race,
always wants to be his best.
I guess that's part of his game.
I'm all business when I give a cut.
For him, I take time to do the detail stuff.
He's a good tipper and his repeat business
tells me I get the job done.
I tilt his head forward to trim his neck,
then straighten up his sideburns.
How can this man with such an angelic face
be such a desperado on the track?
He'll bump and bang you, then push you out to the wall.
It's all fair as long as you don't knock'em down.
On the Mile, he knows when to pull the trigger.
He’ll make impossibly fast laps,
drafting past them when it matters.
His last lap antics made him a legend.
The riders shake his hand on the cool-off lap,
but you can tell they're gutted.
Trimming his brows, I look into his eyes,
and can only imagine what they have seen.
He asks The Racer the same questions
in different ways
but The Racer doesn't blink.
His one-word answers make it clear
he doesn't want to talk about it.
The reporter will not give up.
He's wants the dirt,
but The Racer doesn't take the bait.
I guess there is honor among thieves and desperados.
Holding up the mirror, I show him my work.
He nods his head yes, hands me the cash,
thanks me, pats my shoulder, and heads for the door.
But pauses to grab a lollipop.
He might be a beast on the track,
but there's still a kid in there.
Yeah, just another day at the shop.
"Who's next?"
James Rispoli: Don't Hold Back
Trendy people want selfies with you.
An army of well-wishers and autograph hounds waits outside your pit box.
Luscious umbrella girls cling to you race day.
Your British road races are televised in sports bars and pubs.
Can anyone stop you?
Suddenly the music is over.
You gave it your all, every race, every lap.
The Brits loved your brash American persona and flashy riding.
Podiums and popularity weren't enough.
Promises made in the dark hung you.
Too late to grab another seat.
You found yourself back in America, reflecting.
"Zero funding puts you in true mode."
Reality became a beater van and a 'leased to own' 450 single.
You bet on yourself knowing the play is different when your chips are on the table.
It's back to where it all began.
Still chasing and racing, all for passion.
His father had him on the flat track by age 6,
Winning pro level road races at 16.
The first of two back to back AMA Pro SuperSport National Championships by 20.
Along the climb came two Bonneville speed records and a Wildcard ride in Moto2.
Solid results followed despite tough local racers, living in a new country, learning new tracks.
The politics of racing can be cruel, and lack of a ride doesn't mean lack of talent, just opportunity.
Do you need an American champion if the US market has collapsed?
The gamble was racing a Harley in the American Flat Track production class.
The bike had been there, but under you, she was up front.
Your professionalism shone through.
Working with the engineers to get the most from your electronics,
Adjusting your riding style to get the maximum from the machine.
Your off-track antics won hearts and minds.
No one could deny your fire.
Bond, Hunt...Rispoli?
His charisma is immense.
Fans lost their minds when he beat his teammate by inches to put a Harley on the podium at Black Hills Half Mile during the Sturgis Rally.
He's not a well-behaved rider who rattles off every last sponsor name.
No sir, James ran off the podium and into the crowd spraying champagne, celebrating the moment among the Harley faithful.
The season finale at 'The Meadowlands Mile' was even crazier.
Rispoli played it safe in qualifying due to the sketchy track conditions.
His team worried over his back-row results.
'No worries, I'll be up front soon,' James smiled.
His back-row charge was electrifying, battling to the front in the opening laps brought the fans to their feet.
A solid third place finish.
But were met with thunderous applause.
There is more to being a professional racer than winning.
You must have the skills to win, but personality wins fans.
Dreams come true when you spray champagne from the podium.
The mornings after seem empty.
It's hard to go back to basic after being epic.
You're forever chasing the glow of those moments.
Dealing with middle managers - the frustration and heartbreak.
Its a hard game emotionally with endless financial struggles.
We race for love, but we all gotta eat.
You know, those who can, do, those who can't, manage or write about it.
Be honest, be yourself, and don't hold back.
The Greatest Show on Dirt!
The Temptation
Sometimes you just can't say no.
"You want to take her out in last practice?"
More than life itself.
Friend and fellow racer Dave Evans is my enabler.
He knows there is nothing worse than being at a racetrack without a ride.
I have not been on a 450 in over a year.
An animal of questionable breeding, and an unforgiving high-strung bitch.
You don't grab a fist full of anything or she'll slam your ass to the ground.
The slightest input changes her attitude.
Sixty horsepower and two hundred twenty pounds dry.
You're either in attack mode or off the throttle.
Its an alien experience after riding a 550-pound street bike.
Believe it or not, a 450 single is way harder to ride than a big twin.
I sold mine because I knew she'd send me to Orthopedic again.
Running my local short tracks isn't fun unless you can steer with the rear.
For me, the hardest part is changing direction abruptly.
What's a short track?
A very small, unforgiving oval track lined with walls to catch your mistakes.
A bullring, and no place for fools.
On a loose short track, a 450 wants to go anywhere but forward.
Luckily for me, the New Egypt track in New Jersey is a 5/8 mile oval billed as 'The Fastest Dirt Track in the East'.
Its about as beautiful as a big dirt oval gets.
The corners are sweeping and you can get away with 'two-wheeling' her around. Plenty of room to gather her up if you swing wide before hitting something solid.
Oh the temptation. I can't say no.
There's a window of opportunity as the track is prepped, when they water and grade the surface.
Oh the madness.
I jog back to the truck, get into my leathers and boots, grab my helmet and steel shoe, and jog back to the pits on the other side of the track.
I'm slightly out of breath but high on the promise.
Panic sets in as they announce 'Last Call!'
Dave kicks her to life and hands her over.
I am NOT signed up to race.
This is a big 'No-No' on many levels.
Still I hear her calling my name.
I don't belong in the Open Expert class either.
It's no country for old men.
Handsome and way fast, he is an amateur in name only, packing pro-level skills.
He is the nicest cold-blooded killer you'll ever meet.
If that wasn't enough, Dan Bromley pulls up on the Indian FTR750 that he will be racing in Super Twins next year!
Yes, the Bromley who won the 2018 American Flat Track Singles Championship.
Only three of us heading out for this last, quick session.
Oddly, I feel completely at peace with myself.
I know I'm on the path that God chose for me.
Its a Nietzche moment*.
We all drop the hammer.
Second gear, the front wheel come off the ground under glorious acceleration.
They're gone by the time I hit the back straight.
I enter three easy with my eye on getting good drive thru 4 and onto the front straight.
The track is D-shaped, so the front straight is really a long sweeping left, it heads gently uphill out of turn four and slowly arches down into turn one.
On this 'dry-slick' track you gotta be on the meat of the tire or she'll spit ya.
She squirts forward under hard acceleration out of four, emitting the hard mechanical sound of power.
You feel it as your neck muscles flex.
Your body coils like a spring as you keep her pointed, while drifting slightly sideways up toward the ugly metal guard rails that line the outside of the front straight, and diving back into turn one.
Out of turn two and onto the back straight.
The rush of acceleration while dancing on the edge of traction is euphoric.
Loud and heavy like the line between joy and pain.
I'm walking the line.
I forget everything else in life when I'm going fast.
It's better than any drug I've ever had.
For me, racing is like dancing.
Its about hitting your marks time after time.
Sometimes I feel like I'm watching someone else go through the motions.
Brake here, accelerator there, the laps blur by.
She might be out of my league but we had fun.
I didn't end up face-down on the track, and somehow I didn't get lapped.
Like a hot mess, I blow the exit getting off the track, and execute a perfect 270 degree U-turn.
It's all high fives back in Dave's pit.
For the rest of the night, I'm walking on air.
I got away with a taste, without taking it too far.
*"The true man wants two things: danger and play." Friedrich Nietzsche
Through Jodi's Eyes
It's the hardest role in racing.
We kiss 'em goodbye and head off to race the devil, chasing fences.
She stands in the pits and wonders how her night will end.
Will she romantically pull off his champagne-soaked leathers?
Or wait in some hospital praying to God that a trauma Doc can breathe life into him.
Bad too: endless silence on the 12-hour ride home if he doesn't make 'the main'.
The life of a racer can be hard, but it's harder yet for those who love us.
I thought she was media, but learned she's married to Jake Johnson,
a legend who's won two Grand National Championships.
Jodi is the nicest 'cool kid' you'll ever meet.
Always has a minute and a kind word.
I've watched her blossom into a fine mom too.
I'm proud of her like she's one of mine.
Early on I compliment her photos.
In kindness, she offered their use.
So the door was open.
She has a knack with brooding racers, in the moments before they head off to battle.
My professional artist friends call her work 'glorious' and 'breathtaking'.
She laughed when I asked if she considers herself an artist.
Maybe that's what makes her so noble.
Photos have been a lifetime love.
Her skills come intuitively,
And racing was part of growing up with a brother who competes.
At fourteen she met her future husband at the track.
At seventeen she asked Jake to her Junior Prom.
They were married in 2011 and now have a daughter named Emily.
She started photographing the track scene so friends and family could feel they were there.
Her photos tell a story, and friends could live it through her lens.
She hopes people will cherish her photos someday.
I was humbled by her mindfulness.
It was a special piece, but I did not have photos.
Remembering Jodi's kind offer, my story is illuminated by her work.
For me, the story was a triumph.
It's the best work I had ever done,
Thanks to the help from my friend Jodi.
Will the Rain Never Stop?
There are faces I won't see in the pits anymore.
Some are gone forever.
I don't think about the wreck that took them,
but about the wreckage left behind.
Would they want me to stop?
Daddy, you keep breaking bones.
Why won't you stop?
My ex coyly asks if she's still on my life insurance plan.
I appreciate her humor.
Death is easy,
but being paralyzed or badly broken is not.
All I know is, I walk taller after a race.
It's my feel-good time.
The reward for getting my work done.
When I'm racing, all I can focus on, is what's going on,
The pain of life is washed away with speed.
Why you need Saturday off?
We need you on the floor.
If you get hurt don't come back.
They're not smiling.
but there's too much rain in my head.
They show me they mean business
by being heavy and not showing.
I don't want them to see
if it goes wrong anyway.
I'm not blind, but it's what I am.
Sitting in the stands doesn't work for me.
I live for the green flag.
Peace comes when I drop the clutch.
It's just a fast street ride now.
It's cold and lonely running second.
No traffic to heat it up.
Cold and uncompetitive is humbling.
I talk to him but he doesn't answer.
The line between feels good
and what's right is blurred.
Walking the line brings clarity.
Those are the times I carry with me.
The others were forgettable....
The Coal Miner's Son
The Darkness was absolute.
The silence overwhelming.
Breathing cold air, moist and heavy.
My senses were overrun
like being on the Moon.
Hunched forward squeezing down the tight triangular tunnel,
braced with rough timber, this shaft runs more than 1,500 feet into shadow.
My mother told me she didn't want to be buried underground.
Panic won't change a thing
just keep moving
further into darkness.
Courage is action in the face of fear.
Jordan Harris bumps his flat track racer to life,
roaring through the gears, banging off the rev limiter at end of the straights,
drifting through the turns,
reveling in the freedom that motorcycles bring.
The contrast could not be greater.
You climb into a metal cart that's on a steep incline:
slip or fall and you'll tumble hundreds of feet down the main shaft.
There are no nets or reset buttons here.
The descent was unnerving.
Jordan yelled in a happy-go-lucky voice;
"Michael! Keep your hands in or they'll be crushed off!"
We finally stop and get out.
I fumble for the light on my helmet.
I'm aware of every step I take, searching for my 'pitch legs.'
He explains mining operations - pitch, gravity and blasting.
Yes blasting, how many jobs can you name with dynamite in daily use?
Jordan tells us to watch out for the chutes.
They seem bottomless in the dim light.
It's a narrow, near-vertical climb on a wet, crude, handmade wooden ladder
that feels like it goes up forever.
Water runs past us,
our backs hit the wall behind us as we climb.
Weighted down by his cameras, it's slow moving, one step at a time.
Suddenly his left hand swings loose.
I think 'Oh No!'
He reaches back and grabs one of his cameras.
I am blinded by the strobe, as he fires off a series of shots.
A consummate professional at work.
His grunts and chuckles tells me he's enjoying the madness.
Jordan Harris grew up around coal.
He entered the mines at seventeen.
Once got a job up top, but couldn't deal with the bullshit.
Six months later he returned to the family mine.
You are a self-made man here, living and dying with the price of coal.
Not worried about the future,
laughing that "its going to take a lot of coal to power all those electric cars.'
The miners are pushed hard by the government,
and joke it would be easier to sell drugs than earn an honest living.
The fines and punishment would be less too.
It's all part of growing up in mining country.
His dad got him riding as a boy.
Racing MX at six, ovals by eleven.
At fourteen, he was hit by a truck when he was riding a berm on the edge of the road,
his badly broken right leg require ten surgeries to correct.
Central Pennsylvania is a flat track talent mine.
Jordan now rides for RRCF Racing in Production Twins class.
He married his high school sweetheart Whitney, and now they have a daughter, Everlee.
With TV cameras rolling, he gets introduced to the crowd.
The warm up lap burns off some of the anxiety.
Focus on being calm, blipping the throttle, lights go Green.
Hole shot! It's the start he prayed for.
Now its about hitting his marks perfectly.
Just 'two-wheeling', flat track slang for keeping your wheels inline.
Its all about getting the drive onto the straight to attain and maintain top speed.
Drafting is critical.
The entry into the turns will take your breath away, lap after lap.
Harris must remind himself to breathe or else he will tire too early.
All is going perfectly until he hears the sound of engines getting closer.
Jordon is doing everything he can to be perfect.
Still two riders beat him home.
Gutted but smiling, he stands on the podium in 3rd.
They wonder why he did not keep his pace.
It's not until weeks later we learn from the engine builder Roy Miller, that the motor was close to dropping a valve. He writes it off to God's will.
The cold temperatures of the mine are perfect for a total body workout.
Swinging a pick, shoveling, and endless climbing.
Add the dark and silence for meditation: mining could satisfy your physical & spiritual needs.)
Words with the King
“What's it take to give a good interview?”
"Bravery" I replied.
The young racer seemed confused.
Let me explain.
"You’ll take just as much of a beating entering turn one
too fast, as saying the wrong thing to the press."
Not every racer wants to risk it.
Some have too much on their plate as it is.
Or maybe they're scared about what people might think.
I dunno...
My job is to dig for a story that goes with the pictures.
You know, like in that Jamey Johnson song 'In Color.'
No one knows what it's like until we capture the words.
Just like the Wild West: people remember a good story.
Their lives would be dust in the wind if we didn't write them down.
Well he trusts me.
He ain't afraid either.
I knocked over half the stuff on my nightstand.
"Sorry, to call ya back so late Michael."
There was a rhythmic clanking noise in the background.
His breathing was very controlled.
He exhaled after he answered each of my questions.
Where are you calling from?
Henry Wiles squeezed out,
"I'm at the gym.
Daytona is only a few months away.
You know, working all day is no excuse in my book.
Ya gotta want it to get it:
I know my dream requires sacrifice."
at the press room at Daytona post race.
A lot of journalists were there to
question the three riders who finished on the podium.
The mainstream writers
expected that wild biker image.
Daytona is known for its night life after all.
They asked Wiles, "heading downtown to blow off steam on Main Street?"
Thinking he paused,
'Well...I was thinking about getting some fried food.
I haven't had any for six months'.
The mainstream journalists seemed confused.
Us flat track journos looked down at our notepads and smirked.
This was classic Henry.
“we might be racers but really we're entertainers.”
That "It's not easy or everybody would do it."
How you’ve got be dedicated and motivated.
Half-assing won't cut it at this level.
Got to be fit and be ready.
Look at some of the new guys in the class-do they look in shape?
That's why they get hurt.
They get tired and make mistakes.
They are reaching for something that ain't there.
You got to give it your all or just go home.
Wiles pulls his helmet down and spins up the starter.
The bike burst to life.
He grabs the bars and throws a leg over,
drops the clutch and takes off.
Practice.
What the Racer Fears
The Privateer Struggles
How could this be? I stood slack-jawed watching Davis Fisher toss around an Indian FTR750 like a play bike in his backyard. This bumpy New Hampshire short track was not for the faint of heart, you had to steer with the rear as you hopped thru the ruts. Push too hard and get slammed to the ground - or worse, not enough and get left behind. It was a study in controlled aggression.
By Any Means Necessary
She's got all the subtlety of a sawed-off shotgun.
Yeah, nothing says American badass like a Pro Twins bike.
Ya gotta be a fast hombre to make 'The Main' at a National.
It means you're one of the elite sixteen.
The moments before 'The Main' always humble him.
Bright lights, TV cameras, and packed grandstands will do that.
He says he feels numb before the start,
that he is just cruising on autopilot until the ten-second board goes up.
James Monaco had dreamt of this moment since he was a kid,
now he is lining up with the best flat track racers in the world,
some of whose posters, like Bugs Pearson & Jake Johnson,
still grace his bedroom walls.
he feels the electricity surging through his veins.
James is back on the third row but fortunate to be gridded on the groove.
He does slow pulls on the throttle before the start,
thinking back to those people who said he couldn't.
Of all the long nights on lonely highways traveling,
the sacrifice and suffering for his dream,
the girlfriends who got tired of waiting.
A calm aggression comes over him as he watches the flagman.
The lights go green and all hell breaks loose.
The sound and fury,
the pack of the sixteen motorcycles charges toward the first corner.
Some of those not lucky to be on the groove,
spin up and slide down the banking,
they're just on for the smoke show.
Through the dust and madness,
James surges forward and latches onto Bronson's rear wheel.
He is off to a great start.
The roaring engine set the rhythm in this dance that is 'The Main'.
James tells me 'you gotta go slow to go fast here.'
How 'you gotta chase it to find it.'
That sometimes 'the biggest thing you can change is how you ride her.'
At home, he has no internet or television - just a coffee pot.
After being a rockstar cowboy on Saturday night, on Monday mornings
he is just a guy changing swimming pool filters
or helping out at the farm.
as if praying to the gods of speed.
It's after qualifying and as he works,
he tells me that he didn't want to bump down to singles class,
how he dreamt his whole life to race the premier twins class.
Realizing there are only so many factory seats and motorcycle industry sponsorships,
he reached out of the box to find sponsorship help from the agricultural
industry, to a company named 'Pure Crop'.
Which makes a natural plant-based biostimulant, insecticide and fungicide made
of food grade oil with zero OSHA rating, that is safe for children and pets.
James is a fourth generation almond farmer aware of what Pure Crop does.
I give James credit for chasing down a unique sponsor
to keep his dream alive. James knows he might not ever get rich racing but
he's living a life others only dream of.
Hooligan Racing: Gateway Drug to Flat Track
It's hard to get started in off-road motorsports unless you've grown up around them. What's an urban cowboy to do? Motorcycle dealerships don't sell race-ready flat trackers. When I queried, a used 450cc race bike was recommended as a starting platform. Several racers offer to sell me their old machines ($4-6k range). The upside was 'ready to race!', while the reality was 'ridden hard and put away wet'. Another path is building your own racer from a new 450cc motocross bike (about $15k) . Either way seemed an expensive gamble - what if I didn't like racing, or couldn't hang?
I took the quick and easy path. In the 1930s, riders simply removed the lights from their street bikes to go racing. Why not buy a 400cc dual-purpose motorcycle? I could try flat track racing, and if I didn't like it, I could always use this as my street bike.
I asked advice from Patrick, who races dual sport events; surprisingly, he felt a Kawasaki KLX250s would be a great choice. "It's lighter, almost as fast as a 450cc, and handles well." I found a clean, low-mileage KLX on Craigslist. The seller bragged about the bike's torque - I tried not to roll my eyes. But he was right; the Kawasaki was delightful on everything shy of Interstates. Its light handling matched well with the surprising torque of its 250cc single-cylinder engine. I had a ball cutting through traffic on the way to work, and the fun little KLX reminded me why I got involved with motorcycles in the first place. To get her ready for racing, I ordered a lowering link for the rear suspension and more appropriate tires.
I'm lucky to have the ear of one of the fast guys of American Flat Track Racing, so I stopped by Jake Shoemakers' place.. "Can you tell me if the suspension adjustments are correct?" He took a look at the bike and said I was crazy. We checked things out and made a few tweaks. After a short ride on his test track, he slid to a halt beside me; 'This is a fun little bike - Get On!' I thought he wanted to set the bike up for two-up street riding.
Yes, I am that dumb. I just about fell off the back when he dropped the clutch in second gear. We entered the first corner so fast, going past the apex, and as he slammed on the rear brake, the KLX snapped sideways. I was sure we were going to wreck. Who knew you could flat track with a passenger!? He put in a few quick laps two-up, faster then I could ride solo. I was humbled. Real racers are real fast.
I got up early one Saturday morning. removed the lights and other street gear, and zip-tied a front number plate. I was ready for my first race. The real racers looked at me funny, but I had a great time - and didn't finish last either. I put the street gear back on, and rode to work on Monday, still smiling from my weekend adventure. This is the spirit of Hooligan Racing.
Several weeks later, after an 11-hour workday, I climbed on my KLX to ride home as it started to rain. The rush hour traffic was heavy. When an oncoming police car charged around the corner in full siren, the car in front of me slammed on the brakes. My bike slid as I scrubbed off speed; trees to the right, nowhere to go. I clipped the left edge of the bumper and sailed over the handlebars. As I flew through the air, I saw the shocked look on the officer's face in the oncoming police car. My right arm bounced off the side of his car, and I landed heavily on my chest. I glanced off the curb, flipped through the air, and landed on my back in the weeds. The cop car ran over my KLX.
All I heard was the rain hitting leaves, and I opened my eyes to see light filtered through the trees. Did I die? The officer came running, yelling into his microphone "Yeah-I f****** ran him over - he's probably dead". I startled him by sitting up. He offered an ambulance but I said I was OK. I took off my helmet and was relieved to see my iPhone survived the impact. I called my daughter Olive, who was waiting for me at home. "I've had a problem with the bike and I'm running late. There are snacks on shelf - I'll make dinner when I get home." The Officer looked shocked that I could be so calm. I picked up my bike and surveyed the damages. Plastics trashed, radiator bent but not leaking, shifter damaged but still able to move. I called my shop. "Yeah, I'm broken down at the bottom of the hill on Conshohocken State Rd. Grab some tools - I'll need a breaker bar & large channel locks." We straightened things out by the side of the road, in the rain. The KLX is a rugged little machine; I rode it home and had dinner with Olive, glad to be alive.
Call me superstitious, but I felt I'd used my luck up on that bike. I sold the KLX and moved on to a different machine.
Roland Sands Design & Indian Motorcycles soon took Hooligan Racing to the main stage - Daytona. Through the kindness of these guys, I actually raced an Indian Scout at night under the lights at Daytona, on TV! Sometimes life is better than my wildest dreams. Hooligan race bikes were later defined as 750 cc or larger twins, stock frames and dual shocks. This democratic concept helped bring new interest and more people to the sport. The faithful cringed but the crowds love Hooligan racing, and those who tried Hooligan racing found new respect for the pros. Manufacturers of motorcycles and suppliers of aftermarket parts could see their wares being used in front of large audiences and television. Hooligan racing is an excellent gateway drug to the flat track scene.
