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.
