Well, I'm still busy, and procrastinating: Saw a couple of high school buddies that I haven't spoken to for the (this can't be a real number) 28 years since I graduated. I did a little bike tour to the Niagara Region, where I went to high school, to coincide with one of my friends making an infrequent trip back from Europe. It was pretty nice to get away for a couple of days, and very cool to see my friends again. It was kind of surreal being back in the old stomping grounds. I kept wondering where the muscle cars and mullets were; and then I would remember that it wasn't the 70's any more... anyway, on with the story....
Epiphany and Conclusion
The first lap was a pretty slow one, and I looked for those reference points that I could identify, while trying to keep my bike to the appointed line. After two slow laps, Peter picked up the pace and I immediately ran into trouble, having the first "incident" of the day.
The Nelson Track is laid out roughly like this: You come off the front straightaway onto corner one, which is a long, fast sweeping right hander, and off that onto a short straight chute. You have to brake hard there to turn sharply into a long looping right hander, front suspension fully loaded, and transfer the load to the rear smoothly, as you bend the bike into the corner. I quickly grow to love that corner entry for its demanding nature, as it's the one that requires the highest braking and corner entry forces, and you can really feel the bike suspension "working", in a way that never happens on the street. It is a totally cool sensation, but I'll come back to that later. I find that corner itself to be technically challenging throughout much of the day, as the "line" through here doesn't follow the configuration of the curbs, which confuses my main reference point.
If you follow the curbs through here, you actually turn two corners, whereas the ideal line just ignores the curbs and loops through in a smoother, wider arc that is much faster, but you just have to "know" the line, because there is little to refer to. Peter has already explained that this is one of the psychological factors that separate the Pros from the Amateurs at that track, and we are all determined to "get" it (although I secretly fear that I never will). We all eventually do, me last of all.
Anyway, this is not where the difficulty lay, but in the bend immediately following. That corner features a change of surface, from asphalt to concrete, with the change happening at the point that the bike is at maximum right-hand lean for the corner. On the street, this change in surface would likely mean the immediate loss of traction. Although the rest of the group made it through fine, this was too much of a psychological barrier for me, and my brain couldn't make it around that corner at our slightly brisker pace of 40km/hr or so. Later in the day, I would be blitzing through here at what felt like 90km/hr, but just now, that slower speed was too fast. I stood the bike up and rode it straight off the racetrack and into the grass, the bike bucking and jumping under me as I carefully reduced the speed. Finally I got it stopped without falling over. I rode back onto the track and rejoined the group, who had stopped and waited for me. I explained what happened, and we continued on.
The next corner, corner five, was the one that I would come the closest to disliking. It was a hard left after a mild downward change in elevation, and became off-camber at the apex, which meant that it sloped to the outside. At the same point, the corner began to decrease in radius. You would have to fight the natural tendency of the slope and tightening corner to push you to the edge of the track as you exited; but at the same time, because of the sideways slope, feel as if you had less traction for doing so. I would remain slower through this corner than I should be for the entire day; and the short straight following would be one of only two places (the other one being the front straight) on the track that the other two would be able to pass me at, later in the day. A proper corner entry and exit is crucial to being able to put the power down at the right time, and therefore to developing greater speed on the straights.
This short straight leads to a pretty non-descript right hander. Well, nondescript after corner five, anyway. This corner requires almost as much braking as corner two, and as much precise timing on the dive into entry. This then leads through the kink of the chicanes to the last corner before the front straightaway. This last corner is a tight right-handed hairpin, the inside of which I find too bumpy and rutted on my first few attempts. The Pros go through here at high speeds and truly impressive rates of lean, but it's clearly too much for my stock suspension. In addition, this is the one place on the Nelson track where you can ride into a wall, even if it is covered in hay bales. I settled for riding the long slow way around, coming out beside the wall and riding along side it for much of the straight, and consequently required the whole straightaway to build up sufficient speed again for the entry into corner one. At least that long front straight gave me a chance to rest and catch my breath.
I had spent the two months previously working out in preparation for this day. Motorcycle racing doesn't require a lot of physical strength, but it does demand a high degree of physical fitness and endurance. As you brake going into corners, you have your arms straight out in front of you, muscles resisting the force of braking as if you're doing a 2G pushup. The rest of the way through the corner you are in a squat, standing on the balls of your feet on the pegs, and supporting most of your weight with your legs; and you flow as smoothly as you can from one position to another, which also requires some effort. Imagine walking in a squat for several kilometres, stopping every 100 feet or so to do a couple of quick pushups and some Tai Chi (from the squat), and you get the general idea. I had spent a lot of time on a stair machine and doing other exercises in preparation. The first couple of laps were easy, but it became quite gruelling as the day wore on.
We started off pretty slow, as I said, and increased the speed as we went. This meant that I had much less time as the speed increased, and every corner entry soon became a flurry of activity, wherein I frantically tried to get everything done in time to safely turn in and make it around the corner. Then something happened that turned the day from merely really exciting to the most awesome experience of my life: I became more and more frantic/frenetic as I went faster and faster, and finally, hard on the brakes and approaching corner two wayyy faster than I had at any time previously, time suddenly slowed right down.
I felt that peculiar sensation of time dilation, as if I were in the middle of an accident, although I wasn't. Suddenly I had plenty of time to finish braking the bike and heel it over into the corner. I could feel every nuance of the suspension flexing beneath me, and the effect of small shifts in my weight on the steering. This slow-motion experience continued as I rode, only diminishing slightly as I achieved a new plateau of speed, and returning in full force as my brain caught up to my new level of achievement. The first time after that we pulled in for a break, I babbled excitedly, trying to explain this awesome feeling to Iain as he nodded and grinned knowingly. I had arrived.
I now understood how people were able to pilot high-performance machinery in demanding circumstances, and why they wanted to. I understood why people wanted to grab a race car, or bike, or airplane and go as fast as they could, pushing themselves to do so. This feeling was an absolutely awesome rush, and I had never felt anything like it. I was afraid, every time that I pulled off the track, that this feeling had disappeared for good. But every time that I returned to the track it would come back even faster. I realized as well that this was why racing was so special, as you can never go so fast for so long on the street that your brain clicks into this secret hidden extra super special gear. The closest that you can come on the street, is the few milliseconds of flight that you have before bouncing off the Chinese restaurant; or those fractions of a second that feel like minutes as your car skids across the patch of ice towards the oncoming garbage truck. This is way cooler.
I now had all the time in the world to concentrate on my riding and did so, rapidly getting better, even as the improvements became smaller and harder to achieve. I worked on developing as much smoothness as I could, particularly in the transitions where you are shifting your weight around the bike. The reference points began to come at me fast and furious as I had more time and awareness to process external factors. The extreme clarity with which I was now receiving input meant that a tiny crack or pebble could now serve as a reference point towards speed and track position.
The more reference points I added, the smoother I became, as when the film goes from 10 to 29 frames per second. That meant that I could spend even more attention on the handling of the bike, and go even smoother and faster. I was now taking full advantage of my bike's handling superiority, and basically owned corners one through five. If I made it into corner one first no-one was passing me until two thirds of the way down the straight after turn five. And that was basically because their bikes both had a lot more power than mine. I was still not the fastest person on the track, but I was definitely the most improved, and now holding my own.
The one exception, of course, was Peter. As fast as we neophytes were getting, he would still zoom up beside one of us in a corner and point out with shouts, hand gestures, and exaggerated shifts in position, the attitude that we should be in relative to the bike to go even smoother and faster. As soon as we were arranged to his satisfaction he would zoom away in a blur of colour, instantly appearing a third of the way around the track, beside the next rider. Every time that I witnessed this, I shook my head in disbelief.
I absolutely fell in love with corner one, which was the fastest one on the track. I would come zooming up the left side of the straightaway (taking a breather and resting my trembling legs), winding up through the gears until I reached the flag tower on the left. At that point I would chop the throttle to make the bike squat and load the tires, helping turn-in. simultaneously, my right knee was popped out as an airbrake, and my weight now shifted smoothly to the right side of the bike to encourage the bike to turn in more. I would bank the bike over like a fighter plane, at just the right angle to intersect the right hand side of corner one at just the right arc, and dive in, rolling the throttle back on.
I would soar through the corner at about 140km/hr, continuing to roll the throttle on smoothly; as my body hung off the right side of the bike, suspended by my legs and centrifugal force, skimming inches off the ground. As the bike passed the apex, I would begin to rotate it up straight for the short chute and roll the throttle on the rest of the way. If I had done everything right, I would come out of corner one faster than I went in, getting slingshot up the chute. I would in fact be able to hit the rev limiter in top gear, which meant that I was going faster than 190km/hr, which was REALLY fast for this short section of track. And then I would have to get on the brakes REALLY HARD in order to slow in time for the corner. It was a thrill ride. The entire physics of riding on the track was way beyond what was possible on the street. And I was loving it.
Ninja-boy was the first one to go down, two thirds of the way through the afternoon. This was to be expected, as he had good bike control, but the fearlessness of youth. He started charging the corners aggressively right from the start, and worked his way right to the limit. Once he discovered where his limit was he backed off and extended it a little at a time, as the rest of us were doing. Near the end of the day, I was very sore and tired, and had very little energy left. Iain had had to hold the bike for the last several breaks so that I could dismount, as my left leg and right hip were very sore, due to remaining traces of the accident and the level of physical exertion throughout the day. Nonetheless, this time when Katana-boy went roaring past on the front straightaway I put my head down and gave chase.
I had finally gotten a decent drive out of corner five, and was rapidly catching him, knowing that I would make up a bunch more of the distance under braking. Just as I got close enough to let him know that I was there without "showing him the wheel", he suddenly straightened up his bike, ass-end kicked sideways, smoke coming off the back tire. He got it straightened up and rode straight off the back corner just as I flashed past, diving into the corner entry to the chicanes. I did a couple more laps and then pulled in to see what had happened. He had apparently missed a downshift just as he started braking, and was carrying too much speed to make it around the corner. He fell as the bike hit the dirt, but wasn't going very fast at that point.
We all stopped around this point to take a long break, by mutual consent. We had now been riding at high speeds for most of the day, it was about 4:00 in the afternoon, and we were bone-weary. Peter decided to go for a little blast to clear out the cobwebs while we rested. He put on a display of wheel-spinning virtuosity, sliding his bike around the corners in two-wheel drifts, wheelies and stoppies that had us all gaping and grinning in astonishment. Walter clicked his stopwatch as Peter went around for the second time, doing a clean lap, clicking it a lap later and saying nonchalantly that it was an unofficial lap record. After that, we were pretty much done for the day. Although we could still use the track for the next hour, none of us had anything left physically. And besides, none of us wanted to desecrate the track after viewing that last performance. Katana boy's bike wouldn't start anymore anyway, as the fuel filter appeared to be clogged, or something. EVERYONE's eye's were rolling by this point.
We all packed up our tools and bikes and made ready to leave. We were debriefed by our instructors and welcomed into the racing fraternity. When Iain and I discussed the day later on the drive home, we concluded that it was too bad that we didn't know Ninja-boy's name. We were quite sure that we would be hearing his name in future race reports, otherwise. We just hoped that he would grow up a bit in the meantime. Katana-boy? We figured that he would go really fast for a couple of years, crash a lot, and quit racing. When we analysed my riding, we concluded that once I had come up to speed I was quite legitimately "fast", and could be proud of my performance.
I had no intention of continuing on with racing, other than in occasional random daydreams, but I had a real sense of achievement as we left the track that day. We had arranged for Iain to drive ahead of time, as he had assured me that I would be incapable of doing so. I understood what he meant immediately upon our entry to Highway 401, as my sense of time and speed were still greatly skewed and would remain so for several days. Sprawled out in the truck seat, exhausted, I looked at the traffic crawling down the highway at an interminably and artificially slow speed, and reflected on the best day of my life.
One lesson that I have carried forward from that day is that there is always room for improvement. I guess that means I'm about due to repeat the experience, and the Concours is just the wrong sort of bike. Hmmm, I wonder where I can find a Hawk GT that's in nice shape, cheap....
Monday, June 23, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Me and Motorcycling (Part 7)
The Wardrobe Incident
Well I'm still in procrastination mode, so I should at least drop another chapter in the continuing saga. I'm about to hop on the (Kawasaki ZG1000) Concours and go touring for a couple of days; so I'm procrastinating getting ready for that as well....
They turned their attention to our gear. Ninja-boy, as you'd expect, was in a good-quality one piece leather racing suit, and had all new gear. Katana-boy's gear was well-used, but serviceable. It wasn't of the same current generation as Ninja-boy's, or as heavily protected with padding and body armour, but would hold together in a crash. It would just hurt more.
They frowned when they looked at my leathers: It was a new suit (the insurance had replaced it, and also paid for part of the cost of a new helmet, as the old ones had both been damaged in the accident.). But it was a sport riding suit for the street (plain black), and two piece, so that I could forego the pants and wear jeans if I desired, on the street. I was also wearing a full set of body armour and a back protector underneath, courtesy of Iain, but this was not good enough.
They explained that the zipper which held the two pieces together would let go if I crashed as it wasn't sturdy enough, and that wouldn't be good at all. They just looked at each other and thought for a moment, as my heart started sinking. Then the marshal asked if we had any duct tape. Iain and I both quickly responded "Yes!" as all four of us relaxed with huge sighs of relief. "Ok, just tape them together real good" he said. Iain rushed to comply, as they continued checking my gear. Once again, duct tape saved the day! Red Green would have been proud….
My racing boots and gloves passed muster, and they approvingly noted my cautious handling of the helmet, and asked me to remove it from the carrying bag so that they could inspect it. I was handling this helmet cautiously for a couple of reasons: Firstly, this was the best helmet that I could possibly afford. It cost $800 and was close to the top of the line. I saved a couple of hundred dollars by getting a plain (bright bright red, so it was visible) helmet, without race-replica graphics.
I tried different brands in that price range, and settled on an Arai Quantum S, for the simple reason that it fit my face and head perfectly, with or without glasses. This is very important, as a snug fit is very important for safety, but if there are any pressure points, the helmet will not be comfortable. This quality of helmet was not an indulgence: If you are a serious street or track rider; or simply want to give yourself the best life -- and quality of life -- protection that you can, the helmet is the one thing that you can't skimp on. Get the best one that you can, make sure that it fits properly, and treat it well.
This leads me to the second reason for the careful treatment: For something as expensive as a good motorcycle helmet (and you can easily spend $1500, if you want to get fancy), and that is designed to be tough enough to protect your head and brain from horrendous impacts, they are very, very fragile. A drop from a height of 4 feet onto concrete or pavement is enough to put a small crack or scratch into the gel coat of the helmet (the layer just underneath the paint and primer, where the true construction of the helmet begins). This is enough to make that flaw a weak spot, and compromise the ability of the helmet to take a major blow later, when that might mean the difference between life and death, or more severe injury than otherwise. A racer who dropped his helmet onto the ground and damaged it would immediately throw it away. While probably crying about the cost. The same, of course, occurs when a helmet is even lightly damaged in a crash. It has served its purpose but is now compromised, and is no longer a piece of safety gear, but merely a fashion statement.
Fit is also extremely important, as I stated earlier, so you don't let other people wear your helmet, as this also compromises its ability to protect your own noggin, by subtly altering the fit and padding. Walter carefully examined the helmet, looking for imperfections of the type that I mentioned, while Iain placed a wide swath of duct tape on my back, joining the two halves of my leathers together. The helmet passed muster, and the duct-taping received the thumbs up. It was now time to get onto the track. I placed my helmet back in the bag, laid it carefully on the bike seat, and zipped my jacket against the chill. Peter walked over and picked up the helmet, casually strolled over to the pit wall, and placed it there. I got his point: The bike seat was a less stable platform, and a casual nudge would have been a dumb way to blow $800.
We followed Peter out onto the track, and I immediately started looking for reference points, per my dog-eared copy of "A Twist of the Wrist" by Keith Code. This was pretty easy to do, as we were going at a pretty slow pace. We were, in fact, walking. Peter walked along the line that we would later navigate with our bikes, pointing out braking points, changes in surface and camber, and other points of note. We were on a modified configuration of the Nelson track (just under 2km), with some kind of car school happening opposite, on the Fabi track configuration (just over 2km).
Shannonville Motorsport Park has a very flexible track layout, and can be used in about 6 different main configurations, from a ¼ mile drag strip to a 4km road course. We were in no danger of making a wrong turn and ending up on the wrong track. Even with my sense of direction. I pretty much gave up on reference points, as I couldn't figure out what I would reliably be able to detect at speed.
We finished walking the track, and returned to our bikes in the pit area. It was finally time for the main event. I fitted my earplugs and put on my helmet, and mounted my bike (my hands shaking slightly from excitement), as the others did the same. The plan was that we would follow Peter at a moderate pace for a few laps, and then he would begin to increase the pace as we became more familiar with the track layout.
Peter started his bike first. It burst to life with a deep musical whooping sound, immediately identifying it as the Alpha Bike of this particular pack. I had checked it out earlier, and it truly was a thing of beauty. A brand new GSXR 1100-based superbike, it was a gleaming white and blue, and covered with sponsor decals. Everywhere the eye lighted, expensive custom parts made of "unobtanium". Trick, light racing wheels shod with racing slicks; huge braced swingarm in exotic alloy; exhaust can made of titanium, and much, much more. This bike was easily worth ten times the value of any of the others, and was capable of performance on a whole other level. It was unlikely that any of us neophytes could even ride it around the track, other than in lurching, embarrassing fits and starts. If our bikes were eager Huskies, raring to get to the track, his was a Great White shark, eager to devour all competition. It didn't need the number one plate to make that evident. The deep, chesty whooping sound as he blipped the throttle made it abundantly clear.
We fired up our bikes. This required four attempts and some frantic fiddling by Katana-boy and his brother. Iain and the marshal looked at each other and rolled their eyes. We formed up in a loose line behind Peter, and made our way onto the track, as Walter gathered up his flags and made his way to the infield. He would use different flag signals on us throughout the day, and expect us to react accordingly. A mistake or missed signal would result in a gesturing over to the side of the track on the next go-round, and a pointed correction, which we all wanted to avoid.
The first lap was a pretty slow one, and I looked for those reference points that I could identify, while trying to keep my bike to the appointed line. After two slow laps, Peter picked up the pace, and I immediately ran into trouble, having the first "incident" of the day.
To be continued....
Well I'm still in procrastination mode, so I should at least drop another chapter in the continuing saga. I'm about to hop on the (Kawasaki ZG1000) Concours and go touring for a couple of days; so I'm procrastinating getting ready for that as well....
They turned their attention to our gear. Ninja-boy, as you'd expect, was in a good-quality one piece leather racing suit, and had all new gear. Katana-boy's gear was well-used, but serviceable. It wasn't of the same current generation as Ninja-boy's, or as heavily protected with padding and body armour, but would hold together in a crash. It would just hurt more.
They frowned when they looked at my leathers: It was a new suit (the insurance had replaced it, and also paid for part of the cost of a new helmet, as the old ones had both been damaged in the accident.). But it was a sport riding suit for the street (plain black), and two piece, so that I could forego the pants and wear jeans if I desired, on the street. I was also wearing a full set of body armour and a back protector underneath, courtesy of Iain, but this was not good enough.
They explained that the zipper which held the two pieces together would let go if I crashed as it wasn't sturdy enough, and that wouldn't be good at all. They just looked at each other and thought for a moment, as my heart started sinking. Then the marshal asked if we had any duct tape. Iain and I both quickly responded "Yes!" as all four of us relaxed with huge sighs of relief. "Ok, just tape them together real good" he said. Iain rushed to comply, as they continued checking my gear. Once again, duct tape saved the day! Red Green would have been proud….
My racing boots and gloves passed muster, and they approvingly noted my cautious handling of the helmet, and asked me to remove it from the carrying bag so that they could inspect it. I was handling this helmet cautiously for a couple of reasons: Firstly, this was the best helmet that I could possibly afford. It cost $800 and was close to the top of the line. I saved a couple of hundred dollars by getting a plain (bright bright red, so it was visible) helmet, without race-replica graphics.
I tried different brands in that price range, and settled on an Arai Quantum S, for the simple reason that it fit my face and head perfectly, with or without glasses. This is very important, as a snug fit is very important for safety, but if there are any pressure points, the helmet will not be comfortable. This quality of helmet was not an indulgence: If you are a serious street or track rider; or simply want to give yourself the best life -- and quality of life -- protection that you can, the helmet is the one thing that you can't skimp on. Get the best one that you can, make sure that it fits properly, and treat it well.
This leads me to the second reason for the careful treatment: For something as expensive as a good motorcycle helmet (and you can easily spend $1500, if you want to get fancy), and that is designed to be tough enough to protect your head and brain from horrendous impacts, they are very, very fragile. A drop from a height of 4 feet onto concrete or pavement is enough to put a small crack or scratch into the gel coat of the helmet (the layer just underneath the paint and primer, where the true construction of the helmet begins). This is enough to make that flaw a weak spot, and compromise the ability of the helmet to take a major blow later, when that might mean the difference between life and death, or more severe injury than otherwise. A racer who dropped his helmet onto the ground and damaged it would immediately throw it away. While probably crying about the cost. The same, of course, occurs when a helmet is even lightly damaged in a crash. It has served its purpose but is now compromised, and is no longer a piece of safety gear, but merely a fashion statement.
Fit is also extremely important, as I stated earlier, so you don't let other people wear your helmet, as this also compromises its ability to protect your own noggin, by subtly altering the fit and padding. Walter carefully examined the helmet, looking for imperfections of the type that I mentioned, while Iain placed a wide swath of duct tape on my back, joining the two halves of my leathers together. The helmet passed muster, and the duct-taping received the thumbs up. It was now time to get onto the track. I placed my helmet back in the bag, laid it carefully on the bike seat, and zipped my jacket against the chill. Peter walked over and picked up the helmet, casually strolled over to the pit wall, and placed it there. I got his point: The bike seat was a less stable platform, and a casual nudge would have been a dumb way to blow $800.
We followed Peter out onto the track, and I immediately started looking for reference points, per my dog-eared copy of "A Twist of the Wrist" by Keith Code. This was pretty easy to do, as we were going at a pretty slow pace. We were, in fact, walking. Peter walked along the line that we would later navigate with our bikes, pointing out braking points, changes in surface and camber, and other points of note. We were on a modified configuration of the Nelson track (just under 2km), with some kind of car school happening opposite, on the Fabi track configuration (just over 2km).
Shannonville Motorsport Park has a very flexible track layout, and can be used in about 6 different main configurations, from a ¼ mile drag strip to a 4km road course. We were in no danger of making a wrong turn and ending up on the wrong track. Even with my sense of direction. I pretty much gave up on reference points, as I couldn't figure out what I would reliably be able to detect at speed.
We finished walking the track, and returned to our bikes in the pit area. It was finally time for the main event. I fitted my earplugs and put on my helmet, and mounted my bike (my hands shaking slightly from excitement), as the others did the same. The plan was that we would follow Peter at a moderate pace for a few laps, and then he would begin to increase the pace as we became more familiar with the track layout.
Peter started his bike first. It burst to life with a deep musical whooping sound, immediately identifying it as the Alpha Bike of this particular pack. I had checked it out earlier, and it truly was a thing of beauty. A brand new GSXR 1100-based superbike, it was a gleaming white and blue, and covered with sponsor decals. Everywhere the eye lighted, expensive custom parts made of "unobtanium". Trick, light racing wheels shod with racing slicks; huge braced swingarm in exotic alloy; exhaust can made of titanium, and much, much more. This bike was easily worth ten times the value of any of the others, and was capable of performance on a whole other level. It was unlikely that any of us neophytes could even ride it around the track, other than in lurching, embarrassing fits and starts. If our bikes were eager Huskies, raring to get to the track, his was a Great White shark, eager to devour all competition. It didn't need the number one plate to make that evident. The deep, chesty whooping sound as he blipped the throttle made it abundantly clear.
We fired up our bikes. This required four attempts and some frantic fiddling by Katana-boy and his brother. Iain and the marshal looked at each other and rolled their eyes. We formed up in a loose line behind Peter, and made our way onto the track, as Walter gathered up his flags and made his way to the infield. He would use different flag signals on us throughout the day, and expect us to react accordingly. A mistake or missed signal would result in a gesturing over to the side of the track on the next go-round, and a pointed correction, which we all wanted to avoid.
The first lap was a pretty slow one, and I looked for those reference points that I could identify, while trying to keep my bike to the appointed line. After two slow laps, Peter picked up the pace, and I immediately ran into trouble, having the first "incident" of the day.
To be continued....
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Me and Motorcycling (Part 6)
And yet more procrastination:
The next morning found us unpacking the truck at Shannonville Motorsport Park before 7:00AM. There were two other crews unpacking their gear and bikes at the same time. That was odd, as race school sessions typically have twelve or more students, who are sent out onto the track in alternating groups throughout the day. Iain and I quickly dubbed the other two students "Ninja-boy" and "Katana-boy", as we were focussed on our own tasks, and knew that we would remember the names of the bikes, if not their rider's.
Ninja-boy had a new Kawasaki Ninja 600. It was much faster than my Hawk, but didn't handle as well. I knew this firsthand, having previously owned a 1986 Ninja 600 that I had bought from a racer friend of mine, Matt Johnson. I called it Frankenstein's Ninja, since I bought it after he crashed it at Mosport during a race, and the fairing was pieced together with safety wire that looked like stitches. But that, as I've already said, was another story.
Ninja-boy also appeared to be a petulant and spoiled 15 years old. He had apparently had a successful motocross racing career to that point, and was now going to try roadracing (meaning racing on a paved track, rather than racing on the streets). His supportive father was his crew, and immediately garnered our full sympathies. Ninja-boy was to remain petulant, throwing the odd minor tantrum, until we actually got out onto the track.
Katana-boy was so called as he had a somewhat ratty-looking Suzuki Katana, of 750cc displacement. It was as much faster than the Ninja, as the Ninja was than the Hawk, but I knew that it would wallow like a pig in the corners in comparison to my bike. He had aspirations of finding a manufacturer-sponsored series, and picking up some cash and making a name for himself. He appeared to be in his mid to late twenties, and his older brother was his crew. I, of course, was not there to begin a racing career, and at 35 was the oldest person there; but the adrenaline and testosterone were beginning to thicken in the air, and I was determined to make a good showing for myself.
We all proceeded up to the classroom at the urging of one of the instructors, to wait for the other students to show up. It became apparent after a while that no-one else was going to show, and the instructors discussed their next move before deciding to continue on with the full day. This was excellent for us, as it meant that there were two instructors to only three students, which meant that we would each be getting a lot of attention. It also meant that we would be getting all the track time that we could handle, and more, as we would not be split up into groups.
The first Instructor introduced himself as the Chief Marshal at Shannonville. I believe his name was Walter, but my memory is not clear on that point. He recognized Iain, and they had a brief chat before the class started. He was responsible for the bulk of the in-class instruction. This consisted of material on track safety, race procedures, flag use, and other administrivia. That portion of the day passed in a blur, to be remembered later only vaguely. I was there to ride! To this day, I cannot tell you how much time we spent in that classroom, only that it was as interminable as it was necessary.
Finally the other instructor (who looked like a fuzzy cheeked Ritchie Cunningham type wearing race leathers, a somewhat incongruous look) introduced himself: "Hi, my name is Peter Wilson. I race in a few classes, including Superbike, and I currently have the Number One plate on my bike." This meant that he was the premiere series Champion from the preceding year, and arguably (at that point) the fastest man in Canada, which caused us all to come to attention and listen more intently. "I'm not here to teach you how to ride a motorcycle, since I presume you all know how to do that already. Today, I'm going to show you the fastest way around Shannonville racetrack." With that, and with the classroom lethargy shaken off and replaced by a fresh shot of adrenaline, we trooped downstairs to begin.
They started by performing a detailed technical inspection of the bikes. They looked at the Ninja first. It had been well prepared, as father and son were both experienced at the race game, albeit in a different venue. They informed Ninja-boy that his bike was fine, but that he'd want to consider something else if he wanted to continue racing seriously, as this model, although new, was not currently competitive on the racetrack.
At this, Ninja senior stated that this bike was just for dipping their toes in the water, and if they continued he'd get his son a 250 two-stroke. At this, Iain and I looked at each other and raised our eyebrows - Daddy had some serious bucks! He'd shown up with a brand-new bike in the back of a brand-new and expensive truck; and he was now talking about dropping some serious coin for an expensive purpose-built racebike, of a calibre that Iain and I could only drool over; without batting an eyelash. For a fifteen year old boy! This kid obviously had some serious potential, despite his emotional immaturity, and I’m sure that Iain became as curious as I did to see him ride.
The Katana was next, and the attitudes of the marshal and the racer changed visibly. They looked the bike over with cautious, neutral expressions on their faces. They would look at something, glance at each other, and sort of shrug or raise an eyebrow. You got the impression that they were both suppressing sighs. Katana-boy and his brother appeared oblivious. I started mentally thanking Iain for his admonishments that my bike had to be spotless, in addition to being properly prepped. They allowed as how the bike could be driven on the track, but that it would have to be more meticulously prepared the next time. They then outlined some of the deficiencies, so that they could be rectified later. The track marshal also wryly suggested a careful reading of the rulebook, as it outlined the mandatory requirements in detail. Then it was my turn.
They visibly brightened as they walked up and looked at my bike. "Hey, that's a Hawk!" said Walter, "Don X [the fireman] rides one of those." "Yeah, I know" I said, "I got some parts from him". Iain told Walter that Don had actually sold his Hawk to some other guy that they all knew named Sandy, and that I had bought (clip-ons, levers, chains,etc) or been given (small low-value stuff like PVC fork-spring spacers – but immensely useful) all the spare parts he had left. Iain and the marshal then discussed some other racers they knew in common, as the bike inspection continued. "Now this is a real good track bike" said the racer, "Of the bikes here today, this one is by far the best-suited for riding on a racetrack", as the marshal nodded in agreement. "Ha!" I thought, "Take THAT, rich spoiled kid". Then I thought, "oh great, now I have to live up to the bike".
In discussing the setup with Peter, I mentioned that I didn't like the way that the stock exhaust pipe stuck out, and that I was worried about it possibly grinding. He guffawed and said that it looked worse than it was, and that I wouldn't come remotely close to leaning the bike over far enough today for that to happen. He softened that a little by saying that I'd probably need racing slicks to get it that far over anyway. At least that's what it sounded like what he was saying, from my suddenly two-inch tall vantage point.
To be continued...
The next morning found us unpacking the truck at Shannonville Motorsport Park before 7:00AM. There were two other crews unpacking their gear and bikes at the same time. That was odd, as race school sessions typically have twelve or more students, who are sent out onto the track in alternating groups throughout the day. Iain and I quickly dubbed the other two students "Ninja-boy" and "Katana-boy", as we were focussed on our own tasks, and knew that we would remember the names of the bikes, if not their rider's.
Ninja-boy had a new Kawasaki Ninja 600. It was much faster than my Hawk, but didn't handle as well. I knew this firsthand, having previously owned a 1986 Ninja 600 that I had bought from a racer friend of mine, Matt Johnson. I called it Frankenstein's Ninja, since I bought it after he crashed it at Mosport during a race, and the fairing was pieced together with safety wire that looked like stitches. But that, as I've already said, was another story.
Ninja-boy also appeared to be a petulant and spoiled 15 years old. He had apparently had a successful motocross racing career to that point, and was now going to try roadracing (meaning racing on a paved track, rather than racing on the streets). His supportive father was his crew, and immediately garnered our full sympathies. Ninja-boy was to remain petulant, throwing the odd minor tantrum, until we actually got out onto the track.
Katana-boy was so called as he had a somewhat ratty-looking Suzuki Katana, of 750cc displacement. It was as much faster than the Ninja, as the Ninja was than the Hawk, but I knew that it would wallow like a pig in the corners in comparison to my bike. He had aspirations of finding a manufacturer-sponsored series, and picking up some cash and making a name for himself. He appeared to be in his mid to late twenties, and his older brother was his crew. I, of course, was not there to begin a racing career, and at 35 was the oldest person there; but the adrenaline and testosterone were beginning to thicken in the air, and I was determined to make a good showing for myself.
We all proceeded up to the classroom at the urging of one of the instructors, to wait for the other students to show up. It became apparent after a while that no-one else was going to show, and the instructors discussed their next move before deciding to continue on with the full day. This was excellent for us, as it meant that there were two instructors to only three students, which meant that we would each be getting a lot of attention. It also meant that we would be getting all the track time that we could handle, and more, as we would not be split up into groups.
The first Instructor introduced himself as the Chief Marshal at Shannonville. I believe his name was Walter, but my memory is not clear on that point. He recognized Iain, and they had a brief chat before the class started. He was responsible for the bulk of the in-class instruction. This consisted of material on track safety, race procedures, flag use, and other administrivia. That portion of the day passed in a blur, to be remembered later only vaguely. I was there to ride! To this day, I cannot tell you how much time we spent in that classroom, only that it was as interminable as it was necessary.
Finally the other instructor (who looked like a fuzzy cheeked Ritchie Cunningham type wearing race leathers, a somewhat incongruous look) introduced himself: "Hi, my name is Peter Wilson. I race in a few classes, including Superbike, and I currently have the Number One plate on my bike." This meant that he was the premiere series Champion from the preceding year, and arguably (at that point) the fastest man in Canada, which caused us all to come to attention and listen more intently. "I'm not here to teach you how to ride a motorcycle, since I presume you all know how to do that already. Today, I'm going to show you the fastest way around Shannonville racetrack." With that, and with the classroom lethargy shaken off and replaced by a fresh shot of adrenaline, we trooped downstairs to begin.
They started by performing a detailed technical inspection of the bikes. They looked at the Ninja first. It had been well prepared, as father and son were both experienced at the race game, albeit in a different venue. They informed Ninja-boy that his bike was fine, but that he'd want to consider something else if he wanted to continue racing seriously, as this model, although new, was not currently competitive on the racetrack.
At this, Ninja senior stated that this bike was just for dipping their toes in the water, and if they continued he'd get his son a 250 two-stroke. At this, Iain and I looked at each other and raised our eyebrows - Daddy had some serious bucks! He'd shown up with a brand-new bike in the back of a brand-new and expensive truck; and he was now talking about dropping some serious coin for an expensive purpose-built racebike, of a calibre that Iain and I could only drool over; without batting an eyelash. For a fifteen year old boy! This kid obviously had some serious potential, despite his emotional immaturity, and I’m sure that Iain became as curious as I did to see him ride.
The Katana was next, and the attitudes of the marshal and the racer changed visibly. They looked the bike over with cautious, neutral expressions on their faces. They would look at something, glance at each other, and sort of shrug or raise an eyebrow. You got the impression that they were both suppressing sighs. Katana-boy and his brother appeared oblivious. I started mentally thanking Iain for his admonishments that my bike had to be spotless, in addition to being properly prepped. They allowed as how the bike could be driven on the track, but that it would have to be more meticulously prepared the next time. They then outlined some of the deficiencies, so that they could be rectified later. The track marshal also wryly suggested a careful reading of the rulebook, as it outlined the mandatory requirements in detail. Then it was my turn.
They visibly brightened as they walked up and looked at my bike. "Hey, that's a Hawk!" said Walter, "Don X [the fireman] rides one of those." "Yeah, I know" I said, "I got some parts from him". Iain told Walter that Don had actually sold his Hawk to some other guy that they all knew named Sandy, and that I had bought (clip-ons, levers, chains,etc) or been given (small low-value stuff like PVC fork-spring spacers – but immensely useful) all the spare parts he had left. Iain and the marshal then discussed some other racers they knew in common, as the bike inspection continued. "Now this is a real good track bike" said the racer, "Of the bikes here today, this one is by far the best-suited for riding on a racetrack", as the marshal nodded in agreement. "Ha!" I thought, "Take THAT, rich spoiled kid". Then I thought, "oh great, now I have to live up to the bike".
In discussing the setup with Peter, I mentioned that I didn't like the way that the stock exhaust pipe stuck out, and that I was worried about it possibly grinding. He guffawed and said that it looked worse than it was, and that I wouldn't come remotely close to leaning the bike over far enough today for that to happen. He softened that a little by saying that I'd probably need racing slicks to get it that far over anyway. At least that's what it sounded like what he was saying, from my suddenly two-inch tall vantage point.
To be continued...
Friday, May 9, 2008
Me and Motorcycling (Part 5)
More Procrastination:
An hour later, the bike slowly purred into the driveway, and Iain met me at the back door. "I'm really sorry" he said, "but I've just dropped your bike." I thought he was joking, but then I noticed that his face was white, and his hands shaking. He seemed to be unhurt, but he was definitely in shock. He continued talking as we walked into the back yard to look at the bike. "The bike felt so sweet, and I was so excited about riding again that I got a little carried away. I tried to make the (90 degree) turn onto Kingston Mills road at around 90km/hr. I realized I was going a little too fast when I got the front wheel skipping off the ground. I tried to save it, but it went out from under me. At least I managed to hold the tank off the ground when we went sliding off the road. And if it makes you feel any better, that is one sweet-handling bike."
Looking at the bike, I could immediately see that he hadn't been joking, as it bore the unmistakable signs of a low-speed spill (he had scrubbed off a lot of the initial speed before the impact occurred): the rear brake pedal and the front brake lever were bent, and the instrument pod holding the speedometer and tachometer was broken, along with other, mostly minor, damage. I could also see that he hadn't exaggerated about his efforts to keep the tank undamaged, as it didn't have a mark on it. That told me that that not only had he the presence of mind to realize (mid-accident) that the tank was the most expensive part in jeopardy (racers appear to be pretty adept at adding up the crash damage total while still in the midst of falling off. Okay, I exaggerate a little); but that he had put in a truly heroic effort to keep the tank undamaged, and damage to the rest of the bike minimized, by holding as much of it off the ground as he could, while sliding along the ground in the face of oncoming traffic. Now that his initial shock was wearing off, he also realized that he had broken or dislocated one of his fingers in doing so.
My initial desire to strangle Iain was tempered by that and a few other factors: Accidents happen, and he had done his best to minimize this one. In addition, he had actually done more of the prep work on the bike than I had, due to his much greater knowledge of bike set-up. I was more upset because "my baby" was hurt, than from the actual extent of the damage. In fact, thanks to his introducing me to the fireman, I had already purchased some of the parts that I would need. The rest would (as I discovered later) cost me a little more than $1000, which really is not a lot where motorcycle parts are concerned. I also remembered that it was his Wedding Anniversary; and realized that his wife, a no-nonsense Down-Easter, would probably strangle him herself. I suddenly lost my frustration and became much more sympathetic. It was now early twilight, so I shooed him homeward, and put everything away for the evening.
In any case, that was past, and there we were a couple of weeks later, loading the now-gleaming bike into the back of the truck. We would be off to Shannonville very early, so all tools had been packed as well, and my gear had been checked and re-checked, to make sure that I had everything I needed.
To be continued...
An hour later, the bike slowly purred into the driveway, and Iain met me at the back door. "I'm really sorry" he said, "but I've just dropped your bike." I thought he was joking, but then I noticed that his face was white, and his hands shaking. He seemed to be unhurt, but he was definitely in shock. He continued talking as we walked into the back yard to look at the bike. "The bike felt so sweet, and I was so excited about riding again that I got a little carried away. I tried to make the (90 degree) turn onto Kingston Mills road at around 90km/hr. I realized I was going a little too fast when I got the front wheel skipping off the ground. I tried to save it, but it went out from under me. At least I managed to hold the tank off the ground when we went sliding off the road. And if it makes you feel any better, that is one sweet-handling bike."
Looking at the bike, I could immediately see that he hadn't been joking, as it bore the unmistakable signs of a low-speed spill (he had scrubbed off a lot of the initial speed before the impact occurred): the rear brake pedal and the front brake lever were bent, and the instrument pod holding the speedometer and tachometer was broken, along with other, mostly minor, damage. I could also see that he hadn't exaggerated about his efforts to keep the tank undamaged, as it didn't have a mark on it. That told me that that not only had he the presence of mind to realize (mid-accident) that the tank was the most expensive part in jeopardy (racers appear to be pretty adept at adding up the crash damage total while still in the midst of falling off. Okay, I exaggerate a little); but that he had put in a truly heroic effort to keep the tank undamaged, and damage to the rest of the bike minimized, by holding as much of it off the ground as he could, while sliding along the ground in the face of oncoming traffic. Now that his initial shock was wearing off, he also realized that he had broken or dislocated one of his fingers in doing so.
My initial desire to strangle Iain was tempered by that and a few other factors: Accidents happen, and he had done his best to minimize this one. In addition, he had actually done more of the prep work on the bike than I had, due to his much greater knowledge of bike set-up. I was more upset because "my baby" was hurt, than from the actual extent of the damage. In fact, thanks to his introducing me to the fireman, I had already purchased some of the parts that I would need. The rest would (as I discovered later) cost me a little more than $1000, which really is not a lot where motorcycle parts are concerned. I also remembered that it was his Wedding Anniversary; and realized that his wife, a no-nonsense Down-Easter, would probably strangle him herself. I suddenly lost my frustration and became much more sympathetic. It was now early twilight, so I shooed him homeward, and put everything away for the evening.
In any case, that was past, and there we were a couple of weeks later, loading the now-gleaming bike into the back of the truck. We would be off to Shannonville very early, so all tools had been packed as well, and my gear had been checked and re-checked, to make sure that I had everything I needed.
To be continued...
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Me and Motorcycling (Continued)
I'm now way overdue on at least three promised posts: The Estoril MotoGP final, Fujitsu Tablet PC user impressions, Shanghai MotoGP preview, and Shanghai MotoGP final (procrastination rules!). In fairness (to me), I haven't actually seen the Shanghai MotoGP yet -- nor, as penance, will I, until I have done the Estoril post. By way of proving my world-class procrastination skills once again, I'm going to post yet another chapter of my personal motorcycle journey. Don't like it? Tough! Or you could just leave me a comment saying that you don't like it; which I will immediately action, by ignoring.
When I began to ride the Hawk, I quickly realized that it was the best-handling bike that I had ever owned. As I rode it more, I began to realize that it was the best handling bike that I had ever ridden. When I analyzed the accident, I kept coming back to one inescapable conclusion: Reaction time. If I had only used ¼ second to analyze the situation and reacted, rather than ½, I might have been able to (just) squeak ahead of the car's front bumper and avoid the impact entirely. Yes, I'm estimating the elapsed time, but that's not really the point: I had done all of the right things, but the next time I had to be able to do them quicker. This meant that I had to become better. This meant that I had to get advanced training.
I had been a fan of motorcycle racing for many years already, some of my friends having raced, and I knew that there were two bike racing schools housed at the nearby Shannonville Racetrack: FAST, which provided a bike and all required protective gear, and excellent instruction; and RACE, which provided excellent instruction, but demands that you have your own race-prepped bike and gear, for one quarter the price. Guess which one I chose? Late the next spring, still recovering from my accident, I found myself preparing the Hawk for the racetrack.
I was assisted in getting the bike prepped by my friend Iain McSomething, who had had some success racing a Yamaha RZ350 in the amateur ranks. He also agreed to be my crew chief - my entire crew in fact - for the track training session. The preparation process was tedious and arduous, and mostly consisted of drilling tiny holes through all of the crucial bolts on the bike, so that they could be threaded with safety wire, and wired shut. All bolts which are too small to be drilled are sealed with a conspicuous dab of clear silicone. The suspension settings were left as is, as they worked pretty well with my light weight. The chain was replaced with a fresh one, and the sprockets were checked for wear and left as-is. Soft and sticky street-legal race tires were fitted, and brake pads replaced.
The tires are one of the crucial determiners of a bike's performance and safety on the track, and one of the places where you shouldn't economise. So I did anyway. I got a pair of used tires from a racer, relatively cheap, which had only been used in one race. They were no longer good for true race conditions at 10/10ths, but were great for track day (or school) use at an 8/10ths pace. And let's face it: My performance, as a beginner, was going to be limited by my lack of experience, not by my tires. This is actually a common practice, since racers go through an obscene amount of barely used, but very expensive tires.
The engine cooling system was flushed, and the coolant replaced with distilled water. Coolant isn't allowed on racetracks, since it is very slippery when it leaks. All other fluids on the bike (the brake fluid, engine oil and fork oil) were replaced as well. All lights and mirrors were removed from the bike, as were the centrestand and passenger pegs. The empty headlight housing was covered with cardboard and duct tape, to make it aerodynamically flat. Iain advised that I also make sure that I had a full roll of duct tape in my toolbox, as it is a heavily used item/emergency repair tool. I packed a spare roll as well.
When all other preparation was complete, the bike was thoroughly cleaned and polished, top to bottom. Iain pointed out that beyond the aesthetics, a clean bike showed that it had been properly prepared, in the meticulous fashion that is required in any endeavour that incorporates an element of danger. The tech inspectors view dirt as evidence of a sloppy attitude, and consequently scrutinize the bike to a much greater degree. I looked at my beautiful gleaming silver bike in the fading sunlight, before loading it onto the truck for the trip to Shannonville early the next morning, and sighed with happiness, reflecting on how close I had come to not making it to this point. When we had completed the mechanical work two weeks previously, Iain asked if he could be the one to take the bike on it's test ride, as it was his wedding anniversary that day, and he wanted to have his own celebration before he joined his wife later.
Like many racers, Iain didn't ride very much on the street - hardly ever, in fact. Ironically, racers find the street to be a dangerous place to ride, and avoid it where possible. Many of the best motorcycle rider on the planet, ironically (and by consequence), have never even ridden a street-legal motorcycle, on the street. Your chances of falling at the racetrack are high, but the chances of survival are 100% to all intents and purposes. Tracks for motorcycle racing are designed with generous runoff areas; and walls, where they have to exist, have a lot of padding (airwalls and hay bales) to absorb impact. On the street, you have to contend with oncoming traffic, dogs, blind drivers; with many immovable objects (trees, curbs, fire hydrants, Chinese restaurants) to run into when you do fall off.
A high-speed accident at the track usually results in a lot of bruises and a much damaged bike, with broken bones on occasion. A moderate to low-speed accident on the street often leads to death. The condition of the bike is irrelevant at that point. In addition, on the track, everyone is highly skilled (compared to an untutored street rider), and is heading in the same direction, with the same goal in mind: To get to the finish line as quickly as possible. There is no hesitation and no indecision. You know what the person beside you is going to do. Mostly.
In any case, I readily agreed that Iain should be the one to take the Hawk out for a spin. I was anxious to get his feedback on the bike. He got his leathers and returned, having just managed to squeeze into them. He had been married for two years and hadn't raced during that time (but hadn't yet admitted to himself that he was retired), and had apparently put on a little weight. All of this prep work on my Hawk had fired up his adrenaline and made him anxious to get back on a bike. We fired up the engine; he got on, and wheeled it out the driveway, and onto the street. I heard him dancing through the gears as the sound receded in the distance.
An hour later, the bike slowly purred into the driveway, and Iain met me at the back door. "I'm really sorry" he said, "but I've just dropped your bike."
To be continued...
When I began to ride the Hawk, I quickly realized that it was the best-handling bike that I had ever owned. As I rode it more, I began to realize that it was the best handling bike that I had ever ridden. When I analyzed the accident, I kept coming back to one inescapable conclusion: Reaction time. If I had only used ¼ second to analyze the situation and reacted, rather than ½, I might have been able to (just) squeak ahead of the car's front bumper and avoid the impact entirely. Yes, I'm estimating the elapsed time, but that's not really the point: I had done all of the right things, but the next time I had to be able to do them quicker. This meant that I had to become better. This meant that I had to get advanced training.
I had been a fan of motorcycle racing for many years already, some of my friends having raced, and I knew that there were two bike racing schools housed at the nearby Shannonville Racetrack: FAST, which provided a bike and all required protective gear, and excellent instruction; and RACE, which provided excellent instruction, but demands that you have your own race-prepped bike and gear, for one quarter the price. Guess which one I chose? Late the next spring, still recovering from my accident, I found myself preparing the Hawk for the racetrack.
I was assisted in getting the bike prepped by my friend Iain McSomething, who had had some success racing a Yamaha RZ350 in the amateur ranks. He also agreed to be my crew chief - my entire crew in fact - for the track training session. The preparation process was tedious and arduous, and mostly consisted of drilling tiny holes through all of the crucial bolts on the bike, so that they could be threaded with safety wire, and wired shut. All bolts which are too small to be drilled are sealed with a conspicuous dab of clear silicone. The suspension settings were left as is, as they worked pretty well with my light weight. The chain was replaced with a fresh one, and the sprockets were checked for wear and left as-is. Soft and sticky street-legal race tires were fitted, and brake pads replaced.
The tires are one of the crucial determiners of a bike's performance and safety on the track, and one of the places where you shouldn't economise. So I did anyway. I got a pair of used tires from a racer, relatively cheap, which had only been used in one race. They were no longer good for true race conditions at 10/10ths, but were great for track day (or school) use at an 8/10ths pace. And let's face it: My performance, as a beginner, was going to be limited by my lack of experience, not by my tires. This is actually a common practice, since racers go through an obscene amount of barely used, but very expensive tires.
The engine cooling system was flushed, and the coolant replaced with distilled water. Coolant isn't allowed on racetracks, since it is very slippery when it leaks. All other fluids on the bike (the brake fluid, engine oil and fork oil) were replaced as well. All lights and mirrors were removed from the bike, as were the centrestand and passenger pegs. The empty headlight housing was covered with cardboard and duct tape, to make it aerodynamically flat. Iain advised that I also make sure that I had a full roll of duct tape in my toolbox, as it is a heavily used item/emergency repair tool. I packed a spare roll as well.
When all other preparation was complete, the bike was thoroughly cleaned and polished, top to bottom. Iain pointed out that beyond the aesthetics, a clean bike showed that it had been properly prepared, in the meticulous fashion that is required in any endeavour that incorporates an element of danger. The tech inspectors view dirt as evidence of a sloppy attitude, and consequently scrutinize the bike to a much greater degree. I looked at my beautiful gleaming silver bike in the fading sunlight, before loading it onto the truck for the trip to Shannonville early the next morning, and sighed with happiness, reflecting on how close I had come to not making it to this point. When we had completed the mechanical work two weeks previously, Iain asked if he could be the one to take the bike on it's test ride, as it was his wedding anniversary that day, and he wanted to have his own celebration before he joined his wife later.
Like many racers, Iain didn't ride very much on the street - hardly ever, in fact. Ironically, racers find the street to be a dangerous place to ride, and avoid it where possible. Many of the best motorcycle rider on the planet, ironically (and by consequence), have never even ridden a street-legal motorcycle, on the street. Your chances of falling at the racetrack are high, but the chances of survival are 100% to all intents and purposes. Tracks for motorcycle racing are designed with generous runoff areas; and walls, where they have to exist, have a lot of padding (airwalls and hay bales) to absorb impact. On the street, you have to contend with oncoming traffic, dogs, blind drivers; with many immovable objects (trees, curbs, fire hydrants, Chinese restaurants) to run into when you do fall off.
A high-speed accident at the track usually results in a lot of bruises and a much damaged bike, with broken bones on occasion. A moderate to low-speed accident on the street often leads to death. The condition of the bike is irrelevant at that point. In addition, on the track, everyone is highly skilled (compared to an untutored street rider), and is heading in the same direction, with the same goal in mind: To get to the finish line as quickly as possible. There is no hesitation and no indecision. You know what the person beside you is going to do. Mostly.
In any case, I readily agreed that Iain should be the one to take the Hawk out for a spin. I was anxious to get his feedback on the bike. He got his leathers and returned, having just managed to squeeze into them. He had been married for two years and hadn't raced during that time (but hadn't yet admitted to himself that he was retired), and had apparently put on a little weight. All of this prep work on my Hawk had fired up his adrenaline and made him anxious to get back on a bike. We fired up the engine; he got on, and wheeled it out the driveway, and onto the street. I heard him dancing through the gears as the sound receded in the distance.
An hour later, the bike slowly purred into the driveway, and Iain met me at the back door. "I'm really sorry" he said, "but I've just dropped your bike."
To be continued...
Friday, May 2, 2008
After the Accident
So there I was, two months after the accident; talking to a stranger in his empty driveway, standing on crutches; talking about his motorcycle, while a friend of mine rode it around the block with the insurance settlement burning a hole in my pocket. It was a 1988 Honda Hawk 650GT, which I remembered reading about in bike magazines when they debuted in that year. The reviews stated that it was an extremely good handling motorcycle. It suffered from the fact that it was severely underpowered, with a small v-twin motor, but that it cost as much as the Suzuki GSXR 750, which was then the ruler of the Sportbike roost.
In fairness, it cost so much because it had much that was exotic at the time. The frame was a large twin-spar aluminium perimeter one, and the swingarm a large box-section aluminium one which was single sided. This was very trick at that time, and from the right side of the bike, the tire appeared to just be floating there. The front brake had a single disk, which was fine because the bike was so compact and light. The stiff frame meant that the suspension could be well tuned, since it flexed, and not the bike. In any case, the bike remained an undiscovered gem. In consequence, Honda didn't sell very many of them, and North American production halted after two years. In fact, a lot of them were left on dealer shelves, still in crates.
Then a funny thing happened: The gem got discovered. Racers across North America happened upon the bike, and realized that the only thing wrong with it was the gutless engine, which was easily remedied. The bike was stiff and light, had excellent suspension geometry, and could be made to handle really, really well. You can make a slow bike faster, but you can't make a pig dance like a ballerina. This baby could dance.
A Kingston fireman who raced a Hawk in the Professional classes, and who I bought a bunch of parts from, asserted to me that his (highly tuned) Hawk was good for a win or top three finish in BOTT (Battle Of The Twins) racing, a top ten finish in Open Superbike, or a top five finish in the rain. This was against the most powerful and fastest bikes racing in Canada, and solely because of its superior handling. He advised me to stick with the stock front end and single disk; as he had fitted a GSXR front end with dual disks to his racebike, and couldn't prevent the rear end from rising as much as a foot off the ground on every corner entry, when he was hard on the brakes. He dryly noted that this caused considerably more excitement than he was looking for. Mind you, that was on an extremely fast and heavily modified (incl. larger engine capacity) Hawk GT, wearing racing slicks, and it was highly unlikely that I would be experiencing that particular combination.
The gentleman that I bought that bike from happened across a Hawk that sat for three years at a dealership in Thunder Bay, and bought it for a good price. He rode it for two years before deciding to upsize to a Concours (interestingly enough), which was a bike model that I already had my eye on as well. I benefited from his good fortune, and drove away with a bike that I would be unable to ride for at least another month, secured in the back of my pickup truck.
When I began to ride the Hawk, I quickly realized that it was the best-handling bike that I had ever owned. As I rode it more, I began to realize that it was the best handling bike that I had ever ridden. When I analyzed the accident, I kept coming back to one inescapable conclusion: Reaction time. If I had only used ¼ second to analyze the situation and reacted, rather than ½, I might have been able to (just) squeak ahead of the car's front bumper and avoid the impact entirely. Yes, I'm estimating the elapsed time, but that's not really the point: I had done all of the right things, but the next time I had to be able to do them quicker. This meant that I had to become better. This meant that I had to get advanced training.
More to come...
In fairness, it cost so much because it had much that was exotic at the time. The frame was a large twin-spar aluminium perimeter one, and the swingarm a large box-section aluminium one which was single sided. This was very trick at that time, and from the right side of the bike, the tire appeared to just be floating there. The front brake had a single disk, which was fine because the bike was so compact and light. The stiff frame meant that the suspension could be well tuned, since it flexed, and not the bike. In any case, the bike remained an undiscovered gem. In consequence, Honda didn't sell very many of them, and North American production halted after two years. In fact, a lot of them were left on dealer shelves, still in crates.
Then a funny thing happened: The gem got discovered. Racers across North America happened upon the bike, and realized that the only thing wrong with it was the gutless engine, which was easily remedied. The bike was stiff and light, had excellent suspension geometry, and could be made to handle really, really well. You can make a slow bike faster, but you can't make a pig dance like a ballerina. This baby could dance.
A Kingston fireman who raced a Hawk in the Professional classes, and who I bought a bunch of parts from, asserted to me that his (highly tuned) Hawk was good for a win or top three finish in BOTT (Battle Of The Twins) racing, a top ten finish in Open Superbike, or a top five finish in the rain. This was against the most powerful and fastest bikes racing in Canada, and solely because of its superior handling. He advised me to stick with the stock front end and single disk; as he had fitted a GSXR front end with dual disks to his racebike, and couldn't prevent the rear end from rising as much as a foot off the ground on every corner entry, when he was hard on the brakes. He dryly noted that this caused considerably more excitement than he was looking for. Mind you, that was on an extremely fast and heavily modified (incl. larger engine capacity) Hawk GT, wearing racing slicks, and it was highly unlikely that I would be experiencing that particular combination.
The gentleman that I bought that bike from happened across a Hawk that sat for three years at a dealership in Thunder Bay, and bought it for a good price. He rode it for two years before deciding to upsize to a Concours (interestingly enough), which was a bike model that I already had my eye on as well. I benefited from his good fortune, and drove away with a bike that I would be unable to ride for at least another month, secured in the back of my pickup truck.
When I began to ride the Hawk, I quickly realized that it was the best-handling bike that I had ever owned. As I rode it more, I began to realize that it was the best handling bike that I had ever ridden. When I analyzed the accident, I kept coming back to one inescapable conclusion: Reaction time. If I had only used ¼ second to analyze the situation and reacted, rather than ½, I might have been able to (just) squeak ahead of the car's front bumper and avoid the impact entirely. Yes, I'm estimating the elapsed time, but that's not really the point: I had done all of the right things, but the next time I had to be able to do them quicker. This meant that I had to become better. This meant that I had to get advanced training.
More to come...
Friday, April 18, 2008
My Bike Accident
I have had just a couple of accidents since I started riding. In the most serious one I was hit by a car and the motorcycle destroyed: On a Sunday afternoon in April, about 10 years ago, I went for one of my first rides of the season. It was a fairly short ride, after which I stopped and had lunch before returning home. I was three blocks away from my home when it happened (yes, it's true that they happen close to home):
About 80 feet ahead, a car pulled out from a parking spot into the oncoming lane after doing his shoulder check and looking behind carefully; and then immediately moved into a u-turn, without ever looking ahead. If he had looked forward even once (I was watching him through his windshield), he would have seen me. It was around 1:00PM; his car was facing south and I was travelling north, so the sun wasn't in his eyes or mine. I was riding a bright red-white-and-blue 1986 Honda 750 Interceptor, with the high beams on. I was also wearing a white and blue jacket, and a bright red-white-and-blue helmet. I was 80 feet away. Visibility was not a problem, but his lack of attention was.
In any case, I was now in survival mode, and took a precious 1/4 second to analyze the situation. I didn't have enough room to go around the rear of the car (old man, big car). I also didn't have enough room to stop. I had already started to slow down from 60-65km/hr, since the light had turned amber just before his car started to move. As he started to turn I geared down while I hammered the brakes, concentrating on the front, and getting that perfect howling sound that told me that I had maximum braking traction before the front wheel broke loose, and keeping it right on that edge. The tires were still warm from the ride, which helped; but I then realized that maximum braking wasn't nearly enough, and that I would impact the side of the car right on the open passenger window. I would strike there at maybe 50km/hr, probably killing his blue-haired wife, and probably myself. At the very least we would both be severely injured, if we lived, so that was not an option.
That only left me with the option of scooting through in front of the car, between his front bumper on the left, and the curb and a fire hydrant on the right. The 1/4 second had expired; I was now less than 30 feet away, and the window about 4 feet wide and closing. I flicked the bike to the right while releasing the brakes, to put it up against the curb, and flicked it upright again, while whacking the throttle wide open - no time to change gears, just gas it and go. I hunched over the bike and blurred forward, just in time to clear the fire hydrant, but not the right corner of the car's front bumper. The bumper struck the bike somewhere around or just behind my right foot in a glancing blow, and I was sent tumbling through the air.
As I flew through the air (cursing the driver almost absent-mindedly. I believe it was the "A" word), I knew that I would be okay; as it was just my weekend flashing before my eyes, not my life. I half-chuckled and relaxed a bit, as I finished flipping on my back just in time to hit the sidewalk, and tumble into the side of the Golden Dragon, a Chinese restaurant that I used to frequent. But that's another story. The whole thing took about 3 or 4 seconds, from start to finish. It's amazing how much thinking you can do in such a short period of time.
I lay on my back moaning, and was suddenly looking at the sky through a circle of faces. The area was fairly busy, as it was a beautiful spring day, and there were also many people leaving the Salvation Army church service at the same time as the driver. A bunch of people ran over to the now red stoplight, to stop the elderly gentleman, who had blithely kept going. He later explained to the policeman that he hadn't seen me at all, and thought that the crunching sound was a pop can getting crushed under his tire.
In any case I was getting attention, and was not too badly hurt, the driver was stopped, and the policeman there within a couple of minutes. A doctor who was passing by in a car checked me out until the officer arrived, and informed him that I was not severely injured before leaving. I was able to sit up at this point, and remove my helmet with some difficulty, as my arms didn't want to work properly. I got a nervous laugh from the crowd by pulling a movie (I had stopped at the video store after leaving the restaurant) out of my jacket, and declaring that I guessed I wouldn't be watching it that afternoon. I think I told a couple of other lame jokes. I get "funny" when I'm in shock.
I happened to have a cell phone with me, and immediately made some calls. I had been using a cell phone for work for about two years at this point, but had never had one in an emergency situation. In the few minutes between making my statement to the policeman and the arrival of the ambulance; I had arranged for a friend to pick up the ruins of my motorcycle, two other friends were meeting me at the hospital, and everyone who needed to know had been informed of the accident. I have never gone anywhere without a cell phone since.
At the hospital, I was further poked, prodded and twisted, and the final damages added up: I was injured asymmetrically, with the lower left side of my body injured by the initial impact, and the upper right portion injured by the impact to the sidewalk. My left ankle suffered torn tendons from impact with the hood of the car or the tank of the bike, which hyper-extended my foot hard enough to grind red paint into the shoe that's still visible today (yup, I still have those shoes), and tear a chunk off the sole. The tendons also pulled a chunk of bone the size of a quarter off as they tore, so I was placed in a walking cast for a couple of weeks, to keep the foot immobilized. My right shoulder separated when I bounced off that shoulder blade, and that arm was placed in a sling.
All in all, I was very lucky (thanks to making it past the fire hydrant), suffering mostly soft-tissue damage and bruising. It felt like my entire body was severely sprained, but nothing was actually broken, or permanently damaged. It was a week before I could do more than shuffle out of bed for brief periods. Even with the painkillers. And the scotch. It was more than a month before I graduated from crutches (awkward with the separated shoulder) to a cane, and around two years before I considered myself fully and completely recovered.
Would such a close call make me consider giving up motorcycles? Not a chance. Every time that I analysed the accident afterward, I felt extremely proud. I did all of the right things, and I did them extremely well. That was probably the best riding that I had done in my life, to that point. I had been in enough car accidents (sad but true) to know better than to freeze up, give up, and try to ride it out. I had already learned to keep actively trying to seek a way out, to mitigate things. I knew to use that peculiar and cool time dilation factor, where everything seems to slow down, to my advantage.
I had also been riding long enough to be able to approach things analytically, and view my riding objectively, with a view to constant improvement. Long enough to know the value of practicing emergency manoeuvres before they are required; practicing emergency braking with every new bike, or set of tires, or set of brakes. Experienced enough to know the high degree of alertness that is required, and to maintain it. Experienced enough also, to read everything that I could about riding better, and to practice it when I could. Educated enough to know that "laying her down" would have been the stupidest thing I could have done, and which would have resulted in just one fatality - mine. I re-learned the value of proper protective gear, which I was wearing at the time. And I never much liked that bike, anyway.
More to come...
About 80 feet ahead, a car pulled out from a parking spot into the oncoming lane after doing his shoulder check and looking behind carefully; and then immediately moved into a u-turn, without ever looking ahead. If he had looked forward even once (I was watching him through his windshield), he would have seen me. It was around 1:00PM; his car was facing south and I was travelling north, so the sun wasn't in his eyes or mine. I was riding a bright red-white-and-blue 1986 Honda 750 Interceptor, with the high beams on. I was also wearing a white and blue jacket, and a bright red-white-and-blue helmet. I was 80 feet away. Visibility was not a problem, but his lack of attention was.
In any case, I was now in survival mode, and took a precious 1/4 second to analyze the situation. I didn't have enough room to go around the rear of the car (old man, big car). I also didn't have enough room to stop. I had already started to slow down from 60-65km/hr, since the light had turned amber just before his car started to move. As he started to turn I geared down while I hammered the brakes, concentrating on the front, and getting that perfect howling sound that told me that I had maximum braking traction before the front wheel broke loose, and keeping it right on that edge. The tires were still warm from the ride, which helped; but I then realized that maximum braking wasn't nearly enough, and that I would impact the side of the car right on the open passenger window. I would strike there at maybe 50km/hr, probably killing his blue-haired wife, and probably myself. At the very least we would both be severely injured, if we lived, so that was not an option.
That only left me with the option of scooting through in front of the car, between his front bumper on the left, and the curb and a fire hydrant on the right. The 1/4 second had expired; I was now less than 30 feet away, and the window about 4 feet wide and closing. I flicked the bike to the right while releasing the brakes, to put it up against the curb, and flicked it upright again, while whacking the throttle wide open - no time to change gears, just gas it and go. I hunched over the bike and blurred forward, just in time to clear the fire hydrant, but not the right corner of the car's front bumper. The bumper struck the bike somewhere around or just behind my right foot in a glancing blow, and I was sent tumbling through the air.
As I flew through the air (cursing the driver almost absent-mindedly. I believe it was the "A" word), I knew that I would be okay; as it was just my weekend flashing before my eyes, not my life. I half-chuckled and relaxed a bit, as I finished flipping on my back just in time to hit the sidewalk, and tumble into the side of the Golden Dragon, a Chinese restaurant that I used to frequent. But that's another story. The whole thing took about 3 or 4 seconds, from start to finish. It's amazing how much thinking you can do in such a short period of time.
I lay on my back moaning, and was suddenly looking at the sky through a circle of faces. The area was fairly busy, as it was a beautiful spring day, and there were also many people leaving the Salvation Army church service at the same time as the driver. A bunch of people ran over to the now red stoplight, to stop the elderly gentleman, who had blithely kept going. He later explained to the policeman that he hadn't seen me at all, and thought that the crunching sound was a pop can getting crushed under his tire.
In any case I was getting attention, and was not too badly hurt, the driver was stopped, and the policeman there within a couple of minutes. A doctor who was passing by in a car checked me out until the officer arrived, and informed him that I was not severely injured before leaving. I was able to sit up at this point, and remove my helmet with some difficulty, as my arms didn't want to work properly. I got a nervous laugh from the crowd by pulling a movie (I had stopped at the video store after leaving the restaurant) out of my jacket, and declaring that I guessed I wouldn't be watching it that afternoon. I think I told a couple of other lame jokes. I get "funny" when I'm in shock.
I happened to have a cell phone with me, and immediately made some calls. I had been using a cell phone for work for about two years at this point, but had never had one in an emergency situation. In the few minutes between making my statement to the policeman and the arrival of the ambulance; I had arranged for a friend to pick up the ruins of my motorcycle, two other friends were meeting me at the hospital, and everyone who needed to know had been informed of the accident. I have never gone anywhere without a cell phone since.
At the hospital, I was further poked, prodded and twisted, and the final damages added up: I was injured asymmetrically, with the lower left side of my body injured by the initial impact, and the upper right portion injured by the impact to the sidewalk. My left ankle suffered torn tendons from impact with the hood of the car or the tank of the bike, which hyper-extended my foot hard enough to grind red paint into the shoe that's still visible today (yup, I still have those shoes), and tear a chunk off the sole. The tendons also pulled a chunk of bone the size of a quarter off as they tore, so I was placed in a walking cast for a couple of weeks, to keep the foot immobilized. My right shoulder separated when I bounced off that shoulder blade, and that arm was placed in a sling.
All in all, I was very lucky (thanks to making it past the fire hydrant), suffering mostly soft-tissue damage and bruising. It felt like my entire body was severely sprained, but nothing was actually broken, or permanently damaged. It was a week before I could do more than shuffle out of bed for brief periods. Even with the painkillers. And the scotch. It was more than a month before I graduated from crutches (awkward with the separated shoulder) to a cane, and around two years before I considered myself fully and completely recovered.
Would such a close call make me consider giving up motorcycles? Not a chance. Every time that I analysed the accident afterward, I felt extremely proud. I did all of the right things, and I did them extremely well. That was probably the best riding that I had done in my life, to that point. I had been in enough car accidents (sad but true) to know better than to freeze up, give up, and try to ride it out. I had already learned to keep actively trying to seek a way out, to mitigate things. I knew to use that peculiar and cool time dilation factor, where everything seems to slow down, to my advantage.
I had also been riding long enough to be able to approach things analytically, and view my riding objectively, with a view to constant improvement. Long enough to know the value of practicing emergency manoeuvres before they are required; practicing emergency braking with every new bike, or set of tires, or set of brakes. Experienced enough to know the high degree of alertness that is required, and to maintain it. Experienced enough also, to read everything that I could about riding better, and to practice it when I could. Educated enough to know that "laying her down" would have been the stupidest thing I could have done, and which would have resulted in just one fatality - mine. I re-learned the value of proper protective gear, which I was wearing at the time. And I never much liked that bike, anyway.
More to come...
My Bike
I first began riding motorcycles when I was 13-14 years old and lived in the country, sneaking rides on my friend's dirt bikes and mopeds when our parents weren't looking. That initial contact became a lifelong obsession, and I ride motorcycles to this day.
The first motorcycle that I owned was a 1970 Yamaha R5, which was a 350 two-stroke in purple and white. I had that motorcycle from the summer of 1985, until the spring of 2000, when it was stolen from the back yard of my home. I've owned a total of 9 bikes now, including my current one, which is a 1986 Kawasaki Concours. Most of them have been sportbikes, and the Concours is the first one that I've owned which was made for riding longer distances.
[Portions of the following three paragraphs were taken from a description of the Concours written by David Gibbs (dagibbs@quantum.qnx.com) in August of 1992, and adapted. His full text may be found at: ftp://ftp.cecm.sfu.ca/pub/RMR/Kawasaki/CONCOURS-90. Some like to stand on the shoulders of giants. I prefer to stand on the shoulders of normal people. Less vertigo.]
The Concours is a 1000cc Sport-Touring motorcycle which is based on the 1000cc Ninja of the same vintage. It is big and heavy, weighing almost 275kg dry (without gas). It has a 26 litre fuel tank, which is pretty large for a motorcycle, and which gives it a range that exceeds 350 km. This large fuel tank contributes to its top-heavy, clumsy feel at walking speeds, especially when full. It is an extremely good long-distance bike, but surprisingly sporty as well. It's known for being durable, and a good all-round bike. It was, in fact, produced for 20 years to the same basic design, which is almost unheard of with sporty motorcycles.
It has a large fairing, slightly leaned forward seating position, fairly good space for one or two, standard hard luggage saddlebags with reasonable capacity, shaft drive, liquid cooling, dual disk brakes at the front, a single disk rear brake, a 6 speed transmission, and an engine that redlines at 10,500 rpm. In the hands of an experienced rider on a twisty road, it can keep up with all but the most hard core sport bikes. It has a detuned version of the Ninja motor (which makes it nearly "bulletproof"), and carries a lot of weight, so the top speed is just over 200 kilometers per hour. By comparison, a current Sportbike of the same displacement weighs around 175kg and has a top speed greater than 300km/hr. It's very nimble on a twisty road, though, despite its weight. The weight just seems to disappear once you move beyond walking speeds.
The fairing protects well against rain, and I have ridden through light rain for 5-10 minutes in jeans without getting wet. This protection tapers off from the shoulders and up, so my helmet and shoulders do get wet. The wind also generally hits the top of my helmet, depending upon speed and air turbulence. This causes a bit of buffeting, but it is acceptable. On most days, I can comfortably travel at speeds up to about 80 km/h with the helmet visor open, but I have to close it for highway speeds.
My bike is from the first year that Kawasaki produced the Concours, 1986; and was, until recently, in excellent condition for its age. It has had few modifications: The handlebars have been raised one inch and a Corbin seat fitted, for greater comfort. These changes were also made by the factory in subsequent years (well they didn't fit Corbin seats, but they made a credible copy), and for the same reasons. A previous owner has also installed a 12-volt accessory outlet, so that a heated vest or other powered accessory may be used. Up here in the great white north, that's an excellent thing; as it allows you to extend the riding season until the last possible moment.
Although this bike is still in excellent cosmetic condition, never having been dropped (Hi Ho Silver!), it's now living on borrowed time: The mechanic that I took it to, to have the motor rebuilt last Summer, basically told me that the bottom end is now worn out to the point that it's not worth it... "Ride it till it blows up, and then get another one" was the basic diagnosis. We'll see if I can squeeze another summer out of "Connie"....
The first motorcycle that I owned was a 1970 Yamaha R5, which was a 350 two-stroke in purple and white. I had that motorcycle from the summer of 1985, until the spring of 2000, when it was stolen from the back yard of my home. I've owned a total of 9 bikes now, including my current one, which is a 1986 Kawasaki Concours. Most of them have been sportbikes, and the Concours is the first one that I've owned which was made for riding longer distances.
[Portions of the following three paragraphs were taken from a description of the Concours written by David Gibbs (dagibbs@quantum.qnx.com) in August of 1992, and adapted. His full text may be found at: ftp://ftp.cecm.sfu.ca/pub/RMR/Kawasaki/CONCOURS-90. Some like to stand on the shoulders of giants. I prefer to stand on the shoulders of normal people. Less vertigo.]
The Concours is a 1000cc Sport-Touring motorcycle which is based on the 1000cc Ninja of the same vintage. It is big and heavy, weighing almost 275kg dry (without gas). It has a 26 litre fuel tank, which is pretty large for a motorcycle, and which gives it a range that exceeds 350 km. This large fuel tank contributes to its top-heavy, clumsy feel at walking speeds, especially when full. It is an extremely good long-distance bike, but surprisingly sporty as well. It's known for being durable, and a good all-round bike. It was, in fact, produced for 20 years to the same basic design, which is almost unheard of with sporty motorcycles.
It has a large fairing, slightly leaned forward seating position, fairly good space for one or two, standard hard luggage saddlebags with reasonable capacity, shaft drive, liquid cooling, dual disk brakes at the front, a single disk rear brake, a 6 speed transmission, and an engine that redlines at 10,500 rpm. In the hands of an experienced rider on a twisty road, it can keep up with all but the most hard core sport bikes. It has a detuned version of the Ninja motor (which makes it nearly "bulletproof"), and carries a lot of weight, so the top speed is just over 200 kilometers per hour. By comparison, a current Sportbike of the same displacement weighs around 175kg and has a top speed greater than 300km/hr. It's very nimble on a twisty road, though, despite its weight. The weight just seems to disappear once you move beyond walking speeds.
The fairing protects well against rain, and I have ridden through light rain for 5-10 minutes in jeans without getting wet. This protection tapers off from the shoulders and up, so my helmet and shoulders do get wet. The wind also generally hits the top of my helmet, depending upon speed and air turbulence. This causes a bit of buffeting, but it is acceptable. On most days, I can comfortably travel at speeds up to about 80 km/h with the helmet visor open, but I have to close it for highway speeds.
My bike is from the first year that Kawasaki produced the Concours, 1986; and was, until recently, in excellent condition for its age. It has had few modifications: The handlebars have been raised one inch and a Corbin seat fitted, for greater comfort. These changes were also made by the factory in subsequent years (well they didn't fit Corbin seats, but they made a credible copy), and for the same reasons. A previous owner has also installed a 12-volt accessory outlet, so that a heated vest or other powered accessory may be used. Up here in the great white north, that's an excellent thing; as it allows you to extend the riding season until the last possible moment.
Although this bike is still in excellent cosmetic condition, never having been dropped (Hi Ho Silver!), it's now living on borrowed time: The mechanic that I took it to, to have the motor rebuilt last Summer, basically told me that the bottom end is now worn out to the point that it's not worth it... "Ride it till it blows up, and then get another one" was the basic diagnosis. We'll see if I can squeeze another summer out of "Connie"....
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
First!
Ok, this is my first ever blog posting, on my first ever blog. I'm home sick today, and finally got bored enough to do this, although I've been thinking about it for some time. This will be a forum where I rant and rave about things that I find of interest to me... and possibly of interest to others. Things like photography, personal and corporate computing and (of course) motorcycling.
Why here? Why on Blogger? Well it's not an independent entity, being owned by Google, but I have no particular affinity to/for Google products and services. I'm accused often of being a Microsoft sympathizer :-) , using their desktop OSes and services primarily -- although, I hasten to add, I also own and use OS/X and Linux boxen and OSes. My level of knowledge with MS OSes can be characterized as high, with the others being characterized as an interested player and user, but not an expert. All the same, I consider myself to be neutral, in the sense that it's not religion for me: They are all good, with relative plusses and minuses; and I won't blindly ignore the warts of any of them out of some misguided sense of loyalty. I am, essentially, not a "joiner" and play with as many of them as I can. Choice is extremely cool, and competition has pushed all of them to be much better than they would otherwise.
So why Blogger? Quite simple really: Ease of integration with Google's Adsense. This is something that I am doing for fun, and not as a commercial enterprise, but I would at some point like to establish a private domain, etc., and it would be nice if it were self-supporting. That's if I maintain any level of interest in continuing to do this in the first place. We'll see... Anyway, on with the show....
Why here? Why on Blogger? Well it's not an independent entity, being owned by Google, but I have no particular affinity to/for Google products and services. I'm accused often of being a Microsoft sympathizer :-) , using their desktop OSes and services primarily -- although, I hasten to add, I also own and use OS/X and Linux boxen and OSes. My level of knowledge with MS OSes can be characterized as high, with the others being characterized as an interested player and user, but not an expert. All the same, I consider myself to be neutral, in the sense that it's not religion for me: They are all good, with relative plusses and minuses; and I won't blindly ignore the warts of any of them out of some misguided sense of loyalty. I am, essentially, not a "joiner" and play with as many of them as I can. Choice is extremely cool, and competition has pushed all of them to be much better than they would otherwise.
So why Blogger? Quite simple really: Ease of integration with Google's Adsense. This is something that I am doing for fun, and not as a commercial enterprise, but I would at some point like to establish a private domain, etc., and it would be nice if it were self-supporting. That's if I maintain any level of interest in continuing to do this in the first place. We'll see... Anyway, on with the show....
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
