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...

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...

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...

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...