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...