I was never particularly interested in the Daytona 200 which, at this moment, proves to be inconvenient.

A more powerful introduction would have covered my fascination with the 200 and the commitment I made as a boy to one day emulate my heroes on the 33 degree banking. Sadly, I had no interest in racing motorcycles until I was 20 and even then, was xenophobically preoccupied with my local track not distant names and places.

An alternate perspective would have been the famous "Because its there" philosophy. Although my favorite Everest quotation is "Don't leave me here to die" perhaps the "Because its there" is more appropriate to this endeavor. Sadly the sarcasm that dripped from that comment when it was first uttered has evaporated in the heat of history and sincerity. Nevertheless, it was in the spirit of existentialism that I first considered entering the 57 lap dash.

I owned a YZF 750 streetbike a month ago, but with my dry braked Yamaha gas tank disappearing into a miscreant's possession in Georgia, I needed to revise and amplify my equipment. A Harley riding friend had expressed an interest in buying a proper motorcycle. In early February, the Harley was sold, the YZF was sold and a Suzuki was bought.

The GSXR was a '96 with a few hard races on it. The suspension had been Race Teched and the riveted steering damper and placed a sizable dent in the left spar. The bearings where dry, bolts alternated between too tight and too loose but basically it was all there.

Tim, the local Silver Spring Garage Elves and myself spent the better part of a week replacing fasteners, replacing the bodywork, greasing, adjusting, cleaning, relocating and generally going through the machine. The motor was left stock. To prevent another dent on the frame we replaced the traditional damper with the improved and as yet indestructible front mounted damper from WER.

We did mount our dual drybreaked GSXR tank off our 600 and Tim fabricated quick change stuff for the rear wheel.

Meanwhile I applied for an AMA Superbike license. The AMA Superbike license has rigorous qualifications specifically to keep it out of the hands of someone like myself. My WERA endurance results were of very little use both for their vagary (there is no accounting for who rode the bike when) or for the results themselves. My WERA sprint results were positively frightening as often I would enter a sprint race for the Sunday after the Saturday Endurance simply for the additional practice time. Then we would leave.

Despite these numeric problems Mr. Vanderslice informed me on February 25^th that indeed, I was being issued the proper credentials. A dozen days before the flag falls we decided we were going.

Daytona being a track that is known to be hard on the little things I decided I might need to secure some help for the race in the way of some outside the sport sponsorship (No one inside the sport is too interested). Since the initial discussion involving a Daytona effort took place at Polly's Café (home to the bodywork photographs and many AOD wound licking sessions) on Utne reader's 12^th hippest street in the country U St. DC; it seemed like a logical place to start. Co-owners Cici (usual AOD Chain Woman) and Derrick (sometime AOD Chef) agreed to buy a set of slicks for the race once I had reassured them the publicity could not possibly trickle down to their bottom line. My aforementioned (and previous Harley owner) associate Dan, was so thankful that I had saved him from a life of tedious chrome polishing and handlebar tassles by introducing him to the glories of hooligan style urban sportbiking that he agreed to comp AOD our next six month membership at Sportrock, his rock climbing gym. As we would belong to his gym regardless, that comp membership was as good as cash. The rest of the adventure would have to be self-financed.

I had secured the help of AOD regulars Tim and Amy, and, thinking that an extra set of experienced hands might come in handy, recruited AOD irregular Steve Ward for the week. Steve immediately proved to be a wise choice when he demonstrated considerable ability to drive a van for long periods of time at a high rate of speed while the rest of us slept. All hail Steve.

Wednesday we arrived at the track, navigated the usual DIS security obstacle course ("White vans can only go through gate 298 today, unless you have the letter "K" in your license plate in which case you can go through gate 47, if you have a pass with an 8 on it") and erected our palatial portable pits. We were serendipitously located a very short walk from our favorite tire guru Walt Schaefer. Although Walt obviously had other things on his mind (like ensuring Scott Russell brought Michelin its first Daytona win since Ashmead in 1989) he still found the time to pull out take offs, give me moral support and offer the odd Daytona tip. Being at my first AMA national, such a friendly face was invaluable.

The tires didn't feel good, the forks didn't feel good and the bike didn't want to steer. Tentatively crawling around the track I unintentionally occupied a piece of track that was clearly marked "Jamie Hacking's". He got a bit excited, reached down between his legs, removed some sort of soiled pad, and petulantly threw it at me. Sorry Jamie, if I had known it was your time of the month I would have been more sensitive to your feelings.

Two laps later the front end washed in the same turn, most likely on a certain discarded sanitary pad.

The combination of these two events left my crew with a bit of work to do repairing crash damage and myself with a bit of trepidation about this whole endeavor.

Up pops the irrepressible Max McAllister. It would appear that Max had recently received intensive tutelage about the inner workings of suspension components and had arrived at the track with a trailer full of special tools, springs, oil and specs. Adding to Tim, Amy and Steve's burden, I had them pull the forks and we gave them to Max to do a quick spring swap. The prior owner was not much bigger than I was but the fork springs were way too stiff for my delicate sensibilities.

"Man, you make this steer and I'll name my first born after you" Sam confers with Max. P-AP

Whereas Max had definitively improved the front end of the bike, the shock was still fighting me tooth and nail. We were using a stock shock with a Race Tech Gold Valve thingy in it. Max took it apart a few times and each revision was an improvement but I still could not enter the chicane over the gator teeth. I figured this was costing me at least a second a lap.

Max surmised that the spring was too stiff but the track supply of the desired spring weight had dried up. I had brought one that we figured was too light (a 600 spring) so I suffered and bounced over the bumps and NASCAR pavement waves.

The forearm pump had me worried and we took a few prophylactic measures. Walt had suggested I squeeze my elbows to the tank so I could relax my hands. In order to manage that we rotated the clip-ons out and moved the rearsets back. Employing a few of Dan's rock climbing lessons I warmed up my forearms ala climbing and concentrated on taking little micro rests anywhere on the track that I could. The revised suspension helped considerably on the banking although the pressure on the front of my helmet was crushing the lower bar against my chin making it a little difficult to breathe. The sum of these parts resulted in a place on the grid below the suspended 115%-of-pole mark, 17 consecutive laps and a substantially improved outlook on life.

After returning to the pits and perusing the qualifying times I noticed an interesting dynamic. All of the factory riders on the track who had shook their head or made some other disparaging gesture at me on the track correlated directly with those who were at the back of the factory pack. Conversely, noted rude boy Anthony Gobert had the time to give me a thumbs up on his way past to fourth on the grid. Cheers mate.

More fiddling, more concentration, more take-offs, faster laps and at long last half the race distance in one stint.

Qualifying in 74th position and inside the 115% line of the pole was still unsatisfying for the team. The bike was still jumping around too much over the bumps in the chicane and on the banking for me to consider pushing harder. I didn't improve my lap times much but I did run 25 laps in a row all within two seconds of each other. We all took this as a big improvement on having to pit every three laps.

Late on friday's practice another bike ran across the inside of the chicane tossing dirt on the track. I was one of the next bikes through and thoroughly lost the front tire at about 100mph. The bike slid on my knee and recovered by itself leaving a long black mark off the front tire and a burn mark on my slider. Eeek.

With no track time scheduled for Saturday, Tim and Amy rebuilt a front brake caliper while Steve swapped the stock shock to the pretty Fox unit that Keith Perry had kindly assembled for me and mailed to the track. After much running around I found the required rear spring at PPS which we purchased and installed.

Tim, Amy and Steve practiced their rear wheel change and, with John and Deb Donnelley on fuel, consistently were hitting the whole stop at 23 seconds. Admittedly this is 300% of Yoshimura's seven seconds but it is a good deal better than the ill fated Harley team.

We went to the beach that evening so I could yell at the tide to practice futile gestures.

The difference between the stock shock we had been using and the Fox which Keith Perry had done was remarkable, noticeable and welcome. The bike became stable, relaxing, faster steering and much more confidant. It could have all been the appropriate spring rate but whatever the reason, I was now able to ride across the bumps in the chicane without the bike pretzeling. For the first time on the track I felt comfortable. Adding to my touring rapture, Steve had installed a taller windscreen which made the banking less fatiguing

I spent the morning drinking water and eating Power Bars in an attempt to be hydrated and fueled at the start of the race. We did the parade lap and everything felt great. The tires were sticky, the handling was on and I was calm and energetic. The fence was thick with spectators and there was a sizeable crowd in the stands.

Warm up lap. The bike ran a little weird on the banking in the same way it had when it was low on fuel in earlier practices. Puzzling. Thinking that the motor might be tightening up I pulled up to Tim and revved it asking for his unhelmeted ears to hear any problems.

He didn't hear any and sent me up to the start.

Green Light.

Good start, into turn one the bike felt better than it had all weekend. The new tires were significantly better than the take-offs we had been running and the suspension was working at long last. Around the infield I started to size up my immediate competition thinking I could start drafting folks on the banking. Heeling the bike over in the horseshoes it exhibited none of its previous quirkiness.

Up onto the banking tailing a Ducati, third gear (closing) fourth gear (start to pull underneath down low) fifth gear and the bike falls on its face at 11,000 rpm.

I pull into the pits and tell Tim there is a problem but he says it’s not the motor and so I try to take another lap thinking that maybe we have a venting problem on the tank.

Problem is worse this lap.

I miss the entrance to the pits trying to push open one of the drybrake fuel caps in the vain hope that the bike is vapor locking. By the time I get to turn one the bike is almost completely out of gas. I glance over my shoulder to see the worst is about to happen. The race leaders are five feet off my slowing, deadsticked bike. I throw up a hand, hold a line and make myself small.

I pull off to the left side of the track and place myself safely between two pieces of ARMCO. Almost immediately a corner worker rides up on a moped and asks "Are you done for the day or do you need a truck?".

"I NEED A TRUCK!" Whereas my previous strategy of beating other teams in the pits had become obsolete with my first unplanned pit stop, I knew that typically half the field DNFs and by getting back on the track I could at least burn up the Daytona spec slicks.

He says one will be here in a minute and quickly rides away.

1 lap

2 laps

3 laps

I can see the crash trucks and neither are rolling.

4 laps

5 laps

I start waving to them

6 laps

8 laps

Realizing that they were not going to send me my crash truck I tried to start the bike. It ran.

I didn't want to retake the track for fear of causing an accident so I cut through the infield access road back to the pits. With the fuel tank lifted up Tim and Max find that the quick release dry brake fitting in the fuel line had not been completely pressed together. I put my helmet back on, pull on the gloves, get my temper under control and start to throw my leg over the bike.

An AMA official notifies me that I have been disqualified for cutting the course and my race was over.

It was only my previous evening of tide yelling that allowed me to not explode at this emotional moment.

I pointed out that I waited for a seventh of the race waiting for a crash truck which never arrived, I did not cut the course to seek an advantage only to prevent an on track hazard and obviously I did not switch bikes in the pits because he was watching my pit crew fix the one on which I rode.

The tide continued to wax.

I gave up before I got salt water in my boots and walked back to the pits to start packing.

Rather than treat this episode like so many other brushes with incomprehensible authority I decided to make a few calls to the people who were responsible to find out why my promised crash truck never arrived.

Apparently there are three distinct organizations which have very little overlap during the course of a race. The AMA officials, the corner workers and the DIS crash trucks. The corner workers ostensibly suggest where and when the DIS trucks retrieve riders. The AMA officials concern themselves with enforcement of the rules. These two groups touch at the edge in the control tower where the corner worker control person sits next to an AMA official. They use different radio frequencies.

So how did I slip through the cracks?

Apparently the corner worker who requested a truck for me was not understood by Sandy at corner worker control. He said I wanted a truck but since he did not add "because he wants to get back into the race" the corner worker coordinator figured that a crash truck was unnecessary, and one was never deployed. She was appalled at the misunderstanding when we discussed the ramifications of that lack of action a week after the fact remarking "We sort of ruined your race didn't we?"

Well truthfully, I ruined my own race when I didn't double-check the fuel fitting, but they didn't help it much.

When I got back into the paddock the official on pit road that disqualified me clarified that action on the AMA radio channel. The AMA official in the tower had his radio in his ear and the corner workers next to him could not hear what was being discussed. When I was DQ'd the AMA officials had no idea that I had sat in the infield for 8 laps waiting for a promised crash truck which never materialized. The corner workers who knew that I had waited patiently for promised assistance didn't know that I was being disqualified.

And the waves lapped on the beach.

Moral of the story. There ain't no morals, I'm an existentialist…just don't leave me in the horseshoe to die.