Intentional Destruction of Laboriously Engineered Artifacts

IRP-6/27/98

Reinvigorated with the joys of racing from our positive twenty horsepower trip to the dyno we loaded up the trailer for the trip to Indianapolis Raceway Park with renewed enthusiasm. The tide of optimism broke with the scent of combusting ATF and a marked decrease in the forward momentum of the van.

We quickly determined that unlike the alternator episode, the wheel bearing event and the trailer tire epic, we were not going to dig ourselves out of this predicament without professional help. While I fretted about uselessly counting the hours before first practice Amy seized one cell phone while Jim commandeered the other and alternate arrangements were made. Amy tracked down another van which would transport the team to IRP in supple comfort with the only problem being the lack of a trailer hitch. This roadblock was circumvented by Jim convincing an absent member of the team to deliver Jim's trailer ready Land Rover to us. Although we were only an hour outside DC the ersatz transporters did not arrive for many hours but all things considered it was a miracle that we were en route at 3:00am.

The trailer hitch on the Land Rover was about an inch too high which 'caused a little bit of trailer weave. It was manageable but a little disconcerting. About forty minutes from the track, and with the Land Rover leading the van full of teammates, a big bump sent the trailer into a weave. The driver, used to the superior trailer handling characteristics of our usual E350 wasn’t quite able to regain control and the oscillations constructively interfered. Soon the rig was taking swings covering two lanes. Inevitably the trailer dropped it wheels into the grass and, in an attempt to pass the tow vehicle, highsided.

 Although this seemed like a good time to seriously question the wisdom of continuing the endeavor on the whole, the team, and for the second time in twelve hours, went into crisis mode. Jim got on the cell and found a big fat guy with an even bigger flat bed. I took the majority of the crew to the track in the van to try to find a few trucks into which we could shovel the remains of our gear, tools and bikes.

The track community responded with its usual outpouring of support and within thirty minutes of my arrival Buff (Michelin) had arranged for two perfect strangers to donate their haulers for the cause. I placed a call to Jim before departing the track only to find that, not only was the trailer on its way to the track (on the back of a flat bed) all of the contents had survived the rotation without significant casualty. It seems that the Pit Rhino had loaded the trailer with such diligence that the only item not securely tied down was the container of potato salad. The trailer spare wheel had been lain in between the rear wheels of the race bikes preventing any damage to the pair. The flat bed unloaded the trailer, Tim reset the chain adjusters and, not seeing any reason to weep over spilt lactose, we went out to practice.

 We spent the duration of the day fiddling with the suspension on the bikes but still never found a great set up for the ripples. Mr. Max revised our fork oil height and such and made the bike better but I was still less than confident. We figured that the trailer wreck had overshadowed the transmission failure so the next event had to be a catastrophic bike crash.

 Jim started the race and was riding great. He pitted just twenty seconds down on Sharkskinz. Unfortunately, we were never to regain any advantage on them and they eventually beat us by almost exactly that margin. Once again I got to enjoy the dulcet tones of Jim's enchanting song entitled "I went faster than Sam."

We got a new transmission for the van. They finish putting it in an hour after we were supposed to leave. Just for the change of pace, we drove to Grattan without major inconvenience.

Practice times were encouraging since we were as slow in practice as we had been slow in the race the prior year. Jim historically has not enjoyed Grattan's subtle charms. I made the mistake of showing Jim everything I remembered about getting around the track quickly in practice. Unfortunately he picked up everything I knew and learned a couple more tricks which relegated me, again.

I started the race. A few last minute changes we made to the bike forced me to reevaluate how I was riding and I had to revise some shift points and lines through the first part of my stint. Jim took the bike next and while he rode quick and clean, other teams started running into trouble. Firestorm threw their chain, one of the two fast local teams had trouble with their pits stops and Cycle Speed pulled their badly smoking bike behind the wall. Eventually we had our own excitement when Jim’s leathers came unzipped and forced him to pit early.

John went out in third place but was promoted to second when the Sharkskinz Yamaha water pump failed. Firestorm had lost four laps with their tossed chain but with Scott Brown on the bike they were on a tear from the rear and we started watching their progress very carefully. Not that there would have been much we could have done about it without firearms.

It was going to be real close with Firestorm and Jim was riding a second a lap faster than I was. We elected to cable tie on his leathers and force him to take the last stint.

We were prepared to change the rear tire when we made our last pit stop but I gave Julian (promoted from Pit Rhino to Tire Boy for the moment, Tim's collar bone still being a tad frail) strict instructions to not swap tires if tread wear dots were visible on the right side of the rear tire. As the fuel can came out of the tank the cry from the back of the bike was "Dots, lots of dots!!! GO!"

Jim took the track with 90 minutes left in the race.

Fifth hour results showed that we were one lap up on Firestorm but Scott Brown was taking 2-3 seconds a lap out of our lead. We kept calculating the time gap, the time left in the race and deciding whether they could catch us on not. Sometimes it looked like a sure thing for us, other times for them. Needless to say I started second guessing myself. "Should we have changed the tire?" "Is it worth the 10-15 years in prison for the murder rap if I shoot him?" That sort of thing.

With twenty minutes left in the race Firestorm pull into the pits giving us a brief respite although they reentered ten seconds ahead of us on the track. The replacement rider for Firestorm was not as confident as Mr. Brown and Jim quickly caught back up to him. Firestorm thought we were a lap up and we thought we were a lap up but sniggling doubts did cross our minds that perhaps the nose to tail sprint dual taking place on the track was actually for position.

We started counting down laps for Jim on the pit board as he dogged the faster Firestorm bike lap after lap, the pace slowing down to 1:31s from the previous 1:29s. With six laps left in the race Jim passed the Firestorm bike and did a 1:28 placing a three second gap on bike 27 in a single lap. He stretched it to ten seconds by the finish line. It turned out it was for position.

One never has enough information.

Rest assured Jim and John were both fined for the sandals. BTW these shirts are now available through www.armyofdarkness.com in case you were curious. The leathers aren't, the bike should be.

After some post race celebratory lakeside bocce and pasta we started the drive back to DC. Spirits were high right up until the van mysteriously failed near a rest area in Michigan.

The van would run, sort of, but the exhaust manifolds would glow cherry red. Rudimentary trouble shooting suggested maybe the fuel pump had failed but little was to be done at midnight except get comfortable for a night of van sleep.

The next morning we used a PCMCIA modem plugged into my cheesy little notebook and Jim’s cell phone to get a 4900bps net connection. Using www.bigbook.com we located an Autozone twenty miles away that had the pump in stock and then found a courier in Grand Rapids who could make the Sunday morning mercy run. Ain’t technology grand? 

It would have been if the fuel pump had been the problem. The actual ‘cause of our ill-timed stall was a sheared roll pin in the distributor which was only diagnosed after having the van and trailer towed 30 miles to a Sunday houred repair facility. Although we arrived at 3:30pm, and resigned to spending another night away from our homes in the nation’s capitol, the mechanics found and rectified the problem in short order. Euphoria reigned for the next three hours until a tortured rat-like squealing intruded over the CD player. More investigation found that the front alternator bearing had failed and seized the pulley for the serpentine belt. Yes, the alternator replaced on the road nary two months before; part of the unionist conspiracy against quality no doubt.

We loosened the pulley retaining nut on the alternator and coated up the 3mm wide contact surface with assembly lube so the pulley could spin free on the frozen shaft and set off to find an exit and replacement parts. For those who are curious, you can not purchase a Ford alternator in Norwalk Ohio at 9:00pm on a Sunday for love or money. We tried both.

Destined to spend yet another night on the road (a twelve hour trip rapid turning into forty-eight) we pulled into an Econolodge to find a strange, but not all together unfamiliar site in the dark parking lot. A large group of chain smoking young men clustered around two Mitsubishi GT 3000s apocolyptically back lit by the headlights of other sporty imports. It seems that every year import car drag race enthusiasts trek to Norwalk Ohio to drive a quarter mile a couple times.

The two GTs in question were sitting in respective pools of filth including major suspension parts, transmission, CV shafts, and other unidentifiable car parts. Apparent Japanese car are no more resistant to race abuse than eastern motorcycles. One of the cars had broken its clutch friction plate into several large pieces while the other car had holed a piston (can you say too much boost?). As the clutchless car had to be driven back to Arizona while the blown motor car was being trailered to Louisiana the intrepid racers were pursuing the obvious solution of pulling the clutch out of blown motor car and installing it in the clutchless car. This was every bit as difficult as you might imagine. None of these fellows had met until hours before and they didn’t even have good tools. One greasy fellow was under the car (propped up on its front tires) with a Mag-lite in his mouth and a wrench in his hand. It did put the anticipated twenty minute alternator job in perspective. Still at work in the parking lot when we went to sleep; they were all rolling in the morning.

Leaving the van in DC for some prophylactic fuel injection and wheel bearing work I flew out to California to visit friends and to take advantage of Mark Junge’s offer of his brace of Vesrah Suzuki’s at the Willow Springs Team Suzuki Advanced Riding School. I met up with Melissa Berkoff, an expatriate DC friend who, upon moving to California, forsook the world of vintage Moto Guzzi for the realm of Honda 600 race bikes. In return for helping her reconstruct her recently totaled bike she agreed to show me around at Willow and not pass me too often in front of my friends. She kept exactly half of these promises.

To get even with Melissa for crippling my male ego through turn eight I complicated her life by arranging for her to get a shot on Mark’s GSXR and ruining her affinity for her Honda ever after. Even though the suspension on Mark’s Suzuki was too stiff for the diminutive Melissa, the test ride had the desired effect and the trip home from Willow to Ventura was mainly a discussion of the planned liquidation of said F3 and the required procurement of a GSXR.

The highlight of the day for me occurred when Mark appropriated the GSXR 600 I had been borrowing but consoled me by yelling "Take the TLR" before he disappeared out onto the track.

Having read all the media report of unpredictable handling, heavy weight and various other concerns I was a bit cautious for the first few laps. All doubts quickly evaporated into the 110 degree heat. I have no idea how they feel from the box but Mark’s TL was undoubtedly the most bad ass motorcycle I had ridden in recent history. Mark claims he has only changed the mufflers, tires and reworked the front forks. I was leaning the TL farther into all the turns than I had seconds before on the familiar GSXR 600. I was pulling wheelies off the turn six rise and the exhaust note was pure bliss.

After the school sessions were completed at 4:30pm the track was opened for instructors to grab a few last laps. The oppressive desert heat quickly discouraged all other riders but the allure of the TL kept me out circling the track solo. Feeling rather privileged to be aboard the winningest TLR in the country absolutely alone on a racetrack which Dom Ulrich had rented brought out my most selfish nature even as I watched the corner workers visibly withering in the sun.

"I could not possibly take another single lap of this empty racetrack on this exquisite example of the physical manifestation of motorcycling passion….oh wait….wait… yes I can".