When I first started mountain biking, I was learning to ride in some of the most technical terrain in the world – that of the northeastern United States. There were granite minefields strewn throughout every trail system, connected by loamy ravines riddled with old-growth rootballs. After months of getting thrown on my face by tentative approaches to tombstone-shaped slabs, I finally learned to keep pedaling thru the rough sections. The gyroscopic effect of my feet continuing around, and the corresponding rotation of the bike’s wheels, served my balance much better than trying to coast, pedals level to avoid striking the occasional rock. As time has passed, I like to think that I’ve achieved a good balance of pedaling and knowing when to coast.

Momentum is the force that keeps things going. My truck weighs 7000 pounds, and so it takes an enormous amount of power in the form of torque to get that thing rolling. If I’m in traffic and following too closely, then I lose momentum when I have to brake to avoid smacking the idiot in front of me. In turn, I have to then burn a few more ounces of diesel to bring my speed back up to cruise. It’s amazing how many people drive just like that. Brakes—gas-brakes–gas—brakes.. it’s a total waste. There are numerous other situations where momentum is key when piloting a vehicle. Left turns across oncoming traffic, for instance. If one looks ahead for a gap in traffic, then adjusts speed to correspond with the gap, often there’s no need to stop the vehicle, only to wait for an even larger gap to get all that mass moving again. Also in the snow; DO NOT STOP at the base of the slippery hill to gather your wits and assess the situation incorrectly. You will fail. If you have momentum in hand, USE IT.

My little Yamaha R6, on the other hand, is very light by comparison. It, however, is lacking in the torque department. On the track, my best lap times do not come from coming into corners too hot, using lots of brake, then heavily hammering the throttle out. I get my best times by maintaining higher midcorner speeds. I have to keep momentum for the drive out; I also have to try to start building that momentum earlier than the next guy, getting on the throttle just a little more, just a little sooner. I also have to be very careful not to overbrake on my entry to the corner, or risk losing any gains I’ve been able to make.

I also believe momentum is very important in life; in the things we’re trying to accomplish. As a parent, I find that keeping the child moving in the desired direction is often more important than the outcome. I don’t care so much what he’s putting on, just so long as he’s getting dressed. I don’t really care if all his homework is done, so long as he’s heading for the car that’s taking him to school.

I think too often we get stopped, or at least hampered, by the minutiae. We forget to consider the big picture, which is what I hope to accomplish at the end of the day.
In life I think we can also be stymied by such things as doubt and indecision. We end up selling ourselves short by accepting a career or situation that merely pays the bills. Or perhaps we let greed or pride talk us into remaining in a situation that slowly kills our passion.

In my career recently, I’ve been incredibly frustrated by the seeming unwillingness of my superiors to simply maintain momentum. Let’s just get the project fucking finished. That is the goal. Stop putting off the delivery. Stop looking for loopholes in the contract. Stop blowing money on making the wrong parts serve an inelegant purpose. Let’s do it, and do it right, as we intended at the start.

Newton was a very smart man. The converse of the statement above is a reiteration of Newton’s First Law, that “an object at rest, tends to remain at rest…”

So let’s keep it moving, y’all.

Lost my dog. Millie was our friend, companion, and blanket for 13 years. She came into my life right after I met my wife, partner, and one true love Laura. We knew she was getting old, but it still came as a painful surprise. Live long enough, and you’re going to lose some loved ones, I guess.
We also lost Marco Simoncelli, at the tender young age of 24. He was one of those riders destined for MotoGP greatness, but his time was cut short in that freak accident at Sepang. Watching it, it didn’t seem as if it could really have happened – an impossibility of physics. The Universe must have needed his energy elsewhere, like RIGHT NOW.
I’ve spent a ton of my time invested in perpetuating insanity, and for little reward. Neither salary nor job satisfaction. 2012 is going to see the end of that compromise.

Starting off the New Year right, with a trip to the track – a return to Jennings GP, as this blog began in early 2010. Only this time, we’re running it in reverse, which probably doesn’t mean anything really. But it feels different.

When I followed my old man’s footsteps into the Navy, I would drive back to NC from Va Beach on summer weekends to co-drive my dad’s looney hand-built Mazda-rotary-powered, tube-framed, chopped up Alfa Romeo GTV-ish hillclimber in the NCAC Series. I nearly always beat his ass, unless I spun that silly thing out on the 10-year-old racing slicks that were soft as skateboard wheels. He always wanted me to do something with my driving “talent.” Back then, I think I was afraid of succeeding.

Flash forward 15 years. A friend mentioned he raced shifter karts, and offered to let me have a go in his “extra” 125cc Honda-powered racing machine. First time I ever sat in that kart, I set FTD (fastest time of the day) at the Highlands Sports Car Club Ag Center Autocross. That was in 2003, at the tender young age of 35. It seemed like the opportunity I’d missed so many years ago coming back around.

In 2004, I entered and won the Big South Series CIK-125 Class Championship in my rookie season. I don’t think I won a single event, but I podiumed several, and was consistently top-ten. Most importantly, I finished every race. I followed it up in 2005 with a victory at Roebling and a 3rd at the WKA National at VIR. I also broke my collarbone in a 75-mph airborne barrel-roll at Little Tally, so I only got the runner-up spot in the Series.

Kart racing is hands-down the most grins-per-dollar of any sport I’ve ever competed in. I’m totally stoked to be hooking back up with my high school buddies Ken and Keith to do this thing!

sweetheart, you have always, always blown my mind. when Naomi introduced us way back in 1997, i knew there was something special about you. it was easy to be around you; i never felt i had to be anybody other than myself. you didn’t ever flinch when i said what i was thinking. often, you laughed. you relieved me of my self-consciousness, my insecurity. i loved you almost immediately, but i didn’t tell anybody – i didn’t want to jinx it.

i remember when you used to hop on the back of Lars’ old CB900 with me and just rip around the mountains. we’d ride out the river to Marshall, and i’d tap your leg to indicate i was going to pin it; you just held on tighter. i liked that. we put some miles on that bike! we’d take off and run over Hickory Nut Gap, or across Number 9, or go waterfall hunting out on 276. it felt so real to me, after so many years of faking it with various women.

you have always let me have my “me” time. i remember telling you “there’s going to come a day when you might think i love my bike more than i love you, and it may be true – but if i don’t ride, i’m not going to be any fun to be around,” and you, again, didn’t flinch. you didn’t get angry, you didn’t go to insecurity. you have always accepted me as is, and i love you for that. you have even gone so far as to become an accomplished bike rider yourself – both pedal- and petrol-powered.

i remember talking to you from Las Vegas, and you told me you had taken that horrible old Huffy for a ride. i asked you where you’d gone, and you told me you rode out Beaverdam, up Webb Cove, where you had a drink and a cigarette. then you went down Town Mountain, and back to the apartment from Charlotte Street. you went on to say you were a little tired. i was flabbergasted. speechless. i exclaimed that you had ridden at least 18 miles, off the couch, on a heavy, scary piece of crap with plastic pedals! and stopped for a smoke in the middle of it!

i remember taking you to the Innsbruck Mall parking lot and teaching you to ride that little GS500. then we rode up to the Parkway to that first overlook past the tunnel, where you solo’ed. you took off up the Parkway toward Craggy, and came back a long time later, breathless and smiling, eyes bright. i love your eyes when you smile.

soon after that, we went to take our written tests to get learners’ permits; you passed, i failed. me, with an MSF course and twenty years of street riding; you with a few hours of street riding and your indomitable will. you’ve put a ton of miles on a motorcycle since then! can you believe it? you rode to Myrtle Beach alone. you rode to Daytona with me and Ben. you rode home on my big Triumph from the Outer Banks, stopping to do a 10k halfway home. read that last sentence again – you rode 4 hours, stopped overnight, ran a 10k, then rode 4 more hours home.  this after towing the camper, nine hours alone with a five-year-old, to the Outer Banks in the first place.

i used to joke that i knew you were the right one for me because i didn’t have to adjust the seat when i got in your car. you’re also the first woman i’ve ever met who has yet to scare the shit out of me with your driving. you are every bit as competent and attentive a driver as i was taught to be, and probably five or six times as courteous. i love traveling with you. i look forward to many more miles together, whether two or four wheels. i would trust you to take that 25 foot RV into the wind while i nap in the back. wake me up when we hit Albuquerque.

i love how you take care of me, time after time. even after you threaten not to if i hurt myself again. you’ve seen me through a badly sprained ankle, a ruptured spleen, two collarbones in the same year, a broken wrist, a shattered finger, a rashed face, and too many other bumps, scrapes, and bruises to count. always with the same exasperated tenderness, and always with compassion and empathy. i hate to put you through it, but i love being cared for by your gentle hands. i promise i’ve never done any of those things on purpose.

this past weekend, you forgot your shoes and helmet when we went to do that Metric Century. again unstoppable, you decided to go ahead and ride the 22 mile Family Ride in your flip-flops. on clipless pedals. you were not just poking along, either. i’m pretty sure we set the course record for the Family Ride with you in your flip-flops. you are unstoppable. you are amazing. not many people would or could have done just that one thing that doesn’t seem like such a big deal to you. and the reason why it wasn’t such a big deal? because you did a 35-mile ride in flip-flops once before. you’re sometimes not impressed with yourself because you already did something even more badass without thinking it was a big deal.

the next day, you hopped on the R6 and knocked out close to 200 miles of twisties, alone. you are my soulmate. i want nobody else but you helping me out if and when the excrement hits the air conditioner.

casually totally hot

as i write this, you’re training for a triathlon. you have run a half-marathon, and you have raced a 12-hour mountain bike race. you’ve won more than one downhill mountain bike race, and done the above 100k road bike ride in 3 hours!  you’ve gotten lost in the deep woods on your dirtbike and kept it together enough to make it home the same day. you’ve done some pretty fast laps on the track on a racing motorcycle.

you gave birth to our son naturally after 15 hours of labor. you took that same child to meet his extended family across the big pond when he was only seven months old. you’ve been married to me for going on 7 years now – in 3 short days, we’ll have been together for 14 years (can that be right?). that, perhaps, is the most hardcore thing you’ve ever done. i’m sure i’m not an easy task.

you still blow my mind. i love you, Laura Jane. here’s to another 14 years.

several years back, i was very good at racing mountain bikes. i started out racing XC, or “cross country.” this was a primarily a fitness discipline, with a modicum of off-road technical skills requisite in order to stay near the podium. i won a few races, and even a series championship or two. at some point, DH (“downhill”) racing began to blow up, and i could do OK at these events simply because of my base fitness. my high-speed skills on a mountain bike were deplorable, though. i remember a pivotal event wherein i would pass my main competitors on the main climb, only to be passed again on the main descent, labeled the “Heinous.” i lost the race, because Heinous was closer to the finish line. i decided at that moment to start racing DH in order to get better at descending.

so i bought all the gear – pads, full-face helmet, full-fingered gloves. i upgraded my racing bike to a true DH-oriented machine, and within a couple seasons dedicated to the DH discipline, i was competitive at the regional level, winning another series championship. a couple more seasons, and i was only racing DH. XC racing had lost its cachet for me. the speed and mental approach to ripping the downhill races were more appealing to me. it took more confidence, more risk, and of course, the adrenaline. at the turn of the millennium, i was competitive at the National level racing DH.

the big bikes with big suspension and big brakes naturally lent themselves to jumping off ever-bigger stuff. again, the mental approach to “Freeride” was appealing to me. the feeling of overcoming obstacles of fear is hard to describe. stepping to the edge of a big drop (some might call it a “cliff”) and standing still through the vertigo, then opening your vision to the possibilities, then realizing the probability of success – the rational defeat of fear with arguments of physics. i cannot put into words what it felt like to huck off the edge of a big mesa in Utah, first seeing only the seeming edge of the world, then the friends watching from waaay below, then in slow-motion relativity the focal point of my line – the downhill transition (“tranny”) where i wanted to put my wheels – all seen in the split second between the front and back wheels leaving the edge of the cliff. then the weightlessness, the gentle weighting of the bars to nudge the front wheel down to match the angle of the tranny, the softening of the knees, then…touchdown, still accelerating at close to 32ft/sec^2, and rolling it out to the group of people that had moments ago been far, far below.

a couple years ago, some guys from the Triangle area came up for a motorcycle ride. Laura and i met them out near Robbinsville. it was misting heavily when we started, but it stopped actually precipitating early on, leaving damp roads. when we hit Wayah Rd, i grew tired of following & riding through the spray, so i headed to the front & began easing my way into the corners. a modern bike on modern tires is surprisingly stable in the wet. the key is to remain smooth. every input must be gentle and progressive. knowing that, however, one can carry good pace on a wet road without excessive risk. so i left the group behind, gently. smoothly. when we got to the next stop, i mentioned that i had never seen that road before, but it had good grip for being so damp. the first reply i got was, “you’re fucking crazy!”

on the track, i’m constantly seeking improvement. the reality is that since i’m more than ten seconds off Pro-level laptimes, there’s nearly always room for improvement. improvement in this venue means taking ever-larger risks. if i’m getting passed midcorner, then in my mind, i can carry more speed there. if i get outbraked at the end of the straight, then i understand i can brake later and harder in that spot. i think it’s entirely fair to say that if that guy can do it, then so can i. admittedly, sometimes my enthusiasm gets me in too deep when i don’t take the time to learn the how before i attempt the do. but how else does one learn, in the end?

i don’t feel like i’m crazy. perhaps that’s one of the symptoms of mental illness, but in this case i think the characterization is made in the sense that i act with wanton disregard for my own well being. this couldn’t be further from the truth. i rarely act without intensive risk assessment. i believe in a calculated approach to risk. don’t get me wrong – any time one is taking risks, there are going to be occasions when unfortunate consequences will be the result.

i remember my dad cursing the occasional diesel Benz that came through his import repair business. i found myself repeating some of those same epithets beneath this car today; i’m sure he was proud.

i first crawled beneath with an 8mm allen wrench to loosen the bolts. it was too small, so back to the toolbox only to find that i don’t have a 10mm allen in my home toolbox. there’s rarely a need for something that size on the motorcycles. i found a torx bit with the right outside dimensions, figuring the starter bolts couldn’t be that tight. i put the wrench on it & pushed so hard i nearly suffered a hernia. i changed angles beneath the car and pushed on the wrench until i saw spots. i swear the bolt only barely creaked. why was it so tight? so i crawled back out & got the breaker bar. of course i could only get one angle on the six-sided allen bolt, and it was the wrong one. i scooted back out, repositioned the jack and jackstands, slid back under. i got a decent angle on the (wrong tool) torx bit and pushed on it again with the breaker bar. hard. then just a bit harder. POP! the bolt finally…didn’t move at all. instead, the bit snapped. of course.

i got in the truck & drove over to work for the correct allen wrench. crawling back under the grimy chassis, i decide to try the second bolt, which was…damn near inaccessible. why the hell did they not use hex head bolts for this? i get an angle on the allen which might let me turn it 1/8th of a turn and push on it, with no result. i scoot around some more until i can get my strong arm on it, and push again…until i see spots again. then just a bit more, and it turns! of course, 1/8th of a turn is considerably less than the 1/6th of a turn that i need to get the next flat on the allen wrench. i’ll figure out how to get another turn on it in a minute. lemme try this bottom one again.

oh, look – the allen won’t go in the head of the bolt because the exhaust pipe is in the way. i slide back out and gather a handful of tools to break the bracket loose from the transmission. i repeat the crawling under & back out for another tool or two a couple more times. why is this so hard?

to make a long and agonizing story just a bit shorter, my method for removing the upper bolt involves another, shortened, 10mm allen wrench, so i have to go drive around some more, returning momentarily for my work keys. then at least one more time, as i forgot my wallet. a few more things needed to be removed or loosened. when the lower bolt finally did pop loose, i bled a little bit. i may have contemplated suicide for a few moments.

over three hours later, i got the goddamned starter off the transmission. of course, it wouldn’t drop out of the engine compartment until i crawled out one last time for a 17mm wrench to loosen and move one end of the steering damper.

ludicrously difficult to extract

when i was on the submarine, i adopted a philosophy that has worked for me in most of these situations. that philosophy is simple: i will not have my ass kicked by an inanimate object. so take that, you stupid Kraut frustration machine.

my new whip is a good bit more focused, much in the same way an Xacto knife is focused in comparison to a steak knife. my friend Karl and i came to a gentleman’s agreement and swapped his stock ’07 Yamaha R6 for my ’05 Speed Triple with all the goodies. it was a good, fair trade, because we each had what the other wanted. so now i’m tooling through the mountains on a sunny, warming Saturday morning in February. tooling is probably a bit mild as a descriptor; i might be “railing,” or “cooking.” i’m not quite to “runnin’ from the law,” if only because the roads are still a crapshoot this early in the season. oh, and i’m solo today. all my riding buddies had prior engagements or honey-do lists to manage. i was hoping for some company, but at least i won’t be waiting for folks or constantly monitoring my mirrors today.

i enjoy riding solo. motorcycling, to me, is a solo sport. there’s no co-driver, no passenger to converse with, no voice to listen to but my own, or occasionally the music in my headphones. my most memorable rides have come while exploring the coves and valleys of southern Appalachia all by myself. the only problem is that there’s rarely someone to share those epic moments of grace and beauty with, and they’re so difficult to explain or recreate.

this day will bring a few of those moments. i’m comfortably dressed, fully geared up. the back protector over my thermal shirt keeps my core warm, and i’m wearing cycling tights under my leather lowers. i have liners in my gloves, and my turtleneck silk thermal base layer keeps the wind off my neck. the bright sun is warming the landscape nicely as i head east out of the gas station. after a short straight section, the road begins to snake its way up and over the first gap. leftover sand and a layer of dried brine makes for the early season “death cookies,” as a good friend calls them. i’m cautious and mentally prepared for all the roads to be this way today. my approach will be to brake early and smoothly, to apply throttle judiciously, and to avoid overcommitting to corners i can’t see all the way through. i don’t really mind the challenging conditions – it’s all part of the game. i find that placing too many conditions on what the road must be like keeps too many riders off some of the most beautiful, least-traveled roads in these hills. actually, that’s ok with me.

riding solo is a chess match of restraint. i have full confidence in my own ability to ride this bike to 90 or 95% of its potential. i try not to do this on public roads, but too often a corner exit nailed just right leads to just a bit more speed into the next corner, then the rush of lean angle and traction and gravitational forces, contributing to another poetic apex and acceleration, and it just builds until i’m moving way too fast. i have to balance the relentless forward urge with enough discretion to build a cushion. i especially must do this when i’m out here by myself. nobody would know until way too late that i’m not where i’m supposed to be, should the unthinkable happen.

when i’m riding solo, i have better focus. i’m not worried about the rest of the riders in the group, whether they be ahead or behind. i’m only worried about my own pace, line, brakes, body position, acceleration. i can work out the kinks – physical, mental, emotional, spiritual – out here doing my own thing on my own bike. i get to meld with my machine and my environment. this is the inexplicable thing – that connection with everything, all in the simple repetitive actions it takes to manipulate a motorcycle through the corners at a good clip. i feel inertia working on my body; Newton’s laws, hell – Universal Laws – of physics. i feel the sensation of speed from the sights, sounds, touch of the wind on my leathers. i feel the friction of brake pads on metal rotors, of rubber tires on asphalt. i feel my own being-ness, my ability to pilot this thing, to consciously and un-consciously perform the broad and minute motions of body, hands, fingers, eyes, feet.

but i’ve got to make it home. i have to stay grounded enough in reality to reel this flight back in. i need to pull it back a few tenths.

the roads get progressively better as the day progresses. each section is a little cleaner than the last, unbelievably. it’s so early in the season, and so early in the morning on this Saturday, that there’s almost no other traffic. i’m stunned to make the entire run up the crest of the Blue Ridge without having to pass a single car. that has never happened. and even near the top, over 4000 feet up, the sand is swept clean from the lane. for a few more minutes, restraint takes a minor holiday while the corners rush at one another.

not a soul in sight

at the top, a pause for a few minutes to look back down, almost directly south, at the valley below. the trees are still bare, but this fact colors the mountainsides that particular shade of purple that hints of buds and spring and warmth. i’m in love with this moment, on this day. and bittersweetly, there is not a soul to share it with.

think about public figures such as Brett Favre, Tiger Woods, Lance Armstrong, Mat Mladin, Michael Schumacher, or Jeff Gordon. chances are, you’ll have a strong opinion of one or more of those people. they’re good at what they do. they are fierce competitors. some may seem aloof, while others may appear humble. but all of them exemplify self-confidence. they must, or risk failure.

Noriyuki Haga is perhaps the winningest World Superbike racer to never have won the Superbike World Championship. he began racing full-time in 1998, and came within 2 points of the crown in 2007, riding for Yamaha. in 2008, he won seven races but still finished 3rd in the WSBK ranks, the title going to Troy Bayliss on the Ducati.  2009 was supposed to be his year; he was hired by Ducati to fill the seat left vacant by Bayliss’ retirement. there were statistically no stumbling blocks in the way of Haga storming to the championship on the proven Ducati 1198. enter rookie Ben Spies. the story has already been told in this blog, but Spies won in his second race in the season-opening round, and didn’t stop winning for the rest of the season. the inexperienced American stole Haga’s sure thing away by 14 points by season’s end. personally, i believe it was the soul-crushing blow to Haga’s career hopes.

2010 has not been a banner year for Haga. he has won but two races to date, generally finishing in the back half of the top ten, several times outside it. he should be winning. he should be at least battling for the podium in every single race – he has proven his talent time and again. in watching his riding, one can sense that some of the fire has gone – he’s lost his confidence. somebody’s taken his mojo.

Michael Schumacher and Lance Armstrong have been sharing parallel lives in 2010. both men returned from retiring at the very tops of their games – Schumacher after 6 Formula One world championships, Armstrong after a record 7 Tour de France victories. both inspired nostalgic hope for dramatic recaptures of their former glory. both have been firmly met at reality’s door by younger, hungrier men – men unfettered by doubt, unjaded by years of seemingly effortless victory.

not such an easy ride this time

in my own life, confidence is an uneasy overcoat to wear. it’s too easy to overstep a healthy level of confidence and make an enthusiastic error of judgement. once the mistake is made, its consequence is a loss of confidence, which inevitably leads to more mistakes. watch a semifinal tennis round of the US Open to see how this affects athletes even at the world level. they crack – somebody always cracks. whether it’s Jan Ullrich on the slopes of Luz Ardiden or Tiger Woods on the 2010 PGA Tour. once cracked, confidence is never quick to return.

i’ve suffered my fair share of setbacks in my level of confidence. i can’t number the times i’ve hurled my mountain bike off insane drops of 15 feet or more, but then broke a collarbone stupidly attempting to jump somebody’s backyard mulch pile. the next time i look at a gap with a dicey landing, doubt creeps in and tells me i might hit that tree over there.

i’ve set fire to the 100-mile “century” road bike ride, but then cramped & turned into a whiny little girl on a mountain bike ride with friends. the next time somebody calls about an epic Sunday-afternoon adventure, i’ll begin to convince myself i can’t handle it.

i’ve thrown down some of the fastest laps of my life, glued to the tailsection or even showing an occasional wheel to the guy who used to be untouchable, then lowsided while sitting up for the cooldown lap. on my next day (or three) at the track, i’ll tiptoe around half the day, expecting the damn thing to just shoot out from under me with no warning, jerking in surprise when my knee touches the pavement.

it’s a killer. creeping death. loss of confidence sucks the fun out of the very things we do to enjoy living. it makes the doing of them unappealing. it manifests a vicious downward spiral wherein i no longer desire to do the thing i love because i lack the confidence; yet the only way to restore confidence is to do it repeatedly, until it becomes enjoyable again, which doesn’t happen until confidence returns.

ugh.

i was railing. i had figured out some things, the bike was working great, my confidence was higher than i can remember in a long time. then the dude went by. i’d seen him earlier in the day – white bike, light blue leathers. pretty quick -quicker than me.

when he went underneath me into T3, i decided to try to latch on. often a “rabbit” is just what i need to push myself a little harder, to discover speed in places i’m losing time. i pulled him a bit down through the esses, then he pulled back in T5, but i lost no time in 6 or 7. on the backstraight, my freshened 750 engine sucked the bodywork off his newer 600, and i went into 10a as deep as i dared. i noticed my brake lever felt pretty close to the bar, but i attributed it to the 95 degree Georgia summer day. coming into the 3rd-gear left at the end of a 170+ mph straight is the spot to take note of how well one’s brakes are working.

i made it thru 10b, 11, and T12 still with an advantage. i went deep into T1, again noting my less-than-ideal lever feel. it hadn’t changed, though.

dude went by me again out of T4. this is a weak spot of mine – off camber left, and i tend to run too far inside for fear of sliding off the apex, leaving the right entry to the esses open. i followed him again, but got hung in a little traffic going into T6, so couldn’t pass him again on the back. i was still able to keep him within 5 bikelengths or so into 10a &b.

we did this for several laps – most of the session. i would make ground on the backstraight, and from T10 to T2, then he would eke out a little ground in T3-T5; we were even in 6 and 7. i was pushing harder than i’ve ever pushed, braking later into T10a and T1 every lap. my brakes were starting to shudder a bit along with the spongy lever. i figured i could make it to the end of the session anyway – i was having too much fun.

with about 5 minutes left in the 20 minute session, dude got hung in a little traffic at the end of the backstraight, and i was suddenly back within 2-3 bikelengths. we went down the front straight nose to tail and braked impossibly late into T1. my spongy, shuddery brakes pushing me a little bit deeper than the last lap, but i was able to get it turned and through the apex, cranked over as far as i can ever remember. my knee was on the deck, toe tucked up to keep it from dragging, head and torso off the bike and low – nearly below the windscreen. i rolled on the throttle up the hill.

the bike stopped rolling and began sliding, just that fast. the rear tire completely lost grip, instantly followed by the front. i fell the remaining two inches to the asphalt and began sliding myself. i felt my elbow start to burn immediately where my leathers opened up from friction at 100mph, so i let the bike go and flattened out on my back to surf it out. time slowed to a crawl.

i watched in crisis-induced relativity as the bike slid next to me for several yards. i saw from the front tire a puff of blue smoke as the dragging peg and frame slider levered the force of the bike’s deceleration back onto the contact patch. then, impossibly, she simply levitated right off that patch of rubber, rear wheel rising skyward, the bike performing a graceful counterclockwise piroutte that would inspire pride in any ballet dancer. when the tire met the raised curbing at track’s edge, the bike was thrown into a slow-motion barrel-rolling flip. my perspective from the ground, looking up at the top side of the pristine painted tailsection, back tire, and exhaust pipe, completely inverted, flames as if from an afterburner issuing from the tailpipe.

as the bike hit the trackside sod on its outer side, destructive chaos ensued. the bike digging a huge divot with the other frame slider, exploding plastic bits from the intake plenums and windscreen, bright green blades of grass, brutally mowed by the impact method, scattering in all directions.

as i stopped sliding, i popped up and walked to the tire wall, taking one final look at the bike that brought my skillset so far, that gave me more smiles per dollar than any other toy. i knew she was done. moreover, i knew we were done. i had outgrown her, and had been asking too much from a machine of her advanced age and generation-old technology.

still, we managed to set my personal-best lap time together on this day. and she had danced a farewell dance for me, and it was beautiful.

poor, sad, beautiful girl. goodbye.

my introduction to and adoption of Religion in my tween years was fairly tumultuous; my mother was very adamant that my sister and i should be introduced to The Church, while my father was rather cheerfully antithetical about my mother’s choice of the Southern Baptists. this friction, among other things, eventually led to a trial separation for them, and emotional confusion on many levels for my sister and i. i ended up turning my back on the Baptists, but not before becoming baptised and saved by the Lord Jesus Christ, for whatever that’s worth. it came to an end when the Pastor claimed John Lennon’s music was categorically “of the devil,” because of the one line in “Imagine” that begins, “…imagine there no Heaven.”

my father, once sequestered in the boarding house, introduced me to the faith of his youth – the Episcopalian Church. if anything, this was diametrically the opposite of the passion of the Baptists with its ritual and incense and the Stations of the Cross and all the other sit-kneel-stand rote worship. i enjoyed the sermons, though. they were much more accessible to me as a young teenager; they contained much fewer absolutes. the Baptists had loved their absolutes. i am also, for what it is worth, a confirmed Episcopalian. as an infant, i was also baptised as a Presbyterian. i suppose all my bases are covered, at least on the Protestant side of things.

as i have stated, my knowledge of the Bible is patchy. i believe my understanding of it is above average. i view it as a reference book for the Christian religion. i don’t believe one can take its words too literally because it has been translated from the original text at least five different times. from the ancient Hebrew, Greek, and Aramaic texts to Latin, then from Latin to Old English, then to the King James text, and then to the “New English.” also, the fact that it was compiled from so many different people and places into a single book, arguably still incomplete. in short, i believe the reader needs to exercise literacy and a strong sense of context to parse the Christian ideals from the white noise of the various human dialects.

i’m disappointed in us, lately. us, as in US – the white people (and those of color, for that matter) who have taken the religion of Christianity and distorted it into a weapon to be used against anybody whose ideas don’t align. those who have taken it and turned it into a vehicle of hatred and fear. those who have turned it into a tool of divisiveness and separation. those who, at the same time, have left me breathless with undirected rage. i don’t think Muslims should be hated or punished for belonging to another faith; i don’t believe holding an “International Koran-Burning Day,” is an act of Christianity. i don’t believe God favors any one political party over another, nor do i believe He cares if the President holds a National Day of Prayer service in the White House.

i don’t claim to be a Christian at this point, perhaps for some of the above reasons. it almost feels as if the very name of my childhood faith has been misappropriated, and i no longer want to be associated with “them.” all the bases of my own Faith are rooted in Christianity. i call my deity “God,” if only for lack of a better word. my moral compass is pretty firmly calibrated to the Ten Commandments, and to the Golden Rule from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount:

“Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets.” – Matthew 7:12

seems a pretty simple Rule to live by. nowhere in the Bible (that i know of) does it say we get to choose to whom this should apply. the language, while archaic, is very clear – all things whatsoever that you would have men do unto you, do unto them also. it even sounds proactive, as if i’m not supposed to wait until others treat me well before i treat them as i would like to be treated. if this were the only verse in the entire Bible, and those of us claiming Christianity were simply to try to abide by this single rule, the world would be a much different place, wouldn’t it?

for me, Christianity should be based on a collection of principles including, but not limited to ideals such as Love, Forgiveness, Patience, Faith, Tolerance, Charity, Compassion…

what i’m perhaps most disappointed in is that Christianity was originally based on Love – unconditional Love, the Love of an all-powerful God towards His creation. a God, who according to the Gospel of John, gave His only Son that whoever believed in Him would not die, but have everlasting life. too often in the last few decades, it seems to be misused and turned around to an instrument of Fear, which is the opposite of Faith by some definitions. FEAR, in turn, begets hatred. i firmly believe that God is a being of pure Love. Love ties things together. Love makes humanity tolerable. Love is Eternal Life. we have been trained that there is a heavenly reward beyond this plane, in an afterlife – that we just have to set the stage in this life with some set of rituals, and all is forgiven once we depart this mortal coil.

i think this idea of Separation – that God is UP THERE, and our reunion with Him will occur at some point in the future, is a fatal misconception. i think it excuses bad behavior in the present. if i can be forgiven (again) tomorrow, then why should i treat others as i’d lke to be treated today? instead i can fuck them over, and so long as i’ve subscribed to the proper ritual, all is forgiven, and Heaven bound am i.

what if this is Heaven? what if Love is God is Love, and the feeling of it is the key to Heaven? have you ever held a newborn child, or a puppy? have you stopped to appreciate the ten-thousandth successive sunrise in your life? have you witnessed the miracle of the perfect balance of the atom? have you taken a minute or two to be grateful for walking this beautiful, infinite, fractal, chaotic Earth, spinning in vast infinite space, today? for me, embracing the moment, realizing it, feeling it, is my connection with God. my most earnest hope is that i can treat each person i meet today as i would like to be treated.

and then, i would really hope to feel like i’m worthy of better treatment.