by Charlie Steinman

That Long Strip of Pavement

Sunday Morning . . . just after sunrise, remnants of a light ground-fog still moving in the glare of the rising Sun, eastern sky bright orange-red, sitting astride the purring and warming bike in the staging area, right-hand gently revving the engine, the bike in-line with the centerline of a mile-and-a-half of smooth concrete runway, staring through the half-open helmet visor directly East into the rising Sun, I watch the Starting Official give the go hand signal to a Corvette 50-feet ahead revving at the starting line, and the sleek car roars away from the line, tires squealing, quickly shrinking to a finer and finer point just beneath the Sun’s red glare out on the horizon, out on that now-shining strip of concrete, from the Corvette way out there on the horizon comes the fading high roar of a screaming engine and the torn-paper sound of air being violently torn, the sound coming and going, drifting on the slight breeze, the Starter, speaks into his radio headset, with a slight flick of his left wrist, motions for the bike and I to move gently ahead to the starting line, while he holds his left hand out comfortably at his side thumb-up palm forward, blocking passage down that long strip of pavement . . .

Charlie Steinman on his BMW S1000RR Superbike

That Long Strip of Pavement

Saturday Night . . . just after sunset, seated on a folding chair beside the bike trailer in the night-time paddock darkness, at a white plastic folding table lit by a small flickering digital candle, seated across the table from a small, quiet rider, a Scotsman, a guy I’ve just met and shaken-hands with, a guy with a heavy-accent from an ocean away, a life-long biker and road-racer who has raced in The Isle of Man TT, a guy who has done a 100-mph lap of The Isle of Man race course, surrounded in the darkness by the throbbing of generators, and RV-campers, buses with window-drapes drawn closed, seated in the fresh night air, just-finished paper plates with the remnants of a steak dinner pushed away, drinking the last splash from a bottle of Texas Shiraz, listening to the Scotsman’s stories of races won and races lost all over the world, of his kids’ troubles with growing-up in Scotland and then moving to Texas, I keep him talking, laying questions on the table, he stares someplace over my shoulder into the night and keeps talking the wine loosening normally-closed Scottish lips, this guy has been and has done, we talk about drag racing versus road-racing, and the draw of that One Mile Marker . . . and the Full Moon slowly rises . . .

Texas Mile Raceway

That Long Strip of Pavement

Friday Morning . . . just before Sunrise, barely light, the bike sits on the rear bike-stand, ready to go, a slight breeze moving-in, wondering what the process-is for lining-up and running the bike, walking around the bike under the canopy in the darkness, checking feeling, check the tire pressures again, no idea what pressure to run in a straight-line down a runway, guess at 2-pounds below book, need coffee, the guys in the Christian-Biker booth will have coffee, walk-down and get a cup, not great but the price is right, back to the bike while sipping the coffee, Sun just peeking into the sky, nervous energy, how fast will this thing make in a mile, no idea, how hard could it be, right, pull-on the leathers boots helmet and gloves, bike off the stand, leg-over, start-button and ride the quiet throbbing bike over to the waiting line of other bikes near the staging area and starting line, mostly long and low Hayabusas, angry-looking be-stickered modified and specialized bikes, each sounds loud and fast, already 20 bikes with riders lined-up in the pink broadening light, sit on the bike in line, other riders noticing the new S1000RR, riders coming over one-by-one the same question on their minds: ‘how fast does it run?’ no idea man, first time, fresh bike, totally stock, just rolled off the dealer floor, put 500-miles on it, took-off the mirrors and lights, and here it is; ‘stock exhaust?’, yeah, there’s still a catalytic converter under there, lips purse heads nod, each rider wanders away but they glance over each others’ shoulders at the bike as they talk quietly, waiting in groups of two and three . . .

Lone Star Triumph Tent

BMW S1000RR Superbike

That Long Strip of Pavement

Sunday morning . . . the Starter, speaks into his radio headset, with a slight flick of his left wrist, motions for the bike and I to move gently ahead to the starting line, while he holds his left hand out comfortably at his side thumb-up palm forward, blocking passage down that long strip of pavement, we move forward to the line, stop on the line, watching that ‘Vette shrinking into a tiny dot out on that pavement, listening for the distant roar to drop, left hand reach up and softly close the helmet visor, deep breath, right hand quickly blipping the throttle, settle backward into the seat, chest-down flatten-out on the fuel tank behind the windscreen, flat, flatter, weight-forward, chin down, eyes up and forward, blip, blip, left-hand clutch-in, left-foot clunk into first gear, nothing but that long strip of pavement out there, everything goes away except for that long strip of pavement, blip, blip, roll the right hand forward on the grip, blip, blip, move right-foot softly backward barely touching the pavement, left-knee up into my chest, left arm wrapping tight around the knee, push further back in the seat, chest hard flat on the tank, chin hard flat on the tank, eyes upward through the windscreen, nothing but that long strip of pavement, the Sun is glaring orange-red through the windscreen and the helmet visor, nothing but that long strip of pavement, and everything else is an orange glow, the distant engine roar fades, right-hand throttle revs and holds at 3,000, wriggle the right-foot on the pavement, wriggle on the seat and tank, brace into the seat back, engine revs to 7,000, the Starter hears a voice in his ear, speaks into his microphone: ‘Bike No. 858, leaving now’, his palm flicks into a pointed finger and he sweeps his finger into the orange glow towards the end of the pavement, bang-out the clutch, the bike launches violently forward front wheel upward, time slows, throttle full-twist, watch the tach, keep the bike straight between the pavement joints, wear the bike, calm the bike, calm, go calm on the bike, nothing but the tach and that orange glow and the pavement joints, front wheel still up, bike tearing beneath, hold the bike down with my chin, tach sweeps to 12,000 clutch/shift bang full-throttle, front tire drops to the pavement briefly, lifts again, hold it down, hold it down, tach sweeps to 12,000 clutch/shift bang full-throttle, front tire has pavement now, go calm on the bike, wind noise, tach sweeps to 12,000 clutch/shift bang full-throttle, a square black shape flies past on the right, can’t read it in the orange glow, must have been the quarter-mile marker, tach sweeps to 12,000 clutch/shift bang full-throttle, push flat, flatter, go calm on the bike, chin-steer between the pavement joints, nothing but the pavement joints and the big orange glow, wind tearing now, push down flatter, wrap and pull the knees in closer, flatter, flatter, a square black shape flies past can’t read it in the orange glow, just the pavement, calm between the pavement joints, must have been the one-half-mile marker, tach sweeps to 12,000 clutch/shift bang full-throttle sixth gear, wind tearing, wind tearing, calm, calm, a square black shape flies past can’t read it in the orange glow, just the pavement, calm between the pavement joints, must have been the three-quarter-mile marker, wind tearing wind tearing, tach sweeping past 12,000, 12,500, can’t see the timing gates can’t see the one-mile marker in the orange glow, so much wind, screaming wind, a square black shape flies past can’t read it in the orange glow, there were red cones around this one, throttle-off, drape on the bike against the decel forces from the slipper-clutch, let the slipper-clutch soak the energy, no brake, raise-up, big wind under the helmet, whoa out of run-off, weight-right, knee-down, low-off the bike, too-fast smooth-sweeping turn to the right off the runway, clipping the square pavement corners, across the pavement cross-tie, over onto the frontage road, looking up for the Timing Official and his slip of paper, not a bad way for a road-race bike to end a drag race.

Charlie Steinman waits for another run

That Long Strip of Pavement

Late Saturday night . . . laying in the trailer on the cot in the darkness, generators putt-putting all around, twelve runs under my belt, some good, some bad, fastest run at 179.9 mph in the first-thing Saturday morning calm air, the rest of the runs were 165 mph to 175 mph, big 30-knot cross-wind, all day Friday and Saturday, maybe we’ll top 180 first thing tomorrow morning, only get one run before the wind picks-up again, one swing at the ball, early, at sunrise, 180, 180, the key is a fast take-off, fast shifts, low, low on the bike, and smooth, smooth is king, no wobbles no missed energy, some teenage kid had asked me today ‘so why are you doing this, old dude?’, took me by surprise, didn’t have an answer, just shrugged, why AM I doing this, why are all these others doing this, running as fast as possible down an abandoned airport runway, why, for some reason I recall what some writer/artist, a woman, told an interviewer on some TV show about Art and artists when asked where she found her inspiration day after day, the writer/artist laughed at the question and answered, looking directly into the interviewer’s eyes, and said, ‘I guess I like living close to failure’, I remember the truth of that statement ringing in my head with the clarity of a pure bell, living close to failure, working close to failure, all these years, and the thing with failure is that it moves and evolves, so living close to failure is to always be changing, deadlines always shorten, margins always tighten, lap times always go down, speeds always go up, last year lapping in the 1:54’s at Barber would have been near the wood of the Thruxton class, this year 1:54 is at the back of the mid-pack, now fast at Barber is defined as 1:48 and that 1:48 sits, looking back with a mocking smile, 180 mph sounds fast but it’s still 20 mph short of 200, let’s take this one step at a time, reach for smooth in the morning, see if 180 is in the smooth in the morning . . .

Coffee and a Texas sunrise

That Long Strip of Pavement

Sunday morning . . . just finished what felt like a smooth, though violent run into that orange glow, no misses, no bobbles, just finished the road-racer knee-down turn at the end of the runway onto the frontage road, the bike purring back up the frontage road towards the paddock, looking up for the Timing Official and his slip of paper, pull-up to the Official, he shouts ‘nice run . . . smooth, man’, he hands a timing slip into my gloved left hand, I shout out of the helmet over the engine roar of the next guy running past out on that long strip of pavement, that I can’t read it without glasses, he looks at the slip again, three pats on the back of my leathers . . . ‘182.6 mph man . . . 182.6’.