The Olde South is most beautiful in the morning . . .

. . . early Friday-morning practice, Sun rising out of the trees out of the mist still lying in the low places, the morning air feels soft and cool, fast feels good, second lap of the morning session, engine screaming, the bike and I manage to pass Wick on the outside of a kink as he runs up behind a slower rider on the inside, we quickly jump past and jump over, ahead on the inside, dropping left, down, down, quickly right, then quickly sweeping left around and through and out of the beautiful downhill switchback . . .

. . .into a short straight towards the tight 180-degree hairpin at the start of the back straight, pulling hard, I know Wick is coming right back, he’s got more motor, he’s 50 pounds lighter, he’ll be past that guy by now, he’ll pull and press to the inside at the end of the hairpin, try to pull ahead up the sweeping hill down the back straight, we’ve got to earn some distance ahead to hold off that pass, so I pull hard out of the left, left peg scraping, stand the bike up pulling down the short straight into the hairpin, wait too long to start braking: wait way, way too long, half an eyeblink is all it takes, hard, hard on the front brake, the front suspension strains then bottoms, the front tire starts squealing, starts loosing traction, we’re losing pavement fast, time slows, no traction left in the front tire to throw the bike over to the right around the curve, forget about turning, slip the right toe onto the rear brake, need to lose more energy before sweeping straight out to the outside and into that grass, too much speed, too much energy for the front tire, more brake, more brake, more brake, the rear grabs pavement, the rear lifts from the ground squealing, the rear starts to swing left to the outside barely spinning, locking-up, all friction is gone from the rear, friction’s going fast out of the front, rear’s sliding sideways to the left, still too much speed, too much speed, too much energy . . . then with a soft flying bump we leave the pavement and we fly out over and into that soft and oh-so-slippery green, green grass . . .

The Olde South is most beautiful in the morning . . .

Next day, early Saturday morning after a hard, sweating, working-hard Friday, we’re suiting-up again for the one practice session before this afternoon’s race, only the second practice after dropping into the grass yesterday, and after a long, long night of mares, and sweats, and Fear Demons . . .

Fear's whisper compels . . .
And pain hears all such night sounds,
While courage sleeps mute.

But the wind's laughter . . .
It's like striking a sudden match
then a candle
Lighting a dark-black room,
Driving back into the room's corners

Fear's creeping darkness.

Fear's whisper. . .
joyless, alone, compelling,
flees from the wind
and a screaming engine,
and soaring through the landscape.

The Olde South is most beautiful in the morning . . .

When Time has slowed way down, the sensation of friction one moment . . . and no friction the next moment . . . is in no way a good sensation, when traveling at 60 mph on a decelerating motorcycle barely under control . . . no friction, just gone, so where are we landing my fast little friend?, oh that tire wall is coming up very quickly, no way we’re stopping, let’s bail to the right into this grass, sorry my fast little friend I’ll do this as easy as I can, forgive me Pat, it’s been good . . . WHAM!,WHAM!, tumble, WHAM, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, sliiiide, roll, roll, silence . . . distant rolling-on of a throttle . . .

The Olde South is most beautiful in the morning . . .

So Saturday morning’s practice starts and we roll out onto the track, the speed feels good, but the corners are coming up real fast, way faster than they did before, bikes are passing, throttle’s easy, speed is easy, the brakes are working well, but those corners, Fear lives in those corners, push through The Fear, back to basics, focus on form, focus on smooth, back to the beginning, it all grows from smooth, only the smooth, flowing lines, hmmm, no Fear in smooth, grow out of the smooth . . .

The Olde South is most beautiful in the morning . . .

So when the crash was over, and we had pushed out of the danger zone, the bike and I wait for the session to end, so this is what it feels like to be one of the ones who went down, so this is what it feels like to hit the grass and tumble at 60 mph, not too bad really, way better than pavement, the session ends, the truck and trailer come, and we take that long ride back to the paddock, a couple of buddies waiting near our pit, roll the bike off the trailer and onto the bikestands, helmet still on, dirt and grass falling from beneath my helmet, buddies brushing off the dirt from the leathers, helmet off, we survey the bike, it all looks fixable, buddies asking you okay, man? you okay, man? looking deep into concerned eyes, nod, yeah, yeah, I think I’m okay . . . okay, and a nod, such a simple word, such a simple gesture, for how many thousands of years has that question been asked and answered just as simply, barefoot out on the plains or in the jungles, on hunts . . . and in battles . . . asked and answered . . . or not answered, my buddies drift away, I’ve got to sit for a bit, let the adrenaline settle, I start to drift inward, but a good club friend Kurt stays near, he starts looking closely at the bike, asking about spares, I focus on his questions and start running in my mind through the inventory of spares in the truck, in the trailer, that’s something to focus-on, rise, look closely at the bike, yeah, Kurt . . . yeah . . . I’ve got the parts to fix this, and this, and this, and this, . . . and with Kurt’s help, in about 4 or 5 hours, working hard and sweating through lunch, we get that bike apart, fixed, and back together, couldn’t have done that without Kurt’s help, he’s a good mechanic holding back letting me make the final torques so I know in my mind that a fastener is good, an old biker knows the importance of feeling that torque and knowing, and looking at the clock I test the idea with Kurt of taking the bike back out onto the track for the last practice session of the day, not to go fast, just to test the bike, test the disassembled and reassembled front brake master cylinder, test the re-built rear brake master-cylinder assembly, test the re-set straightened bars, test the new foot peg, see if the frame’s bent, test the engine, he shrugs and nods, but inside I’m thinking . . . test myself . . .

The Olde South is most beautiful in the morning . . .

Saturday’s and Sunday’s race go as expected, the Thruxton fast guys slowly pull away, lap after lap, the slowest of the fast guys staying in sight, but a clock is a heartless machine, they are now 8 cruel seconds per lap faster than me and the bike, at the back dropping back, back here with The Fear, dropping back to fundamentals, dropping back to smooth and to form, and slowly building on that, holding The Fear at arm’s length with the form and the smooth lines, and sure-enough, by the end of the last race on Sunday afternoon, we’re the last rider and bike to speed beneath the checkered flag in the last race of the day, the bike and I had worked back to a respectable speed, the smooth was working, so we roll back into the pits and under the awning satisfied with small gains, this time with The Fear much closer than usual though held away, I whisper the usual thanks to the bike and reach down engine off . . . leg over, time to pack and leave, so we pack the pit and the rig in the afternoon heat, and we say our goodbyes to the other racer buddies, see you guys at Barber!, yeah, this was a good one!, and we pull out to start that long roll back to Austin, the bike calmly strapped-down safe inside the trailer, about 90 miles west running into the setting Sun, we see a Cracker Barrel ahead, exit, park, I’m barely able to open the door and climb down from the truck, exhaustion, gravity has cranked way up, enter the busy restaurant, are guided to a quiet corner table, take a seat overlooking the other tables, quickly scan all the Southern families having their dinners, quietly talking about their day, their lives, travelers on vacations, travelers working and living, gentle Southern sounds, murmuring, but they seem very far away right now, and surprised, I start to softly weep, tearing-up, blurring the table, the waitress acts confused, I ask her for a few minutes and she moves away, the past weekend lays in front of me . . . embedded in those murmuring Southern families . . . you were so close to losing the bet this time, buddy . . . so close to losing it all . . .