Last Saturday, I went to track school.
Did I demonstrate the superiority of the V65 Sabre as a track bike? Ummm... no. Did I at least pass a few of the other students? No, I'm afraid not. Did I learn how to go faster? Yes. Did I enjoy myself? Very much so.
The school was called Fasttrax, the class was the Advanced Street Rider's Course, and the track was Nelson Ledges. Erik Kauppi had attended this school before and was on their mailing list. Early this summer he showed me the brochure, and asked if I would like to go. It seemed like a good idea to me, so we each plunked down our $175 and together we chose the September 9th date. Erik would ride his RZ350 (Kenny Roberts replica, the last of the two-stroke sportbikes) and I would ride my V65 Sabre, SpringWind.
I spent the holiday weekend preparing SpringWind. Ever since I got this bike, I've complained that there was something not quite right with the suspension. In July, I'd had the rear suspension completely apart, freed the stuck bushings in the prolink, replaced the oil in the shock, and it had improved considerably, but it was still not quite right. The rear just didn't have proper damping, and as the miles went by, this problem got worse and worse. I was all set to change the 10wt oil in the shock for 15wt, in hopes of getting better damping, but Erik thought there was a broken seal in the shock, and he advised I just pull the shock from Cordelia (my non-running Sabre), put it in SpringWind and be done with it. So I did. And it was wonderful! The bike finally handled the way I felt it should.
I had also ordered Progressive fork springs for the front, planning to put them in for the class. But I thought about Rule Five. The Iron Butt Association has a list of suggested rules for long distance travelers, and Rule Five is basically, "Don't install new stuff right before a big important trip." The bike had reached a level of handling I felt comfortable with, and I had less than a week to test anything new. I remembered the day last spring when my bike broke down in an isolated spot in West Texas, and the cause turned out to be a loose connector I'd had apart as part of the work I did on the bike right before I left. I left the new springs in their box.
The course materials also suggested that we bring extra gasoline, and trailer the bikes "because it was possible to ride well over 200 miles during the day" and we would be tired at the end. I didn't feel any pressing need to trailer my bike, but I didn't want to strap gas cans on it either, so I was happy to have Erik put the RZ350 in the back of my truck. I scrounged a couple of gas cans from my garage, and Erik found a couple in his garage. I packed my clothes and gear in the truck, and luxuriated in the chance to take a trip unencumbered by anything but a tank bag.
School would start at 7:30 in the morning, and I know myself to be quite the socializer. Erik suggested finding a nearby sabmaggot to stay with, but I told him I wanted a motel room because I'd sleep instead of yakking my fool head off. This turned out to be just as well. What with one thing and another we didn't get to the motel until midnight, and Erik had a raging cold and needed his rest even more than I needed mine.
Saturday morning dawned hazy and overcast as I followed my truck to the race course. There wasn't a lot of traffic on the freeway, and I watched for signs to Nelson Ledges. I didn't see any. Erik took an exit based on some set of directions known only to him, and I followed for ten miles or so along back roads, around two sides of an old military base. After a while it seemed to me that we were going in a circle, and I was just starting to worry that he might be lost when he signaled a turn into what looked like a farm. And there was the first sign I'd seen for Nelson Ledges. It reminded me of a sign for one of those U-pick farm markets.
We followed the gravel drive past the farmhouse, through the tall grass, and through an opening in a fence made entirely of tires. We crossed the track, passed some beat up RVs in a field, and pulled into the area where all the activity was taking place. There were a couple of outbuildings of the sort most farms have, and a whole bunch of people unloading bikes from trailers. The only structure that looked much different from a farm was the bridge over the track.
We unloaded Erik's bike, and I took my paperwork into the barn with the sign for registration. I signed a waiver and they told me to take my bike to tech inspection next door, then go park it in the hot pit lane. Hot pit lane? I was clueless. I've never watched racing, so I was in for some vocabulary expansion this weekend.
There were a half dozen bikes ahead of me at tech inspection, all sport bikes. I was feeling more nervous and out of place by the minute. The guy doing the tech inspection was dark haired and stocky, with face piercings and brightly colored tattoos up and down his arms. He scowled as he looked at my bike, and gave me an appraising look.
"What's in the radiator?"
"Oh, um... Water, and some of that water wetter stuff."
He raised his eyebrows at me like he didn't believe me.
"Seriously. Erik changed it for me last night while I finished packing, and that's what he put in there."
He fingered my rear tire speculatively. I thought I saw his glance flicker to the IBA license plate frame. I worried that he would think my tires were too worn, but he gave me the nod, and signed off on the bike. As he turned away, he growled, "These things don't handle that great. You be careful out there."
I found someone who was able to explain how to get to the hot pit lane, and I rode my bike out there and parked it. Then I wandered around trying to figure out what I should do next. I met a woman named Tracy, also a student, who told me she was glad to see she wasn't the only woman. I was glad, too.
Finally they called us all to stand outside the registration building and get started. The guy in charge of the school gave a rambling speech.
We learned of the evils of open wheel car racing, that all open wheel racers are assholes, that their cars don't run worth a damn, and their sponsors never stay more than a year before they leave in disgust. We learned that Nelson Ledges is fifty years old, it is one of the fastest tracks around, and that it was flat and this caused some of the curves look sharper than they really were, and it was not unusual for racers to average over 100mph on laps of this track. We learned of the importance of good tires, that two students had arrived with cords showing, that this was incredibly stupid, that tires like that would explode at 120 mph and the students riding them would have been killed if they hadn't gotten bounced at tech inspection. We were told of the value of tire warmers, and that weaving doesn't warm the tires up any faster than riding in a straight line. We learned that we should all be running 30psi in our tires, front and rear, and that the tech people would be happy to check them for us. We learned that this was a street school covered by our regular insurance, that therefore the school didn't need or have any insurance, and we should not waste time suing him because there was nothing to get. We learned that if we didn't tape our speedos, he would, because speedos are distracting; he told us an anecdote of a student whose average speed almost doubled when he taped her speedo. We learned that the knee pucks on the rental leathers are not for the students to keep as souvenirs, that they are his property. We were told that woodchucks might venture onto the track, and that we should not deviate from our lines to avoid hitting them, that they're soft and hitting them won't cause us to lose traction. Dire threats were made against anyone who had lied about removing their coolant, and we were told that the water was fine to leave in our cooling systems, that we only need antifreeze in the winter, and if we do put antifreeze in later we should not put car antifreeze in our bikes or our water pumps would seize within the first couple hundred miles. (Hmm, this directly contradicted my personal experience but I didn't argue. I came to learn riding skills, no point in getting into a religious argument with this dude.) He asked who came here to crash? No one raised their hands. We were told that he was not impressed by hot dogging, that any instructor there could leave us in the dust even if we had twice the engine displacement, and that we should behave ourselves and do as we're told, and that we were not to race. He told us where we could see the bloodstains of a rider who had died on the course and that we needed to realize the dangers if we did something stupid. We learned that a green flag meant we could keep going, a checkered flag meant that this was our last lap and to come into the hot pit on our next pass, and a red flag meant that this was our last lap and we should slow way down because there was something wrong out there. We were not to stop for a downed rider; the school had people stationed all around the track who would take care of things. We should hurry to the classroom as soon as we came off the track; that way we could make the most of our time. The lecture went on and on, good and interesting info interspersed with ranting. My knees started to get tired standing there. Finally he finished.
We were divided into two groups. Group A was students with prior track school experience; Erik went with that group. I was in Group B. The groups would alternate, twenty minutes on the track, twenty minutes off. We were given t-shirts with numbers on them, purple for group A and grey for Group B. I was number 9.
Group A was on the track first, and Group B had classroom first. After checking my tires and letting enough air out to get to 30 psi, I went to class. The classroom was in the back of the barn that registration had been in. It seemed I was the first one there, so I helped the teacher put the chairs in rows, and slowly the other students filtered in. I was pleased to see Tracy in my group, with number 22.
We were given a description of how to enter and exit the track using the hot pit, and how we were to travel in the clockwise direction only. We were instructed not to pass unless signaled to do so by an instructor. We were to tape our mirrors or turn them sideways, so as not to look in them, and we were not to look back. We should ride in one gear and try to travel smoothly at a speed which would not require us to brake. There were yellow circles on the track, marking the best line, and even though this line might not make sense to us now, it would be the best line at speed so we should try to learn it. The person overtaking was responsible for avoiding the person ahead of them, all we had to do was behave predictably out there; no sudden changes of line. When we were exiting the track we should signal by holding up our left hand as we passed a certain spot, then slowly move over to the right and exit into the hot pit. The pit boss would divide us into several groups, each with an instructor, and we would do an exercise called leapfrog. We would each get a chance to follow directly behind our instructor for one lap, and then the instructor would signal with a wave, like so, at which point the person at the front should move over to the right, let the rest of the riders in the group pass them, and join back in at the end. This should be a slow session; we were to look around to our heart's content, and familiarize ourselves with the track.
The pit boss was an older guy in a red shirt. I'd somehow managed to park my bike in an awkward spot, too far forward to get in line properly. I ended up facing the pit boss at a bit of an angle, with the line on my left. It didn't seem to matter, the pit boss waved and acknowledged me, and indicated I should wait. He sent out a couple of groups of three, and finally attached me to the end of the same group Tracy was in.
Getting on the track was like getting on a freeway. I was nervous and the track was unfamiliar. I didn't realize it when we came back around to the beginning until we passed under the bridge. Tracy moved over to the right and the student in front of me passed her. Wait a minute! The instructor had never waved for this to happen! Eek! I was terribly confused, but I thought I should be passing Tracy too. Unfortunately by the time I made this decision we were back in the turns again, and I wasn't sure if she was expecting me to pass her or not, and I hate passing in turns. Finally I managed to get around her; hoping she wasn't startled. Before I knew it we were going under the bridge again. The student in front of me moved over and I passed him, and tried to follow the instructor. I was terrified; I hate following anyone that closely, especially when I know that other people are following me closely. Suddenly we were going under the bridge again, and the instructor still hadn't given any signals. Around the curves and into the back straightaway, I was still behind the instructor. I worried: "Why hadn't he signaled? I should have moved over but it all happened so fast, now what do I do? We're supposed to take turns and I just took two turns in a row, I hope the other students aren't annoyed..."
Help materialized in the form of another instructor. He appeared on my right, and signaled me to follow him. I moved over to the right and got in behind him, and he led me for the rest of my fifth lap, and back into the hot pits. We pulled over and stopped. I told him of the problems I was having. One, following closely. Two, worrying about those behind. Three, the real tight turn, the one they called the carousel. He nodded and said I should not worry about those behind, he would take care of that, and that I could trust him not to do anything squirrelly; I could follow him. The carousel would get easier with practice.
He led me back onto the track, and I followed. He set the perfect pace for me in the turns, and in the straights he led me to the right so other groups led by other instructors could pass me. He rode one handed and spent at least half his time looking back at me and waving me to follow him more closely. As I got my nerves under control I started chuckling to myself. I would really be accomplishing something if I got fast enough to make this guy to use both hands on the bars while leading me. I noticed the yellow circles on the track and I didn't see why we would think the lines were nonsensical; they were the same lines I would have chosen myself. If I understood the lines I must not be completely hopeless, right?
Before long the checkered flag appeared on the tower, and my instructor led me back into the hot pit. I hurried to class and once again was one of the first people there. This pattern repeated itself all day. I don't know what on earth the other students were doing between class and track but it seemed I was always one of the first into the classroom and one of the first back onto my bike.
Over the course of the day we were allowed to pass in more and more situations. We learned to keep our revs way, way up. We learned to hang off, and we learned how to use the throttle as a steering input. In each classroom session they would pick students out and tell them they had been observed doing this or that, and to try this or that.
The instructor who helped me in the first track session helped me again in the second one, when we went faster. I had several pucker moments in that second session, and I discovered that screaming at the top of my lungs worked wonders for this. In Keith Code's book, he writes about what he calls survival reactions, and there were several of them I knew I needed to fight. The big one has always been rolling off the throttle midturn. Whenever I felt the urge to do this, I let myself scream until my throat hurt. It gave me something to do to react to the fear, something that wasn't counterproductive, and with every scream of terror I got faster.
At some point I realized that under those purple and yellow leathers, the helpful instructor was the same guy that had inspected my bike and told me to be careful out there. I was glad he was willing to help me whether he approved of my bike or not. His bike wasn't particularly impressive either; it was an elderly Yamaha, single cylinder, with a kick start lever that came off. It had more dents and dings than any other bikes there, and I guess it to have less than 500cc displacement. I never learned his name, but he was an amazing rider.
I learned that I could ride the first half of the track, with its series of medium radius turns, in second gear at about 6000 to 8000 rpm, and this was highly effective. In the back straight, I would kick it up a gear and accelerate. Then back down to second for the carousel section. Before they allowed passing, I poured on as much speed as I could in the straights to give the others room behind me, but once they allowed passing in the straights, I only accelerated mildly there, so as to let the others by. I was conscious of being the slowest one and I didn't want to be an obstacle to the others.
Some other folks I know had been to the same school earlier in the summer, and they had recommended getting into Group A if I could, because, they said, "In Group B they won't let you pass, and there's always some slowpoke out there going 35 mph." I was very conscious of being that rider, but I didn't let it get to me. I didn't need to prove anything to anyone there.
By afternoon I no longer needed to scream. I moved it up a gear, taking the first half of the track in third gear (still at 6000 to 8000 rpm) and the back straight in fourth, and only coming down to second for the carousel but keeping the revs up a bit higher there. I was no longer terrified, even though I lost traction several times on the exit of turn four. It started to get really, really fun.
Group B gradually grew larger. It seemed that somehow they were moving people into our group, but I'm not sure how it was done. One guy had been in Group A and had crashed; he claimed another student had passed him on the inside of a curve (strictly forbidden) and forced him off the track. No one admitted to being the one who'd done it, and no one had seen it happen. I'm not sure where the other students came from, or why we suddenly seemed to have twice as many instructors as students. During lunch, we watched another Group A student who had crashed load his severely damaged bike (a new Triumph) onto his truck and take it away. Our group grew increasingly rambunctious; the speeds went ever higher. During one classroom session, after a particularly wild track session, we were sternly lectured to calm down out there, and obey the rules for passing, or they would start throwing tires and hay bales out onto the track to slow us down. After that the students calmed down a bit.
It seemed that none of the rules applied to the instructors. They whizzed by me, passed me on the inside of curves, very close at times. Occasionally I would be passed by a group of two or three who appeared to be racing each other. It was startling at first but gradually I learned to disregard them. Occasionally one of them would slow down and lead me for a lap or two, but none stuck by me as much as the one who'd been so helpful that morning. I suspect that the school pays most of the instructors little or nothing, but they get free track time for doing it. They're probably expected to help students as needed, but the rest of the time they get to whiz around the track, and that's what they're really there for. Just a guess, no one told me this, but it seems to explain what I saw happening. Also, the classroom instructors seemed to be deciding the passing rules on the fly, based on how we were doing, and few of the other instructors were in the classroom as the rules got handed down. They probably didn't know or care what we students had been told about passing.
In the last classroom session I was singled out. The instructor told me I was looking really good out there, that I had improved a lot. He said he'd followed me for two laps and I was doing very well. He asked me about my IBA plate back, had I ridden the Iron Butt Rally? I explained that I was a member of the Iron Butt Association; you don't have to ride the IBR to join, you just need to do a Saddlesore, which is 1000 miles in 24 hours. He made some comment about how he would be in a world of hurt if he tried to do 1000 miles in 24 hours. Thinking back on it, I believe he was consciously trying to ensure I felt respected, that I wouldn't go away feeling lame and stupid for being the slowest one there. And I do appreciate that.
It seems to me that they did a lot of things that were very clever. They worked hard to pay attention to each and every student, and make sure we all learned, we all improved, and we all felt good at the end of the day. They had enough instructors that they could have given each of us individual lessons, but the way they did things was more effective because we got to work with multiple instructors, and the group format kept us all working on the same things at the same time and made the track scene less chaotic. They did a good job of combining and recombining the students into groups that worked well for each of them.
In the last track session, I felt great! Even on the carousel, I knew I was much faster and much smoother than I had been that morning. When I saw the checkered flag, I was sad to realize this would be my last lap. I wondered if I should try to go even faster, finish with a blaze of glory? I started to wick it up, but as I entered turn four, I looked ahead and saw a big puff of dust. A red bike had gone flying off the track just seconds before. The rider was already on his feet but the bike was still sliding towards the tire wall. I wrenched my eyes away, reminded myself that I was not supposed to stop for a downed rider, and finished my turn. I bet that guy decided to go extra fast for his last lap, too. I decided I didn't need that kind of trouble, it wasn't worth it. I kept my pace steady and finished my last lap.
I turned in my grey number nine t-shirt and they gave me a yellow Fasttrax T-shirt, and a certificate of completion. I laughed to see the certificate, and the woman at the desk told me that the school was recognized by insurance companies and that certificate should be worth a small discount on my insurance.
Erik and I inspected my tires. The rubber had melted a little and chunks of it were pilling up at the edges of the tread. My tires have never done that before. Erik said this was actually normal.
Some of the guys there helped Erik load the RZ350 while I switched the stock seat on my bike for the Russell seat. The classroom instructor came by and fussed a little about me riding the bike home; was I sure I wasn't too tired? I grinned at him and said that I'd had lots of practice at riding long distances home when tired, and if I needed to I would pull over and rest. The ride home would be the easy part!
Conclusion:
Track school is fun! Really, really fun.
I now understand why so many track riders say they've given up street riding because street riding is so dangerous. Many of my ingrained defensive riding habits were problematical on the track. I seldom think about it, but I automatically check my mirrors every five seconds or so, and when I couldn't use my mirrors on the track it really threw me. What's scary, is just how quickly I managed to let go of that habit. Another habit I had to let go of, was doing a shoulder check before I moved from side to side in a lane or changed my line. It's not that I would go faster on the street and get myself in trouble; speed can be managed. It's the little habits. For defensive riding techniques to work, they need to be automatic. You need to do that stuff all the time; you shouldn't have to remind yourself. It's hard to shift mental gears like that. If I was going on the track every weekend, I suspect my defensive riding on the street would suffer, and the street would suddenly get a lot more dangerous.
I still want to do it again. But I don't think it would be a good idea to go often enough to screw up my street riding skills.
I also think it would be fun to have a different bike when I go next time. Something sportier, lighter, better handling. Maybe then I would have an easier time keeping up. I'll probably stay in Group B next time, if they'll let me, even though technically I could go to Group A, because I don't think I'd be ready for Group A just yet. Coordination and grace are not adjectives that I would apply to myself. I was always the slow learner in phys ed classes, the one who couldn't quite follow the game and got chosen last for everything. The only way I will get proficient, is through lots and lots of practice. I'll need to spend more time and work harder at it than the average track school student, but that's all right. I'll enjoy every minute of it, even when I'm screaming my lungs out inside my helmet.