Tag: Racing

AMA Pro Racing Dismembers The Golden Goose

Fresh off a couple years of record attendance and wild popularity for flat track racing the AMA has decided to destroy the successful formula that has created all that positive buzz. Whenever a race series becomes popular the AMA cannot stop itself from diluting and dividing it into numerically more, yet overall weaker championships. They are doing just that in flat track with the new Supertwins class.

The historic, fabulous, drama-filled heat race format is no more. You’ll not see a lightly sponsored privateer like No. 23 Carver on an obsolete XR750 whip the asses of the best factory riders and teams like he did a few years ago. You’ll not see it because the AMA has limited entries to 18 pre-approved teams. No more heat races, no more last chance qualifiers, no more excitement.

The AMA hopes that we won’t notice that the game is rigged but flat track fans know a setup when we see one. To get in the Elite 18 it will take lots of money along with co-branding with the AMA and your chances of getting picked are much better if you have a really nice race transport semi-truck and branded pit barriers. Rider talent only comes into play after all the other barriers have been surmounted.

The chosen few will run two semis and if I know the AMA and the power of money I’m guessing the first nine places of each semi will make the main. It’s NASCAR thinking run amok. The AMA wants a more professional product to sell to television audiences. They want recognizable teams and popular riders spoon fed to an audience they feel are too stupid to appreciate a couple of privateers pitching a heated battle for 8th place. They want us to be like NASCAR fans cheering on personalities and products rather than effort. To achieve this end they are tossing out the very things that have made AMA flat track the premier motorcycle race series in America.

The AMA has it backwards. Fancy transporters and branded awnings don’t mean shit to flat track fans when the flag drops. AMA flat track is popular because of the unpredictable rough and tumble racing, not in spite of it. It’s popular because of the lone wolf in his van taking on the biggest motorcycle manufacturers in spite of the fact that it seems hopeless. It’s popular because no matter how out-gunned any expert rider on any night can ride his ass off and make the main event or even win the whole shebang. It has happened more than once.

You haven’t heard a crowd roar like the throat-rattling cheer flat track fans make when an underdog rider beats the big guns in a main event. It restores your faith in hard work, man. I hear you when you tell me the same guys win all the races anyway. That’s because they are the best riders on the best bikes. It’s always been that way in motorcycle racing, but flat track fans still hope to see the improbable and we don’t need to dumb down flat track to make our hopes impossible.

The legalese mumbo-jumbo in the document above is the rider’s path to the Main Event now. Replace grit, determination and talent with money and you have the new rules pretty well down. Teams will need to be partners with the AMA, it’s so not like it used to be and frustrating as hell. What utter and complete bullshit.

The list of eligible engines for Supertwins is longer than the number of eligible teams!

Ah well, it was an exciting, if short-lived resurgence in American Flat Track racing. At least we still have the singles class and an interesting, if sporadic, ATF Production Twins class (the true Class C Championship). The powers that be cannot leave well enough alone. Success is not enough for today’s bottom-line economy. Branding, sponsorship and tight control of the final product are paramount. It won’t be long before the AMA sells the racing rights to an engine manufacturer and Supertwins becomes a one-design spec class. I guess nothing ever stays the same and we all get sold out in the end. Welcome to AMA Flat track 2020.

To Serve Road Racing

Motorcycle road racing has taken quite a beating in America. The biggest stars are overseas and the entire series (whoever runs it) has become sort of a Triple A, minor league pastime. There are some really great riders in our pavement series but none of it seems to translate to The Bigs.

What if we combined road racing with a homegrown series featuring riders that are already the best in the world? Flat track racing has factory involvement, the best riders, a full-figured schedule and reliable fan participation. What if we went back to the past and named an overall Number 1 rider using the total points scored from each series? Road racing and flat track points were scored this way back in the 1970’s before the AMA debased the value of the #1 plate by splitting the championship into two. American road race wins need to become more valuable, more meaningful and with a tight overall championship on the line the top flat trackers would no longer be able to ignore asphalt. With so many more dirt events the best road racers would have to dabble in the dirt.

Would we see Mees on a factory Indian road race bike scoring a few pavement points to keep his dominant championship streak going? Would JD Beach win the #1 plate several times in a row, as he seems the most multi-talented? Would a dark horse, semi-privateer like Carver show a natural talent on the asphalt and go on to win at Moto GP? What if Shayna Texter turned out to be a beast on the twisting streets of COTA and showed a wheel to Marquez? This mixing of talent and styles gave the US years of GP dominance in the past and it will do it again.

I know the existing sanctioning bodies would never come together on this series. It requires compromise and a desire to put the common good above fractured fiefdoms battling for fans. That’s why we need a third, Rotisserie League type Series that sponsors the new championship without actually being involved in sanctioning races.

This piggy backed, Lamprey League would tabulate the scores from both road racing and flat track events and award prize money accordingly. (Like the old Camel Pro championships) Freed from having any association with either of the race promoters or even needing their blessing, anyone with deep enough pockets could be a sponsor. Red Bull, Booze sellers, and cigarette makers even the web site Vice could jump on board. An entire Virtual Championship Series with its own advertising, racer interviews and social media platforms would run parallel and concurrent with the physical races.

With True #1 championship money on the line racers would switch back and forth between the two racing disciplines, all the while improving their ability on both surfaces and scoring virtual points. It’s a win for everybody involved and it’s a big win for whoever gets that unified #1 plate.

Pit Noir

The Start, preceded by a lot of action. I helped.

It’s March in central Florida, cool and clear. I get the call from Ed in the late afternoon. A couple of his California friends are racing motorcycles in the 600cc class. He wants me to help them out. The sun is setting low over Lake Schimmerhorn, the sky a blood-orange deepening to cobalt blue high overhead. White, high-persistence contrails cross the sky in an Atlanta-Orlando direction. The scene outside the Love Shack looks like a flag from The Republic of Kodachrome. “Yeah” I say, gently pulling the wrapper of a grape Jolly Rancher. The candy rotates clockwise between my fingers. “I’ll go.”

“Cool, you met Jeff and Beaver at the retirement party held after the anniversary party,” Ed said. “Remember Torrance?” In the background I hear a machine scraping metal: another of Ed’s big-block Moto-Guzzis. The man can’t leave motorcycles alone.

“Torrance?  Yeah, I remember, my wife said Jeff seemed kind of depressed. Happily married, good corporate job; didn’t he give up racing?”

“He did, then he didn’t,” said Ed. “Look for the Baby Appleseed pits. Get there early tomorrow, I told them you’re coming.”

It’s 38 degrees in the morning. My Italian-era Husqvarna 510 stumbles and stalls, then lights off on the fourth push of the button. I rev the engine and slip the clutch on the Husky’s tall first gear. A sloppy, brapp-brapp snarls out of the pipe and ricochets from aluminum singlewide trailers to sway-backed modular homes. I turn right onto Highway 40. Open the throttle and the Husky’s tachometer rips past 9000 rpm, front wheel climbing on the surge. Two, three, four, five, six, shift as fast as you can, man.

I’ve got to keep the front down. It’s dark. Highway 40 is damp with morning dew. The headlamp flickers intermittently between low beam and parking light, low beam and parking light. It’s a random problem and one I can’t solve. Oncoming cars dip their headlights, thinking I’m flashing them. I wish I could stop and explain Italian motorcycle electrical systems but there’s no time. It’s cold. My hands hurt.

At the very end of Pit Row the black, the white and red Baby Appleseed logo is splashed across two huge gazebo tents. I guess with Ed involved I expected one rusty Craftsman toolbox and a mid-eighties Moto-Guzzi Alfresco. I’d find Jeff and Beaver slumped over, gently sobbing. Beaver’s greasy jeans would have holes in both knees.

Pit row, Daytona.

“What’s the problem, boys?” My confident tone would instantly buck them up. “The bike has a high rpm miss, Gresh, we’ve been trouble shooting the damn thing for days.” I’d get in there and clean the fuel filter, maybe straighten a bent metering needle and the bike would run perfect, you know, save the day.

Baby Appleseed’s pit has two mechanics, electric tire warmers and a second rider, Neils, owner of the high-end baby furniture company sponsoring the team. There’re computers to track lap times, 120 volt AC generators and air compressors.

Both Appleseed motorcycles are decked out in Baby Appleseed racing colors. Back in the dry pits there’s a motorhome with a full-body Baby Appleseed wrap parked in front of a dual-axle Baby Appleseed trailer stocked with Baby Appleseed race parts. The mechanics wear Baby Appleseed logoed race shirts. Jeff has qualified in the front row for race one. To the untrained observer it appears they’re doing ok without me.

“My wife was worried about you.” I tell Jeff, “At that party in Torrance she said you seemed unhappy, settling for security.”

Jeff looks at me, grins, “I’m down to 140 pounds, I’ve been training every day, running. You’ve got to be light to keep up with these kids.”

“She’s sort of an Empath.” I explain, “Like Deanna Troy on Star Trek. When I told her you were racing again she got a little teary-eyed.” Jeff nods, unsure of the protocol. I better close it out. “Anyway, people tell her everything, man. I mean, people she’s never met spill their life story within two minutes.”

“Um,” Jeff says, “Tell her I’m ok. Tell her I’m happy.”

We’re watching the race feed one of the pit monitors. Jeff’s dicing for the lead, the crew is wound up tight. Two laps in, the front tire pushes and Jeff wads the Baby Appleseed bike, a hundred mile per hour get-off. Mostly we see a cloud of dust as the bike tumbles through the infield. It’s hard to tell what’s going on with the monitor. There’s Jeff walking away. Collective relief: “That’s all right then, we can fix the bike.” I think that was Neils’ dad.

By the time I get to the dry pits the bodywork on Jeff’s bike is already gone. Every part that sticks out is either broken, bent, or ground off. One mechanic is removing forks, the other removes the mangled sub-frame then goes back to pit row. Neils is still racing. Jeff surveys the damaged bike, “Damn. We don’t need this extra work.” The bike has to be fixed by 7 PM, when the dry pits close. I better help sort things out.

The bike is down to the frame and motor. “Can I do anything to help?”

The mechanic stops wrenching on the triple clamps, thinks three beats. “Uh, yeah, drain the gas from the wrecked tank.” I grab the tank, “What do you want me to put it into?”

The mechanic looks up again, “What?”

I hold the tank up, “The gas. Where you want it?”

He looks around the pits, “ Um, I don’t know, see if you can find an empty can in the trailer.” He goes back to the triple clamps. Jeff is sweeping the work area, picking up small bits of motorcycle. The mechanics dodge around us to work on the bike.

The trailer is locked. I go back to the pits. “Sorry to bug you again, man, the trailer is locked. Do you have a key?” Water runs from a radiator hose into a plastic, 5 gallon bucket.

“The key? It’s locked?” Hands dripping, “Lemme see if it’s in here.” He searches the top tray of his rollaway toolbox. “Damn, it was here.” He scans the pit area, “I don’t know where it went. Listen, I got to get this radiator off.”

I find Neils, still in his leathers. He just pulled in after a solid race, finishing 20-something out of 60 bikes. I ask him if he has a key to the trailer.

“What?” Sweat runs down his face, “Find my dad, I think he has one.” I wander past the trailer. The door is open. Beaver is inside. There’s an assortment of cans.

“Which can should I use to drain the gas from the smashed tank?” I ask.

“What?” Beaver replies, putting down two replacement wheels.

“I need to drain the gas from the old tank.”

“Oh, um…take this one.” Beaver hands me a can.

“You got a funnel?” The other mechanic is back. He’s sliding a new fork leg into new a new set of triple clamps.

“What?” He stops sliding the leg.

“A funnel, to pour the gas into this can.” I hold up the can Beaver gave me.

“Don’t use that can. Use the one under that pile of bodywork. I don’t want it mixed up.” I move a broken plastic tailpiece and there’s a can underneath. The fill opening is one inch wide.

“Man, I hate to bug you, I need a funnel.”

The mechanic stops working on the forks and gives a hunted look around the pit area, “Jeff, find this guy a funnel.”

“Look in that box on the rolling tray.” Jeff says. I find three big, red funnels. I fit the funnel and begin to pour the gas from the bent tank into the can.

“Hey! Put a sock on that funnel!” The first mechanic yells at me, putting down the handle bar he was about to install.

“A sock?” I have no idea what he is talking about. Jeff hands me a cloth filter with a sewn-in elastic edge to stretch over the wide end of the funnel. I fit the filter and pour the gas.

“Watch what you’re doing!” There’s a puddle of gas on the floor. I’m so intent on not missing the funnel mouth I don’t notice that the tank’s internal vent tube is pissing gas. It’s a like a frigging geyser, man. Tipping the tank upright increases the flow, broadcasting a liberal dose of high-octane race fuel around the pit area. Both mechanics drop their tools and run over with rags. They start mopping up the spill.

“We got to clean this up! If the AMA guys see this they’ll freak out, you can’t have pools of gas laying around in here!”

Beaver appears beside me and guides me by the elbow away from the spill. “Can you give me a hand moving the gear from pit row?” We walk out to the Baby Appleseed tents on pit row, a distance of some 300 yards. Beaver hands me two cartons of water, I walk back to the trailer. Next trip Beaver hands me three tires to carry, I take them back to the trailer, then a big stack of sprockets.

There’s one of those folding carts parked at the tents. Beaver hands me the portable generator. The damn thing is heavy. “Can I use that cart?”

“No.” Beaver says, “It’s easier to carry the stuff.” I move gear back and forth from pit row to the trailer. Late in the afternoon I glance over at the pits, Jeff’s bike is rebuilt and has passed tech inspection.

The next day Jeff’s rebuilt bike runs near the front all day long and in a photo finish misses the podium by inches. I call my wife with the results. She’s happy, she tells me Jeff is doing what he’s supposed to be doing. The sky turns blood-orange deepening into cobalt-blue high overhead. The Baby Appleseed team is upbeat, they’ve got an entire racing season ahead of them. I only hope they can do as well when I’m not around.