Stevan's July Race Report

[huevos]

This race weekend was a little different from the priors.

It started off with the discovery that the SV wasn't running just right. The only problem was that I didn't uncover the glitch until I started the bike to load it onto the trailer on Friday evening. It was running on only one cylinder and it sounded like a damn VW beetle, a pretty mean one at that, but a beetle nonetheless. As frustrating as this was I resisted all temptation to tear it down right there and get to the bottom of the problem. I knew that I could be there well into the night and still not figure out what was wrong. I surmised that I'd fare better at the track, that I might be able to recruit some help or at least get some advice, and if all else failed maybe even run it over to Kelly's and pay someone to fix it.

Lesson learned: don't wait until the night before race weekend to check on the bike.

So I took my time getting up there, stopped in Lancaster and picked up some plugs and starter fluid, stopped and got groceries in Rosamond and eventually pulled into my usual spot at around 3 pm on Saturday. I had no illusions about making practice and I was wondering if I would even make the race. I went over to the office to get my carry over slip for the lost practice day, went back to the truck, unloaded the bike, popped the canopy, unloaded my tools, and proceeded to tear down the bike.

I figured out pretty quickly that the problem wasn't electrical and I was getting spark to both cylinders. The rear cylinder plug was fouled. I popped in a new one and ...nothing. Then I sprayed some starter fluid in and around the carb to the rear cylinder and...VRROOOOM!!...for a split second it sounded like an SV again.

The good news was I had discovered that the source of the problem was the carburetor...the bad news was I had discovered that the source of the problem was the carburetor.

Carburetors give me the willies. I learned from my days in college when I spent countless hours each month wrenching on my piece of crap Chevy Chevette that the carburetor was a nebulous no-man's land unto which I should not trespass lest I could end up falling out of the frying pan into the fire. I had overhauled that thing twice, taken arpart the transmission once, but every time I even thought about touching the carburetor bad things happened.

But I was determined to race and figured that going from bad to worse would be the more honorable way to go out rather than to just pack it up and go home.

I checked the vaccuums and breathers, stuck my finger in here and there, sprayed starter fluid all over the damn place...blah, blah, blah...anything to avoid popping off the carburetor and tearing it down. The sun had gone down and it was starting to get dark. Then this guy walked over from the Hartman garage and commented that my SV sounded like shit ("Gee...thanks", I thought). Then he asked me a couple of questions for which I had no credible answers ("Gee...thanks again", I thought...not only does my bike sound like shit but now I sound fairly dumb as well).

I finally admitted meekly that I had no idea what I was doing whatsoever. Then he announced that he was a mechanic at Santa Barbara Motorsports, that he just came down to watch the races, and asked me if I needed help. He might as well have been wearning leotards, plastic boots, and a cape. Now...if you can imagine a chorus singing "Hallelujah" over and over...that's exactly what I heard.

So there in the dark, as I held a flashlight over his shoulder, Keith from Santa Barbara Motorsports schooled me properly on the function of every last little knob, screw, hose, hole, spring...well you get the idea. We cleaned out the jets and the float chamber, adjusted the fuel mixture, popped the carbs back on and ...presto! The thing sounded mean. In under thirty-five minutes thirty-five years of carburetor ignorance was wiped clean. I was born again!

The next day I bought Keith a WSMC T-shirt. He was jazzed to get it, genuinely so. I had a new buddy. The bike was running great. Smiles all around.

Lesson learned: Showing your appreciation is very well appreciated...don't forget to do it if someone helps you out at the track.

I needed new tires so before I went to sleep in the back of my truck I took off both wheels so I could get to the Pirelli guys bright and early in the morning.

I got there bright and early at 7 am but no Pirelli guys in sight. They didn't get there until around 7:45. They were all out of front slicks and only had soft rears. I was sorta peeved but kept my mouth shut as I figured that my lack of planning did not constitue a crisis for them. "I should've taken care of this yesterday", I thought. I got my rear and went back to wrench while the first middleweight warm up session went on without me.

Lesson learned: don't wait until the last minute and not expect to run into problems.

I made the second warm up, albeit late, and got in four or five laps. I remember thinking, "holy sheeeeeyit", I had been turned onto some sick traction with the soft rear...even with the worn soft front that I was trying to squeeze every last bit of life out of. The SV was running like a dream and the tire was soaking it all up. I was carrying more corner speed, accelerating earlier and harder, downshifting violently into turn 3 and 5, leaned over even...and the rear refused to bust loose. It is amazing what a good rubber can do for your confidence.

Nothing is free however. I got off the bike to realize that those measly 4 or 5 laps had already began to leave the telltale signs of a tire taken to task at the big track. The "turn 8 flatspot" was already clearly evident. Yes, the tires offered great traction, but it was clear that I would be lucky to get the half the life out of them compared to the mediums, or roughly, half a practice day and a race. Maybe this winter I'll get another pair. After this one though its back to the mediums.

The raceday went by slow. It was so damn hot. So let's skip that part.

My race finally came up. I was gridded 12th. I had the usual willies about the start but I decided that this time I was actually going to...

OOPS! I'm gonna have to continue this a little later. I have to go...shouldn't have started this at work. I promise to finish in the next 24 hours...as a second post . I swear to god that I didn't do this on purpose. Really.


Stevan

[Kurt'sSV]

LOL!!! :lol: Stevan, that was a funny read. Hope you get a chance to write about the race soon!

[harbiho]

WOW!!! That's one helluva long Race Report without talking about the race at all!!! :D :D

Pretty interesting though.

Stevan, I'll try to head out there every so often to help out as well as cheer you guys on. My son said that though he was tired from the heat and walking, he had fun. He said he wants to go back....but only if it's not that hot!!

We're waiting for part deux of the race report!

[huevos]

So...I know it's probably irrelevant at this point but, anyway...

I was gridded 13th and was actually hungry for a good start for the first time ever. Usually, I just hang back and let everyone do their disjointed jaunt through turn one...not this time...I was determined to muscle my way through. I got a good start off the line. I don't rev the thing to 5 or 6 grand like most, I like to keep it around 3 to 4 and pop the clutch rather than slip it out. Once the bike starts moving I give it the gas and lean forward. It works well enough and saves the clutch.

So...I got a good launch but by the time I reached my turn in point for turn one I was already surrounded by a gaggle of 600's piloted by riders with what I can only describe as Parkinsons disease...jerking back and forth...bucking and swaying. I lost all enthusiasm for just dropping into turn one and letting the bikes around me figure it out. I didn't trust any of these guys farther than I could throw them to hold their line and keep it predictable. I went wide and got on the gas as soon as possible. So much for that determination that I just spoke of but I like my fully functional limbs too much to foresake them to the mercy of a bunch of seemingly drunken 600's buzzing for the same spot of real estate with no real plan for their future livelyhood.

Turn two was a different story. This is where I started to pass on the outside. The Pirelli SC1's were stickier than something really, really, really, sticky. It felt great to stuff it to a couple a 600's that had just stuffed me on the dash to turn one. Passing another bike at near full lean on a high speed sweeper is just about the most exciting thing you can do with your pants on.

Next came turn three.

Passing on the brakes has to be the most macho way to pass, but probably the most dangerous. I was tempted...a couple of bikes in front of me parked it way before my turn in point and I started trail braking and thought of going for it but I hesitated and figured that it probably wasn't the brightest thing in the world to do on the very first lap with tires that weren't yet hot.

Then came turn four. I found myself behind a gsxr 600 that was going much slower than I wanted to go through the turn. I kept chopping the throttle, nipping at his ass just to let him know I was there. There was no way in hell that I was going to initiate a pass in that turn. Too many crashes on the exit of 4b have proven to me that it is a poor choice as far as places to pass go. It takes some huevotes (super big huevos) to pass on turn four and...well...my handle is huevos...not huevotes.

I tried to get inside on the right of the same 600 on the kink just before five but wasn't close enough...but next came the drive out of five to six.

Turn six, I think, is on par with turn 8 as the great equalizer. I got a good drive out of five and was fully on the throttle by the apex of six (scraped my toes even) and took out that same 600 hundred before reaching turn seven. Taking turn six, accelerating at full throttle, takes an inherent trust in the power of rubber. It is a simultaneous apex and crest, meaning that you go from being artificially heavy and planted, compressing the suspension as you dive for the apex, to artificially light and skittish, with your suspension suddenly trying to extend and reach for the earth, just as you are clipping apex, the point of maximum lean. Its at this point that I always extend a humongous thank you to all those extra sticky rubber trees of the Amazon and to the fine folks over at Scott's for their excellent steering dampning product.

Aaahh...but the best part of the track isn't turn six...skipping over the afterthought that comprises turn seven, the best damn turn in the western hemisphere has to be turn eight.

Without trying to sound overly macho or adolescent I just have to say it outright: turn eight seperates the men/women from the boys/niñas. It has to be the most glorious stretch of asphalt this side of...well, I don't know...this side of anything I ever have encountered.

Passing a 600 on an SV in turn eight (which I proceeded to do two or three times during the race) is tantamount to the school nerd kicking the school bully's ass in front of the whole congregation during a pep rally. There is just an intense sense of satisfaction inherent to the task.

Then turn nine....turn nine....turn nine...TURN NINE.

Hmmmm...turn nine. How fast can you clip the apex...how far can you lean...how much ummmph! can you carry into the turn and still come out on the other end, still on both wheels instead of your back? That little dip...or better yet...that goddamn rut..."AY! NO ME GUSTA!" How fast to take turn nine is the eternal question...an enigma of the same caliber as that of how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie roll pop? You're tempted to find out but at the last minute you just bite down and crunch, leaving the final answer for another day.

Then the front straight. No fun whatsoever on an SV in 600 novice... much less so on a naked SV with a 195 pound Mexican onboard. So let's skip that part because that's where everyone passes me. How do I feel about the front straight? Its a sentiment best summed up in the words of the fabulously entertaining talking horse on Ren & Stimpy who succintly puts it, "No sir, I don't like it."

Then, turn one, after a quarter mile's worth of haulin' ass...good times. I really like turn one, only 'cause I seem to be able to take it faster and faster each month...and...not only that... its the only turn where I get to pretend that I'm one of those MotoGP guys...you know...popping up at the last moment like a piece of Wonderbread out of a toaster, slamming down a couple of gears, then diving for the rumble strip hunkered down over the tank. AAAHHHH! Glorious! (Can you tell that I like riding a motorcycle just a little more than yout average 35 year old who bought his first bike at age 31?)

Anyway...that was the first lap. As I started the second lap I came to the sudden realization that it was really, really, really, hot and I was really, really, really, sweating...a lot.

I got tired really, really, quick too, hence my new membership to LA Fitness and a new found determination to lose weight and get in shape. A good thing.

By the middle of the race my arms were turning to Jello and my ass was cramping up on me something fierce.

Then, on lap 4 or 5 (I don't remember), I got passed on the entrance or exit (I'm not sure) of turn six by my friend, Mikey, on his Kwak 600RR, and by a certain SV'er that goes by the handle RacR4JC.

Now by this point I was a soggy, glasses fogging up and sliding down my nose, ass cramped, 195 pound (but still faster than your average Mexican) mess with a exctasized happy face on the back of my leathers. But...still...I still instantaneously asked myself the question, " Are you a Mexican or a Mexican't?"

Well...the answer was obvious.

I kept on the throttle and turn eight provided me with the answer I sought. I passed RacR4JC on the outside in turn eight and cut into turn nine in front. VIVA LA REVOLUCION!!!!!

Then came the front straight. "No Sir...I don't like it"... got passed by RacR4JC.

Tried to late brake into turn one but was too far behind.

Tried to pass on the outside in turn two and could have if I had no sense of self preservation.

But then a funny thing happened.

As I was on the outside of RacR4JC on turn two, for a split second I thought, "What if he loses it and I'm on his outside?" I had a momentary vision of both of us being swept off the track and then getting the hurt put on us in the not so smooth high desert earth.

I slowed down and just attached myself to his ass.

In turn three I was just about to attempt a late braking inside pass and for a split second thought, "what if I lose it, go wide, and take him out with me?"

I let off the charge.

Then after turn four, I thought, "Take him, and take Mikey on the Kwak as well... on the brakes into turn five or on the drive towards turn six."

Well...it didn't happen. What did happen was fairly ass puckering.

I made a mad drive out of turn four into five and then as I applied the brakes and prepared for some furious deceleration...NOTHING! Absolutely NOTHING!

My brakes had faded, entirely.

I downshifted two or three times in a panic, locked up the rear (SC1 slick and all) and bucked the rear end around all over the place, stood the bike up and figured that I was heading for an off road excursion. I saved it from the dirt, however Mikey and RacR4JC just disappeared over six never to be seen within target range again. To say that I was just a little rattled would grossly misrepresent the underwear staining magnitude of the experience.

To make matters worse I came up on this boxy black circa 1996 thing in turn nine that parked it at the apex, forcing me to reach for my now non-existent front brake...anything but good times. I came up on him so fast that was sure that his ass was going to end up being my new fairing. I slowed down enough, though in unconvincing fashion, and tried to pull inside him on the drive out of nine. It soon became evident that he was missing his right eye as he swerved from the extreme left to the extreme right of the front straight as if I wasn't even there.

By this time I was a little pissed.

I kept my cool and my drive. I was determined not to cut the throttle for the sake of Mr. Weeble Wobble on the black boxy circa 1996 thing. Lucky for me, his left eye finally kicked in some medial peripheral vision, just in time, and he stopped his migration into my line.

I went through turn one sillyfast, determined to catch RacR4JC again, then my brakes faded again in turn three, then again even worse in turn five, then it was over.

I came to the sudden realization that I had to go to work on Monday, that I needed all my limbs to be functional, that I was a doctor for christ-sake, that to crash for the sake of the glory of 15th place instead of 16th was shortsighted at best.

It was sobering and instantly deflated my sails.

"Why am I driven to do this", I even asked myself for a second.

I held onto 16th until the finish, out of some thirty or thirty five...my best finish yet.

As I rolled ino the pits I realized that it was all about balance.

No...I was not going to stop racing, despite the risks. I was going to manage them the best I could and not add any unecessary ones. I wasn't out here to make a living, but I wasn't out here to worry about the what-ifs either.

I was out here to tap into something that only racing a motorcycle could offer. To delve into the whole topic would require more than just a few paragraphs so i won't do it now.

Suffice to say, racing only adds to my life and my view of who and what I am...in a huge way.

Inner strength, courage, determination, skill, judgement, insight, discipline, planning, commitment, decisiveness, confidence,...and even...restraint. These are only some of the qualities that racing allows me to bring out and explore every time I'm out on the track.

The other day a good friend of mine (who also races) and I were contemplating the fortunate position we found ourselves in, every third Sunday of the month, when we were able to put so many apsects of who we were into working motion, in a totally visceral enviroment. As primitive as it sounds it is the stuff of life. An affirmation of sorts.

Anyway.

Enough said.

Next month should be my last month in novice. Thank God, Buddah, Allah, Quetzalcoatl,... or whoever is in charge.

Later,

Stevan


P.S. Here's a photo. Yippee!

[Kurt'sSV]

Good right-up, Stevan. You use a lot of big words, though.:confused: Be sure to get out there next month so you can finish up your novice racing.

I know who you are talking about when you mentioned that "black boxy circa 1996 thing". That guy has caused problems for other people out there and I wish they would make him learn to ride better or not let him race. He must be one of those people who have been racing novice for years.

Your "final thoughts" on racing were really good. They even made Post of the Week!

[zzzwillzzz]

Originally posted by huevos
its the only turn where I get to pretend that I'm one of those MotoGP guys...you know...popping up at the last moment like a piece of Wonderbread out of a toaster, rofl, that was funny and worth the wait!

... but i see you as more of a pop tart:D

[RacR4JC]

Look forward to another battle of the SVs in MWN next weekend, Stevan! That chick (#713) on the 600rr, did you check her out?

[Kurt'sSV]

Originally posted by RacR4JC
That chick (#713) on the 600rr, did you check her out?

You mean Melissa Paris? Yup, she's a cutie if that's what you're get'n at. She's come a long way from when she was riding that ratty YZF on Palomar just a year ago.

[huevos]

Cutie?...Senores...Miss Paris is a total hottie not to mention super fast...I find her pretty damn intimidating myself...not that this is a bad thing...it's actually a good thing.

[RacR4JC]

She'd prolly whoop all three of us! Any chick that rides/races bikes is a hardass.

[cyclox]

I love google...

http://www.socalrpm.com/Chicks/Melissa/melissa.html

:eek:

:love:

[DOC]

Excellent write-up, I enjoyed it immensely!
DoC

[RacR4JC]

dude, you are the man. looks like wallpaper material for me....

[RacR4JC]

your slippin dude, wheres our august race report?!?!

[Silver6]

Not to hijack this thread, but damn! I'm gonna marry that girl one day!