Day 126. Washington to Steel City Motocross and back, 195 Miles
"If we could be twice young and twice old we could correct all of our mistakes."
While attending a national motocross brings with it thrills and enjoyment, going alone takes the fun down a bit. No problem, I'll go and have fun anyway. Waiting in the queue of cars to get pearled, I saw a Gold Wing scoot by and the rider said, "Don't sit in line. Come on."
I followed him. We wove past stopped cars and stopped by a medical trailer.
"Bikes park here."
We introduced ourselves, and Rob and I became best buddies for the day. How
couldn't we, since he rode a Gold Wing, raced and rode dirt bikes, and got to
the track alone today? We hit it off and spent the day bench racing and regaling stories of our magnificent riding in the past. Okay, maybe not. But we enjoyed the races together, wandering around the track all day for different viewpoints.
Motocross is proof that man can fly. Those guys leap up to a hundred feet long jumps and twenty feet or so above the crowd. I think it's intriguing what they do when they jump, for that second and a half to two seconds in the air. They may:
Adjust their clutch. Pretty simple, just rotate a wheel on the left handlebar, but they are flying.
Look around for their opponents. Great view from up there, so they may check out the competition.
Remove a tear off. Their face shields get spattered with mud and dirt from
other bikes, so they can take them off, up to a dozen or so, one at a time.
They may adjust the pitch of the bike. As they jump, the front end of the bike points skyward, and at the apex, they pull in the clutch and tap the rear brake. The rear wheel stops spinning, and the removal of that gyroscopic event causes the bike to pitch forward and land on the down side of the landing smoothly. Or they may do a couple at once.
Motocross is a great spectator sport, because one can get really close to the
action, close enough to feel the ground shake from the bikes thundering by.
Congratulations to Ryan Dungey, who clinched the championship last week, but
fought for a win today anyway. Great job, RD!
And congratulations to Eli Tomac who won the lites division, both motos.
The final race done, the trophies handed out and the champagne sprayed over the crowd, and I left, smiling at my new found friend, and a great day of racing. My ears are ringing, dust and sweat stick to me, and everything smells like race fuel. What could be better?
Well, racing actually.
And now... the Weekly Wrap Up.
RANTS, RAVES, MUTTERINGS AND MUSINGS
The weather has been awesome. But summer is over soon. The daunting specter of tenting in...let's just say less favorable weather, gives me pause.
It sure is easy to make friends when you both have the same passions.
Congratulations PA on your awesome Capitol. First class. But your roads suck
like the last seven states.
Wow, the humidity is, um, humid. Wet for us desert rats.
The Civil War. Hard to imagine how the country broke down so far. Terrible.
Dropped the iPad today and cracked the screen in three places. Youch.
40. Dollars for the motocross race. A good value, I think.
40. People killed on flight 93. I thought it was a hundred or so.
51,000. Casualties at Gettysburg. Overwhelming.
3. Days of fighting
1. Civilian casualty
19,500. Miles so far. Around that anyway.
500. Blog posts!
THE STUPID DRIVER OF THE WEEK
I planned on nominating the guy, stopped at the bottom of the on ramp of the
freeway, until I realized PA trained him. They put stop signs at the bottom of the ramps. So, the winner is... (drumroll please);
Yes, you. I rode in the outside lane, and the sign read, 'Right lane closed
ahead.' I signaled to get into your lane, the inside lane, where you were eight car lengths back. But no, you just kept coming, even though I kept sliding over, until we're both in your lane. Then I cut back. Now you are eight seconds ahead for the rest of your life.
Tomorrow, the Church Surch takes us to a church that I picked, based on its
steeple. I decided I'd visit a church with a great big hercin' steeple. The Baptists get the nod.
It's ten P.M., and lightning flashes through the tent sides, and rain falls
steadily. So this week I'll end this blog with the phrase that editors, writers and publishers say you should NEVER start a story with.
It was a dark and stormy night.