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unleash
Racing gets into your blood. You
can't race and then quit and go do something else without it constantly
tugging & pulling you gently back. What is it like? Here is
a description I wrote in 1997.
The
Race is about to start- I sit on the right end of the gate, revving
the engine with my throttle hand, the fingers on my left hand
twitch in anticipation of the start; a blitz to the first corner.
The long day of racing is waning, and the sun is low. This is
the last race- the Gran Prix. I am exhausted, dirty, but determined
that THIS time there will be no prisoners taken. My bike is my
trusty old yellow ‘77 YZ400
Sixty
feet ahead of me stands a man with the 30 Second board; a square
piece of white plywood with a large number 30 on it in black.
The board turns, the gate opens- and KLONK- down it falls. I roar
up the hill with the gang to my left, and see my brother Jonathan
has gotten the holeshot on his 79 CR250R - and behind him Jon
Morgan going great guns on his 74 MX250.
There were a few others in front of me, and I struggled by them
one at a time using up my first lap - and then the chase is on.
Jonathan and Jon have opened up a space- and I strive to cut it
into ribbons. I’ve lost my fear of flying on the YZ. The
jumps which had almost pitched me off in the morning, I now find
myself going far faster than I had earlier- and I’m clearing
them- and concentrating on not slowing- and I’m in the rhythm
that I needed all day.
and
everything
slows down...
I retreat into a silent world.....
Fingers
of dusty light and long shadows slit the grass blades at the sides
of the track.
The
sound has long since dimmed down into nothingness, and I fly along
slowly through syrup, the monster beneath me growling to itself:
now twitching, now bucking, stretching its muscles like a cat,
with me holding on in a dream, at one with the machine
...I
can see Jon Morgan ahead of me. I begin to reel him in- bit by
bit, and suddenly I’m on him, and to my surprise he yields,
waving me by- I’m almost disappointed- having caught him
I wanted to take him in anger. I can now see Jonathan ahead. I
am going so fast, that I am clearing the tabletop and sometimes
landing in the corner itself and wondering if I was even going
to make it.
I
am now reeling Jonathan in, but not fast enough. At the very end
my brother slows and we go over the finish line, his front wheel
a foot ahead of mine . A fitting end to the day- I’m never
sorry to lose to Jonathan. It feels as though we both won. I try
to gasp out a howl of victory as we pulled off the track, but
I have no voice or energy left, and it is lost..
Two
Views
2007
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OVERVIEW
©
2011 SIEGE
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In
yellow on the Spanish 
