Oldschool
Moderator
Let me preface this post by saying that I ran this past the site administrator first in respect for the site rules. It is meant as a cautionary tale and in no way meant to glorify street racing.
Back in the 80's there were few venues for the average rider to explore the potential of their powerful machines. In the case of motorcycles, they were making huge technological and performance gains at a previously unseen rate. Even for experienced riders the new race replica bikes were a handful. Straight from the showroom anyone could get near G.P. performance. Mix youth and easily obtained power and you will get trouble. The closest actual racetrack to the city that I called home was 2, 1/2 hours away. It was north of the city at a defunct WW2 airforce base. There was no program for street vehicles to use it.
Many cities have since come to realize the benefits of having such programs at local tracks. Forward thinking Law Enforcement supports such outlets. They consistantly see drops in "street racing" wherever tracks hold such events. The city that I now call home has given our local track, ( by the norrowest of margins ) a 5-year reprieve from the wrecking ball. Our police chief was part of the support for the track. It holds races, (Secret Streets) every Friday night during the season. Anyone can go as long as you have proper gear and your vehicle passes "tech." inspection. For $20.00 you can race head to head (anyone against anyone as many times as the line up permits) and you get a timing ticket to prove it to your buddies. Tow truck, ambulance and track marshalls standing ready. Sanctioned, supervised and safe! Since this was instituted you rarely hear about street racing in the news.
The following true story is from before the Age of Enlightenment and could have ended far differently. It was a letter written for Cycle Canada in response to the question of the month. "What is the closest that you have come to catastrophe riding your motorcycle ?"
Back in the days of "no fear" and long before the phrase became a bumper sticker, I had a shiny new 1986 RZ 350. The 86' RZ was the culmination of many refinements and arguably the best of the breed. It still used a tube steel perimeter frame, but this was no hindrance to performance. In the right, ( or wrong ) hands it was a force to be reckoned with. More than a few of the 4-stroke crowd on their race replica bikes found this out.
A popular track was out on the university campus in my then prairie hometown. It had a course that was beautifully designed with banked 90 degree turns a great hairpin and an "S" curve thrown in for good measure. It ended near the Student parking lot that had the usual assortment of leaky "beaters" and parental cast offs. After days of rain the sun finally blessed our town with it's warmth. I found myself on my trusty RZ that day out on the track. Much to my delight I also came across a rider on his brand new GSXR 750 with the same plan. As he came up along side, he gave me the universal sign for "let's race", the quick head nod while looking over at me. My helmet hid the huge grin.
I ripped away from him, the 2-stroke screaming, already on the pipe. I slid forward on the seat readying for the first corner. I dove into the left-hander, knee dragging, testing the tires' limits. On the back straight I rang the engine's neck, never looking back to see where the Gixxer had gone. Hard on the brakes I dove into another left. Out of the corner and into the hairpin. Straightening coming out of the hairpin and onto a short straight and through the last "S". At the end of the course I pulled to a stop and finally looked back to see the Gixxer coming up hard. The rider pulled up beside me and looked the little RZ terror up and down and shook his head. He took off around the corner to the right.
Not realizing we were going for seconds, he caught me off gaurd. I gave chase, full throttle past the student parking lot and into a left hand corner. As I leaned into the corner, hanging off the bike, my front tire found something slick left behind by one of the beaters. The bike slid sideways out of the corner and hit the concrete curb. The bike stood up but did not go over thanks to the laws of physics or correct alignment of the stars, or maybe sheer dumb luck. Momentum carried it along the curb at a fast but slowing speed, metal grinding loudly as I went. The mud washed off the road from days of rain, not yet dried lay along the curb and my current path. A geyser of mud flew in all directions, covering me, still hanging off the side of the bike. As the RZ's forward motion slowed I pulled myself upright, barely able to see through the sludge. When man and machine finally came to rest I dismounted, strangely unrattled. I was more annoyed at the mud covering both bike and myself. I could not let the other rider (or anyone else for that matter) see this mess!
Fortunately a good friend and fellow rider worked in one of the kitchens on Campus. I rode over, parking out of sight behind the building. I removed my mud-covered helmet and walked into the back of the building in my filthy (expensive, Italian-made, full-race) leathers. After my buddy quit laughing he brought me a bucket of hot soapy water and some rags. I gave the bike and myself a good clean. It took more than a few pails to get the job done.
Other than wet leathers I was ready to ride home. The bike was fine with the exception of missing most of the right center stand pad and some gouges on the pipe. My pride and my friend's stomach muscles the only personal injuries.
Back in the 80's there were few venues for the average rider to explore the potential of their powerful machines. In the case of motorcycles, they were making huge technological and performance gains at a previously unseen rate. Even for experienced riders the new race replica bikes were a handful. Straight from the showroom anyone could get near G.P. performance. Mix youth and easily obtained power and you will get trouble. The closest actual racetrack to the city that I called home was 2, 1/2 hours away. It was north of the city at a defunct WW2 airforce base. There was no program for street vehicles to use it.
Many cities have since come to realize the benefits of having such programs at local tracks. Forward thinking Law Enforcement supports such outlets. They consistantly see drops in "street racing" wherever tracks hold such events. The city that I now call home has given our local track, ( by the norrowest of margins ) a 5-year reprieve from the wrecking ball. Our police chief was part of the support for the track. It holds races, (Secret Streets) every Friday night during the season. Anyone can go as long as you have proper gear and your vehicle passes "tech." inspection. For $20.00 you can race head to head (anyone against anyone as many times as the line up permits) and you get a timing ticket to prove it to your buddies. Tow truck, ambulance and track marshalls standing ready. Sanctioned, supervised and safe! Since this was instituted you rarely hear about street racing in the news.
The following true story is from before the Age of Enlightenment and could have ended far differently. It was a letter written for Cycle Canada in response to the question of the month. "What is the closest that you have come to catastrophe riding your motorcycle ?"
Back in the days of "no fear" and long before the phrase became a bumper sticker, I had a shiny new 1986 RZ 350. The 86' RZ was the culmination of many refinements and arguably the best of the breed. It still used a tube steel perimeter frame, but this was no hindrance to performance. In the right, ( or wrong ) hands it was a force to be reckoned with. More than a few of the 4-stroke crowd on their race replica bikes found this out.
A popular track was out on the university campus in my then prairie hometown. It had a course that was beautifully designed with banked 90 degree turns a great hairpin and an "S" curve thrown in for good measure. It ended near the Student parking lot that had the usual assortment of leaky "beaters" and parental cast offs. After days of rain the sun finally blessed our town with it's warmth. I found myself on my trusty RZ that day out on the track. Much to my delight I also came across a rider on his brand new GSXR 750 with the same plan. As he came up along side, he gave me the universal sign for "let's race", the quick head nod while looking over at me. My helmet hid the huge grin.
I ripped away from him, the 2-stroke screaming, already on the pipe. I slid forward on the seat readying for the first corner. I dove into the left-hander, knee dragging, testing the tires' limits. On the back straight I rang the engine's neck, never looking back to see where the Gixxer had gone. Hard on the brakes I dove into another left. Out of the corner and into the hairpin. Straightening coming out of the hairpin and onto a short straight and through the last "S". At the end of the course I pulled to a stop and finally looked back to see the Gixxer coming up hard. The rider pulled up beside me and looked the little RZ terror up and down and shook his head. He took off around the corner to the right.
Not realizing we were going for seconds, he caught me off gaurd. I gave chase, full throttle past the student parking lot and into a left hand corner. As I leaned into the corner, hanging off the bike, my front tire found something slick left behind by one of the beaters. The bike slid sideways out of the corner and hit the concrete curb. The bike stood up but did not go over thanks to the laws of physics or correct alignment of the stars, or maybe sheer dumb luck. Momentum carried it along the curb at a fast but slowing speed, metal grinding loudly as I went. The mud washed off the road from days of rain, not yet dried lay along the curb and my current path. A geyser of mud flew in all directions, covering me, still hanging off the side of the bike. As the RZ's forward motion slowed I pulled myself upright, barely able to see through the sludge. When man and machine finally came to rest I dismounted, strangely unrattled. I was more annoyed at the mud covering both bike and myself. I could not let the other rider (or anyone else for that matter) see this mess!
Fortunately a good friend and fellow rider worked in one of the kitchens on Campus. I rode over, parking out of sight behind the building. I removed my mud-covered helmet and walked into the back of the building in my filthy (expensive, Italian-made, full-race) leathers. After my buddy quit laughing he brought me a bucket of hot soapy water and some rags. I gave the bike and myself a good clean. It took more than a few pails to get the job done.
Other than wet leathers I was ready to ride home. The bike was fine with the exception of missing most of the right center stand pad and some gouges on the pipe. My pride and my friend's stomach muscles the only personal injuries.
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