| Author | Message | ||
     Crusty |
The Race In 1973, I bought a Moto Guzzi V7 Sport. Prior to that bike, I had been riding pretty much unreliable, old British bikes. Now, I had a bike that was reliable, fast and was known for its handling. I rode that bike everywhere and people who knew motorcycles were impressed by it. It was everything that I thought a motorcycle should be. One day, I was over at Doc’s BMW and the Mechanic, K.D. Brooks, told me that there was a race I could enter. The MRA (Mountain Roadracing Association) was holding a Racing School on a Saturday a few weeks away followed by races on Sunday. I felt that since I had the bike, I needed to show that I was the kind of rider who deserved to own such a wonderful machine and that I would fit the image; or something like that. K.D. helped me by drilling my drain plugs for safety wire and got me the contact information for the MRA. I asked around and found out that the tires preferred by all the racers were Dunlop K 81 TT 100s, so I put a set on my bike. Anyway, on the appointed day, I put on my two piece Langlitz leathers and rode my Sport to the Adams County Fairgrounds, up in Denver. I got up there, and was totally unprepared for the school. It had snowed the day before, and the first thing we had to do was push the snow off the course so we could ride on it. I looked around, and I was the only one who had ridden to the school; everybody else had bikes that were dedicated race bikes, I started getting the feeling that I didn’t know what I’d gotten myself into, and that I was in over my head. Most of the other attendees had been racing, and were using the school as an extra day of practice. I found myself out on the track in a tight pack of people who were riding a lot faster than I was, and I was totally lost. I wasn’t used to riding in big groups, especially when trying to go as fast as I could. I couldn’t even ride as fast as I normally would on the street. I really began to feel like I was in deep sh*t. Between sessions, I talked to the Instructor, and told him of my dilemma. His name was Woody and he was the #1 plate holder in the MRA. He took me out for a 1 on 1 session and “showed me a few lines” I followed him and picked up a bit of speed, but I was still pretty unsure about what I was doing. The School ended, and I rode back to Colorado Springs with a lot of misgivings and a feeling of Impending Doom. That night, I talked my friend Chuck into coming up to the race with me to be my Mechanic, and prepped the bike. I took off the headlight and tail light and center stand, attached number plates and loaded the bike into my Transporter; a 1956 Dodge Panel truck. I had to have a mechanic, and my wife didn’t feel up to the job, as she was even less sure about what I was doing, though she still supported me in my Quest. Now, the track was purely a track in name only. It was a big parking lot and a few roads around the Fairgrounds. The infield was a course outlined by hay bales which twisted through the parking lot which led onto a road that followed the perimeter of the grounds, two straights with a 90 degree bend in the middle, then a decreasing radius, off camber turn to a straight that ran between two livestock buildings then back into the infield. I was entered in the Production class which had a LeMans type start. The Starting procedure was why I had to have a mechanic. The bikes were lines up along the inside edge of the track facing the outside edge of the track. The mechanic stands behind the bike, holding it up with the engine stopped. The riders were lined up along the outside of the track facing their bikes. When the Green flag dropped, we ran across the track, jumped on our bikes, started them, took a hard left and we were off. I got a good start (I was a sprinter in high school), and was third off the line behind two Kawasaki Z1s. I followed then through the infield, then when we hit the first straight, they pulled away. They definitely had horsepower on me. We came down to the hard left, and, although I was standing on the back brake, the bike wasn’t slowing. I was so full of adrenaline that I couldn’t think straight and I completely forgot about grabbing my front brake. I didn’t crash, though. I just ran off the outside of the track and everybody passed me. I got back on the track, and circulated by myself for several laps, when I was passed by the leader. He was riding a Norton and I got on his butt and stuck with him until he crashed on the last lap at the same turn that I had run off at. The race ended and I finished last, but I was ecstatic. When the Norton rider passed me, I was able to stay with him. I wasn’t as slow as I thought. Plus, I was riding a high that no drug could touch. If you’ve ever raced, you know what I mean. When I pulled into the pits, both Sue and Chuck thought that I was going to be either bummed out or pissed off. They didn’t expect to see me grinning like a proverbial idiot and pumped up with excitement. I had proven to myself that I could ride, and that my bike was as special as I thought it was. The whole experience was a Success. | ||
| Ferris_von_bueller |
I saw the title and thought you were referring to La Raza | ||
| Daddio |
Crusty, if I remember right, that "Woody" is Woody of Woody's Wheel Works. He's the one who later designed and built a 21" laced spoke wheel with a ZTL brake for a Uly. Thank God that by the 80s, racers had Second Creek Raceway out east of the (old) airport. | ||
| Crusty |
That's the same Woody. His name, as I recall is T.G. Witte. I didn't know about the 21" ZTL wheel, though; but I'm not surprised. I've never seen Second Creek. My favorite track was the old Woody Creek Raceway in Aspen. It was pure joy to race there. |
