Since this will never be published, and I have shared it with the NESBA board, local board, the CBR900 list, AND CBR list I'll post this up here. I wrote this story over the summer, recovering from track day high side, exactly 2 laps after a race crash. When did I change? When did you? I remember when the Katana came out when I was in high school. That was the bike. It encompassed everything that cool should be for the 80's. The Honda Interceptors were cool, but the Katana's were the premiere. Full fairing and just oozed cool. By the early 90’s things changed, and I learned that Katanas were not cool - the Yamaha FZ and Honda Hurricane were cool. Tom Cruise's bike in Top Gun was pretty cool, but not up there with Honda or Yamaha. They changed their names to FZR and CBR, primarily just to confuse me. It did not matter, because I rode a KLR. I knew that was not cool compared to any of them. Not even compared to the Katana. Yamaha changed their FZR headlights in 1994, back to the dual headlights of the older FZs. That was cool, because by now I was out of college, had a job; credit card, and some money saved up so I was on the Delta Box machine like I always wanted. Unbeknownst to me cool was now defined by Honda. I was on a Yamaha. A Yamaha FZR600. This CBR900RR was on every cover of every magazine. I parked next to one at the motorcycle shop. My FZR tire parked next to that RR reminded me of when I parked my KLR next to anything...Honda, Kawasaki, Huffy...my tires never looked as cool as the bike I parked next to it seemed. To top it off the F2 kept changing names, and was cooler than the FZR. Now it was an F3 and everyone wanted that. I was uncool, but did not know it. I did not even know that cool entailed cutting off the rear fender. Years passed, I was obliviously uncool. Eventually I felt I earned enough stripes and logged enough miles to get the cool bike. It was 1999 and I had saved up for that ultra cool CBR900RR. Found a Yellow/Black/White one and snatched it up. Honda pulled a fast one on me and was introducing the CBR929RR. Yamaha had snuck in the new cool bike, the R1; and when I was not looking at the magazine covers it dominated. I must not have been paying attention as I scanned for cool photos of the FZR600. With the rider surrounded by hot chicks begging for a ride. There were not many. Not in the magazines, and not in my reality. Track days had appeared on the scene and I continually passed them up. Nah - I am not draining or wiring anything. I am not getting up at 5am to drive 90 minutes away. Why tow a bike to the track when I can ride it out the door? Finally in 2001 I was in the know and did get the cool bike at the cool time. The GSXR1000. I was the coolest kid on the block for a few months, until every other rider who looked at magazine covers had one. By now I had learned how to ride pretty well - felt confident and capable. The streets begged for being challenged. I sought out these challenges in far and distant lands from my home...hours and hours to get to the streets that I would rise to challenge. Fenders were cut and license plates tucked. Tires mattered. Gear mattered. Cool mattered. I found the streets county after county, speeding ticket after speeding ticket - it did not matter. Insurance premiums were the price of battle. Points on my license were badges of merit. I was cool, I was fast, I was finally in the game. I was actually on the cool bike, at the cool pace, with the cool attitude. I had two bikes; no one could question how cool I was. A crisp morning in the fall yearned to have the streets slain once again. The 1999 CBR900RR was mounted with fresh rubber and ready to return to reclaim its title from the early 90's with me, the capable pilot. I felt a poke in my kidneys. Another one. I tasted dirt. Another poke in my kidneys. I tasted sweat mixed with dirt. I felt like I was laying in quick drying cement. Moving any and every muscle took concentration and effort. I concentrated so much on moving a specific muscle I did not know why or where I was trying to move. I rolled over to my back. I spit out some dirt and sweat from my dry mouth. I opened my eyes, but did not see. Everything hurt. The poking had stopped. I eventually realized I am fully dressed in my motorcycle gear. My helmet is on - I remove it. I was riding, but where. I was riding - but what bike? I stand up - some guy with a long stick is helping me get up. Graciously he had stopped poking me with the stick. "I thought you were dead!" he barked, almost amused. Everything hurt. Another motorcycle rider approaches me as he removes his helmet – do I know him? Cars are stopped in the road. People are asking "Is he ok?” as they lean out their doors. Gravel, I remember gravel on the road. Few broken bones, hand surgery, some permanent screws holding my knuckles together, and a few days without short term memory; $2100 in parts my bike is back together. The streets had dealt me a blow, but not a knock out. I was battling the demon of the streets...we were locked in an epic struggle of defying posted "limits" and the randomness of the road. The streets had powerful allies: law enforcement, motorists, pedestrians, wildlife, and debris had all aligned themselves with the street; but I would not be denied. Then the streets went covert on me. They took to sabotage and terrorist tactics...a ride that I skipped at the last minute is when they made their move. They did not come after me, but my good friend and fellow street slayer. The streets and their allies did not use their debris tactic as I fell victim to in my high side, but employed the works of the most lethal cohort - a motorist. A motorist making a left turn, in front of a speeding street slayer. When I got the call I was devastated. For my friend, it was fatal. My epic battle with the streets took a new direction. Suddenly the videos played in the Motorcycle Safety Foundation class danced in my head. The streets would not expect me to hit them with this. Respecting the posted speed limits and turn signal use would reduce the effectiveness of the menacing motorists. Turn entry speed accommodating of the devilish debris would leave them lay in ambush for years without harm. Yes, the streets - while still a formidable enemy; can be tamed. But what to do with all the power and handling of the chariots I rode into battle? Heading out to the counties far from home took much longer with my new street tactics, and long sweepers or tight twisties were just too easy to defeat with proper entrance speeds and posted speed limits. I was kicking street ass all over the place. That track thing seemed a viable option. In my never ending efforts to maintain cool - I picked up an R6 "track bike". It was cool, for being a puny 600. The track is a street stripped of its allies. They are barred from joining forces with the road by fences and walls. Law enforcement has no power here. It would finally be me versus the street. Mono e Mono. I head out to the track...again and again. A 90 minute trip turns into a 4 hour drive to other tracks…camping….too many days off work to count feed the quest. Gear mattered. Tires mattered. Speed mattered. Cool, suddenly, did not matter. I was passed, lapped, and toyed with repeatedly; and still today - by riders on those "uncool" SV’s, F2s, and F3s. My battle with the street is over, but the street's allies continue to fight - the motorists, pedestrians, wildlife, debris, and law enforcement will just not concede defeat - so I have to keep on my toes. At the track; the battle has become yet another epic struggle. A challenge beyond comprehension. A challenge of man and machine; unified and synchronized for the sole purpose of challenging the Laws. Not the laws I had battled before during the War of the Streets; silent, consistent, and ever present - the Laws of Physics. This is a precarious situation, for the Laws of Physics have a whole new set of penal codes and penalties for violation. There is no plea bargaining with Physics, there is no out running or talking your way out of these Laws. Attempting to defy Physics can be rather unforgiving. With each infraction I learn just how severe the penalties can be - but, just like I employed new tactics to quell the War of the Streets - now too I look to learn the tactics to quell my War with Physics. Most importantly, I have learned a new definition at the track. A definition that any motorcyclist who has not been on the track is incapable of understanding. That definition is fast. The track is where it lives, and that is where anyone with a sport bike will define it for themselves.
This is a great story and sums up a lot of my feelings pretty well. Most of the guys I ride with know I do track days and will race this year, but there are a few who seem to want to use the street as a battleground and wonder why I don't join in with them. I guess I've seen enough to realize the street is finally gonna win that battle. I love riding on the street, but you gotta respect everything that is happening and can happen there. The 'other guy' sucks!
Great, Great story (except for the uncool sv's ). I think a lot of our 'stories' would parallel yours.
