If I've gotten your attention with the topic, GREAT! This was initally posted on a board that is far removed from racing. This piece involves racing but was written to read by non-racers. Read through the desricptive parts, it's what non-racers relate to. I've used literary license, so please don't flame me if some facts are different from what you know. Here goes: Been away for almost 2 weeks, on a vacation of sorts. It's one of those working hobby things that we all seem to get involved in. For a long time, I've had a need for speed. I've fulfilled that need as a motorcycle road racer. Just one of your average speed addicts, encased in leather, riding as fast as we dare. We're an eclectic group. You'll find guys and gals that in normal life are doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, soccer moms, teachers, students, corporate vice-presidents, mechanics, clergy, computer nerds, bankers, insurance adjusters, engineers, cops and robbers. Saints and sinners of all stripes. I'm semi-retired from this endevavor. Now I'm one of the lunatics that run the asylum. My wife joins me, adhereing to the dictum "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." Mine is a grass-roots racing organization. We draw from those that have the desire for racing, get 'em off the streets and let 'em loose on the track. This is a good thing for the public at large. Racers don't go fast on the street, and seldom ride motorcycles on the street. The idiot you see riding in shorts and sandals without a helmet comes from the stagnant end of the gene pool. The Wife and I are embarking on a two-weekend "tour" for racing. Our first race track lies in Northeast Ohio. We leave Friday afternoon. Enroute, we travel the breadth of Pennsylvania. First we head north, passing the vacation spots. A few minutes later, we are in the "hard" coal country of northeastern PA. We pass the scars of mine entrances, visable from the Interstate hiway. They are abandonded monuments to enterprises that made money from the imigrants with no concern for the land. The strip mine waters are dark with mine trailings and who-knows-what. A few small towns still have working coal mines. Seams of coal are visable in the road cuts through the mountains. The playland of the Poconos lie south and east of here. Through central Pennsylvania we pass miles of forest as we head west. The deer outnumber the human population in some counties. Billboards remind us that we are in the Chesapeake Bay watershed. The Susquehanna River drains much of Northern and Central Pennsylvania. It's East and West branches join to our south before entering the Bay. The East Branch has headwaters above Wilkes-Barre, where the river buried that town in flood 28 years ago. Years ago, certain persons with ties to La Cosa Nostra used abandoned coal mines in that area to dump toxic waste from the northern New Jersey industries. How much of that material is still leaching from the ground and ending up in the Chesapeake? How much is entering the food chain via the life that is food for the bass, flounder and Maryland blue crabs that we enjoy? We pass Clearfield. Any water that falls here will make it's way to the Mississippi and the Gulf of Mexico. Coal again is visable in the road cuts. This is the "soft" coal that fueled the mighty steel furnaces of Pittsburgh a century ago. There are a few active strip mines visable from the road. Equally visable are the mine restoration areas. They are easily recognized by the man-made contours that mimic nature, contours that were mandated by legislation designed to restore the land. It's not natural beauty, but it is a far sight better than the scars left by the coal barons. Soon the raod cuts are oozing dark liquid. Pockets of oil remain in Western PA. Mineral rights to the land are often as valuable as the land itself. Rust appears on the rock as exposed iron ore reacts to the oxygen and ozone. In Ohio, we see the hard times heavy manufacturing have fallen on. The abandonded rail yards, factories mills and empty acres of parking lot at the GM Lourdestown Assembly plant give testimoney to this. Sure, it is Friday evening, but this plant used to run 24/7, churning out the high-end cars. Our destination is west of Youngstown, Ohio. There lies a hard-scrabble track, as tough as the iron-workers who built it post-WWII. Creature comforts are best described as primative. The asphalt is mixed with rusting slag from the mills, another reminder that I am in the Rust Belt. An active oil well is on premisis, pumpoing out a few humdred barrels a year. Not much, but it is steady income. We passed thrugh rain showers on the way, but Saturday's weather is great. Cool and dry, it is in marked contrast to the usual humidity we encounter in Ohio. The day passes quickly at the track without mishap. Saturday night is spent with race friends in a residential town next to Akron. We attend an outdoor concert along the river. The vendors are offering clothing, face painting, music, trinkets, hats, LaBatt's Blue (Canadian, eh?) and a variety of food. We pass on the pizza, cheese steaks, sausage and funnel cakes. They're better in PA anyway. What's left to choose from? Greek, Middle-Eastern, Cajun (Jumbalaya!) from 'Nawleens, Loosiana, or the outrageously named Outback Road Kill Cafe. The vendors of Greek and Middle Eastern cuisine offered an aroma consistent with food shiped from those areas via slow boat without benefit of refrigeration. They're out. Since 'Nawleens is over a thousand miles away, we decided that anything from the Road Kill Cafe had to be fresh. For $6.00, Wife and I dined on a variety of grilled veggies, mixed with our choice of beef, chicken or shrimp served in a wrap. Not bad. Maybe I'll have another. I did. The headliner for the concert was Eric Burdon and the Animals. Burdon had a voice best described as "limited". It still is. Most concert attendees were in elementary, pre-school on not born when "House of the Rising Sun" hit the charts. They never sang the refrain from "We've Got To Get Out Of This place" with the fervor of those to whom "this place" meant somewhere far removed from the urban setting of the lyrics. The lead guitarist wailed a decent imitation of Jimi Hendrix' Woodstock rendition of "The Star-Spangeled Banner." There was a rousing 5 minute intro by the violinist for the Rolling Stones' "Paint It Black." The haunted looks of those who sang (and knew the import of) every word of "Sky Pilot" were etched in my mind's eye. Sunday. Action at the tack is going smoothly. Wife and I are calculating that we have a chance to arrive home 400 miles away before midnight. Until the last event of the day, that is. There is no such thing as "extreme motorcycle road racing." The act of motorcycle road racing is extreme in and of itself. All that protects you from looking like ground beef after hitting the ground is a leather suit, gloves, boots and a fiberglass/kevlar helmet. Imagine travelling at speeds that an airplane achieves as it lifts off from the ground, followed by the type of braking you do when a child runs out onto the street in front of you. Conjure up images of turns that have names like Key Hole, Carousel, The Whip, Corkscrew, Dead Bear Curve, Devil's Elbow and Gravity Cavity that demand to be taken at speed or you'll lose. Got the picture? "Mad Dog" was entering the Carousel when he went down. Mad Dog is a stubborn type, but it is said in a good way. Mad Dog never gives up, even when the outcome is obvious. He never let go of the bike, even as it was sliding, then tumbling. I'm sure that at this point, Mad Dog thought he could save it. Losing is not what racing is about. Coming in second is a polite way of saying "first loser." Be it by inches or miles, second place is not the Holy Grail. Mad Dog hates to lose. I'm sure that Mad Dog is alive today due to his stubborness. He was in conversation with the Grim Reaper and turned away. His parting comment probably was a sarcastic "F*** YOU!" When I first saw Mad Dog, it was just after his chat with the Grim Reaper. I thought the Reaper had won. He didn't. Mad Dog came in first. To be sure, Mad Dog has a tough time ahead. He has numerous dates with surgeons to restore his face after the pressure on his brain is relieved. Various body parts are now attached to him via rods, plates and screws. I don't know what the medical types can do with a shattered ear drum. Mad Dog is able to talk, just a week after cheating the undertaker. Mad Dog is the epitome of the grass-roots racer. He runs a one-man repair service. What time and money is left after seeing to his family and business is put into racing. He is a tough as the steel his ancestors forged in the mills around Pittsburgh. He probably won't return to the track... then again, he IS The Mad Dog. We did not know that Mad Dog would be talking today as we drove home through thunderstorms and darkness. I thought the lightning was a result of Mad Dog argueing with St. Peter about grid positions. Perhaps Mad Dog had lost a second chat with the Grim Reaper. I was wrong. Gratefully.
