...crossing the start/finish line a few laps in and in a rhythm, the machine – in this case the bike in the pics, a ZX7R, is in top gear approaching 260 kilometres an hour. Which in fact, compared to the one litre bikes, is a bit slow actually – the modern litre missiles would be scraping 300 perhaps.
It has just exited turn 12, a relatively tight left-hander and rocketed down the straight.
Heading for turn 1.
Turn one is frightening; a fast left sweeper, with a brutal bump right on the apex.
And the secret to this corner requires nerve, the sort of nerve that defines racing; one has to wait until the very last minute – almost until over-shooting seems certain – before tipping it, or more accurately muscling it, into the turn. At this point the entire machine, even the best set-up ones, is flirting with instability as the forces of physics battle with the suspension/frame etc.
Nervous time.
It gets "nervouser"
Mere seconds later (the machine’s at about 200 clicks here – after scrubbing of speed and banging it down into 5th) the bike’s tilted over to about 40-45 degrees from 90, the knees slider’s on the tarmac, a raw scuff being heard, and felt through the knee.
Maximum (or close to it, restricted by machine set-up and aforementioned rider nerve) lean. To lose it here is a bowel-clenching thought – good chance of serious injury to person – quite possibly death, and undoubtedly a smashed to bits machine.
Hit the apex, clench over the bump, and wind back the throttle as the machine exits the turn, the rear wheel begging to let go its tenuous grip on the tarmac, to be followed by "losing it" (smashed/injury/death…).
As it straightens up, more power can be fed into the tyre and in a matter of milliseconds the bike is at full power again heading for the far side of the track in the classic racing line.
Here we come to the part of the explanation I like to call, "nearly shitting my pants".
Following the racing line, and at full power, around 250 plus again, the machine encounters the second irregularity in this particular corner. Except this time, as mentioned, it’s at full power. At the apex, it’s at the run-through part – coasting almost - albeit momentarily. Motorbikes, any race vehicle in fact, behave very differently when under power.
How this particular beast reacted to this bump under said power, was to violently "tankslap", an action where, because the front wheel is very light, the clip-ons (handlebars) slap from side to side, only being arrested by the lock stops. Believe me – the rider, supposedly in charge, is no more than a passenger at this point (always meant to get a steering damper...).
Thankfully, as can happen, the sheer momentum carried the bike over the bump quickly and the "slapping" subsided. Phew! Pants okay – no need to change.
Back onto full power again and scream towards turn 2, a hairpin, though not officially (officially the hairpin is turn 9...). The aim here, is a speciality of some, namely yours truly who is the master of the thing I’m coming to – late braking. Don’t master this…you’ll never win – end of story.
Similar to turn one, the machine races up to the turn, leaves it until the very last moment, almost to the point of overshooting again, then leaves it a split second longer...and "stands on everything", a colloquialism for braking extremely hard. Sit up (to catch the wind with the body); stick out elbows, stick out knees, fill lungs with air to increase surface area and provide unfettered view of corner, and lock arms, all the while yanking the brake lever in with 2 fingers.
If you’re doing it right, you’re at this point on one wheel – the front; the back’s in the air, and usually "fishtailing" left and right as final approach adjustments are made.
This time however, something else altogether more potentially "pant-filling" occurred. What I’ll call "shitting my pants #2".
Remember the "tankslapping" episode, just seconds ago, from which the pros have already recovered. Well, so vicious and violent it was, that when our intrepid racer yanked on the lever, it came right into the handgrip without any stopping power at all. Now normally this is because the front end has flexed under the extreme trauma of the slap and the brake pistons have been pushed back off the discs. Easily fixed. Just pump the lever and braking power swiftly returns – no big deal.
Wrong!
This time the right brake line had got caught between the lock stop and whipping steering head – on subsequent inspection the line was hanging by a few strands on outer sleeve.
So...250 clicks and no brakes. If you didn’t know what your sphincter was before, you can now taste it in your throat!
Eesh.
Suffice to say, and to cut a long story short (er), I managed to stop before hitting the tyre wall – by about a metre. See what happens when you let a dickhead fit your brake lines!!.
Anyway, to get back to the hot lap: reviewing: hard on the brakes, that work this time (I went and got another line and put it on my bloody self and went out next session…), fishtailing etc. knocking it down the gears from 6th to 1st, and tip it into the turn. The knee slaps against the tarmac, followed by the footpegs and outside toe of boot. (See pic)
Again, clip the apex, and feed in the power, the rear tyre protesting under the power. Threatening to spin while the front, in equal protest, tries to break contact with the surface; the only thing preventing it, the rider leaning his weight (yes, his – women can’t race, don’t even try arguing with me on this, ladies...) over the front.
Race towards turn 3, a fairly fast right-hander, short-shifting from 2nd to 3rd. Tipping in, feeling knees contact the surface, hit apex, feed in power, rear threatens again (for the record it does it on the exit from every turn, or you're not trying hard enough so...) and as the turn straightens out into a rise, front heads skywards (more leaning). Over crest and down the other side into turn 4 with more hard braking. Braking downhill is very, very risky. Gravity’s against you, too.
Round turn 4, knee on the deck and blast toward 5.
Whereas heading for 4 there’s plenty of time to show off with a nice power wheelie, 5, although also uphill with a crest at the top, has not enough distance to wheelie and get the front down in time to reduce speed for 6 and 7 which constitute the chicane. Also probably the third-hardest braking area on the circuit. Fortunately, there’s a cheat, which is more yet another test of nerve, where if an opponent gives an inch, big-balled racers take a mile and whip across the packed earth on the inside of the "rumble strip" whilst flashing past the not so big-balled rider on the way to more "eyeball against the inside of the visor" braking. This my friends, is one part of the attraction. At the point of tipping-in, the entire front end is under incredible pressure and the rider’s experiencing about 3Gs. A lonnng sweeper follows (see pic)
and begins to rise yet again. As always, the power is fed in, precisely this time, spinning the rear intentionally in parts, while trying to conserve the tyre integrity (a million races have been lost due to tyre disintegration). Eventually, though, inevitably of course, the exit is reached and with a final controlled spin, the machine yet again rockets towards its destiny.
I’ll digress again here to tell of on "off", another racing term to describe falling off, or sliding off as the case maybe.
Slingshot is a term that describes a particular method of cornering popular in the 90s. it involves, instead of the classic slow entry method; high in-corner speed, low but consistent lean angle way, a method whereby the rider drives straight through the entry in a straight line and brakes hard, (can’t win without it!) completely bypassing the traditional apex, slams the bike onto its side, smashing everything off the ground, knee, peg, boot, turns hard and fast, and "slingshots" out in an identical straight line to the entry vector. This method is known as the quick entry. And its principal fundamental is the removal of the corner proper, entirely. It works.
So off I went, "in the zone" as they say. Blitzing it (also as they say). Screaming round the circuit. Up and down the gears. Heading for my next challenge to be undisputedly conquered.
Or so I thought...
In my supreme confidence I did as all the greats do – I overstepped. I went too far – out into the track ne’er used, awash with track detritus, slippery, unstable...no sir – don’t want to be in there...no place for two wheels to be...
Both my tyres – ultimately the only thing keeping the machine upright; two patches of rubber no larger than the palm of a man’s hand – simultaneously gave way. At the angle of lean I simply "settled" onto the tarmac and let the greater weight of the machine draw it away from me. Off we went, my trusty steed and I towards the grassy run-off area. It’s not an entirely unpleasant experience sliding off like this – it’s almost like an adventure park ride at about 80 ks. And one learns to slide with the bike mere feet in front so that when the speed reaches acceptable levels the rider can start to pick the bike up before they stop moving.
I didn’t time it quite perfectly this time though but nevertheless still sprung up myself and bolted towards the arresting machine. (Effectively, the race is over, but it never has nor will stop us trying to win).
Damn and blast! All was well but for one crucial point. My baby...my crutch...without you I cannot win. The front brake lever lay embedded in the grass, right into the soil beneath. Broken in two – but two inches left. Dirty bastard. Off to get another – found a delightful chap who gave me his spare (racers are the nicest people). Back out next session. Seeing a pattern here?
Returning to the lap, as it’s become known: correctly, we would race up the rise in a straight line towards this new, more aggressive apex, go through the motions: hard braking et al, slam various expendables of the ground, turn the machine, lift bike upright and bury it, often laying a huge black line as the tyre attempts to strip itself of its surface layers (part of the attraction #2). Hell on the rubber though. See "million races lost".
But the effects otherwise are instantaneous as the full power transmits through the significantly larger surface area of the upright machine and the bike screams out of the turn like a crazy Irish banshee.
Heading down (again) towards the second hardest braking point on the circuit. Turn 9 – the hairpin proper, officially. In truth it is actually identical in terms of tightness to turn 2, (my hairpin...aye, it’s moine!)
More crazy braking, rear in the air (honestly, the rear brake on a racebike is obsolete frankly), fishtailing, the engine roaring as it’s fed down through the gears, using the engine as yet another arresting technique...tip into the right this time. It has a slight camber, along with the mild downhill slant. Straightforward.
This side of the tyre, though, is a double-edged sword; though rarely used by this point on the track so it is, to be fair, fresh - plenty of rubber, but at the same time, cooler, almost certainly not at optimum operating temperature. This can carry the risk of the bane of a racers existence – the always injurious highside. A brutal ind often ignominious way to dismount, resulting in breakages to body (arms, legs, feet etc. I in fact, broke my right forearm, mangled pinkie finger, broke back of hand). They never don’t hurt. Makes a fair mess of the bike – especially when it catches on something and cartwheels, when it proceeds to disintegrate in front of the eyes. Pieces exploding off it. Fairing plastic, tank, wheels even. Fuckin thing just comes apart...
So easy does it; feed in the power, get upright as quick as you can. Employing the fast in technique leaves the door wide open for a block pass here so fairly tight, the requisite hard braking and follow the classic line. A straight awaits and here we tuck the head behind the screen; the knees tight into the tank; elbows in and wind the throttle to the stop firing 3 gears into it in not many more seconds. The engine howls in ecstasy; this...is what it lives for. At this very moment we both live for this. We are one. I lie pressed close to her heart; she to mine. I have her by the throat, wringing every last ounce from her. Underneath she obeys, eager to please, on wings of fire she catapults me towards my desire. Rearing like its organic cousin – in triumph. I let her coast for a while, huddled down behind the screen, I tease her by shifting balance...
Enough. Time to get down; the next turns approach, another chicane, but so fast and wide, it can be ridden straight through. Drop the wheel. Another thrill electrifies me. Can this get better? Surely not, surely this is a peak – it must be. My heart races. I feel like I can fly. I am a single-minded machine. I have but one purpose...
The final two turns: 11 and 12 – which can easily be transformed into one lonng sweeper. Into 11, straight through, let her come right out to the rumble strip; caress it; continue the smooth turn, set it up right, the exit from 12 leads to the start/finish straight. It is essential, imperative to get good drive onto this. If you’ve previously fucked your tyre with your fuckin around sliding the rear, then this, second only to lack of hard braking, loses races.
My steed and I explode onto the straight and once again I lay close to her as we blast like a ride-on guided missile across this straight. Putting every gear into her we soon reached our top speed, around 270 clicks.
We do this another 30 times.
Afterwards in the garage as she plinks her satisfaction whilst cooling down, I wander the pit in a state of ecstasy, the adrenaline, though diminished, still flowing with purpose – like an engine shifted into neutral at speed slowing exponentially.
Strangely, my high lasts until nearly precisely my partner is cold. While she sleeps, her work done, I float the rest of the day.
As I said - better than sex
