Is what the sticker said on the back of your Ford Orion back in 1992. I think I now know what it means. I'm still not sure what “Fat Willys Surf Shack” is, but who cares.
All stories should start at the beginning. So my story of the Snetterton raceday starts not in Norfolk, but three weeks earlier at Oulton Park. More specifically, at Lodge Corner, and even more specifically, upside down in the grass on the exit of Lodge Corner. Regular readers will already know that we completed the Endurance Race, but were given a DNF for obeying the flag marshall. Go figure. I can't, I've argued, pleaded, demanded, threatened answers and been frustrated by it but I've learned to let it go (don't sing). In either case I didn't feel I'd given my all during the race, so I decided to go for the All Comers Sprint Races on the next day. I qualified 16th and, feeling that progress was coming, lined up optimistically on the grid. I'll spare you the gory details, but nine laps later I'm rolling on the floor in tears, wondering if the damage to my gentleman's area is permanent. I'm happy to report that it isn't, and John Wayne can have his walk back.
My poor bike has taken a severe battering. Crushed fuel tank (hence the walk), smashed fairing, fractured clock bracket (the lovely carbon fibre one that I spend hours repairing last time), cracked top yoke, twisted forks, damaged engine case protectors, bent radiator, twisted subframe, and comedy ignition key stuck in barrel amongst many scuffs and scrapes. Brand new Shoei helmet, leathers, boots and gloves all bashed, scuffed, holed and destroyed. Patina is one thing, this is something entirely different, I feel angry, frustrated and sorry for what I'm doing to this faithful motorcycle. Once glorious, she looks awful and I can hardly bear to look at what I've done to her. I load the sorry mess into the van and head home under a black storm cloud of depression.
Home, and the bruises are starting to colour up nicely. I decide not to dwell on what's gone wrong, but I still can't face the bike, so I head to Swindon to go kit shopping. New leathers, helmet, boots and gloves are complemented by a chest protector, after I read that Jo Wingate broke her sternum in her crash at Oulton. My budget can't stretch as far as the Shoei and Alpinestars kit that has kept me in one piece for so long, in the shop I umm and ahh for hours while the patient teenage assistant tries not to be too bored by a middle aged man and all his first world problems. I leave with a Shark helmet, RST leathers, TCX boots, Furygan gloves and an Alpinestars chest protector, and drive home knowing that I've made the wrong choices and a big dent in the race budget.
Martin phones. The bush telegraph has been working quickly no doubt, and it's a timely call. He sorts a new subframe and clock mount for a very reasonable rate. He doesn't charge me for the counselling service. I offer him an extra homo hug next time we meet, he audibly blanches and ends the call quickly. Much like the injuries, I'll gloss over the next bit, which involves being in the garage most nights, removing all the clumps of grass and mud, straightening the bent bits, sorting through my pile of battered race fibreglass for the least worst parts, and drilling, filling, sanding, repairing, trying not to bodge. Some of you have been there and will know the feeling. I normally love spanner time when it's done on my own terms, on a sunny afternoon, 6Music in the background, cup of tea in hand, fitting quality parts with no pressing deadline This is purgatory, and it's got to be done in less than three weeks.
Fast forward to Thursday afternoon, and I'm happy that I've done the bare minimum of work to make the bike ready. Wheel her out and fire her up, after a minor drama with the tilt switch location that old familiar burbling bark cuts through the suburban afternoon. She sounds great, like I imagine a wounded T-Rex, angry, violent and unpredictable. I smile properly for the first time since Oulton Park. No time to reflect, I decide to load up and head east. The weather forecast is dire, but you know how forecasts can be. I want to be there for test day, this bike has suffered major damage and I need a run out to sort all the minor problems that will surface later, plus I need to get settled, both in my head and in my new gear. Van loaded and I'm in bed by nine PM. It's an 02:30 alarm call. I try to sleep but my mind just won't shut down.
So I'm up and out of the door but 03:15, full of lovely fresh home brewed coffee and three weetabix. It's hammering down with rain, but I love these early morning road trips. Clear roads, BBC World Service then Alice Wotsername on Radio 1, set the cruise control to 67 and play number plate game or sing along with the tunes, wondering about all the articulated lorries, what they're carrying and where they're going. Not much scenery on this trip, dawn barely makes a crack through the misty murky spray. Stop at South Mimms for a pee and possibly the worst cup of coffee I've had in my life, somehow me and Starbucks don't get along. I bought a large as well. £4 I'll never see again, so I drink it anyway. Tax dodging is crime enough, but there's no excuse for woeful coffee.
I'm feeling anxious as I arrive despite the pleasant drive. The usual scrum for my allocated garage, I'm the last to arrive (Trigger excepted) but I manage to park near the garage. I force myself to see this as “a good omen” although I don't believe in all that mumbo-jumbo.
Phone out, and log on to the weather forecast, it's dire. Try another website, it's dire. Talk to the local sages, it's dire. I smell a crashfest coming, and I don't want any part of it. Van unloaded, I sulk in the warmth of the cafe, half watching the F1, half browsing the 'net, craning my neck to catch the direction of the unmistakeable sound of scraping fibreglass. It's a regular interruption.
I mooch around the garages, chase up my missing tickets, badger Mark about our Oulton DNF, trudge around in the rain watching crash after crash after crash. It's miserable and I feel sorry for the riders, not many smiles to be seen anywhere.
Tess arrives like a ray of sunlight. We have lunch, then she suggests going back to hers to look at her new bike over a cuppa. I jump at the chance to escape the misery. Tess is playing The Mission's Greatest Hits CD so we both switch into tales from the goth days of yore, and I'm transported away from rainy drudgery to a happier place in my head. After years of struggling with shonky old heaps shitters (sorry Tess) she's gone large. The blackest ZX10R sits in her shed. It's gorgeous. It's a weapon. Tess can't stop smiling. I'm so chuffed for her, and so jealous. She's metaphorically flaunting her new two wheeled lover under my nose, whilst I'm struggling to find any love at all for my jaded long term two wheeled relationship. It's over too soon, Tess drops me back at the track so I can get to scrutineering and the rider briefing.
I jump into my leathers, get the bike and join the queue, An hour later and the queue has barely moved. It's 3 degrees C, drizzling, none of the usual queue banter, siege mentality settles in. I'm so cold I start to shiver and shudder. I'm waving may arms around like a demented schoolteacher in an effort to keep warm. It doesn't work. An hour and three quarters later, having endured a barrage of THE WORST JOKES EVER IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE from the man with the clipboard I wheel the bike out and start her up. Uh-oh, she's only running on three, maybe short on fuel? Hopefully? Push back, change back into warm clothes. I'm not hypothermic, but close. I need hot food and drink NOW. I run to the cafe but it's closed, the bar is open though. I plead with the barman and two coffees in the warm surroundings later I'm out of danger. It's heading towards 7:30 and briefing is at 8PM. Not enough time to fix the bike, so I settle into an uncomfortable chair with a pint of Doom Bar, and take my overcoat off. The phone goes, Trigger on the ID. I'm assuming he's at the gate and needs a ticket to get in, but no.
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