Mark Berry is stood in the middle of the racetrack, Union Jack folded in his hands. I'm looking directly into his eyes, as are fifty two other guys and girls. I change my viewpoint to the other side of the track, where fifty two other guys and girls are holding fifty two motorcycles. It's silent. I shuffle slightly to my right so that I have an absolutely straight run to my bike. Eyes back on Mark, tension splitting the air. Silence. Mark drops the flag, and I sprint across the track, jump on the bike, press the button and it's bedlam. Not a great start but not last either, I throw caution to the wind, screaming the bike on a very narrow line up into turn one. There are bikes everywhere, all on my left. It's exhilerating. I feel like I'm overtaking loads of people, in reality that may not be true. On the run down to Montreal I stay right to stop being attacked on the inside, on the exit I mug the guy on the Panigale. I feel invincible. Renton from Trainspotting pops into my head, this has got to be better than any drugs that guy ever took. I shake off the image, as the bikes are all in swarms and I need all my concentration to keep on the tarmac. The slower starting fast guys are carving through the traffic, and I'm sat up at Oggies and Williams. I stay cool, and go hard right looking for the wettest part of the track.
The weather looks set fair, but the track conditions are unpredictable. I'm out on wets, and it's the wrong call. Safe, but wrong. The plan is to maximise our position before we inevitably lose places refuelling and wheel changing. Around Corams and into Murrays, the bike sketchy on the wrong tyres. I spot the red flag early enough and manage to duck into the pits, saving one lap of fuel. Start aborted.
We don't know how long until the restart. We can't risk changing wheels. But I'm happy that I can manage on these tyres, and feel I can get a better start next time, now I've had a chance to practise one. We go through the restart rigmarole, then I'm eyeballing Mark's right hand once more. Sprint like crazy, jump onto the bike untidily, jab at the starter button, nothing. I can't hear if the bike is running or not, it isn't. Try again, but the switchgear is loose and just turning on the bar instead of starting the engine. I gather my thoughts as quickly as I can, but I'm last into turn one. Stone, motherless last. In my head Charlie Cox mocks me. Charlie Cox can do one, I'll show him.
I really try, but it's hopeless. The track is dry. The tyres seems to be wanting to go sideways, whereas I want straight ahead. At least it doesn't feel highsidey, so I stretch the throttle cables early at every corner exit. It's still hopeless. I stay out until I feel I'm loosing too much laptime, then pit. In the garage, it's pandemonium. We don't usually do this and I realise too late that we should have allocated jobs beforehand. Too late. Tess and I change the front wheel, Andy and Trigger (I think) on the back wheel and suspension resetting, Tel refuels. I might have got that wrong. There are tools everywhere, no-one knows for sure what to do, it's mental. Andy goes out onto the track and does his thing. I sit in the chair, busying myself changing to a dark visor and rehydrating.
Time bends. It seems like only minutes until Andy is back in and it's my go again. The speedo hasn't been calibrated on the aftermarket clocks. It's 60kph in the pit lane, getting caught speeding in pit lane would be a waste, so I stay in first gear, 3000 rpm and hope it's slow enough. Pit lane end, visor down and into the crouch, max revs. Except I haven't refitted the visor correctly, such a fundamental error. Once I know it isn't going to fall off, I elect to stay out and deal with it rather than waste time pitting. Then comes the cramp. Andy is 6 foot 5 and I'm the cutest 5 foot 10 on legs. The bike is set up for Andy, and I guess I didn't hydrate and stretch adequately. Too late, I've got to deal with it.
It's agony, Childbirth would be easier, crucifixion would be a blessing compared to this. I know I'm given to hyperbole, but honestly, it was very painful indeed. I can't hang off properly, I'm going way too slowly. The Safety Car comes out, I just happen to be in second place behind it and I'm grateful for the rest. I try to trail my leg to ease the pain, only to have the guy behind me overtake, he obviously thinks I'm trying to indicate to retire, so I don't dare try that anymore. More pain. Safety car in. I tough it out for as long as I can manage, six more laps. I'm not sure my legs will hold the bike up in the pits. Luckily, Tel grasps the bike whilst I fall off of it a writhe around on the floor. Pete and Tess help me stretch it out so I can stand again, but I limp for the rest of the day.
I take up position on pit wall, so I can hold myself up in some comfort. I'm still in my leathers just in case I'm needed, but it's Andy's gig from here to the flag. He looks great on the bike, so fluid, so brave on the brakes. It starts to drizzle and, for the second time, we're on the wrong tyres. Too late to change now, just bring it home. Andy's a smart rider, ultra aware of the messages the bike sends him. Chequered flag out, we're home. What a feeling.
Stone motherless last. The results show us last but one, Quantum used the wrong make of tyres so were penalised to last place. The truth is that we were last on the road, because we spent nearly 18 minutes in the pits, most teams only taking 2 – 3 minutes. I didn't care then, and I don't care now. Nine teams DNF'd, so we beat all those guys. My first non-DNF in my last three races was enough to satisfy, and having finished, we were 100% on our pre-race stated target. I'm drained, from the cramp and the mental exhaustion of the last three weeks. It's been hell, I love it.
11:30PM, I'm alone in the garge, happy spannering. I refit the wheels to my bike, taking my time, tidying the devastation of the garage as I go. Melissa Auf De Maur blaring away from my phone. The guys have all gone home, I've had a few beers in the bar, but now I want to be alone. I kind of delete everything and concentrate on what happens next. I've phoned Sallie and told her I love her, I've phoned Martin and discussed my big idea with him, so now I have the mental space to chew the cud. And boy, did I chew it.
Helen, I missed you so much on raceday. I hope everything works out, lots of love to you.
Big Al, Trackday Dad. 18 & 19 April 2016.
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