The Big Reveal

So, last time I left you all in suspenders. “What's the loon up to now?”

Facebook followers will know that I decided to ditch the Yamaha R1's, and switch to Kawasaki. The number of R1's I “own” (four) was getting a little out of hand, even for a compulsive bike buyer such as myself. I'd struggled to get spares for the big bang race bike, a stroll up and down the garages told me why – there's only me and Tom Webster running these. They're brilliant motorcycles, engaging to ride, devastating on corner exit, but sadly not popular. I've loved kicking against the pricks with the R1's, but I knew that my next step in rider development would only come with a switch to the big “K”. I also felt that I was holding back Andy's progress. Home and I have the big chat with Sallie.

Your Humble Narrator:“I want to buy two new motorbikes. But it's OK, because I'm going to sell four. Might have to play a longer game in the selling department though.”

Sallie: “Four? Which four?”

Your Humble Narrator:“My big bang race bike, Andy's 4C8, Duncan's 4C8, and my big bang road bike”

Sallie:”You were thrilled when you bought those bikes. Keep one at least, the road bike”

She's a flippin' genius, no mistake. So I get the best of both worlds.

The race season is a couple of months old, so not many bikes for sale, but Martin gives me a steer to Kwak #1. Shaun Rose is selling a 2015 Superstock bike, it looks well specified and reasonably priced. I bite. K-Tech shock, K-Tech cartridges, standard engine, Leo Vince pipe, race fairings, clipons, crash protection, ready to race. (Or not. I'll gloss over the unhappy rest of that story. Caveat Emptor). Whilst getting the gearbox shimmed on Kwak #1 I stumble across Kwak #2. A 2011 bike, built for Dan Cooper to ride at the TT, not used and returned to standard suspension. Well priced, it has a Tony Scott motor, Kent cams, Nova first and second gear, Kit ECU and loom, CRC fairings. This one is ready to race, and I do a deal to swap it for the pair of 4C8 R1s, so saving me the hassle of selling two bikes. It sounds quite simple laid out in one paragraph, in reality it was three weeks of constant phone calls, driving up and down the country, leaving me with a sore back and a very big hole in my finances.

At home, I set about the odious task of de-stickering the new bikes. My thumbnails are still recovering. The Superstocker isn't too bad to do, as all the logos are printed onto large thick vinyl sheets, but the TT bike took many hours, and in the right light you can still read the old sponsors name. I name the bikes, partly because I have to, it makes them mine, partly because I now own two near identical looking black generation four Kawasaki ZX-10R's. When Andy rings and asks about the springs, we have take a minute to establish which bike he's talking about. Normally I'd go for girl's names, but not this time. The TT bike I've already started calling “Bomber” Long, low and sleek, menacing, I picture it as an Avro Lancaster, splitting the night sky with its deadly payload. Mirage Racing is numbered 67 because it's the year of my birth, by happy coincidence it's a truncation of the Dam Buster's squadron number of 617. I've long been interested in this particular WW2 caper, the dogged ingenuity, the bravery of the crews, and Barnes-Wallis' own haunting regret at the loss of civilian lives in the campaign. Warming to the theme, I steer away from WW2 and onto Motorhead LP's. The Superstock bike is far too good for me, it's Overkill. This bike named itself. Later, looking at the pictures of the Donington race, Triggers bike becomes “Ace of Spades” for reasons that I can't articulate. And I've still got loads more Motorhead LP titles to use for future bikes.

Race day is looming fast, we're still applying race numbers right up until the bikes are being shoved into the van. Andy has taken some of the strain by ordering the tyres, but it's still stressful – the first time we ride theses bikes will be in qualifying. The only ZX-10R I have ridden was a dealer demonstrator, and that was five years ago. I decide not to overthink it, it's a motorbike, and I've ridden scores of them in all shapes and sizes, how hard can it be?

I've decided to give myself to the end of the 2016 season to get on the pace with the Kwaks. If I don't, then they go up for sale and I'll buy an R1-M.

Pace is a problem though. I'm a clubman racer in a very fast world. No Limits Endurance has become a ACU national championship. The novices are very quick indeed, and learning fast, the top boys are riding with BSB-level laptimes. I'm becoming swamped in an oozy soup of non-improving riders towards the back of the field. I'm fit enough, ambitious, and I've now got the kit. Hopefully the improvements will come before I get left at the back of the grid.

Me first in qualifying. Three laps only, I'm ready early to maximise the short session for the team. Bomber feels raw, unrefined. Not like “my” bike, I've had zero saddle time and it shows. I trundle round like a numpty and pull in, happy to let Trigger and Andy put us as high up the grid as possible, which Trigger does with a fantastic P20. The familiar faces start to roll in, and I feel relaxed about the race, whilst cracking into the chat with the guys. Soon it'll start time, six hours of mayhem loom. I can't get my right contact lens in properly, lucky I elected to get ready early. It's just nerves, breathe, relax, I clear my mind and concentrate, and in it pops. Easy.

Trig is doing the start, with me as Holdee Murphy. We're lined up next to Johnny the Clown of Mutt's Nuts Racing, I kid him that we were 19^th and he nearly falls for it, but you can't kid a kidder. Trig looks comfortable with the start procedure now, but whoever chalked the start positions on the wall put the locations far to close together, so after the sighting lap we've all been forced to shuffle a long way down the grid, hence Trig looking a little confused second time around, but no harm done.

“And it's go GO GO” I'd love to have Murray Walker commentate on a race start for us, c'mon Murray surely you'd love to get back to the bikes? It's funny what flashes through my mind on race day. Trigger gets a good start and he's straight into a five bike battle, our race position yoyos up and down in this session. Trigg's unique style never ceases to amaze, Jamie Whitham-esque? He's all body lean and fingertip control, looking like he was born on a Suzuki, the GSX-R bends to his will. No doubt who wears the trousers in that relationship.

Forgive the lack of detail of who shaved a tenth off on which lap, who did the longest stint (me!) the race garage is a frenetic place and I cope by glossing over the fine detail and concentrating on my own riding. Bizarrely Bomber doesn't feel fast – it's noisy and raw and unsophisticated – but I realise that I can pass riders on the straight bits just by turning my right wrist. That's nice then, right up until the point where I've gone past my braking marker, try not to panic, look where you want to go, trail the throttle, steer, body position, breathe. It's very much back to basics for me. No quickshifter! Every bike should have a quickshifter. When I'm king I'll make a law along these lines. Bomber is feeling more comfortable and familiar now, I'm able to stay in the tuck longer that on the R1. My lines are useless though, everything I know about going in wide and making the perfect apex is useless on this bike. It's all narrow lines and trail braking, and I'm still learning. I'm not sure if the rear tyre is starting to let go, or it that the traction control kicking in? It's a lot to take in, so I try to take it one step at a time.

My lap times are rubbish, Two seconds slower than on the R1. I'm not happy. I try to remember my pledge to give myself the rest of the year to learn, but it's not easy. This is a race after all, no prizes for mediocrity. It's my last session and I decide to push. Hard. Lap after lap, I make a mistake in one corner, which I correct on the next lap, but then I cock up something else. It's so confusing, but I keep pushing and trying.

A little too hard as it turn out. Tired? Not thinking properly? Slightly frustrated? A combination of all those and more I suppose find me rag dolling through the gravel at Redgate. SO STUPID! I've braked later than I previously dared, gone in off line, everything go slo-mo in my brain, but this isn't a crash, I can save this. I'm torn between adding more lean angle and staying on track and running way wide, or picking it up and going for the gravel. In the end I do neither, I've still got a fair old lean on when I'm in the gravel trap, drop the bike, bounce, spin, bounce. I'm livid with myself. I can't pick the bike up, the gravel is too deep. The marshall comes over and helps me pick it up, I grab the transponder and start the sprint back to the garage. I don't even help push the bike.

Sprinting in race leathers, helmet and boots through foot deep gravel is hard work, I'm grateful to get back on the tarmac but I'm blowing like an asthmatic donkey on his way to the glue factory. I spot Helen but elect to do the running myself. The looks on their faces in the garage show that they didn't see me bin it. Eyes on the rider at all times please guys. Trigger saddles up and I go into a full Paddington Bear strop. Not one toy left in the pram. Who is this guy punching the wall? I don't recognise him, I'm never like this. It's just that it means so much to me, all the frustration and energy and effort explode in a wall of physical outpouring.

It subsides. Trig rescues the race and we finish, now he can finally burn that novice vest. Andy's had a few little niggly issues with Overkill, all identifiable and fixable now the race is over. And I'm trudging up pit lane to put Bomber into Parc Ferme, it's survived the crash well, just some rash and a broken screen, and plenty of new stock for my collection of gravel from circuits of the world.

Racing. It's mental.