Forums > Motorcycle Discussion > Charlie's Sandia Race Report

 

So there I was . . .

Saturday afternoon’s Thruxton Cup race.  After the green flag start, I wheelied the start as usual and slotted into 4^th place sweeping around the banked right-hander at the end of the

front straight.  Fred, in P1, soon disappeared with the superbikes that started in the front row of the grid.

So the three of us, Dave on 801 in P2, Luke on x22 in P3, and myself on 858 in P4 started circling the track within a bike length of one another.  Wik in P5 was somewhere behind me.  Nobody gained, nobody lost.  Battling to a draw in every straight.  Dropping into every curve in the same order.  A draw.

It dawned on me about Lap 4 that the front tire of x22 represented third place in this race.  The Podium.  My first podium.  I wanted that podium.  I wanted it bad.  It’s all I could see.  So I started taking chances trying to pass.  Inside, no good.  Outside, no good.  Luke was all over the track.  Unpredictable.  No pattern.

So near the end of Lap 7 of 8, in Turn 7, just before the front straight I dropped the throttle late and tried to close and pass Luke on the outside.

Turn 7 at Sandia is a high-speed 4^th gear, banked right-hander, that opens into the 70-foot wide front straight.  I thought if I could stay even and close enough on the outside, get a good drive into the straight, and then stuff myself into the inside at the end of the straight, that podium would slip into my hands.

So I ease the throttle late, drop to the right into Turn 7, stay to the outside of Luke and fast close the gap between our bikes, the bike and I are hard-leaned to the right, knee-down on the rough Sandia pavement, Luke’s exhaust is screaming in my face, bits of his rear tire are hitting my face shield, my front tire is starting to push but starts to pass up beside his rear tire, there are inches between my right handlebar and his screaming left exhaust pipe, and that’s when Luke starts to drift wide, I roll-off the throttle to drift backwards, but that’s when his left exhaust pipe taps into the end of my right handlebar, I loose the front tire and my right leg and knee puck become a sliding kickstand keeping the bike upright.  60 miles per hour, flat leaned over, and my right leg is holding-up the bike and my right knee puck is sliding across that cruel pavement, the wall at the outside of Turn 7 is coming up fast . . .

So there I was . . .

The day before, at Friday morning’s first practice session.  It only took two laps to feel that the bike was over-geared for Sandia.  Couldn’t find a shifting rhythm.  The bike was just geared too long.  Easy enough to fix by going to the 17-tooth counter sprocket.  More troubling was the engine’s power.  There was nothing over 5,500 rpm.  Sputter, sputter, hesitation.  WTF?  So I run two more laps.  The hotter the engine gets, the worse the sputter.

So I’m thinking . . . bad fuel?  Then it dawns on me that Sandia is in the mountains.  High in the desert mountains.  The bike is running fat on the mains.  The pilots seem alright, plenty of power down low.

Back in the pits I start asking around about the elevation of Sandia.  Turns out that the track is at an elevation over 5,000 feet.

I’ve got the bike set up slightly rich for Austin’s at elevation of 900 feet.

I’ve got 140 mains in the bike.  Way too rich for 5,000 feet.  Decide on a nice round number of 125 to try first.  So I spend the rest of Friday morning changing the counter-sprocket and re-jetting the mains in the carbs from 140 to 125.  Since I had left some race gas in the tank and in carb bowls for about 2 months, I decided to break the carbs down for a cleaning.  Race gas doesn’t have any preservatives in it.  And the bike was starting a little more cold-blooded than usual.

 

Bike back together, I touched the started button and the bike jumped to life . . . much happier than before.  Fred comments from the adjacent pit that the bike sounds much better than before, even idling.

Get out on the track for the last practice session of the day and the bike is running fantastic, jumping to the throttle.  Find a good shifting rhythm and the bike pulls and pulls and pulls, all the way past redline.

There’s not much left in the front tire however.  This is the fourth event on that tire.  A year of running.  It’s beginning to show in the little remaining tread, and the tire had gotten slippery at Mid Ohio.

So there I was . . .

Sunday afternoon’s Thruxton Cup race.  I was sleepy, having spent the entire Saturday night dreaming of getting that podium.  How to beat x22.  How to beat x22.  How to beat x22.  Obsessed.  He runs wide in 1 sometimes.  Wide in 6 sometimes.  Got to stuff the inside.  Only way through.  Got to stuff the inside.

After the green flag start, I wheelied the start as usual and slotted into 4^th place sweeping around the banked right-hander at the end

of the front straight.  Fred, in P1, soon disappeared with the superbikes that started in the front row of the grid.  Just like on Saturday.  And just like on Saturday the same race order developed.

 

Dave on 801 in P2, Luke on x22 in P3, and myself on 858 in P4 started circling the track within a bike length of one another.  A draw.  Only this time I started making aggressive moves right away.  Inside.  Outside.  No good.  Luke was all over the track.

Then on Lap 3 of 8, Luke went into Turn 4 way too hot, stands the bike up to brake and all I saw was him and the bike running up and over the outside of the pavement and out into the desert scrub, dust cloud following him, but he was still upright when he disappeared behind me.

Yes!  He gave third place to me.  Just finish this race.  A podium.  My first podium.  I slowed the pace slightly to save the front tire.  Don’t take any more chances.  Just finish.

So lap after lap I ease the bike around the track and Dave on 801 pulls further and further ahead . . . he pulls a full turn ahead.

Then on Lap 6 of 8 in Turn 3, Luke charges from behind out of nowhere and stuffs himself into the inside and blows past me into third place.  I’m stunned.  He pulls ahead.  I’m stunned.  WTF?

So I hit the throttle hard, charging, trying to catch up, but he’s on a mission.  Close the gap slightly but no way I’m making up the distance in one lap.  I’m whammied.  I’m beaten.

On Lap 7, the leader from the superbikes laps me at the head of the front straight to take the checkered flag.  My race, my Sandia event is over.

So there I was . . .

Three days prior, the previous Thursday’s drive from Austin to the Sandia Raceway, Albuquerque, New Mexico.

900 miles of West Texas scrub desert and New Mexico high mountain desert.

It’s raining the entire distance.  Heavy clouds.  Steady rain.  Rain falling in the desert smells fantastic.  Dusty-fresh wet, tar bush-flavored wet.  The rock-jutting mountains on either side of the highway have sprouted waterfalls that seem surprised at themselves.  Gullies and dry creeks across the desert floor are gushing proud, flowing with water.  Red-brown, raging water almost tops the Interstate at every culvert.  Yellow flowers are everywhere.

 

Desert waterfalls

Yellow blanket quick bloom now

Sage bush drinks and sighs.

So there I was . . .

Back to Saturday afternoon’s race.  . . . the wall at the outside of Turn 7 is coming up fast . . . my knee-puck sliding right leg supports the flat bike just long enough for the front tire to re-grip pavement, then the bike kicks back upright throwing my right foot off the foot peg and back under the bike, the rear tire runs over my right foot ripping my right leg into the foot peg, I’m now laying sideways on the side the right side of the bike, right leg dragging the pavement, left leg somehow still over the bike, left hand somehow still holding the left grip, right hand still hard on the throttle, face shield pressed hard into the screaming chain and unprotected counter sprocket, like some kind of Roy Rogers cowboy trick rider on a motorcycle . . . somehow I manage to pull myself back onto the top of the bike . . .

 

. . . and steer just past the concrete wall on the outside and full-throttle continue to race, by this time four bike lengths to the rear of x22, one more lap trying desperately to catch x22 and my Saturday race is over, no podium, so close, so close.

I get back into the pits with a huge wound and bruise through the leathers on the inside of my right leg where the foot peg threatened to disembowel me from the nuts upward.  I don’t care.  So close.  So close.

So there I was . . .

I almost died on the outside of Turn 7 at Sandia reaching for an idea.  Reaching for an idea to the exclusion of everything else.  A podium.  So close.

Some people say that racing is all about crash management.  There’s a lot of truth in that.  Some people think that racing is all about that trophy, that podium.  That’s a fool’s errand.  For a few hours under the heady influence of that podium, I lost sight of that little fact.  For a few hours the speed was just a tool, not a place.

I believe that racing has little to do with the trophy, with the podium.  Racing is about the precious, crystal clear moments inside a race.  It’s about the speed.

Another sunrise

These bright and crystal moments

Crow flies overhead.

A race track is a very aggressive place.  A place of egos.  Those trophies call.  That podium calls.  They call like a grail.  And many listen.

But the wise and the best racers embrace the aggression and leave their egos at the front gate, because there’s always someone faster, there is no speed in greed, and disappointment is one very harsh mistress.

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Another sunrise, These bright and crystal moments, Crow flies overhead.