Racing with the AFM

Once upon a time I was a roadracer.  Hard to believe I know but yes, I had a racebike and I got to go round and round at Sears Point in my best imitation of a motorcycle roadracer.  It was a hell of a lot of fun and even today I miss the speed, power and pursuit of lower lap times.

My introduction to the track was a rather amusing affair.  Way back in the mid 80's I used to hang out at The Wall.  This overlook up on Grizzly Peak Boulevard in Berkeley has been a popular hangout for motorcyclists for ages.  I somehow became a regular at this hangout and enjoyed the camaraderie of the local sportbike crowd.  Quite often we would go for quick romps around the hills and do our best to look good and go fast.  About that same time I was introduced to the Sunday Morning Ride.  There too I became a regular and pretty much every Sunday I could be found zooming up Highway 1 at warp speed.

The problem with this activity was that it was highly frowned upon by the local LEOs (law enforcement officers).  On occasion I would find myself on the wrong end of a pen signing my autograph to a yellow piece of paper that said "Notice to Appear:".  Not only was that costly but it also put my license in jeopardy of disappearing.  Not too cool.  So what was I to do?

In early 1987 the group of Wall Rats that I hung out with decided we needed to go to the racetrack.  Huh?  Racing?  Huh?  To be honest, I was rather reluctant.  Not only did I only have one bike at the time but I had hocked my soul to get it since the bike before it had been stolen (and I had no theft coverage on it).  Did I really want to risk this $5000 hyperbike on the racetrack?  Did I want to risk my own skin on the racetrack?  I had to think long and hard on the subject before I broke down and joined the guys.

What a hoot!  Somehow we all managed to make it up to the track for our riders school.  In my haste to leave the house and ride up I managed to forget my back and chest protector.  I made a quick u-turn to go back and get it.  Then I proceeded to break every speed limit and law in the book to get up to the track in time.  Yikes!

The classroom session was good but I had to race back to the bike during the breaks so that I could remove the headlight and turn signals, tape over taillight and basically do all of the right preparation.  Crazy!  I managed to get it all together in time for our afternoon on the track.  Funny thing though, I somehow missed hooking up with my assigned group so I ended up with a new instructor who took me and two other guys out together.  In time one guy dropped out due to bike troubles and the other was so slow he was told to go home.  One on one instruction!  How can you beat that?

By the end of the day I had managed to improve my skills, not crash and basically had a grin from ear to ear.  This racetrack stuff is fun!  But I still wasn't about to risk my then still new GSX-R by going full-on racing.  My next choice was to head out and look for a suitable alternative.  My buddy Taylor managed to convince me that his RD400 was well suited for the position.  So I bought it.  After tweaking, rebuilding and otherwise tinkering with the two-stroke I realized there was no way I could race it.  Too many variables on an otherwise too old motorcycle.  After wasting four months in my pursuit of the perfect racebike I came to the conclusion that it was probably safer and saner to ride the 750.  Damn!

In August I took the 750 out and with much adrenaline, trepidation, fear and excitement competed in my first two races.  Since I was on a modified bike I could only run in special classes like 750 Super Street and Formula 1.  This meant I was going up against other highly modified bikes with some incredibly talented riders like Scott Gray and Jeff Hagan.  Yikes!  Despite my fear and lack of abilities I managed to survive both races without crashing and without finishing last.  Pretty amazing!

I raced two other dates that year and finished respectably.  Needless to say I was hooked!  I managed to update my bike a bit for the following year adding a Fox Shock and some other cool goodies to the bike.  Thanks to my buddy Steve Mitoma I now had a set of Megacycle race cams and a Marvic front wheel on my bike.  Thanks to my purchase of a 86 GSX-R1100 I now had different bodywork with a cool yellow paint job.  Whoo hoo!  For 1988 I went out and raced 750 SS and Formula 1 all year finishing all eight race dates with no incidents and with definite signs of progress in my learning curve.  Yeah baby!

By the end of the year I was ready to move up in the world.  I told Steve I wanted to go faster, he asked..."How much do you want to spend?"  I never did answer that question, I simply tore down the engine and started acquiring parts.  First up a Falicon crankshaft.  It was more a work of art than anything else.  I hated to seal it up inside the bike but I did along with modified rods, a high compression piston kit that Steve and I modified to lower the compression a touch in order to retain longevity, bronze valve guides and a ported head (did it myself!) and a few extra bits just to make things right.  I was a bit apprehensive about doing all this but under Steve's tutelage it all went well.  After two months of nighttime wrenching it all came together.

At my first opportunity I hauled the bike up to Sears Point and took it out for a spin.  Oh man oh man!  Surprisingly it didn't feel all that fast.  Then I realized how quickly I was going through the gears and I began to understand.  Much of what Steve and I had worked on was balancing all the internal components.  The new motor had very little vibration and thus the smoothness was the deceiving part.  Once I got into the groove my speed around the track increased exponentially.  This was going to be fun!

Unfortunately the first race of the season was rained out.  I had to wait another month before the debute of my new motor.  So again I setup a time to go practice.  I was out on the track with my buddy Taylor and was really getting up to speed.  I finally managed to figure out the giant curve of powering out of turn 11 and staying on the throttle all the way up to turn 2.  I was probably getting up to 120 mph by that point and would have to hammer the brakes hard to slow down enough to make the off-camber right-hander of turn 2.  About midway through the day I came flying up into turn 2 and suddenly found that rolling off the throttle did nothing.  Second attempt again did nothing to stop that high speed missile.  I quickly went for the clutch and kill switch but by then I was overly committed.  A high side followed by the longest slide of my life soon followed.  After an eternity of tumbling I came to a stop on the hillside above the hay bails.  This sucks!

A quick inventory of my bodily functions proved there were no broken bones.  A glance back at the bike revealed severe carnage that I really didn't want to see.  A once-over by the paramedics soon had me in the back of an ambulance heading for Sonoma Valley Hospital.  Luckily the extent of the damage was a twisted ankle and torn hamstring.  I think the worst part though was finding myself in an emergency room with no clothes and my two buddies snickering out in the waiting room.  Luckily they had thought ahead and had loaded my van and driven to the hospital.  Thanks guys!

Once I got home and let the dizzy spells subside I went out to review the damage on the bike.  It was beyond bad.  The rear subframe was bent straight up and the last 8 inches or so ripped completely off.  The rear wheel had gotten hammered so that one spoke was about 0.125 inches shorter than the others (Didn't really find this out until I took it to the Frame Man).  The engine appeared to be ok but it did suck a bit of dirt in through the open intakes.  The front end was actually straight despite the wild gyrations of the bike.  The frame was bent down at the lower shock mount, a heavy cast piece in the frame.  The bodywork and tank were toast.  Damn!

In time I managed to rebuild the beast by ordering a new frame from Suzuki and replacing parts thanks to Steve's generosity and a lot of credit card debt.  I managed to get back out on the track by the end of the year but was completely gun shy every time I entered turn one.  This was going to be hard.

In '89 I got back out there and slowly worked my way back up to speed.  It was tough and I really didn't like being in the middle of the pack, especially during the starts.  Too much mayhem.  In fact I got taken out going into turn two by another rider's bike when he tangled with yet another person.  Luckily minimal damage and everyone behind the incident chose to go around me rather than over me.  The rest of the year was spent working on my skills and learning to be smooth and confident again.

In 1990 I once again set out to conquer the 750 SS and Formula 1 classes.  I got off to a good start and then on Mother's Day ran into a snag.  Circulating the track during a practice session I came upon a newbie rider as I approached turn 2.  He was a little hesitant and I chose to ease up rather than be aggressive and pass him.  On the exit of 2 I always got on the gas, shifted to 3rd and then held neutral throttle going into turn 3.  Unfortunately this guy chose to get on the brakes going into 3.  I started to overtake him when he jumped on the throttle.  Suddenly he's down on the ground tumbling while his bike is spinning around heading off the track.  I did my level best to miss him but instead ended up running over his legs.  I released the front brakes just before hitting him and thus removed much of the bike's weight from the front end.  This launched the front end straight up when I hit him.  Then the rear hit and rotated the bike forward and down.  I ended up getting hammered right into the pavement.

In a microsecond I was up and running off the track.  All seemed ok with me removing my gloves and helmet.  The National Motorcycle Patrol showed up and I told them to go check out the other guy because he's the one who got run over.  They did go investigate but soon the paramedics were checking me out.  They determined that I needed to take a trip to the emergency room.  I said no need, I'm ok but they insisted.  I finally broke down and went.  What I found out about an hour later was that I had broken my collar bone.  Whups!  This sucks!  Funny thing is that I didn't figure it out until later when I was laying on the table in the emergency room waiting for someone to come see me.  Yup, that shoulder is a little painful.  Damn!

So yet another setback in my racing career.  Now what?  Well, as things happen the result was my healing up for a bit before getting back out on the track.  Another offshoot of this incident was my marriage ending up on the rocks and me getting divorced.  Man oh man, what a rough year!  Still, I was in one piece (more or less) and the bike still ran.  Guess I should just keep at it!

1991 saw me try one more time to compete in the 750 class.  Unfortunately the crash had set me back again and I felt that folks were getting just a wee bit too aggressive out there.  The starts were pretty hairy (Hey guys, this is just club racing!) and the grids were really big.  I soon found myself wishing that I were on a different bike.  That's when I noticed the open class.  Barely 25 bikes on the grid, somewhat older and more experienced riders and a whole lot more respect out there.  Cool!  I know what I'm going to do!

At the beginning of 1992 I switched all the cool race bits from the 750 to the 1100.  Same year bike, slightly different displacement, somewhat different horsepower rating, luckily similar layout so I could swap all the cool bits including my Tornado bodywork!  Unfortunately I experienced an immediate setback on my first practice day.  A spun rod bearing cut my plans short about halfway through the day.  Drat!  Now what?

Once again Steve to the rescue.  He had recently bought back a bike from a customer and was willing to sell it to me for a very reasonable price.  He had built the motor up with some killer good parts including a Falicon crank, Carillo rods, 2mm overbore kit, Yoshimura race cams and Mikuni RS36mm carbs.  Oh yeah!  In no time at all I had all my race bits back on the bike and was ready to go!

My first couple of races on the bike were amazing!  The power was incredible with the front wheel attempting to lift at every twitch of the throttle.  The bike was a bit heavier than my 750 but I found myself dialed into it pretty quick.  My lap times started to drop and I began to finish in the top five for both Open Superstreet and Open GP.  Whoo hoo!

By mid-year I found myself sitting on the front row of the grid.  I was truly amazed and a bit intimidated.  Now what?  My first start off the front row saw me launch the front wheel straight up in the air.  Yeow!  Clutch in, bike down and then back on the throttle with 8 or so people whizzing by me.  Rats!  I put my head down and set off like a man on a mission.  By the end of the race I was back in fifth place.  Grrrrr!  In my second race I blanked out the fact that I was on the front row.  I simply hunkered down on the bike and relaxed.  Focus on the man with the flag, watch for the twitch in the elbow indicating his intent to drop the flag and whammo nail the throttle and drop the clutch.

In a moment in time where everything is moving in slow motion I realized that I was leading everyone off the line.  That moment of clarity evaporated into a high speed time warp where I found myself going balls-to-the-walls up the hill into turn one.  My friends said I had a four bike lead at that point.  I had no clue.  It was turn up the gas and hang on time.  By turn four I was ten bike lengths up on second place.  As I flew over the hill and down into turn six I was buzzing with adrenaline.  That's when they threw the red flag.  Argh!  I rolled up to turn seven and parked the bike.  I must admit it was cool seeing all those bikes roll up behind me. Wow!

After 30 minutes or so while they cleaned up a mess left by two bikes that had collided on the second wave start behind us they called us back out for the restart.  This time I launched hard but ended up behind the pole position rider.  I truly don't recall the exact cause of his crash but I believe it was when he shifted gears.  Suddenly he's down hard in front of me and I had to hammer the brakes and pull to the left to avoid him.  Next thing I know I get nailed from behind and I'm down sliding.  Total mayhem ensued and when the dust finally settled there were seven of us down in turn one.  It was not a pretty sight.  Luckily for me the damage was minor.  I managed to pick the bike up and roll it back to the pits.  Unfortunately I did not have enough time to fix it for the restart.  Damn!  I could have one my first race!

So a week later I find myself hanging out at Willow Springs International Raceway in Rosamond, California.  I had seen some advertising for the Nick Ienatch Track Riders school and decided I needed to get an education here in the desert.  It was damn cold that morning and I spent some time just going out and doing laps.  Nothing exciting, just working on my lines and enjoying the now warm weather.  But warm wouldn't be quite right for the afternoon.  To my chagrin it would soon top the 107 degree mark.  Ouch!

But I digress, classroom time started at noon.  We met up with Nick and his associates and spent some time talking about the track, racing techniques and other interesting subjects.  In time we were told to go get our bikes and meet up at the track.  Nick would be lined up on the left and take the relative newbie riders.  His other three instructors would be to the right and the one at the extreme right would take the fastest riders.  Cool!

I ran back, put on my gear, jumped on the bike and hit the start button.  Whups, no joy!  Damn starting circuit was hanging up.  I finally resorted to bump starting the bike which most definitely was not fun in that heat.  By the time I pulled up to the instructors there were a bunch of folks behind the three instructors from left to right but no one behind the one on the extreme right.  What the hell, that's my guy!  He glanced back, grinned and then gunned it.  It was all I could do to catch up to him and stick to his rear.  He took pity on me and backed off a bit.  Throughout the afternoon we just kept doing lap after lap after lap working on my lines and slowly building up speed.  What a rush!

At the end of the day the folks at the track announced that the last half hour of track time was wide open to anyone who wanted it.  Me being a glutton for punishment chose to close out my day with "one more session".  Damn!  In hind sight I knew it was a bad move.

All during the day my instructor kept telling me to setup a wide line though turn six and get on the gas early.  I kept coming in more toward the middle of the corner and would chop the throttle ever so slightly at the mid point due to a slight bump there.  Well, during my last session I came in slightly further out and got on the gas early.  I chose to keep the throttle on right through the apex.  Whups!  There goes the front end.  Damn!  I hit the pavement sliding at 90+.  Man that track surface was hot!  I rolled over on my back to spread out and share the heat.  Then I hit the dirt.  More like rock! I had the longest tumble of my life!  It seemed go on forever and when I came to a stop I could barely see the track off in the distance.  Man that was rough!

So an ambulance pulls up and out jump a couple of really cute paramedics.  I was so distraught at crashing that I hardly noticed.  I was more worried about the bike than me.  They checked me out, got a little worried by a big, black bump on my arm until I told them that I had relocated a pylon from the apex of turn 9 a couple hours earlier by using my arm while hanging way off the bike.  (That was actually pretty amusing at the time, I knocked that thing about 15 feet down the track!)  I finally got the ok and then rode back in the crash truck with my bike.  Damn, damn, damn!

A quick review of the bike revealed rather minimal damage.  Bent rear brake pedal, hole in the lower fairing, bent front brake lever and some minor scratched on the rest of the fairing.  Hmm, this is good because I had another AFM race coming up in two weeks.  A detailed review of my leathers revealed a much nastier prognosis.  Holes in the knees, elbows and butt!  Major chunks torn out of the leathers and some pretty serious slide marks.  Ack!  What to do??

Well, the bike was repaired rather quickly.  The leathers would take a big wad of cash and some serious sweet talking of a tailor in Berkeley in order to get them done in time.  I showed up for practice on Sunday morning ready to go.  Except that once out on the race track I found I was as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.  I could not get the bike up to speed properly and I kept coming in tight on the corners with little lean angle.  I finally made a mistake and clipped a haybale in the turn 12 chicane and down I went.  I managed to hammer my shoulder good, good enough that I sat out the rest of the day.  Once again...damn!

The rest of the season was spent chasing problems with the bike and problems with my head.  It took all my concentration just to get back down under 2 minutes per lap.  I also found my fork tubes were pretty scratched up from sliding over the rocks in the desert.  Something I had missed in my inspection of the bike after that crash.  Ah well, so much for my glory season!

1993 marked the end of an era.  I didn't know it at first but this would be my last year on the track.  It started out with a spun rod bearing on my first outing of the season.  Then a frantic month of tearing down the engine and building it back up again.  The next few race dates saw me chasing oil leaks and issues with the motor.  Seems I could never quite get back in the groove again.  I was always chasing problems with the bike and then creating more problems in my head.  I began to "what if" every corner of the track.  What if I brake to hard, crash and hit the hay bales?  What if I tangle with another rider, go wide and go off the track?  What if?  What if?

I was not having fun.  And then in September it all fell apart.  Coming out of turn 3 I suddenly heard a loud clanking metallic sound from the motor.  I immediately shut it down.  Coming back into the pits I was really depressed.  My buddy Steve took pity on me and asked if I would like to ride his recently aquired CBR900 for my next race?  (He had just made a deal with Roque Torres and would be buying the bike from him.  Roque would finish out his year in Open Superstreet on the bike but then it would become Steve's.)  I said sure!

Now I had never ever tossed a leg over one of these bikes.  I had also never run on full slicks before.  What the hell was I thinking?  I took the bike out for one warmup lap before another race.  I did it again for the race after that.  Then I was up.  Open GP was loaded with some serious folks.  I had been working my way back up toward the front of the pack but was still a ways off the fast pace.  I took it easy on the start and then settled into my groove.  Funny thing is, my groove was way comfortable.  I soon found myself picking off rider after rider on this CBR.  I had totally connected with this bike that I had never ridden before.  When I rolled off the track I found that I had dropped right back down into the 1:58 range with little effort at all.  Very cool!

With Steve's support I was able to borrow the bike for my last race of the year that October.  Roque would finish up his season and take the championship in Open Superstreet.  I would once again get a couple of warmup laps in before taking on the Open GP group.  To my surprise I did it again.  I got into the groove and spent the entire race passing rider after rider.  A review of my lap times showed a 1:59, 58, 58, 57, 56 and a 55 on my last lap.  That was my fastest time ever on the track!  Whoo hoo!

A month later my friend Steve Mitoma dropped dead from a heart attack at age 38.  I felt that that combined with my recent experiences on the track meant it was time for me to hang up the leathers.  It had been a hell of a good time and I still enjoyed the speed but it was time to move on.  Racing had taken up all of my free time, more than enough of my money and several of my nine lives.  It was time to change focus and experience some different things in life.

Thank Steve, thanks to all the Off the Wall gang for getting me to the track and supporting my speed habit.  Those memories will forever be fresh in my head and those friendships dear to me.  Who knows, someday I may go back out there to play some more...

Craig

Photos from the Good Ole Days!