Who would have thought that this girl cleans up so nicely? Papa Razzi swears all he did in Photoshop is soften the focus, but this is the shot he basically took. Can’t wait to see his other photos. Track Photographer, PR Manager, and Chauffeur. This girl has it all. With one exception: He still sucks as Pit Crew.
One more for the road…
Papa Razzi has higher standards and I didn’t like the way he flattened out my David Bowie Labyrinth ‘do at some point. We’re going to do this over and this time we’ll start earlier and not rush things; and trailer the bike in race trim, so I don’t have “cowlick” problems with my helmet hair and Joe doesn’t complain about mirrors casting shadows and go for that racer look, because the poser bit is wearing thin. *giggles* And I really do need to get my foils done. Even though Photoshop can fix that. 😉
Call this the dress rehearsal. Stay tuned for upgraded performance in the high (shutter) speed game. Because the Papa knows his Razzi.
Alrighty, I couldn’t help myself. I’m the one who mangled this shot as far as color tweaks. My photographer cannot be held responsible for this one… mostly.
After a 90some mile ride with Mr. Slow I went to the mall, sweaty and no doubt smelling like a real biker chick, to get my hair done. On the way home I decided to stop in and get my nails done, too. Promptly was talked into a pedicure. Truth be known, my dawgs could use a little TLC; they’ve spent the better part of the past two years in motorcycle boots. Now they are all nice and soft, and sort of womanly looking. My little monkeys haven’t looked this good in a long time. Two hours after entering the salon, I was standing in the parking lot hoping I could get my race gloves over my newly acquired claws. Tight fit. I should have had her trim them shorter. Texting is a pain in the arse and so is typing. Not to mention I have to take my track tires off tomorrow and put the street rubber back on the Pirate’s feet. We shall see how strong this gelled-in acrylic-bonded stuff really is. My cats do seem to enjoy the new finger weapons. Better belly scratches. 🙂
Of course, I get caught after dark on the first day I’m using my new tinted face shield. This ought to be interesting to say the least. There’s a dude across the parking lot watching me as I get my gear on and my bike warmed up. What the hell? Well, I suppose those nails and the new do, all coordinated in team colors, are already working their magic. Another dude pulls up, waiting for me to back out of my space so he can shove his car in. Uh, dude? There’s an empty one two spots down. It’s the American way, can’t risk walking an extra 12 feet and burn all those extra calories.
The dark smoke face shield isn’t all that bad at night and if it wasn’t for that huge pile of bug guts front and center I could see just fine. It’s cold again, so I cruise along tucked behind the windshield with my chin resting on my tank bag. Yeah, going 35 mph doesn’t really do anything for me. But it’s cold, the line is a double-yellow and I’m feeling a little funky about the levers. Those nails act like little tension springs every time I curl my fingers. Eh. This will take some getting used to.
A few miles down the road I make a huge error in judgment. I’m cruising along at 5 miles under the limit behind a car and finally run out of patience. These people really should know that this road has a posted speed limit of 55, but no… the majority of motorists traveling this stretch of asphalt insist on doing 45 all the way through. That’s just unreasonable. There’s gotta be some sort of electromagnetic interference in the area that short-circuits everybody’s need to go 5 over. Oh well. As I reach the start of the dashed line, I see headlights up ahead, but judge them to be of no concern, since they are still quite a distance away. Wrong! As I lay into the throttle my error in distance/speed calculation becomes quite self-evident. I give it all she’s got and get back over on my side of the road just in time, but not before I make the poor bastard I’m passing activate his brake lights. Now I’m slightly embarrassed, so I keep up my speed a while longer just to make sure the dude behind me doesn’t get another chance to read my tag. Gawd! It’s been awhile since I had a brain fart of this magnitude. I’m only human, too. I consider making an unobserved right turn and lose the guy but then decide against it. Hell with it. I screwed up. If he should catch up with me at the next red light and give me a scolding I’ll just have to apologize and tell him that’s a lonely one point for his team since I’m already two points ahead in the stealing of right-of-ways and attempted vehicular homicide by inattentive driving, in the past four days alone.
At the next intersection the light changes to green as I downshift into first gear, so I get back up to speed when a pickup truck turning right onto the street from my right decides to prematurely exit the turn lane and occupy my lane space instead. I swerve into the yellow striped no-zone that divides the two lanes of traffic and immediately get on the gas to clear the danger before I run out of space and find myself in oncoming traffic. Unfortunately, the sand that the county tossed all over the main intersections during our Annual Snow & Ice Day was still there, collecting in all the places where traffic doesn’t disturb it any further. I probably would have seen it, if it hadn’t been for that blasted tinted visor. The rear immediately stepped out, loosing traction due to me being hard on the throttle and I ended up in a violent fishtail.
All I could think of was how weird it felt; as if the bike was anchored by its front end and shaking its rear back and forth; all I could manage to do was not think about it and stare up the street where I wanted to be, all the while musing at how snappy the entire motion really was. I thought that if I hadn’t trained myself to hang onto the bike with my knees and thighs pressed up against the tank and keeping my upper body loose, I probably would have been bucked off. Yikes! I don’t remember really, but muscle memory must have modulated the throttle enough to keep it under some semblance of control until I cleared the sand and made it all the way past the offending vehicle and back into my lane. I found myself turning around in my seat, looking at the dude in the truck, as soon as the rear was back in line and behaving itself. That’s the second time today that someone really envied me my lane space and decided to take it over.
Earlier, on the way to the mall, I had to use the shoulder to get away from another moron, this one of the female persuasion in a huge SUV. Lady, if you can’t see over the damn steering wheel, you should consider downsizing. Seriously.
Thank god for 193 horses and 83 foot-pounds of torque. I freaking love this bike!
Tomorrow I’m going to get my foils done and I’ll have my newly renewed Girl Card ready for Tuesday’s photo shoot with Papa Razzi. Go Team PLD!
It has finally arrived: the moment of truth. I had to, defeatedly I might add, admit to myself, that maybe I need to step up to the beauty counter, flash the plastic and ramp up my game in the skin deep sector. All my preparations and focus have been with my skill development and my bike’s setup. I have never wasted much thought on the “public image” side of things. Yes, it’s easier for girls in motorcycle racing to get sponsorship. There aren’t really a lot of us out there; hence we have an advantage over the boys. And apparently there is nothing that sells bike parts and performance upgrades better than a hot chick wrapped around a motorcycle. If she rides too? Oh hell! The boys won’t be able to keep it in their pants (motorcycles and the wallet, respectively).
It’s about time, I’d say. I’m used to having to prove myself thrice (yes, that is a word ;)) over just to get the same credit as a man does. In the military it was this way, at least in my unit. In corporate America it is this way, at least at my company. And it is like that on the track, too. Sorry, I have to say this, but the majority of men don’t take you seriously until you blow past them in the curves, and then some of these fellas still want to critique your technique. Find fault not with themselves but with you. “You weren’t using the proper line.” or “You’re just making up for your lack of skill with your horsepower.” Say what? Ok, whatever. I just hope that this is just another case of the “squeaky wheel”, that the perception is skewed due to the guys who know better keeping out of it, maybe snicker under their breath at the more verbose idiots of the crowd.
I’ve gotten used to it. I don’t mind it. I just do my own thing. I listen. I observe. I keep my trap shut, my ears open, and I learn. If they underestimate me, then the element of surprise is on my side later when I need it to be. I like it that way. I like it that way in business, too. Go ahead and think I’m a nobody and a little on the daft side, too; dull enough not to get it or too insecure to do something about it. It’s all good in the great scheme of things, even if it bugs the piss out of me occasionally and I want to blow a gasket and set things straight in a manner that is the only way some of these people will understand. But I digress.
Maybe it is my self-confidence that had me cruising along without thought about my apparent lack of girlyness. Maybe it is the fact that I am lazy and when it’s time to get up in the morning to do stuff, I want to roll out of bed and hit the ground running, after I had my two cups of coffee, of course. My skin has always been sensitive, and makeup makes me break out, so I gave up trying eventually. I also can’t stand stuff on my skin that makes it feel icky. Oils, lotions, sun screen, bug spray, I won’t use it. I refuse, until of course the ickiness factor is overshadowed by the benefits the application of said substance would provide. Yuck! Maybe I’m just too much of a tomboy. I’ve gotten away with it, and still do; but as I’m getting older, I realize that maybe I need to start “helping it along” a little.
I need some promo shots for my racer profile and web site and various other projects. And I have a feeling it’s best if I don’t look like I just came rolling in from a track session in 90-degree weather, and had previously changed my tires and flushed a radiator. My skin needs better care, since I spend way more time outside now and my hands are torn up from all the mechanical work I’m doing. I hate wearing mechanic’s gloves. I can’t feel enough through them, so they end up getting tossed eventually.
I stopped by the mall on my way home from work. I walked straight into Sephora, did a little window shopping, got a little sticker shock, almost walked the hell back out. When a lady approached me to ask if I needed help, in a sheer move of spontaneous desperation, I answered: “Yes, I am lost. I have a photo shoot soon, and I need to hook myself up with some skin care and makeup. I have combination skin, yellow undertones, am allergic and don’t like gunky, sticky stuff on my skin. But please take it easy on the bank.”
So she went around the store, me following behind like a lost kitten. Listening to her, trying stuff, picking colors. At one point I must have made the decision to do what I always do in life and go all out, balls to the wall.
An hour later and only $200 short of a full set of racing glass for my S1000RR, I left the store with beautification loot and a promise to let Pat, the lady who helped me, know how it goes and give her a photo for her locker.
“I thought you were going to take it easy on me.”
“I did, girl.”
I rode home and wanted to cry. I could have gotten a Power Commander V with auto-tuning or a GPS lap timer/data acquisition unit or a full set of front-rear sprocket combos for the amount of coin I just blew on “selling out to enhancing my chances of sponsorship”.
I need to incorporate Team PLD Racing. This has the smell of total loss tax deduction about it…