113 is the new 27.

WERA #113I faxed my membership application into WERA on Monday morning and today I see that they had finally charged the $110 fee to my card. Cool. I wonder if I got my number? Please let it be 27. I want Twenty-freaking-Seven. Two-Seven. Please. Please. Please. Upon checking the racers page by last name, I find myself. I’m on the list… but I’m on the same page with @MsXXFastRR who is WERA #111 (that lucky girl scored herself the next best thing to her own numerical bliss!), since I have been assigned some number that wasn’t even one of my choices. One-One-Tree. Damn! 113? What the heck?!? I didn’t get either my first choice, nor my second or third? Crap! 27 meant something. That was the number I had at the Kevin Schwantz School. I wanted to keep it. It was mine. It fit. I got used to it. I took comfort in its good fortune and confidence enhancing powers. Goodbye my old friend, it’s been nice knowing you. Goodbye 13. Goodbye 37.

Hello WERA Provisional Novice racer #113.

Coincidentally, 113 is one mile over my max speed attained on a 2008 H-D Sportster 1200 Low; way back in the day when I was still straddling Pig Iron and didn’t know what a tank slapper was. I rode that puppy until the poor hog shook her head. “Nononono!” ;P Then something told me that it would probably be in my best interest to slow smoothly and gradually, which I did. I later found out that this was indeed a very smart and healthy thing to do and I shouldn’t have been riding it out as long as I did in the first place.

Oh well, there it is. The 112-mph Story. Good grief! I feel old (senior class racing anyone?). That was a lifetime ago in a parallel universe. I had been riding maybe three months then. A point in time about halfway between a Harley and a ‘Busa. Those were the days. The Days of the Squid. No, not really. Well, yes, maybe a little.

28 months and 35,162 miles ago I was a scared provisional novice rider who almost quit on several occasions and I have finally managed leveling up to wanna-be racer and official (slow-as-of-yet) fastass. 🙂 Next stop: JenningsGP in three weeks, to see a man (Ed Bargy) about a “skill upgrade” and work on some kinks in my riding that are slowing me down…

…and maybe when I get a chance to go back to Barber, I can do something about that coma-inducing lap time of mine. 1:47 to 1:52 isn’t all that bad for a first time track n00b. But I know I have gotten faster since then. I mean seriously, it’s really not inspiring when you’re still playing around between T8 and T9 while Mr. Thirty-Four crosses the finish line on his Saturday afternoon joyride.

I wonder how much it’d set a girl back to drive one of those Porsches they have sitting in the parking lot next to Race Control? That has got to be one heck of a ride through Charlotte’s Web and then through the Alabama Roller Coaster. Probably would have to wear diapers for that one. Weeeeeee! *giggles then nods*

Bring it! It is on. (The truck and the bike, respectively.)


An Acute Case Of The Rocket Crotch

Look at all this roadfaring seafood out here. It must be the Day of the Squid and I was a major participant. Didn’t plan on riding it like a jackass. I was on my way to work, on my day off no less, tooling down the road at speed limit +5, trying to get over being grumpy. This proved a wee bit difficult, however, since I decided to skip real sleep in favor of setting up for the switch back from nights to days. The one time I don’t do my usual thing, the one time I decide to just take a short nap and then get up to work on The Fat Lady so I’ll be nice and sleepy come 9PM… the ONE time… Murphy happens. Murphy. And his asinine law!

5 hours earlier:
My cell rings. It’s a coworker, asking if I could work for her since she was feeling ill and would rather find someone to cover her so she could convalesce. I am her last hope. Here I am, standing in the middle of what probably goes for about $2500 worth of plastics strewn all over my driveway, haven’t had any sleep to speak of, and now have approximately 4.5 hours before I have to badge in and work a 12-hour night. I tell her I don’t know if I can make it due to my present circumstance and that I have no clue how long this is going to take, since it’s my first attempt. She understands, but remains hopeful. I commute to work on my Hayabusa, so I have to get the thing back together before 4:30PM. No sleep for the weary.

I make it. I call her, to let her know and I’m out the door. I close in on the intersection that will dump me onto the ‘Hayabusa Speedway’ (officially known as US-278) with an expedient left turn, and to my delight the light is green, which is a rare occasion. Woohoo! I notice two sport bikes ahead of me in the right lane; they must have been already waiting at the red light. They are ahead of me, leaned into the two-lane turn. The boys are taking it like old coots. I smile. I’m in one of those moods. I get to the turn and I get my lean on and am ready to show them how you ride it like a girl. I’m accelerating out of the turn and pass them in the left lane and get in front of them. I’m back to going speed limit +5, the usual. They decide to pass and haul ass. Whatever, I don’t really care. I have to work on my damn day off. I’m still trying to get my spirits up, since being ticked off isn’t going to change anything, might as well be in a good mood.

A little while later I notice I’m catching up with them yet again. What in the world? I look down at my speedo; yup, still going 60. You have got to be kidding me. They’ve actually slowed down. Oh, well. Whatever floats your boat. I’m going around. Unlike some peeps, I have to be at work, on MY DAY OFF! Just for kicks, I speed up to [an undisclosed number on the dial] to get some distance between them and me and settle back into the less ticket worthy velocity of speed limit +5. Well, hell. They’re right behind me, although the following distance between the two has now increased significantly. Hmmm… Mr. FZ1 passes me and is gone. Hell with this. I’m in need of a little throttle therapy; maybe this’ll turn the frown upside down. I dial it in, don’t even bother to drop a gear, and quickly catch up with Mr. FZ1, but keep a safe distance, and the three of us (I am now in the middle) haul our combined asses up the road to the next red light.

Traffic is getting heavier once we pass Fort Gordon’s main gate, and it’s time for slicing and dicing. Each man (and woman) for him (or her)self. I don’t know how many cagers were pissed off during the making of this entry in the SquidlyPants Chronicles, but I’m sure there were three-digit numbers being dialed frantically on a few cell phones. Calling in a sighting. I pride myself on being able to read traffic patterns and the intentions of cagers around me fairly accurately and therefore stay out of trouble. Knowledge is power. And power is power. I make it to the aforementioned red light first. Ha! The Fat Lady digs this sort of thing and I’m starting to be pretty happy myself. Mr. FZ1 pulls up to the right of me at the line and I have to put it in neutral, flip up my visor and push the pause button on my iPod, because clearly he wants to chat. I turn to him and exclaim with a big grin: “That was fun!” He smiles and nods. “Nice bike.” I point at his silver Yamaha and reply: “Ditto to you.” The light changes and it’s off to the Redneck Races once again.

I stay behind Mr. FZ1 this time, because I just remembered a court date at an as of yet unknown future date and time. I pled not guilty to a High Performance Award and requested a bench trial. Probably wouldn’t look good if I got busted doing the ton while waiting on a court date for a previous infraction. Wouldn’t look good at all. This kind of curbs my enthusiasm, until I find myself on the I-520E ramp. Here we go again. Traffic is hopping this evening and moving along at a cozy 80 in a 55. I like it when the cagers have somewhere pressing to be and get their collective move on. Good, we’re not sticking out too much. Our friendly little race has turned into a high-powered PUG group ride and we’re now moving in unison through traffic. What a hoot! We catch up to another sport biker and now there are four of us.

I have to slow down. I can’t blend in and disappear when LEO decides to take written notice. I’m a chica on a white Hayabusa with a personalized tag. I have cat ears and a tail stuck to my helmet. They know where I live, which is why I could never run; they’ll just meet me at my house and add evasion to the laundry list of traffic violations and I’ll find myself bent over a squad car with my face smashed into the hood by a giant meaty palm and zip-ties around my wrists. No thanks. I slow down to the flow of traffic while getting into the right third of my lane and wave the dude behind me the OK to pass. He takes the opportunity and blows by me, I’m guessing at triplets. They take the next exit, we wave at each other, and I find myself behind the guy we caught up to earlier. He’s now also taking it easy, but we’re still moving about five mile per hour faster than traffic. He also disappears up the next off-ramp. I’m so lonely… oh so lonely. Traffic is light now; it usually is, once you get past this point and I slow down to 60 and cruise my grinning self the rest of the way to my unscheduled work.

I’m a squid! Still a little peeved at having to come in to work on my day off and pretty much ruining the weekend I could have had with hubby, since now we will be on opposing schedules. This falls under emotional riding, which consequently lead to an unwillingness to resist getting caught up in groupthink and turning into a giant squid. Where two or more are gathered in my name a race breaks out. In other words, get a few sport bikes together under favorable conditions and you’ll have mayhem in the streets.

Don’t be a squid.