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!
Mr. Slow, who is my personal PR manager (he brags about his wife behind her back) and track photographer (he takes pictures wherever he is, just so happens he found himself at a race track with a camera in his paws and bored out of his mind), has finally uploaded some pics to his site.
When he sent me the link, the first words out of my mouth were: “Just 43? You’re not done yet, I see.” His reply was: “No, baby. I am done. That’s the cream of the crop.” I beg to differ, but he has standards, whereas I do not. A serial killer puts more thought into choosing a memento than I do with track shots. As long as it isn’t blurry, I’m hanging onto it.
I paid $40 for the official track photographer’s CD, and it only had 22 photos on it. I purchased it for two reasons: I am a photo whore and I wanted to compare the quality between the track photographer’s shots and Papa Razzi’s. Papa Razzi won hands down. Where the track photographer had to divide their attention between everybody on the track, my husband only concentrated on me and later on also included a friend I had made at the school. Isn’t he sweet?
He said it basically came down to equipment rather than skill of the photographer. They used an older body but a $10K telephoto lens. Papa Razzi can’t afford pricey glass like that, because he has a high-performance woman on his bank roll, so he made up for the lack of optical zoom in resolution. He probably will tell me I have it wrong, but that’s how I understood it.
At any rate, check out Papa Razzi’s photos from the Ed Bargy Racing School and track day weekend at JenningsGP in Jennings, Florida. Tell him what you think. I think they’re awesome and competitive with some of the other photographers out there. But I’m about as biased about the quality of his photos as Mr. Slow is objective on the subject of how fine my rear end looks when it is hanging off the bike.
I don’t think I’m going to make it. I feel unsure on my feet and generally unwell. My head hurts, I have sleep-deprivation induced nausea and I have to go to the doctor to score some medicine if it is indeed an ear infection. I have worked on prepping my bike all night. It was slow going since I kept having to take breaks to rest my body. The bike is not even ready yet. I still need to change the oil and flush the radiator to replace the antifreeze with distilled water with a properly measured shot of Water Wetter mixed in.
But first off to the see my doc. I almost fall asleep in the waiting room. Must. Stay. Awake. I feel shaky inside. My name is finally called and after enduring the nurse and her insistent need for vital signs I am sent to my room. I almost doze off waiting for Doc to put in his appearance. He finally does and as I straighten up to greet him a wave of dizziness hits me. I hate that. It throws me off balance and makes me feel icky. I call it “vertigo” but that’s not the right term. I explain myself to the man, he gives me a diagnostic rundown then tells me it’s my allergies that have caused fluid to buildup “in there” and that’s where my dizziness and momentary loss of sense of balance come from. He prescribes me antibiotics, don’t forget your doctor’s note, and be on your way.
Mr. Slow is trying to help me get the bike ready, but I’m too addled in the brain to form a complete sentence or make sense enough so he could follow what I’m trying to tell him. I have’t the energy. We end up yelling at each other and I’m so angrily exhausted now that I tell him where he can go and that it isn’t JenningsGP with me. I don’t need this shit, I’m flying solo. He disappears into the bedroom to get some sleep, since he, too, has been up all night at his job. Somebody has gotta drive. But he can’t sleep since we’re mad at each other.
Kiss and make up like a couple of zombies and back to work. I can’t get the damned oil filter off the bike, it takes two frustrating trips to the auto parts store to get a tool that actually works. My sleepy anger finally gets the thing off so the rest of the oil can drain out. I clean the cavity that accepts the screw-in filter, replace the oil drain plug gasket, screw the drain plug back in after cleaning it, torque it down and resecure it with safety wire. I screw in the new wrench-off K&N filter, hand tighten it as instructed, safety wire it using the hole provided and dump in four quarts of Motul synthetic race oil. When I get to the last quart I find I’m too tired to check the level half-way through the bottle. I crank up the bike, let the engine circulate the oil, shut it off and put in the rest. Four quarts out, four quarts in. Logical. I don’t exactly know if four quarts came out, since I spilled a bunch of it because my catch pan wasn’t big enough to cover the area between the drain bolt and the filter. Arrgh! Now I have to clean this mess up. I don’t have the oil spill stuff they have at work. It looks like kitty litter and is absorbent as hell… kitty litter… hmmm… I have some of that. I go inside and get a few scoops of Tidy Cats and it does the trick quite nicely.
On to the radiator flush. I can’t get the damned clamp off the hose coming out of the water pump. Lowest point on bike, only place I’m reasonably sure of that it’s a radiator line and not an oil line. I’m shooting from the hip here. Yikes…
I hate being so weak. And I hate hose-freaking-clamps! I am getting frustrated again. It’s going on two o’clock and I have yet to pack! I am saved by Joe who apparently got a power nap in. He gets the hose off and runs to the auto parts store again for some anti-seize. We get the radiator flushed and replace the antifreeze with Water Wetter mix.
Note to self: Sweep up kitty litter before you flush the radiator. The stuff turns to muck the color and consistency of wet concrete; and the whole point was not to have it end up in the sewer system. At least it wasn’t but a small amount. Crap! happens when you’re in Zombieland.
It’s almost four o’clock. I’m now feeling like death warmed over. I think I might be seeing things… I am starving, I hadn’t eaten since the evening before. I am dehydrated. The dizziness is getting worse.
Joe sets up the ramps and once they are properly secured I ride my bike up into the truck. Yes, I know. No riding bikes up ramps unless you are a professional on a closed course. I’m too short, my feet don’t touch the ground once the front wheel is a little ways up on the ramp. I do not trust myself to be able to hold the bike on the incline, so I just ride it up and get on the brakes right before I engage the wheel chock to make sure I’m properly aligned.
Now you know why I can’t get the blasted thing down on my own. I can’t walk it down, I would have to shove off and roll backwards across the angle where my feet cannot reach. That freaks me out. And I’m neither strong nor coordinated enough to walk my bike down, while standing to the right of it, trying to hold it upright and manipulating the front brake lever.
Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a race trailer? All my friends have toy haulers, I must make amends.
After securing the bike, I take a shower, pack my clothes and personal stuff and we’re off to the races. Which race, you ask? The race against the time the gate closes. If we don’t make it there before then, we’re sleeping outside on the side of the road. We still have to stop at “Little China” to pick up extra tie downs and a few other essentials, including the medicine my doctor had called in. After inhaling a veggie burger meal from Burger King and downing a bottle of water and my Diet Coke, I curl up in the passenger seat and try to sleep.
Sick and tired and I’m going to go do what? Yes, I seem to have the Darwinian gene: “Hey y’all come watch this!”
First off, the design is not mine. The winged biker chica with her silk scarf flying, riding what looks to be some vintage goodness with comfy highway pegs is DianeT’s design. Diane is one of the core group of ladies at the We Ride women’s motorcycle forum. I blogged about how I came to host the board not too long ago. I just added the wording and tweaked it into “oval sticker” format.
I wanted to give something back to the ladies who are supporting me in my desire to race motorcycles. They cheer me on, support me, and pick me up off my sorry ass when I fall. They, as my husband, won’t take no for an answer. They let me rant and rave. They are an awesome group of ladies who all have something to give, in their own way, to the motorcycling community. They make me proud to call myself a biker chick.
I will slap this baby on my S1000RR as is proper for a racer to do with her sponsor stickers and hope that I won’t disappoint.
This one’s for you!
Without my husband, Joe, I wouldn’t be where I am now. Not in motorcycling and not in life. He has been, and continues to be, an awesome force behind realizing my dream and actually getting the courage to take the first step, and then another, and another after that. Without him I wouldn’t be racing. Without him, I woudn’t even be trying. He is my greatest supporter, emotionally and financially. That is why he is my first, and favorite, sponsor.
Joe is a wannabe photographer as I am a wannabe racer. With one major difference: he actually has a chance to make a living with his passion, to be his own boss, to shape his own creative vision as a businessman. Unfortunately, he also has a job that requires him to work horrendously long hours with hardly any time off. Two partial days, a Tuesday and a Saturday, pass for his weekend. Between his job and helping me with my racing endeavors it seems that he doesn’t have time for anything else.
He has his first wedding gig in March. He is nervous and he is excited. He tried to get out of it, but in the end the groom had the better argument and he agreed to shoot the event. He has always been the go-to guy for any of the family events: be it a Christening, First Communion, or a 50th wedding anniversary. He takes his camera everywhere. Our family is about sick and tired of “Papa Razzi” sticking his lens into everybody’s business. But they really do appreciate the results later. 🙂
He has also dabbled in sports photography, mainly children’s ball games. Just to hone his craft, to learn how to cope with different challenges such as an indoor basketball game under fluorescent lighting or fast action stills with a telephoto lens at a summer Pee Wee baseball game. And he’s good. He has an eye for composition. He takes the kind of photos that parents want 8x10s of to frame and put on their desks. He captures those “Yeah, that’s my baby!” moments perfectly.
He has also done product photography for a leading pharmacy chain, and has taken group shots of their employees for the “meet our team” wall photos.
Why am I talking him up so much? Because that’s what I’m supposed to do. I stand behind him, as he stands behind me. He’s my sponsor, he gives me tires and a ride to the track, I give him advertising. 🙂 Besides, if the man doesn’t get the pressure put on him by me throwing business his way, he’ll never get off his duff to update his website and work on his various projects when he does get some time away from his multiple other obligations.