It’s Miller Time!

I want to race at Miller Motorsports Park! Don’t ask me why, I have not the answer. All I know is that if I don’t somehow pull it off this season, I’ll never set rubber on that track. I google the driving directions and as luck would have it, I could pick up my daughter roughly around the halfway point of the trip. She can be my pit crew again.

20120112-112655.jpg

Not that she earns her keep. Last time she was with me she wouldn’t even pay for her mother’s gate fee. (Yeah, I hit my daughter up for twenty bucks!) The dudes in line behind us busted out laughing, overhearing our lively discussion on who was to pay for the bracelets. Happy Mother’s Day to you, too! Then she has the nerve to write ‘Crew’ on the sign-in sheet! Oh, hell, girl! You’ve done it now.

“Crew, huh?”
“Well, yeah…”
“Good. I’ll put you to work then!”

[astonished silence, then:]

“What? Whyyy? I don’t know nuthin’…”

“You made your broke ass mother pay for your gate fee!”

[another round of chuckles from the back of the line]

She sits in her chair in our pit, looks pretty and texts the entire time she’s there. Every once in a while she takes care of the tire warmer duty, but I don’t think she even puts the phone down for that. I do believe I saw her without her phone once when she came to Barber with me last year. She was too busy freaking the hell out when her Mom didn’t come into the pits after the practice session had been red flagged.

This time she’s gonna take a turn driving. Wonder if she would want to go, it would be an awesome opportunity for her to do her photography. Wonder if Margie was up for it? Girly road trip of epic proportions. And maybe I could talk MsXXFast “111” into meeting me there, so we can finally put the who’s faster question to rest. Time to get that Taser cannon installed on the bike… 😉

I’m marking my calendar and keep my fingers xd… May 18-20, 2012.


At First Sight: I <3 2012

This year is taking off like a rocket! Literally (more on that shortly) and figuratively. I have just received word that the 2012 racing season is pretty much mine, if and how I want it. Win or lose, one thing is for certain: You, my lovelies, have opportunity to be with us every step of the way. Green to Checkered. No more unfinished business or unscheduled sabbaticals, since I have promised my racing buddy and sister in crime, Margie, that my literary prowess will be on it like an accident lawyer on a meatwagon, or keeping with the theme: On it like a crash truck on Miss Busa’s Beemer. Pinky swear.

In return, she’s going to pull off one hell of a project in 2013; if we don’t kill ourselves first. 😉

Margie and Em exiting Turn 4 at JenningsGP

I didn't hear her coming, but I sure as heck had to watch her go... You shall pay for this impudence, girlfriend. (BTW, this is how 'Stupid' starts.)

Now back to dancing around in my living room singing praises to the God of Speed…


2012 WERA Racing Schedule

Around mid-December I find a letter in my mailbox from WERA. Hmmm… what in the world could they want? OMG!!! They are revoking my racing license! “Dear Miss Busa, we regret to inform you that we have no choice but to invoke our right to revoke your racing credentials. Based on your past performance, especially the incident at Road Atlanta…” I tear into the envelope with one slightly clammy finger and am relieved to find a reminder to renew said racing credentials and the next season’s schedule. Phew! I get to dress up in leather and play in one-way traffic for another year. I suppose WERA still needs what little money I have left worse than the possibility of my single-handed attempt at ruining their good name. 😉 Welcome to another year of addiction:

2012 Michelin National Challenge Series

16-18 March: Roebling Road Raceway; Faulkville, GA

20-22 April: Talladega Gran Prix Raceway; Talladega, AL Cancelled (Will be rescheduled)

18-20 May: Miller Motorsports Park; Salt Lake City, UT

7-10 June: WERA Cycle Jam at Road Atlanta; Braselton, GA

29 June – 1 July: New Orleans Motorsports Park; New Orleans, LA

25-28 October: Grand National Finals at Barber Motorsports Park; Leeds, AL

2012 WERA Sportsman Series (Southeast)

18-19 February: Talladega Gran Prix Raceway; Talladega, AL

16-18 March: Roebling Road Raceway; Faulkville, GA

12-13 May: Barber Motorsports Park; Leeds, AL

19-20 May: Jennings GP; Jennings, FL

2-3 June: Roebling Road Raceway; Faulkville, GA

7-10 June: WERA Cycle Jam at Road Atlanta; Braselton, GA

29 June – 1 July: New Orleans Motorsports Park; New Orleans, LA

21-22 July: Roebling Road Raceway; Faulkville, GA

25-26 August: Talladega Gran Prix Raceway; Talladega, AL

5-7 October: Road Atlanta; Braselton, GA

WERA Grand National Finals

25-28 October: Grand National Finals at Barber Motorsports Park; Leeds, AL


A Message From Your Sponsor

Dear Miss Busa,

It has come to my attention that you have become infamous with my colleagues at work. As I was gearing up for a nice  little ride on my motorcycle; you know that thing that works IF you keep it upright at speed? Anyway, as I was getting ready, Bobby walked over to me to say hello. The following is the conversation as close as I can recall:

Bobby: “Heya, Joe!”

Me: “Hey, Bobby! How’s it going?”

Bobby: “Pretty good. Great weather to ride, huh?”

Me: “Yes it is. Where’s your ride? I see you are cruising around in that big new Ford of yours.”

Bobby: “Yep, but I’m about to start riding my Hog again. The gas prices are killing me.”

Me: “Uh-huh, save some of that green.”

Bobby: “Got that right! Say where’s our girl, Crash?”

Me: “She wrecked her bike. Guess following me to work in the truck isn’t as much fun as riding.”

Bobby: [looking incredulous] “She wrecked it again? How freakin’ fast was she going this time?

Me: “A little over 120 miles an hour.”

Bobby: [now chuckling] “Guess the roads are safe again …  for a little while.”

As you can plainly see, you are reinforcing your reputation with your latest antics at the track.

This is a desperate plea to you. I am begging you! When I said to come back with your shield or on it, I didn’t think you’d take me so literally. I want you to win, but gee whiz, I thought you’d do it in the customary way, you know: first across the finish line. Well, I guess if you’re going to be Number One in crashing, we should lobby WERA to include a Crash Class in the award ceremonies.

“… and Miss Busa wins the Golden Turd for the most impressive and expensive lowside this weekend.”

I have written the acceptance speech for you, too:

“I’d like to thank WERA for putting on a great weekend; the corner workers for schlepping my bike out of the gravel trap yet again, I know you guys are getting tired of it, so thank you; many thanks go out to the medics who have conveniently relocated the ambulance to wait near Turn 1. You guys rock! I would also like to thank my sponsors: BMW Parts Division, FedEx for their awesome overnight service, Bondo, and Blue Cross & Blue Shield of Georgia. Last, but not least, I need to show my gratitude to my mechanic; however, I’ve done this so often, I’ll have to start working on my own shit.”

Anyway, my point is: congratulations, you’ve earned renown points. I love you, Babe, you keep doing what you’re doing, if you aren’t crashing, you aren’t trying.

Signed,

Mr. Slow,
Your loving sponsor

Ach Du Heilige Scheiße!

Ach Du Heilige Scheiße!


Fast Pixels for a Slow Girl

The race pics are up. Feast your eyes on the awesome work of Kendrick Kirk who runs MotoHD.net and was our track photographer for the weekend. I have a feeling though, that Kendrick would have rather been out there with us playing on the track than being stuck behind his Canon. I always buy the track photos to support the guys and girls who give us the opportunity to get some kickass pictures of ourselves doing what we love to do. Besides, you get your lens into way more places with a media pass than Mr. Slow ever dreamed of. He, of course, makes up for his shortcomings with the size of his lens. To the Slow One’s defense, he did  catch me with my knee down. 😉

WERA at NSS 2011


Get ’em out Cold, ride ’em Rough and put ’em up Wet!

Race Report (Part 2 of 3)

Miss Busa’s Inaugural WERA Race:
Saturday Practice

Up at the crack of dawn. I drag myself into the shower and after getting ready, Mr. Slow hands me a steaming cup of hotel coffee. I love you, man! He knows what Miss Busa needs. The Zombie can finally rise. As we head out the door, I am assaulted by a blast of cold wind and the drizzle immediately adds to my already sunny (insert heavy sarcasm) disposition. Good gawd! I’m awake now! I shiver in my Under Armour HeatGear. Damn! I should have went with my original instinct and packed the ColdGear also. I’m in for an interesting day, I’m sure of it. Cold and wet! Still. It looks as if the storm had blown through, as they had predicted, but I wasn’t expecting it to remain this breezy and cold. What was I thinking when I checked the weather report?!? Guess I’m not in Georgia anymore. Brrrrrrr! It’s freaking cold out here. Not even 50 out. The sky still looks foreboding in places, the tattered remains of a storm that made for a restless night. Mr. Slow informed me that I pretty much kept him up all night by waking up shivering several times.

I keep my spirits up because I am in good company and am looking at a weekend at the track. I’m not even nervous. I’m just excited. The nausea, however, returns as we pull into our pit and I notice the hustle and bustle of people busying themselves with various tasks in order to get ready for their races. The unmistakable sound of race engines spinning near red line barreling down a front straight tells me that a practice round is already under way, and I stand by my bike feeling somewhat lost and sick to my stomach. Yes, I’m really here. This is it. The moment I have been working towards, waiting for, spending ungodly amounts of money on, is finally upon me. I feel cold and distracted. At least it quit drizzling for the time being. Margie tells me to go register and find out where they set up Tech. I groan, bitch about being cold and drudge down the middle aisle of the garage, making my way to the south end of the building. I walk slowly, hoping I would spot the object of my given quest before I have to ask some stranger for directions. Joe is behind me, reading me like a book, so he hits up the next person for the info. Tech in the front, registration in the next building over. I breathe a sigh of relief. I can’t help but wonder if Margie didn’t do this on purpose…

We find the registration desk in the Press/Media building and get in line to get our remaining paperwork done. Since I pre-registered online, all I have to do is fill out a transponder rental agreement. I trade the signed form for a transponder and a bracket to mount the thing to the Pirate’s left fork leg with a couple of cable ties. I have to get in the other line to add the Heavyweight Senior Superbike Novice race to my lineup so I can use my Kevin Schwantz graduate coupon that entitles me to a free first race entry. Just like the dealer on the corner. The first fix is on the house. After that you’re hooked and paying through the nose, bankrupting your children’s children for just one more…

Once I return to the pit, we get busy checking the bike over one more time and adding the number plates to the lowers… or at least the two of them try. It’s cold, it’s damp and the vinyl just won’t stick. They manage to peel the paint off on one side while repositioning the background of the numberplate, so now there is a huge primer-colored rectangle where there once was metallic black paint. Margie finally ends up glueing the infernal things to the sides of the bike using a glue stick. The things are wrinkled horribly, but legible. Hubby bets that they’ll be gone after the first race. We shall see.

They are announcing my practice group again. Shit! First call. Margie tells me to calm down and breathe. We haven’t even put the sponsor stickers on. I’m looking for the anti-fog/water repellent stuff for my face shield, but I can’t find it. I crawl all over the truck, digging around, but come up empty handed. I’m cold. My hands are cold. I’m shivering even with Margie’s windbreaker over my leathers and I’m on the verge of freaking out because the bike isn’t the way I want it.

Off to Tech to get my bike inspected. Of course, I had forgotten to take the lowers off. I ride back to my pit and Margie and Joe remove them for me. I ride back to Tech and get in the line that had formed in my absence. Bike checks out fine, but I need my receipt, to verify payment of my entry fees. Crap! I offer to run across the garage to my pit to quickly fetch it, as my left foot executes a familiar movement but fails to find its target. I realize with embarrassment that I don’t have a kickstand anymore. Doh! The tech dude chuckles as I tell him that I’ll be right back. Out the other side, around the corner, and back to the pit.

WERA Tech Sticker

Would you look at that, we passed Tech 🙂

The receipt is tracked down in my now disheveled folder and then the whole folder is crammed down my neon-green Ed Bargy newbie shirt by Margie. Take it all. Arrrgh! How am I gonna get that out later? Off to Tech, yet again. The third time’s apparently the charm and I get slapped with two Tech Stickers, one for the bike and one on the chinbar of my helmet for the gear.

I end up missing the damn practice, and now there’s plenty of time to get everything sorted, so my inner peace is restored. But I’m cold. I can’t think straight and I’m whiney because I feel miserable and out of sorts.

I end up finding myself stuffed into the Sponsor’s truck, because I’m pretty much worthless in my current state, somebody shoves a hot cup of black coffee into my paws; courtesy of the racer from across the way. “Say thank you, Miss Busa. Good girl! ;)” My pit crew tells me to quit my incessant whining, drink my joe and stay in the truck to warm up. As my core temperature slowly rises into operating temperature I’m starting to feel better. Margie eventually joins me and we pass the time by talking shop. Practice for Group 2, Round 2 is announced and we hop out of the truck to get me ready to rock and roll. I’m feeling nauseous again. They dress me, put me on my bike and send me out to do or die. As soon as I roll out of my garage it starts raining. Motherhumper!!! You have got to be kidding me! As I make my way to pit road, I start getting cold again. My hands feel slightly cool and the wind is blowing in a way that would make a Nor’easter jealous. I realize, as I sit at the track entrance getting drizzled on and shivering, that I’m not enjoying this at all. I can handle the cold. I can handle the wet. Combine the two and you have found Miss Busa’s personal version of Kryptonite.

When we finally get the go ahead from Race Control, I crank up the bike, put it in gear and slap my visor down as I ease into hot pit lane. My former preoccupation with my bodily discomforts is replaced by a mental focus that isn’t quite as narrow as usual, but nevertheless it is there. The nausea that usually accompanies my anxiety has also disappeared. I settle in and concentrate on the task at hand: getting around this thing without wiping out.

As I come around a long lefthand sweeper, the first turn is upon me, I miss it, and almost run through the orange cones that block further access to the NASCAR oval. I grab a monster hand of front brake, come to a nose-diving halt and have to walk the bike back a few steps to enable me to make my turn (a freakin’ u-turn?) without knocking over any of the cones. Great! I hope nobody saw that. Of course they did. I smile at the corner worker who is standing behind the containment wall at the apex of the ‘V’ that passes for Turn 1. Evil. My visor is fogging up, and the rain water is not evacuating fast enough. Translation: I can’t see shit. As I enter Turn 2 I get passed by a Gixxer. Hot pink. Pony tail peeking out from under the helmet. I just got passed by a girl? Wooohooo!!! My usual enthusiasm returns with a bang. I get on the gas; then it is gone as soon as it had come. The realization of having cold tires on wet pavement at an unfamiliar track and a visibility of close to none has a tendency to reign in my enthusiasm. Damn. For a moment, I wasn’t cold anymore.

I settle back down and try to navigate the track as best I can. The racing surface is rough, has cracks, the pavement seams that run in parallel are slippery and there is stray gravel in some of the corners. This track is shit. Well, the infield road course portion is, at any rate. By lap two I’m ready to pack it in. I don’t even collect any reference points. I’m shivering, I can barely feel my hands, and it’s getting a little moist in some places under my leathers. I have to continuously fidget with my face shield to keep the fog from building up. Another couple of victims to the “packing light THIS time” strategy: my helmet’s fog-free shield and the breath guard.

I’m distracted and preoccupied. Not the way to ride by any means, and a potentially disastrous way to race. Every time I pass Pit In, I am tempted to stick my leg out and call it quits. This shit isn’t fun. I can’t believe I’m putting myself through this AND I paid handsomely for the privilege! Good gawd, woman! You are nucking futs.

Nevertheless, I keep fighting with myself and keep pushing on. I am relieved when the checkered flag finally comes out. Not soon enough, buddy, not soon enough! The last lap must have been the fastest yet, since I was suddenly in a real damn hurry to get my frozen ass the hell off this shitty track. For crying out loud, there is a huge pothole in one of the turns, right IN THE RACE LINE!

Back in the pits, I get reprimanded again for whining. This time (I think) I voluntarily retreat to the sheltered comforts the passenger seat of the pickup truck has to offer. This is crap! I hate the weather, I hate the track. If I wanted to get blown by the winds, I’d join the damn Navy! (This sounds way more appropriate coming from a scruffy looking, muscular, bald dude with swallow tattoos on his forearms.) 1.8 miles of redneck rough ridin’. Hell, they have better (free) roads in South Carolina, and that’s saying something.

NSS Track Map

Finally, I get to look at some visual aids...

But I still don’t regret coming, despite of the weather reports. I just wish my first race weekend would have started a little more glorious on a picture perfect day… at BARBER!


Paint it… a Brighter Shade of Yellow

Apparently I rode it until the paint peeled off. Faster than a speeding ticket? No. Faster than a top coat with just a hint of polyurethane? Yes. And here I thought I wasn’t going fast enough. I can’t leave it alone, I have to at least make it look good from a fair distance, let’s say 12 feet or so. The motion blur will take care of the rest. I needed to fix my competition numbers on the tail section anyway, and Tech informed me that I needed to get the front number fixed before the next race, they want them straight across. Well, I suppose they’re letting a ton of people slide repeatedly on that one, since I’ve seen plenty of race bikes with number plates that aren’t quite regulation. I don’t want any shit from Tech, so I’m not going to fight them on something as simple as a number plate. I really don’t need the white glove treatment before I had my first cup of Joe, I’m not a morning person and my mouth will just get me in trouble.

I’m not spending any more money on damn paint and the tools to get it from the can to the substrate. I already spent way too much of my racing cash on my textured special FX primer cover. I should have just went to Maaco and had them apply some shitty-ass one-step automotive coat, I just don’t have the patience for applying paint properly. A girl’s gotta know her limitations.

Enough already. It’s just a tail piece… I don’t even know why I bother to post this up… because it’s one of those little aggravations that come with racing. This is starting to look as though I do have masochistic tendencies… good grief. Somebody should have told me…

Tail Redone

NOT ART!