The Crash Report; ATVMotion, Konowa, Round 1, 2012

The Crash Report;  ATVMotion Round 1, Konowa 2012

The first race of a local series is a special thing.  It carries the weight of A1 with the excitement and anticipation of prom.  Who will show up? Have I done enough training, and will anyone give me a corsage this year?  Of course the answers are obvious, everyone will be there to laugh at you, and I spent the off season curling pints instead of dumb bells.

I plan to go solo to this race, but am bailed out by JT who wants to try this team racing thing.  Sounds fun and I’m sure a video titled 2 Guys 1 Bike would sell on the internet.  My 125 is a thing of beauty today.  It got all new plastic when it was built in 2007 and I was rocking the same tires that I put on 9 months ago.  The only real good thing is that the engine I pulled the week after the final race of this series last year got rebuilt and put back into the chassis on Saturday morning before the race.  Its perfect in other words.  We load up and hit the road, but not before hitting up a Sonic for some breakfast burritos and the obligatory Rt. 44 Dr. Peppers.  I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I had never farted before that fateful day in March.  Sonic breakfast burritos are the devil wrapped in a flour tortilla, and I have had constant gas ever since and it has stuck around worse than syphilis.  I have never been good at taking directions and rely solely on the power of instincts and spotty dial up speed cell service to get us to the race.  I take 2-3 detours, and doing 75 down a bumpy dirt road unsettles the breakfast burritos in my stomach.  JT is whimpering for me to slow down as I drive one handed down the dirt roads while yelling at my phone.  I scoop and score a fart or 3 and he spends the rest of the trip hanging out the window with his goggles on.

We roll into the race and I am amazed at the amount of people who have turned out.  At this race last year I only remember myself and 1 other rider being on the start line together.  Maybe a handful of others were there in different classes.  It is nice to see some people out here supporting the local series, no doubt trying to get ahold of my number 1 plate.   We go to sign up and are dumbfounded as to what to call our team.  JT finally stops bragging about my amazing gas and comes up with the best one, and its worthwhile to tell you how it came about before saying the actual words.  See, JT has a motorcycle shop, vintage and pitbikes mostly.  I come in and work there from time to time, usually  only doing my best impression of a beloved Canadian friend of ours and telling JT he is butchering whatever it is he holding at the time while drinking coffee and farting.  We started to make an RC track behind the shop and JT’s girlfriend kept complaining that we were always “back in the woods playing with each other’s wieners”.  Well the best punishment for slander like that is just run with it like fatty after a turkey leg.  And so Wieners in the Woods Race Team was born.  The lady at sign up is amused, and misspells it in the computer.  Keeping it real.

JT sits on my YZ, figuring to hate it with every fiber of his being.  He is a lot bigger than me an despises any motorcycle that isn’t red or 4 stroke.  He grins a little, and I know he is hooked on the feeling as soon as I adjust the levers for him.  I beat the levers into position with my bare hand like a boss.  We flip a coin to see who going to start the race and JT just knocks the coin out the air and hands me a helmet. His cat like reflexes surprise me and I reluctantly go to the starting line, but not before asking him for the 63rd time why he doesn’t have any knee pads.  He says those are for gay guys and people who crash, neither of which is him.  I roll my eyes and whisper to my bike.  It fires up like a scene from The Dirt Bike Kid and off we go.  At the start line it is mayhem in the back where the teams start from with people constantly switching lines and playing grab ass.  The only matching gear sets in sight are Metal Mulisha and Fox, and their numbers have 3 digits, some even have letters!  Welcome to Spode-ville, population; everyone on these rows.  When the flag finally drops for what seems to be my row I’m already in full on panic mode.  I really want to pull a disappearing act on the rest of the team racers so that I don’t have to worry about JT.  He has told me a few times that he isn’t slow, but that usually means someone is only quick enough that watching them ride doesn’t induce instant laughter, so I ride hard, fast and long, as usual.  I come through the first turn with the holey doing it right, foot off the peg and a wheel in the air, mullet flowing NFG style.  I spot part of the row ahead of me doing some sort of mating rituals or playing motorcycle polo out in the field and quickly by-pass 30 yards of track and half of them.   Much of the first lap is spent getting two for one deals passing people, kicking whoever doesn’t move quick enough, doing bubba scrubs in and out of the canyon sections and generally being more awesome than should be legal in a local race.  I emerge out of the woods and JT is just snapping his helmet on.  I decide I haven’t had enough fun and never let off as I pass the pits.  Midway through the second lap I make a pass for third place overall.   Yeah, 40 riders in 8 miles of trail, just another day at the office, wieners in the woods style all over the place, slingin’ it like spider man.

When I come around for the second time, JT is giving me the universal sign for you’ve got a huge pecker, or lead, not sure which.  I hand the bike over to him in the pits, taking our time, gassing up and enjoying the scenery with sips of wine interlaced with casual conversation.    I almost tear up as he leaves the pits.  I’m positive that his life will never be the same after riding an amazing YZ125, and I’m worried for my suspension.   I spend most of my time laying in the shade, eating grapes being fanned by moto-hoes that got lost on their way to Reynard Raceway.  My slight worry turns to mild panic and frustration as I wait for JT to come back around.  I saw him go into a section but it was taking an awful long time for him to re-emerge, and I start seeing lapped people I know he was in front of come by.   He finally returns to the pits looking pretty tired and the bike is tweaked.  Seems he forgot how to ride and threw the bike down a hill after running out of steam.  Apparently the bike and he needed a nap afterwards.  I hop on and try to make up ground but it’s a lost cause.  We’ve slipped to 4th overall and stay there the rest of the race.  During JT’s next outing I send the moto-hoes away and spend most of the time farting and getting things packed up around the truck.  The burrito is really getting to me now.  I really love the Konowa track and the whole series could be split between here and Stillwater and I would be fine with that.

After the race, we load and up and crack a cold one.  A hard days rockin deserves a brew and we ain’t widdlin no sticks here boys.  We gather round for the trophy presentation and the same lady that loved our team name obviously didn’t think she would have to say it over a PA system.  We cheered for ourselves as she whimpered the words and toasted like kings.  It was a good day at the races.

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