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"Road Trips" by The Old Squid
"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the
Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you may be
swept off to."
Bilbo Baggins
Bonneville, Part 3
A Little Salt in the Wound
posted 12/11/2007
White. White and flat to a distant vanishing point! I’m sitting on a
black bike on a huge expanse of white salt and looking down a 3-mile
path that at the very end is starting to lose itself over the curve of
the earth. This is the Bonneville Speedway. It’s not really a
racetrack. It’s far less, only a 75’ wide path graded into the surface
of a dried up salt lakebed. Every year it’s in a slightly different
location and slightly different direction but it’s always very straight
line. So it’s not a racetrack but as I think about it, it really might
be much, much more!
The simple flags that mark the edge of the track
every 1/4-mile are pointing hard left at the moment. This is a stiff
breeze, stronger than I’d like, but I don’t have much choice other than
to head back to the staging area and wait for another chance. The day
before I’d waited all day only to see my chance to run the bike fade as
a thunderstorm walked across the salt just as I was getting ready to
head for the starting line.
Now I’m lined up here on the course,
waiting my turn with four other riders. I don’t want to give up this spot!
We’ll go one at a time for this isn’t a race against each other and we
meet here not as competitors but more kindred spirits, nervous kindred
spirits who have arrived here at this wide open temple of speed to see
how fast we can go in a straight line. And that sounds so simple but I
would soon find out how far from the truth it was!
And why was I here, not afraid but certainly apprehensive and excited?
Why was I here? Many of my friends had a simple explanation, "You’re
crazy!" If only I had a dollar for every time I heard that before and
during this trip, I could have paid for all of my gas and food along
the road.
Most guys my own age understood this quest. In fact, most
guys thought it was cool. Women my own age accepted it too. Maybe
they’d had enough experience with men’s bull headedness to just give up
trying to understand us and were willing to just let me be. They would
shake their heads and smile faintly then change the subject, but my 20
something friends? They were the worst!
I suddenly had four self-appointed
mothers less than half my age who were berating me for even considering
such a fool hardy thing such as going really fast on an uncertain
surface 1200 miles from home. "What if you get hurt?" they nagged
"Think of your wife!" they said. Well, I did think of her. I thought of
her and thanked her every day for letting me go on this fool's quest for
speed.
So here I am, watching the flags on the boundary markers stand
stiffly to the left as the surrounding storms kick up the breeze. Here
I am at this simple path with four other guys looking down a three-mile
stretch of salt. We were boisterous back in the pits at the staging
area but we are very quiet out here.
I was going to be the second bike
to go in this first group of the day. I watched as the first bike
started out, listening to his engine as it would rev then suddenly
speed up as his wheel would spin on the salt. One last pull on my
helmet strap, one last check of my gear and the bike and I’m ready.
The previous day, Tuesday, I was up early and headed out to the salt
to check in. The bike needed to be inspected and so did my riding gear.
They take this very seriously and the rules said boots must be at least
8" above the ankle. My summer boots were only 6.5" above and the
scrutineer caught that and so I hauled out my winter riding boots I’d
brought as a substitute ‘just in case’. They passed.
Stickers were
affixed to all the equipment and the bike and I were ready to race. I
rode the bike over to where the "Run What you Brung" category was
staging and I put ‘er in line. The courses weren’t open so I took the
time to walk around and look things over.
The current record holder at 350+mph
The Bonneville Speedway and the events held on it are one of the last
bastions of a vanishing breed: the American shade tree inventor. I
expected to see sleek racing bikes, expensive streamliners, and they
were there. What I didn’t expect were the homemade racers, the ancient
motor scooters raced in classes where the records were less than 40
miles per hour! I didn’t expect electric racers or diesel-powered
motorcycles.
What I also didn’t expect were farmers from the Midwest
working on home made racers that they had been bringing to the flats
for over 20 years. There were also antiques that raced year after year
in narrowly defined classes, trying to set new records among bikes that
were old when I was born. The variety was endless
A Harley flathead from the early 50’s
A bike in the new electric class
This old Indian is almost too nice to race on the salt!
The pit area where everyone sets up is just a marked space on the
salt. Cars, trucks, trailers, and bikes straggle along for about a half
a mile. There is no overnight camping allowed so there aren’t any motor
homes and quite frankly, you really don’t want to bring an expansive
aluminum bodied vehicle out on the salt flats anyway. Some years the
salt is dry but some years it’s not. This is one of those ‘not’ years.
six miles back where the pavement ends was an area called the ‘boat
launch’. The end of the road slopes down to the level of the salt and
you drive through a brine pond to head out to the Speedway section. All
the way out this year there are potholes in the access road and the
potholes are filled with salty brine that would make driving in the
ocean seem benign.
One competitor warned me to make sure that my
radiator didn’t fill with salt thrown up by the front wheel. Some
riders hadn’t paid attention to this and had ruined their motors by
over heating.
Lining up for the runs
Back at the starting line, the first rider has cleared the course and
it’s my turn to go. There is a lull in the wind so I head down the
middle of the course, gradually accelerating and feeling good that I’m
getting speed up and the wheel is not spinning. The course is
deceptively wide at first, but as the speed builds past 120, it seems
narrower! Suddenly the wind is back and a side gust pushes me towards
the left hand markers. I steer right but the wind increases in
strength. I don’t really know how much traction I have and I tense up.
On the pavement you simply lean the bike into the wind and keep going.
Out here, I have visions of the wheels sliding out as I lean. The
faster I go, the worse it gets. In the middle of the timed section I
sit up and back off on the throttle. Those simple dowels and flags that
mark the edge look too close and too substantial and so I opt for a
later run with less wind. I keep playing with the throttle and
practicing along the course but my first timed run is a disappointing
118 mph.
Back in the pits, I check for salt build up and park the bike back in
line to run again. While I’m waiting, I wander some more and talk to
the other competitors to see what they were thinking. And I thought
some more about my own decision to race out here, to take these risks.
It wasn’t the first time I’d dealt with this behavioer either. I do
take risks. OK, I know that but even knowing it, why do I continue? Why
are some of us driven to go faster, to jump out of airplanes, to
challenge bulls in the streets of Spain?
On a more serious level, why
are some willing to put themselves in harms way and re-enlist in the
military, others willing to run into a burning building? There are
probably chemical pathways in the brain that describe in fine detail
why some people take risks and some avoid risk. Maybe in the future
we’ll understand risk taking better. For now I just have to accept that
there are differences.
But why haven’t all of the risk takers died out? That’s a question I
can take a stab at. We would expect that risky behavior would quickly
lead to personal extinction so why, after all of these generations, do
we still do it? Why do human societies tolerate and even celebrate it?
If you consider the normal outcomes of natural selection, risk taking
must have a beneficial effect or it wouldn’t still be with us.
Consider that sometime in the past, a small tribe was living in an
isolated village. For generations, the environment has been stable,
food predictable if not plentiful. Those conservative, risk averse
members of this tribe who do everything by the numbers, they harvested
the most grain, they were most successful in hunting. These behaviors
increased their chances of survival and reproducing and so they passed
these behaviors on to their offspring.
Suddenly, the climate changes
and the old crops whither. The game finds new trails. Doing things the
old way only ensures hunger. But in that tribe are a few risk takers.
When no one was looking, they ate berries that were not known to be
good. Maybe they popped a few locusts in their mouths just to impress
their friends. They passed this new information on and the tribe
survives!
Meanwhile, the risk averse members soon organize these new
foods into traditions and pass on the knowledge. Being conservative is
a positive survival trait for the individual but doesn’t help the
tribe. Being a risk taker doesn’t help the individual but it means that
maybe the tribe survives. These two personality types need each other!
Most of you reading this would never ride a motorcycle, much less ride
it as fast as you can on the salt flats but I need you. You are my
partners. You are important to my life. You organize the businesses
that build my bike. You refine the gas and count the money that allows
me to get 1000 miles from home. Some of this Risk Averse tribe are
manning the first aid cars and will help those Risk Takers who crash.
But what do the Risk Takers bring to this large global village? In
times of need, maybe they were the ones who made the discoveries that
allowed the Human race to survive, to thrive, and to get this far.
Fire, iron, electricity! They were the ones who saw something different
and wondered if it had a use.
I thought that I’d have a couple of hours before my next run but the
weather that had almost scared me off has kept many other riders away
this morning too. Suddenly, the staging crew is waving me up to the "on
deck" zone. It’s only been 30 minutes and I hardly feel ready but once
again I’m driving the long, white road to the start.
Lined up and the starter is telling us once more to take it easy and
not gun it as salt lacks the traction of pavement. A homemade sidecar
rig is first off the line. He accelerates gently and gradually builds
his speed to around 70 and shifts into second gear. Suddenly we’re
looking at the front of the rig as he spins 180 degrees and veers off
the course backwards at high speed! The four of us left at the start
are suddenly very quiet as we look back and forth at each other.
Finally I break the silence and say "Well that’s not very confidence
inspiring is it?"
This homemade racing sidecar rig spun out at 70 on his first pass.
The starter looks back at me and drawls "I told ya before Bubba, that
ain’t asphalt, this is salt." Yes, it surely is that.
The second man is away with no trouble, though by the time he clears
the timed mile he’s so far away that he’s almost over the horizon and
short of a massive explosion, we wouldn’t know if anything had gone
wrong or not so I ready my gear again. I’m up next. The starter gets
the ‘all clear’ call from the far end that the course is safe and open.
He points at me and waves me on.
No wind this time but I’d decided to keep the bike in the middle of the
course anyway. I ease out and try to keep the wheel from spinning. I
short shift, shift at low RPM to avoid the peak horse power in each
gear, and by the third marker, 3/4 mile out, I’m in 6th gear and
pulling past 145 mph. I’m hunkered down behind the windscreen and can’t
see ahead real well but the lack of traffic and obstacles makes this a
non-issue.
At these speeds the track narrows again with that warp drive
effect. Things up close are blurred by speed and the faster you go, the
only things you can see clearly keep moving farther away. I notice a
wandering line of loose salt in the middle of my lane and rather than
try to steer around it, I just keep steady on. The throttle is finally
bumped against the stop, full open.
Suddenly the rear end is fishtailing back and forth! At 145+ this is
not a pleasant feeling. I know that I shouldn’t make sudden changes and
I still want to try to work through this so I gently back off and wait
for the rear wheel to hook up again, which it does at 130. I ease the
throttle on once more and again, at 145 the rear breaks loose. I keep
playing with the throttle but can’t push it past 145.
I pass the final mile marker and start slowing down… very gently! This
is no place for hitting the brakes hard, just let air resistance and
engine braking scrub off the speed until I’m below 80 then gently apply
a little brake. I drive the long road back to the pit area to pick up
my timing slip knowing that the 160 mph speed that I had hoped for was
still in the future. Because of the back and forth struggle with
traction, my average speed is only 138 mph over the timed mile.
Disappointing? Maybe for a second then I grin as I remember the whole
experience. The ride down was great, the exciting weather, the look and
feel of the salt flats, the people I met. Hell, these were very
challenging conditions.
A nationally know stunt rider took his 160 mph
capable bike out the next day and only got a 128mph average. Video of
his run shows the backend wagging like an old hound dog headed for a
drive in a pick up truck.
A woman I had talked with the previous day
would get her turbo charged bike up to 200+ later this day. She was on
the long course and it was in a little better condition. Because of
this and her experience, she was able to get her bike past the wiggles
but as she slowed down the engine compression caused the rear wheel to
lock up and spit her off at 175 mph! She suffered several broken ribs, a
punctured lung, and lots of bruises.
Another rider on the shorter
course, the ‘Run What You Brung’ course that I was racing on went down
at lower speed but was more severely injured. While there is no traffic
on the salt, it is far from risk free.
Leslie Porterfield and her Hayabusa before her crash.
Maybe I could have pushed through the traction barrier by just staying
on the throttle. Maybe I could have gone 160 mph. Maybe I would have
been in the hospital 1000 miles from home too. Common sense (is there
such a thing at 145 mph?) won out and I walked away, contented, looking
forward to next year and hoping for a drier summer and my 160 mph run.
Stay tuned. 
Alive and well and looking forward to next year.
This was a great trip and some thanks are in order:
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Thanks to the Honda motor company for making a great bike that can run
170mph and then smoothly run a thousand miles home with no fuss.
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Thanks to BUB racing for a well-run, fun event.
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Thanks to the San Juan Co. sheriffs department for their constant
encouragement.
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Finally, thanks to my Fearless Wife who has tolerated my hobbies for
close to 35 years.
Keep the life insurance paid up honey!
- The Old Squid
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