Practice

PRACTICE

Jameson. A Road Rider Like You and Me. He Raced Against Himself. To Meet A Curious, Indefinable Standard Born of Personal Commitment.

J. STEPHAN JOHNSON

IN THE BEGINNING it is just fun and nothing more. But there is an element of fear from the start. And fear must be dealt with. You can't avoid it because it's a kind of seed which grows and attaches to everything closest to one's being-the ego, the self, pride.

On this fair early morning of a midwestern spring, Jameson sat with his helmet off feeling the blushing silence that comes after the noise, vibration, and cold wind have died away. Ahead of him was the practice road, set aside informally for the obvious reasons of remoteness, good curves, and good surface. He sat and let the excitement and uneasiness build. The ride to this point had been pure fun with no nervousness and no anxiety. But his stopping here was the beginning of a contract with himself. From this point to the end of the road everything would be different.

It began ten years before with the automobile and followed the classic pattern. First hesitance, elaborate care, and strict observation of rules and procedures. Then gradual familiarity. Then suddenly just moving the car about was no longer enough.

So it was for Jameson and two others who formed an odd little club. They didn’t race against each other or against the clock. They raced against a particular curve, and there were several of them. None allowed speeds over 70 and all had a clear view around. Jameson was not suicidal nor were his buddies, and all shared about the same amount of youthful carelessness. This carelessness did not extend, however, to blind corners and a total dependence on fate.

They simply went out, each as he found time or occasion, and tried to round a particular corner faster and in better style than his friends. Speed was read from the speedometer for an instant before and immediately after the turn. There was no frantic braking at the entrance because there was no course to cover in the shortest time, only a turn to take quickly and gracefully. The car would be slowed to a speed which, depending on nerve and desire, would be a likely gamble for that corner, and accelerated through.

Now you must understand that there was never, never any lying about corner speeds. It was much too important a thing for that. They would never dream of taking credit for a speed which they did not achieve. The only thing that mattered was having achieved it, not having it said that one had.

For Jameson, the intervening years had brought a change much like the one he experienced after he first began to drive. Except now it was a motorcycle instead of a car, and now it was solitary competition against a road instead of against a friend’s corner speed. The earlier association with the others might have strengthened his resolve for each new attempt. But now he had no such support, no one to measure himself by, nothing to satisfy but a personal commitment.

“It’s time to start,” he thought, and pulled on the tight-fitting helmet, holding the wings out by the straps but bending his ears anyway. A few adjustments here and there, tugging down the jacket, tightening the gloves. Engine already warm. Press the button and let it idle. Press down into first, hesitate a moment, clutch lever out gently, briskly to second, full throttle to third, then immediately to fourth at 60. Sliding easily down this long, narrow straight. No point in hurrying yet. “No damn protection,” he said to himself. “Go off the road and splat, into a tree.” Starting to feel the fear now, feel it getting cold around the belly. He shivered. This wasn’t like it used to be in the cars. No similarity at all. Bikes are vehicles for solitary expression. They do not invite companionship, forgive mistakes, or keep you warm. “They give you thrills,” thought Jameson, “and opportunity to find out about yourself. No, that’s not right. They force you to find out things about yourself whether you want to or not, and then they give you a chance to prove or disprove those things.” Like being afraid, but keeping it down because it makes you ride awkwardly and makes you sick.

First turn coming up now. Time to start concentrating. The bare trees close along the road cast long shadows that crossed the surface at right angles. The light of the early sun flickered between the trees across his sunglasses, disturbing his vision. This long corridor and its first turn were always more difficult early and late in the day. Down into third and down to business. Bend lower, accelerate, and catch the near point of the arc through this medium-fast righthander. On it. Leaning over. More, more, not enough and out across the center line. Clumsy. Embarrassed. Angry. Trying to play this game in only one lane. Hoping for the lyric expression of speed, balance, and control which comes with graceful riding. Accelerating still in third, no time for fourth, and into this left-handed twin to the first. Fine, but could have been faster.

Now onto a fourth gear straight, speed climbing, miserable vibration disappearing as revs run to 9000 and rest there singing loud and strong, steady as a rock. “Crazy 450s,” muttered Jameson, “weren’t meant to run below eight grand.” He experienced a strange stillness at this speed, like being suspended, wheels off the road, a gyroscope on a string.

Coming up to the very worst curve, an off-camber, decreasing radius oh-my-

God fishook. Must brake hard for this and go through in second. Too much speed and he would have to brake in the middle of the turn-which here is nearly the same as getting off in the middle of the turn. Jameson waited, held himself back, then braked hard while shifting to third, now to second, beginning to bank, too much brake, rear end snakes to the left and Jameson is off the brakes, hanging on grimly no longer caring about line, grace, or showing skill, just trying to get around without falling and he did. “Goddamn rear tire,” said Jameson. “Goddamn thing wears flat on the bottom so you have to heel it onto the sharp edge.”

He was cussing out loud but it didn’t help his confidence. He was ashamed. He had caved in on that curve and now he had to face the rest of the road knowing he’d caved in. It took about ten good corners, he felt, to make up for one chicken-out and there were only four left and no straight for relief, just a short interval to shift to third for a nicely banked left-hander which he took well but too slowly. “Damn it to hell,” he thought, “why do I always come out feeling I could have gone ten faster? I must relax. Must go faster. Can’t stand this fear. Hate being ashamed. I must, must go faster.”

Next was a high speed S-bend preceded by a gentle curve to the left. There was a clear view ahead. Here it was possible to use both sides of the road. Jameson had been through at 80 once while chasing, and catching, a car which could easily out-accelerate his bike but could not handle this turn. He determined that here, for sure, he would make up for the disgrace by increasing his earlier speed. He started to prepare himself as he descended the downhill straight before the bend. “OK. Now I know I’ve taken this at 80, and I felt then that there was something left. If I get the timing just right I think I can go through at 85.”

Descending at 70, easing it up to 80. He knew he would have to show 90 on the dial to be doing a true 85. Accelerating into the gentle left-hander. Impossible to make a mistake in this turn but easy to set up wrong for the S. Across the center line, far left to the edge óf the road, pulling it hard how to the right to touch the late apex of the right-hander, then sitting up and yanking hard on the bars to throw the heavy bike through the curve to the left. He felt it start to yaw and instantly he was down, the bike tracing gentle spirals down the road, Jameson sliding, then rolling, feeling the shock and hearing the terribly loud cracks as his helmet struck the blacktop, then coming to rest in the grass just off to the right.

He lay there in the heavy silence staring up at the blue morning sky and laughed quietly to himself.