And the Pigs Began To Dance
AND THE PIGS BEGAN TO DANCE
NO PROBLEM." THEY SAID. “IT’LL BE A PIECE OF CAKE. boring, even. It’ll be easy, just like going in a straight line. Really.” If it were going to be so easy, I wondered, why did they make me, the new guy, go first?
I thought that each time I went out on the track I would be standing at death’s door ringing the bell, but this wasn’t the case. Sometimes, in fact, this record attempt was the most fun I have ever had on a motorcycle, especially when Ron Lawson and I were riding close together and continually passing one another. Other times, however, were some of the most frightening moments of my life. When the blue GSX-R developed a bad case of the wobblies and Paul said we should ride using one hand, I began looking in the flight schedules for the next plane out of Laredo.
They caught me before I managed to sneak away, and convinced me that they had the problem fixed, and besides, the winds were slowing down. The worst of it still was that the north end of the trackwas the fastest, windiest and roughest, so the bike and I engaged in a nasty, 145-mph pas de deux each time around the north side of the track.
The night riding didn’t get any better and for some reason was not quite as exhilarating for me as it was for the other guys. I felt as if my head was sticking out of the space shuttle’s window whenever I dared peek above the windscreen. And when the Texas attack pigs started to dance on the track, I volunteered for pit-crew duty.
But then, the pit crew had its unique dangers, as well. One member had to be a kind of target for the incoming bike to make sure that it would stop at the right spot. I felt like I had a target eye on my bellybutton each time a bike came in, and I just knew that the brakes would fail and I would forever remain childless. Furthermore, the guys in the pit never got much of a break. It seemed as though every time one bike would exit the area, the other bike would enter, leaving little time in between to replenish the quick-fill gas cans and listen to the rider’s rantings about the happenings during his tour of the track. Without the pit boys, though, the record attempt would have been just that, an attempt.
At breakfast the day after, Steve Thompson suggested that we do it again next year on bigger and faster bikes. Well, Steve, I would love to, but I have dirt to scratch and eggs to lay that day. —Camron E. Bussard
