Confessions of An Ice Monkey

CONFESSIONS OF AN ICE MONKEY

Proof that some people will try anything...twice

IT'S CLEAR FROM THE VERY BEGINNING THAT MY PIlot is going to show me no mercy. Absolutely none.

We roll down the berm at the outside of Turn Two on this half-mile oval on the grounds of the Gladwin County Ice Carnival and onto the ice. Terry Libera, a machinist from nearby Gladwin and skipper of this Can-Am 500cc ice sidecar rig, gasses it and runs hard through the gears. By the time he’s hit third, the fog has disappeared from my goggles, revealing two things—one, that Turn Three rapidly is approaching, and two, belatedly, the realization that I'd really rather not be here.

Being a monkey—as racing-sidecar passengers are affectionately called—on an ice hack sounded perfectly wonderful when the idea first was discussed, the sunshine of a 65-degree Southern California winter’s day pouring in through the window of my office at Cycle World. But this—this reality, why, this is crazy! I’d rather be forced to consult with a lawyer.

But now there’s no time for consulting, no time for anything but hanging on and maybe hastily whispering a prayer. This is real life, pal, and Libera has flung his outfit sideways into Turns Three and Four as I realize, almost too late, that I’ve a part to play here. I’m supposed to be hiking out, counterbalancing the hack's fiendish desire to lift its inside wheel and smash Libera and me into the ice. I concentrate, hang on hard to the fan-belt-cum-handle in which my right hand is entwined and tentatively stretch myself out as Libera levitates the chair's left-side wheel about six inches above the ice throughout the entire connected sweep of the corners.

It works! But that means we're now in top gear, whistling down the front straight at maybe 70 miles an hour. Turns One and Two fast approaching. OK. time to get serious: I grit my teeth, hang on. and the instant I sense the revs dropping, lean off the inside of the hack, hanging as far out as I can but getting no closer to the ice than I absolutely must.

Later, less-involved observation reveals the monkey plays a major role in the way an ice-racing sidehack handles and accelerates. To get bite away from the start line, the monk throws his weight over the outfit's drive w heel. To assist on the entrances to ice oval's left-handed corners, he doesn’t just leisurely hang himself off the inside edge of the hack the way I've done; he vigorously kicks himself off. moving hard enough to help the pilot throw the outfit into a left-handed drift. The best hang waaaay out, butt and helmet skimming the ice. hanging on with one hand, relaxed enough to adjust their goggles with the other.

Me? Relaxed? Get real! I'm hanging onto my bouncing, vibrating, shrieking ride for dear life, wondering just what I've gotten myself into. More out of self preservation than anything else, I soon get into the rhythm of things, concentrating so hard I barely hear the Can-Am’s engine. I'm barely aware of the rig’s bucking, twisting and sliding over the ice, barely aware of the track’s straights. All that exists are the corners. 1 heat up, sweating through my layers of coldweather clothing. This is work, this staying alive, this hiking myself outboard at just the right moment, this jerking myself back onboard the instant I sense my counterbalancing act no longer is required.

And then, just as quickly as it began, the ride's over; Libera pulls the rig into the pits and switches off. Bob Anderson, of nearby Bay City, Libera’s regular monkey and his partner in this outfit, runs up and says. “Holy cow, I told him to take it easy! He must have thought that was me on board." Libera pulls his helmet off, grins, says, “Naw, I was just giving him a ride."

Indeed. A few minutes later, my breathing finally slowed but a huge grin still plastering my face, some one asks me, "Well? What did you think?" "That," I say. "Is an absolute blast." The man looks at me wonderingly, shakes his head. "You gotta be crazy." he says.

Uli-huh. Crazy enough to try anything twice. I'd go out again in a minute.

Jon F. Thompson