My first race weekend was one full of surprises and wide-eyed wonderment. I went to see my first motorcycle race just a few months earlier, in the fall of 1989 at Summit Point Raceway. I liked what I saw there: They raced new bikes, they raced old bikes, they raced all kinds of bikes. When I saw a female rider come in last place in her race, I said to my friend, somewhat stupidly, " I could beat her". Bam ! The gauntlet was thrown down and a challenge was issued. "Prove it", he said.
At the time, my street bike was a '73 Rickman Honda CR750. I was talked out of racing that big, heavy machine in favor of something less intimidating. That bit of common sense advice may have saved my life...and the Rickman from certain disaster.
I knew my father had a 1967 Ducati 250 in off-road trim in his barn, so my buddy Matt and I went to check it out. We swapped the dirtbike bars for clip-ons, added a racing seat and new tires. Matt was working at a shop that restored old British cars in Wilmington, Delaware and we spent many nights there that winter dreaming of what fun we would have. Very little mechanical work was needed, so we finished our work, added safety wire and number plates and I was set.
On one cold, windy March night, we loaded the bike into Matt's truck and headed to a nearby thoroughbred horse racing track that had closed to make way for a new mall. We lifted the bike over the guardrail and fired it up. Wow, it was loud! I climbed onboard and tried to get used to the Ducati. I'd never ridden anything quite like it. It seemed very agricultural in the way it shifted as well as its heavy controls compared to the Honda I'd ridden. In reality, they were very fine bikes once properly set up for racing and usually class winners in the right hands. We were getting ready to take some laps on the track when we heard sirens and saw the flashing lights of the security police move in from all directions. Pre-season testing had come to a close.
That first weekend, we drove to Summit Point Raceway near Charlestown and Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. We set up camp and prepared for race school the next morning. It began with class room instruction from Roger Lyle and his crew from MARRC. They organized and ran an accredited racing school that taught all you needed to know to survive your first race. The actual races were either run by WERA of CCS at the time.
A few hours later, class broke up and we put on our gear and headed to the skid-pad for training. It was only then that my folly became apparent. Everybody was on new, or at least, somewhat new, modern bikes and I was on the '67 Ducati. They pushed the starter button, I bump started the bike, then I started it again, and again. Geez, this was more like boot camp, me running like mad in my used oversized leathers. Phew!
More class room instruction followed, and soon it was time for our 'mock race'. We headed to the grid and prepared for the start. My heart was beating so fast I thought I'd die before the green flag was dropped. Sweat dripped down into my eyes, I blinked and off we rode, down that long straight and into turn one. Anybody who has raced the Summit Point track, also known as 'Slippery Point' over the years can attest to the ever-changing quality of surface and traction. The turns that had only one line, which bumps to watch for, etc. At the time, I didn't know any better and just assumed all tracks must be like this.
The novice aboard his Ducati 250 about to lapped by the expert rider "Ace"
Coming down the hill into a ninety degree left hand turn for the first time at race pace, I misjudged my speed and braking. I ran in way too deep, passing most of my classmates on the way in. I thought I was going down for sure. I didn't crash though, and rode on, finishing mid pack by the end. Not too shabby for an old bike and my first race. Afterwards, my new friends and I learned the art of 'Bench Racing'. The lies flowed while we bathed in the afterglow of competition. Amazing how fast we thought we were. Well, that was it then. I was hooked and couldn't think about anything else but racing from then on.
The little Ducati lasted for a few more races before my new friends suggested to me that I needed a quicker, more modern mount. A used Yamaha RZ350 was sourced and the then real fun began. I found out I really, really liked two-stroke motorcycles, but more about what that bike led to in the next post.
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