FLAT TRACK COWBOY: IF THEY ONLY KNEW

The dark side of our sport flies under
the radar of mainstream media.
What would they say if they knew how

many racers have been killed or paralyzed

in the last few years. I can’t name a

more unforgiving sport than ours.

After a miserable night racing

hooligan class at Timonium,
I knew the Buell would never be competitive.
It's no fun getting in the way of others.
With a busy work life,

there is no time to learn to get

comfortable on my 450 either.

They said it might be best to sell
my bikes and focus on writing.
Felt empty when I cut them loose.
By springtime, I couldn’t take the

mind-numbing grind of daily life.
The need to feel alive crept back.
I knew the 1/2 mile at Gratz was soon.
I had to find a ride.

I'm lucky Trevor Monn knows the feeling.

Trevor is one of the good guys of the sport

who tries to help and promote flat

track. (www.trevormonnracing.com)

He loaned me his short tracker

hooligan bike for Gratz. There is always

some rust when you haven't raced in awhile.
Add to that the awkwardness of racing

someone else's bike. Wouldn't want to end

a friendship over a wadded up machine.
I was just two-wheeling it most of the day.
When the flagman held up the two pins,
I knew this dance was coming to an end,
figured it was now or never.
Banging her off the rev limiter

at the end of the back straight,

I backed into 3, but started

running out of steering lock by 4.
For those few brief seconds,

everything is perfect.

There is nothing like the magic of

sliding on pea gravel. So alien after riding

your street bike and keeping your wheels
inline. The metal guard rail looms.
I change my focus point and
look down the straight at the flagman.
Tucked in tight, taking the white flag,
I realize the weight of the work week
and the day has caught me.
Knowing that if I reach for more,
could end my day in the ambulance.
I take it steady on the last lap.
Remembering to thank Him on the cool-off lap.
Racing makes me grateful.