continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 3)
9:43 pm - NYMM is wrapping up their feature. Their 600cc four stroke engines are setting a blistering pace averaging 88 mph. Dust is rolling off the rear tires but I know that it's tackier than ever. I have a resurgence of confidence after my conference with Doug. I decided not to touch the suspension even though the voices in my head were conflicting with my inactivity. Zipping up my drivers suit I started my ritualistic pacing around the car. Last minute checks of important fasteners calms the apprehension. The loudspeaker announces "600 Modifieds to the starting grid" several times. Strapping in once again, it's starting to feel as commonplace as putting on a pair of underwear. I just hope I don't soil it.
9:51 pm - Rolling on the track, fourteen modifieds get into tight formation. The pace car pulls off and all eyes focus on turn four. Rick McGeady waits for the flagger to wave the green and instantly fourteen cars come to life. Clay is spraying my helmet and I grab a tear off with my right hand as my left is trying guide the front tires. Turning into turn one I hug the bottom. It offers the best escape route in the not so infrequent occurrence of contact from competitors in front of me. Moisture is puddling on the bottom of turn two and it slides me up a lane as I pass through it. Angling for the top of the backstretch I blast into turn three a little high. There's no guardrail here and I can see the edge of no return. Slide off this corner and you'll end up at the bottom of a 25 foot hill staring up a steep embankment. I'm shadowing Tyler Wilkens just inches off his rear bumper at speeds in the low 80s. Over the next few laps we are jockeying for space. At one point I positioned myself on the outside of him charging out of turn four only to have to back way out of the throttle when he swung his 900lb gorilla up to the fence almost stuffing me into the front stretch catch-fence. I'm stalking him again. By lap nine, momentum had dictated a rhythm. The track was so grippy that there was one preferred lane and everyone was running it. Ten of us had formed a freight train and each mimicked the runner directly in front. I was really starting to feel the g-forces trying to suck my helmet off my cranium. Meanwhile my hands were cramping. For a brief second I could relax them on the straights. Up ahead in my peripheral Kyle Gardner was making an inside bid for the second position. He failed to clear Craig Beringer as they touched in the apex between turns three and four beginning an orchestrated spin facing in my direction. All this was happening as I was entering the third turn low with every intention of sliding up the track. Their formation spin left a hole open between the two as I was careening for them. Wilkens running two car lengths in front panicked and slammed on the brakes blocking my escape. With no choice I turned the car and applied heavy pressure to the pedal bolted to the master cylinder. I was in a 'slide for life' at almost top speed when I clipped the left front of Wilkens. The impact immediately and violently jerked the car 70 degrees clockwise in milliseconds. My borrowed ride launched 5 car lengths away from my impact point and came to rest facing the outside of the track. It happened so fast I only remember frames of footage that I haven't fully pieced together yet. A few moments later safety workers peered in. The impact had broken the roof tab folding back my lid to reveal inside the cockpit. I yelled through the helmet to check the right rear. To my surprise two officials remarked that it appeared that I suffered no damage. Now to get the roof repaired. The attending track personnel gave up fairly quickly and I was forced to exit the speedway, retired from the main event. As I pulled near the trailer I began to notice the fog that was settling into my brain. Automatic decisions became laborsome. I instinctively unlatched the five point harness and exited. Breathing heavy, I tried to collect myself. I plopped onto the trailer as my thoughts were disjointed and awkward. Standing seemed to force my synapses to focus collectively. I walked to the backstretch grandstands and witnessed an excellent race to the finish as McGeady fended off repeated low side challenges from Mike Keppler and Bryan Mady. At the checkered flag I shuffled back to the trailer. Once there, I never truly stopped moving. Fatigue was increasing exponentially, but I resisted the urge to stop.
9:43 pm - NYMM is wrapping up their feature. Their 600cc four stroke engines are setting a blistering pace averaging 88 mph. Dust is rolling off the rear tires but I know that it's tackier than ever. I have a resurgence of confidence after my conference with Doug. I decided not to touch the suspension even though the voices in my head were conflicting with my inactivity. Zipping up my drivers suit I started my ritualistic pacing around the car. Last minute checks of important fasteners calms the apprehension. The loudspeaker announces "600 Modifieds to the starting grid" several times. Strapping in once again, it's starting to feel as commonplace as putting on a pair of underwear. I just hope I don't soil it.
9:51 pm - Rolling on the track, fourteen modifieds get into tight formation. The pace car pulls off and all eyes focus on turn four. Rick McGeady waits for the flagger to wave the green and instantly fourteen cars come to life. Clay is spraying my helmet and I grab a tear off with my right hand as my left is trying guide the front tires. Turning into turn one I hug the bottom. It offers the best escape route in the not so infrequent occurrence of contact from competitors in front of me. Moisture is puddling on the bottom of turn two and it slides me up a lane as I pass through it. Angling for the top of the backstretch I blast into turn three a little high. There's no guardrail here and I can see the edge of no return. Slide off this corner and you'll end up at the bottom of a 25 foot hill staring up a steep embankment. I'm shadowing Tyler Wilkens just inches off his rear bumper at speeds in the low 80s. Over the next few laps we are jockeying for space. At one point I positioned myself on the outside of him charging out of turn four only to have to back way out of the throttle when he swung his 900lb gorilla up to the fence almost stuffing me into the front stretch catch-fence. I'm stalking him again. By lap nine, momentum had dictated a rhythm. The track was so grippy that there was one preferred lane and everyone was running it. Ten of us had formed a freight train and each mimicked the runner directly in front. I was really starting to feel the g-forces trying to suck my helmet off my cranium. Meanwhile my hands were cramping. For a brief second I could relax them on the straights. Up ahead in my peripheral Kyle Gardner was making an inside bid for the second position. He failed to clear Craig Beringer as they touched in the apex between turns three and four beginning an orchestrated spin facing in my direction. All this was happening as I was entering the third turn low with every intention of sliding up the track. Their formation spin left a hole open between the two as I was careening for them. Wilkens running two car lengths in front panicked and slammed on the brakes blocking my escape. With no choice I turned the car and applied heavy pressure to the pedal bolted to the master cylinder. I was in a 'slide for life' at almost top speed when I clipped the left front of Wilkens. The impact immediately and violently jerked the car 70 degrees clockwise in milliseconds. My borrowed ride launched 5 car lengths away from my impact point and came to rest facing the outside of the track. It happened so fast I only remember frames of footage that I haven't fully pieced together yet. A few moments later safety workers peered in. The impact had broken the roof tab folding back my lid to reveal inside the cockpit. I yelled through the helmet to check the right rear. To my surprise two officials remarked that it appeared that I suffered no damage. Now to get the roof repaired. The attending track personnel gave up fairly quickly and I was forced to exit the speedway, retired from the main event. As I pulled near the trailer I began to notice the fog that was settling into my brain. Automatic decisions became laborsome. I instinctively unlatched the five point harness and exited. Breathing heavy, I tried to collect myself. I plopped onto the trailer as my thoughts were disjointed and awkward. Standing seemed to force my synapses to focus collectively. I walked to the backstretch grandstands and witnessed an excellent race to the finish as McGeady fended off repeated low side challenges from Mike Keppler and Bryan Mady. At the checkered flag I shuffled back to the trailer. Once there, I never truly stopped moving. Fatigue was increasing exponentially, but I resisted the urge to stop.
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