All I wanted was gas

I left the apartment Thursday morning with a simple plan: head east down Interstate 10 to highway 177, and circle counterclockwise around Joshua Tree National Park. I figured it was a little less than 150 miles and that I'd be back in time to go for a swim before cooking dinner. The forecast was for 26 degrees, sunny, no precip expected. I was wearing shorts and a T shirt underneath my mesh ballistic pants and jacket.

Things took an interesting turn when I tried to gas up after leaving the Interstate. The first gas station was closed, and the second one no longer had pumps out front. I went in and asked the girl behind the counter where the nearest place to get gas was, and she said "There's a place a couple miles down the road, I'll call and see if they're open today". That didn't sound promising, but my only other choice was to backtrack down the Interstate 20 miles, which meant it would take me 45 minutes just to get back to where I already was. Whoever it was she called was open, and she gave me the following directions: "Go 3 or 4 miles down the highway until you see the sign that says Chuckwalla Valley, turn right, and just follow the road to the gate. They'll sign you in and send you to the pumps" Sign me in? Hmmm. I didn't know where this was leading, but my curiosity had been piqued, so down the highway I went. And found this:

While I was taking this picture, in the distance I could hear the high pitched screaming of motorcycle engines being pushed to the limit. It's TRACK DAY!!! I signed the waiver at the gate and received directions to the pumps. While I was gassing up I could see half a dozen bikes tearing around at high speed on the large road style course. When I was done I parked next to pit row and wandered around. I was up on the bleachers watching the last rider doing laps when I saw him go down in a lowside slide on a corner and disappear into the desert in a huge cloud of dust. When the dust settled I could see he wasn't getting up. It took me a minute to realize that nobody in the pits knew he'd gone down, but when I started shouting and pointing there was a sudden flurry of activity and a couple of trucks went tearing out to give the guy a hand.












He was okay, by the time they arrived he was up on his feet. Limping, but moving under his own power.

After he and his bike were back in the pits a couple of guys came over to thank me for alerting them to their friends plight, and of course, we wound up talking motorcycles. I was about to take my leave when one of them asked if I had ever done any track time. "I've done FAST Riding School back home," I replied, "but never any racing."

"Fast?" The guy said. "With Michel Mercier? Is he still around?" That started a whole new conversation that attracted a few more people, and then the first guy asked "As long as you're here, would you like to do a few laps?"

Would I!?!?!? Do bears crap in the woods? Do skydivers dive from the sky? Reluctantly I pointed out that my bike wasn't track ready, and I didn't have the proper gear. "We can fix the bike up in a few minutes, and you look like you're about my size." Fifteen minutes later, with the tank bag and seat back bag removed, the radiator antifreeze replaced with water wetter, all the lights and speedometer taped over, wearing a borrowed leather racing suit and boots, I was pulling onto the track.

They sent out a pace bike to lead me around the track for the first couple of laps and show me the racing line. "The third time you go past the pits he's going to pull away, don't try and keep up with him, just go at your own pace." The child leading me around was on a bike half the size of mine, and he didn't even look old enough to shave yet. I was so wound up and excited it's a good thing he was there otherwise I probably would have slid out in the first turn. We did 3 laps with me desperately trying to remember everything I had been taught at FAST, and fervently wishing I had spent a lot more time last summer running the Eastern Ramps and working on my cornering technique. I played Simon Says, following his line as well as I could and doing my best to imitate his technique. I was just starting to relax and settle into it when the kid pulled away. I was giggling in my helmet as I slid off the seat, leaned the bike over, and extended my knee towards the ground going into turn One. I had no illusions about my technique or speed, nor did I care. Exactly 6 months ago I was lying in a hospital with a broken neck, today I was on a racetrack in the California desert going to beat hell. I could not possibly imagine life getting any better.

All I wanted was gas.