So there I was standing in the desert somewhere in late 2009, when some District 38 racers came by going up that hill, (Decider) right at the base of Superstition Mountain. It climbs up and then turns hard right. I watched some pros make it look easy and then as we got towards the end of the pack, the fun really began to happen, I was actually scared for some of the riders. Make a long story short, that is how I hooked up with D-38....Googled ya and came in contact with a guy named Mark Baker. And that was our introduction into desert racing...
The Front Line B by Rayzee
ecoming good at your craft is not as easy as one would think. I have been in many sports through the years, and although there were numerous plays or moments or shots I could daydream about, it still was all just wishing that I would get good enough to give her a go at a whole other level. I guess it always took more work than I was willing to give to a sport to make that happen, or maybe I just was not that naturally talented, “of that I am not sure”. Motorcycle racing has always captured me. I remember looking at the old motocross mags, with well known riders flying through the air, gear on from head to toe, and freshly strewn moist dirt flying off in the background. How can a kid not love that? Roger DeCoster and his competition were tearing up the tracks at the time and I was just mesmerized.
There I sat, the Jeff Cady Race of 2010 season, about to see if I could pull
the trigger, kick my bike over and show the world what I had from 30 some years past. I still felt young, but I had gained about 80 pounds and I noticed that kicking my bike over was getting harder for me at that age. Not the kicking part, but the reaching the position to kick. It was quiet now. All eyes on a banner. I had those butterfly feelings churning through my stomach and I wasn’t even on the line taking off. Watching that front line explode off the starting line was like smacking me upside the head. I heard a little voice saying, “Are you crazy?!” I looked over to the sideline where my girlfriend was watching and thought, “She’s here to watch me die.” God help me.
Fast forward in time and a few races were now under my belt. I had survived, shown intestinal fortitude and was starting to feel as if I belonged. Mark Baker had said I would love it, and I think about 5 minutes into the earlier Jeff Cady race, I was hooked. I really was happy that most of you knew how to handle your machines and had finally realized that you did not want to run into me anymore than I wanted to run into you, thank God for that. All year long I raced, worked my way up from Beginner to Novice, to finally the much coveted front line running in the Amateur class. It was a big day for me. Much bigger than any one noticed, but to me, getting to that front line was as big as making it into the Motorcycle Hall of Fame. I was there, I had apparently earned some kinda right to be there, and I was going to wear my badge proudly. I had joked with my second line friends that I would stop about 50 yards off the starting line, look back and give my nod of some kind of appreciation for what they had helped me earn through struggle and strife in a year of racing. Some kind of good feeling thing that I had only made it up there cause they had helped sharpen my sword. I also joked that getting a few minutes head start on them would also be kinda nice. I never did stop! Just could not do it. There is something about racing that brings my blood to a boil. I cannot kill even one second of time, never mind some foolish nod to the “stone that sharpened my
sword” idea. It is game-on when the banner goes down, and even though I know that many of you are much faster than me, I have some sort of built in time bomb that says GO GO GO! I’m as stubborn as a mule at that point as there is only one objective, GET ACROSS THAT FINISH LINE AS FAST AS POSSIBLE!
I guess what I have been trying to say is really quite simple. I ride up to that front line start as proud as any rider ever could. I am grateful to the men on that second line who pushed me to get there and hope to see them all there soon as each one achieves his right into passage. It is easy to take things for granted as I see riders 30 plus years younger tearing up that front line like it is natural to be there, but for me approaching 50 years old, I think I am going to savor this awhile. It may be the finest hour of my life.
The last race we had I had wrote that Justin Morgan had passed me like I was standing still. I felt a little foolish, head bent down low to keep the wind resistance to a minimum, throttle wide open trying to get all I could out of my machine, handle bars slightly quivering as top speed was obtained and just when I had this big proud feeling, Justin goes by like I was a kid on a tricycle. My young friend, I know you are tremendously skilled and we are all proud of our D-38 racers that are fast, but I do have a bit of advice: Never ride with a suitcase with 80 pounds of luggage in it, it slows you down real fast.
Best of luck boys, time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future!
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