If you’d asked me during Saturday’s practice session, I would have told you it was impossible. And I would have been wrong.
Saturday’s scorching hotter than hell track temperatures ticked a few painful mercury beads higher. By 8am, it was official. PBIR had seized the moment as surely as an overheated, oil-free engine: PBIR was the new Hell on Earth.
And getting hotter. In fact, it may be fair to say between the time that I finished with the morning practice and the call to line up on the grid for the first race, the temperature had climbed from a million degrees to at least a billion. And a gazillion was shimmering in a heat wave on the horizon.
The first race went well. I was relaxed. The Ducati Forza 848 race bike was running strong and responding well, never feeling pushed or forced. Lap times were solid. It was good.
Very good actually. The first race is warm-up to the Super Twins race which follows right afterward. Super Twins is the race for me and Ducati Forza. I am hanging on to the championship lead, but with three races left in the season, staying in the lead is no sure thing. It is, after all, racing.
And, a good warm-up, followed by a good warm-up race, usually means a good race. Usually. Like I said, it is, after all, racing.
If PBIR was Hell on Earth, Turn 1 had become the Pit of Despair, marked by mass pile-ups, run-offs, collisions, and general racing on greasy, half-melted tires carnage. The Super Twins race would be no different; the race began with a red flag-producing incident at Turn 1.
The second start went off smoothly for everyone. Except me. A poor start meant I was looking at the backsides of my two closest competitors in the Super Twin standings as we entered Turn 1.
I hung behind the pair through the tight part of the track, waiting until we were past Turn 8 and moving onto the back straight where I could open up the 848, to make a move.
I hung behind the pair through the tight part of the track, waiting until we were past Turn 8 and moving onto the back straight where I could open up the 848, to make a move.
And the 848 did move. It picked off the first rider as if the heat had fused his tires to the track. Even better, that particular rider is currently sitting in second place, just behind me, in the Super Twins championship.
The other rider was not to be passed quite as easily. Over the next two laps, I pushed myself and the Ducati 848 harder than I ever have before, finally overtaking him and positioning myself into third place. Not about to let up, the bike roared past the white flag; we were leaving everything on the track for this race.
The tightest part of the track flew by, as I pushed through the turns and on to the back straight, heading down the track coaxing the 848 to ever faster speeds. Bearing down on Turn 9, waiting until the very last moment, braking deep and hard to take the inside line, blocking the bike behind me.
The same bike commandeered by the second place rider in the Super Twins championship standings.
The same light weight bike, which despite my best efforts, had suddenly appeared to my outside.
And then, it all fell apart. It is, after all, racing.
As we reached the apex of the turn, a backmarker, so slow he may well have been riding a bicycle, had planted himself and his motorcycle right on my line. Rider on my left. Backmarker dead-ahead. Curb and grass to my right.
Nowhere to go. All I could do was watch my nemesis take that outside line right around the backmarker.
As soon as it was clear, I dove to the outside, positioning myself just behind my nemesis. Head down, tucked in as small as possible, throttle wide open, I gave it everything the bike and I had left in us.
But he had the drive and it was too late. I had closed the gap to less than one bike length, but he crossed the finish line first and with that, my lead in the Super Twins championship shrank smaller still.
It is, after all racing.
Like every other racer out on the track today, I hate to lose. But even more than that, I love to race. And today, while not a salve on a painful defeat, I come away knowing that I had the best race of my short racing career; I had pushed the Ducati Forza 848 faster and harder than ever before, improving my lap time by more than two seconds.
Perhaps not happy with the order in which I finished, I was very happy with how strongly I had finished the race.
Perhaps not happy with the order in which I finished, I was very happy with how strongly I had finished the race.
I ran the final race of the day more for fun, without sights set on preserving a championship standing. And fun it was, battling other racers, passing four riders to finish ninth, and most importantly, matching my best lap times from the Super Twins race. Winning a sprint to the finish with the final bike I passed was a perfect way to end a great day of racing.
Fastest lap times ever. My best race ever. And the 848 and I arrived home in one piece to tell the tales. Hell on Earth can be a better good place to spend a day. It is, after all, racing.
George