I
found myself sitting against a board wall looking at the backside of a haybale ; one that was supposed to provide a level of safety in case a racer went down in the curve . My 750cc flat track racer had slid into the rectangular obstacle , launching me head over heels into a stable , 20 metres away . Seconds earlier , I ’ d made a last-ditch attempt to pass the leader as we entered the straight on the county fairground ’ s half-mile oval . The speed had been carried past the checkered flag , I ’ d won the race , but my reward , was the inability to reign in my steed before turn one . I had the rear tyre all hung out , and could have made the turn , except for the placement of that one isolated bale , marking the edge of the track . It was a stupid mistake , as I had already won the championship in my vintage class and didn ’ t need to be in this non-sanctioned event . My ego got the best of me and left me with a twisted , broken foot . My wife came to me as a corner worker was lifting me . “ What are you doing in the weeds ?”, she ’ d asked . Fellow racers helped me load my bikes into the 2x3 metre trailer , as I loaded up on painkillers to make the drive home .
My thoughts were concerned with what my employer would say , we were in the final release of a critical project . This episode was the last straw , and I resolved never to race or ride motorcycles again . This was the year 2000 , Becky and I would soon celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary . I was 53 , my dreams of walking with my bride on sunny beaches when we retired were in jeopardy . She didn ’ t have to say anything as we travelled back to Louisville , Colorado . She was always lovely in that way , letting me wallow in my pain and thoughts . I could read it ; the writing was on the wall or more to the point , on the haybale .
It seemed every decade would go by where I would get injured or feel too much guilt tying up time and resources away from my family , after which I would sell all my bikes . This time was different , and 14 years went by without a bike in my man cave , that is , until a friend was in need .
Russ , a younger man came by one day , very desolate . He shared how his dad and he would go trail riding over the many passes around Ouray , Colorado , every year for the past 30 years . His father had died 20 months prior , and Russ was sad but determined to head south , solo . He had an old Honda XL350 , which he had ridden since he was 18 .
“ I don ’ t think it ’ s a good idea to be riding alone in the mountains ,” I mentioned . “ Why don ’ t you come with me ?” Russ replied . “ I ’ m 66 . Becky would kill me besides , I don ’ t have a bike ,” I declined .
TRAVERSE 66