100 Octane 03 By Katzmarek --------------------------------------------------------------------- Author's note. This is a work of fiction. It may not be used for profit without the author's express permission in writing. If you're looking for wall to wall sex then I'd suggest you don't bother reading this. I *can* promise you an interesting story with the occasional spell of passion, however. The story is slow, but does heat up in later chapters. --------------------------------------------------------------------- (Part 03) Steve Kelly seems shy around my brothers and Simon Hardy. Karlie tries to engage him in conversation but he answers in monosylables before staring back down into his beer. "You boys went very well today," Karlie tells him. "Yep, not bad." "Going down tomorrow to watch the 250's?" "Nah... day off, mate." "I'm going to check out the classics race, I hear Bob Coleman's entered that Aermacchi," Wolfie contributes. "Yeah, don't you just love the sound of those old singles?" Karlie says. "Plenty of Manx Nortons," Wolfie says, "Gold Stars, G50's, AJS 7R's and Reg Button's Velocette Thruxton." "Aw, that's a beauty," says Karlie, "not a speck on that bike. Better than when they rolled it out of the factory..." While my brothers enthuse over vintage motorcycles I notice Simon's gone quiet. He's no longer trying to grope me and sits wearily watching my brother's faces as they talk. He gradually flickers to attention, straightens in his chair and says, "Think I'll be getting along... bit tired..." "How are you getting back to the motel?" asks Wolfie. "Walk... nice night... walk off the bourbon..." "Yeah, you'd better watch that stuff," says Wolfie, concerned, "it'll sneak up on you. Have a glass of water." "I'll be ok..." he mumbles, getting to his feet. "Yeah, well, take care!" He gives a little wave as he stumbles to the doors. After he disappears Wolfie shakes his head, clicks his tongue. "Poor bastard's got a crush on you, Helene." "As if that wasn't obvious," I reply, "he's only been leaning all over me for two hours." "Well, you'd better straighten him out, sis." "I thought I was pretty obvious," I respond, "how does he need it, written down in triplicate?" "Well you encouraged him..." Wolfie reacts. "The hell I did!" "You were all over him at the Carlton, back home." "Oh bullshit!" "Yes you were!" As Wolfie and I set into an argument, Steve Kelly pats me on the shoulder. "I'll leave you to it," he says. "No..." But he insists. I ask him to drop by later to my room for a nightcap and a chat about old times. He tells me he might, it all depends on what Kevin Coburn and Rod want to do. "What? You're their keeper?" I ask. "Nah," he replies, "got to hang out with them... they're me mates." "Ok," I tell him, "I might see you later?" "Yeah..." He wanders off. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Some time later Wolfie has moved onto the subject of mum. "The trouble with you, Helene, is that you only ever think of yourself, always have." "Aw don't start on that one Wolfie." Karlie is trying to play mediator, like he always does. Ernie pretends nothing is happening, again like HE always does. "Well for Christ's sake, what did you do when I told you mum died? Went straight on to a bloody race track!" "So what was I supposed to do?" I protest, "I was in Japan!" "Well Giancarlo said you weren't prepared to miss out on championship points." "He's a bloody liar... it had nothing to do with that." "It's a wonder you could understand what he was saying, Wolfie," intervenes Karlie, "especially on the phone." "There's another guy you fucked around with," snarls Wolfie. "WHAT?" I respond incredulously, "I've really had enough of this..." I leap to my feet and start towards the door. Wolfie's still raving. "Go on, piss off. It's what you do when you can't stand the truth." "I can't stand YOU at the moment, brother." "Aw, get fucked!" "You too, arsehole!" I crash through the doors to the astonishment of the bar staff. --------------------------------------------------------------------- 'What a way to end a brilliant day' I think to myself. I throw myself onto the bed, still in my clothes. Despite having been drinking I'm completely sober. Wolfie and I had been arguing so much tonight that my last drink lay forgotten for half an hour. I notice there's a bouquet of flowers on the dresser. I check the card, it's from Simon. I don't know! I didn't consciously flirt with him, maybe I just sent out the wrong signals? He's a sweet guy but not my type at all. Then again, what is my type? It's not something that's particularly preoccupied me. I guess the physical stuff is fairly important, but above all I like a sense of humour. That kind of wry, laconic stuff really gets me going. Giancarlo was beautiful, too beautiful for a guy. He was also egotistical and way too intense. Additionally I found his casual sexism just too much to take. He was never short of women, either, but it seemed to me they were mostly your classic 'groupie' type. No, Giancarlo liked his women in the background and to keep quiet, and woe betide if they upstaged him. I have to admit I kind of like the Aussies. Most of the riders I met were so incredibly well-built, they made the Europeans look like boys. Besides their bodies, they have this natural earthy humour that sees everything as a bit of a 'lark.' The only thing I'd change is their desire to drink every bar dry between Perth and Port Pirie. Kevin Coburn is a possible exception. He IS, though an exceptional bike rider. At Oran Park he blew out his front tyre at 250kph. He brought the bike to a stop and rolled it into the pits. Now that takes incredible upper body strength, I doubt there'd be many riders who could control a bike in those circumstances and at that sort of speed. In the pits I heard him tell his crew chief, "Mate, I think it's time we changed our tyre sponsor." Now THAT'S wry humour! --------------------------------------------------------------------- Saturday morning I'm awake at about 10am. It's another bright, cloudless, summer's day. I never did have that nightcap with Steve Kelly, I didn't really expect him to turn up. I have breakfast brought to my room. With Prestco's picking up my expenses, I don't feel inclined to go down to the dining room. I'm on to my second cup of coffee when I receive the first phone call. "Helene? Roger," the caller announces, "sorry I wasn't there yesterday but Gordon tells me you broke the course record." "By .06," I tell Prestco's CEO. "Well that's marvellous," he says, "well done! We have three other Yamahas in the top 6 too. It's been a good day for us." "I'm pleased for you, Roger," I tell him, slightly sarcastically perhaps. "Have you seen the final grid yet?" he asks. "No," I admit, "I got a bit carried away with the celebrations, I didn't think to check." "Well," he says, "you've got Steve Kelly on the outside." "Steve?" I ask in surprise, "where's Coburn?" "3rd, right up your date. He had a disaster of a second lap, apparently, ran onto the grass off the chicane. The other Honda guy, Rod Donaldson is on the outside of him." "That's not like Coburn," I tell Roger, " he doesn't usually make that kind of error." "Something put him off concentration. Better have a good start, Sunday," Roger advises, "he's always very quick off the line." "Fifth and sixth?" I ask Roger. "The two Dunlop guys, Don Fleet and Kieran Ridgeway, we supplied the bikes and support. As I said, it's a good result for Prestco's." "Kieran's good, " I say, "maybe he'll be able to box Coburn in till the first turn. The Hondas are very quick in a straight line, at least in Europe they were." "In Aussie too. With those wide open circuits, Honda ran us very close, much closer than in Europe. Of course we didn't have you and Giancarlo..." "Flattery Roger? Not like you?" "I mean it, Helene. You're the best, I'm sure you can pull off a win." That's right Roger, tell me the entire company's fortunes depend on me! As soon as I hang up the phone rings again. It's my brother Karlie, apologising for last night and telling me not to worry about Wolfie, he's been in a foul mood for a week. "Maybe he and Karen aren't getting along," he suggests. "Don't make excuses for him, Karlie. He's always had these grumpy spells, you remember?" "Sure... but. Oh, what the hell... I'm going with him to watch the classics this afternoon, I talk to him then." No sooner do I jump under the shower than the phone goes again. I wrap a towel around and pad, dripping, back to the bedroom. "Helene? It's Steve Kelly, what are you doing?" "Taking a shower, you?" "Thought I'd pop over," he says. "Where are your mates?" I ask him. "Kev's gone to see some family over here, Roddy's playing computer games in the lobby. He'll be there all day. Want to hang out?" "Where do you want to go?" "Dunno. Do you know if they hire surfboards?" Steve asks me. "Black's beach? I don't know," I tell him, "I've never been surfing." "Check it out?" "Why not? give me half an hour." "Sure." --------------------------------------------------------------------- An hour later I'm standing in a surf-pro shop while Steve inspects a row of surfboards. He looks pretty good in a track suit, I think. Hair, bleached blonde, eyes concealed behind Raybons. Every inch the surfer dude. I've decided to go in 'mufti' also. Usually I feel compelled to wear my sponsor's advertising on my T-shirt or cap, but today I go for a billowy beach top and knee-length shorts. On my head I chose a straw hat with a long red band and, like Steve, sunglasses. I hope I don't look too much like a 'beach sheila.' "Hey, this one's for you," he announces, showing me a red-white-blue board, "see, it's even in Rotol's colours!" "I'm not getting on that thing," I tell him, aghast, "no, you get wet, I'll pose on the beach." "Can you swim?" he asks. "Kinda." "Then I'll show you how to catch a wave, C'mon!" Steve Kelly loves surfing almost as much as motorcycle racing. He won't take no for an answer and soon I'm carrying the damn surfboard down to the beach. "Is this you're idea of team orders?" I tell him, "trying to drown me." He smiles, a row of white teeth across his suntanned face. "Surf's small here," he notes, "you should try the Reef, back home. 15 footers, curls beautifully about 100 yards out." "You'll tell me what that means sometime?" I ask sarcastically. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Steve's very attentive and stays close as I learn to paddle out beyond the break. Once committed I'm determined to get the hang of it and Steve shows me how to rise over the waves without being tipped off. The surf is low and we have to wait some time before Steve announces there's a suitable wave arriving. I miss it completely and he paddles back out to me. "Piddled out, that one," he says, "don't you have any decent waves in this country?" he adds in frustration. "Wrong coast, I think," I tell him. "Must be," he grumbles. By early afternoon, I've learned how to stay on the board and at least catch a wave. I've even managed to kneel, although I'm not confident enough to stand yet. All in all, I'm really starting to enjoy it and before long I'm discussing with Steve about buying my own board. We pick up a couple of kebabs and sit on the beach watching the other surfers. Steve puts lotion on my shoulders, his touch is gentle. "You're fair," he comments, "don't you ever get out in the sun?" "In Europe your whole day was planned for me. What with the 'superstar' bullshit, it's difficult to get around in public." "I guess," he replies, "you're quite toned around your shoulders and arms, do you do weights?" "Some, I have a personal trainer and a nutritionist." "Yeah, well, hasn't done you any harm, you're looking good." "So do you," I tell him. "You got someone, Helene?" he asks, his voice going softer. I shake my head, "You?" "Nah... haven't found the right one. Y'know something?" his voice drops, adopting a serious tone, "back then... in Bathurst... I really liked you, y'know. I wanted... shit, I dunno..." He falls silent for a moment, thinking. "I just wanted to talk, y'know. When I went into your room, I never..." "What are you trying to say, Steve?" "I didn't mean to sleep with you... but then you said ok and I was a bit drunk so I thought... why not?" "We both were blotto, Steve," I tell him. "Yeah," he chuckles, " as fucking newts... wished I hadn't done it though." "Why not?" "You wouldn't talk to me anymore, afterwards. I was pissed off about that." "I'm sorry, I didn't know you felt..." "Yeah, well... I'm not very good at all at this emoting shit," he says, "truth is... The truth is I've been crazy about you ever since I saw you that day in the pits in Bathurst." I'm dumbstruck. I can see it took a lot of courage for him to tell me that. He hangs his head down as if expecting rejection, or out of sheer embarrassment. I put my arm around his broad shoulders. "Oh Steve," I manage to say, "you've been holding on to that all this time?" "Yeah, well, it's not as if we've seen much of each other these past three years. Y'know, I've got all your videos... at home... all of your races... every one." "Shit Steve!" I tell him, rubbing his shoulders, "I never knew..." "No, well you wouldn't, would you?" he says, stating the obvious. After a long pause I ask him, "So where do you want to go from here?" "Dunno... maybe hang out some more... after Sunday? I don't have to fly home until the 25th. We're all off for a month." "Lucky buggers, " I tell him, "I have to go to Japan in three weeks. I'm booked to race the next weekend at Spring Creek, then a fortnight off." "Cool," he says, "maybe we can hook up sometime?" "Come up to the Spring?" I tell him, "maybe we can hire a car after and go up the west coast. I know that's where all the surfers go." "Cool!" he brightens up. --------------------------------------------------------------------- We return to the hotel about 4.30pm. The first person we see is Kevin Coburn in the lobby. Completely ignoring me, he addresses Steve, "Hey, champ, y'seen Roddy?" "Playing spacies, through there," Steve indicates towards the games parlour. "Looked there, he's done a bunk... hey, team talk, my room, after dinner... don't be late," he glares at me then wanders off. "Hi Kevin," I call to his retreating back. "Hi Helene... don't be late Stevie!" he replies without turning back, "where IS that wanker?" I hear him say. "I'd better go," Steve says. "Yeah." He doesn't move and we stand together, lost for words. "You use a tactician?" I ask him after a while. "Kevin," he replies. After a long pause, Steve says in a low voice, full of urgency. "You be careful tomorrow Helene. Kevin, he wants to beat you..." "That's what we're all here for," I tell him, lightly, "to win." "Yeah, sure, but Kevin... he takes no prisoners, understand?" "I know what he's like," I tell him, "he put me out, remember, in Adelaide?" "Yeah, I remember," he nods slowly, "I almost decked the bastard for that... he should have gone before the race judiciary... pack of fucking wimps." "You almost decked him?" I ask in surprise. "That stunk, he knew you were on the outside of him. You had the line... he didn't need to crowd you off the circuit." "You were my white knight?" I tell him smiling. He can't cope and flushes in embarrassment, gives me a quick squeeze and heads for the elevator. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Karlie calls and wants to take me to dinner. He tells me that Wolfie and Ernie are going to see 'The History of the Isle of Man Tourist Trophy,' showing at a local cinema. "Every year they play the same movie at Grand Prix time, " he tells me, "I've seen it about 50 times." It's a tradition and, nowadays, more of a social occasion for all the racers in town. And, of course, the wannabees. They have crackers, and wine in paper cups upstairs, after the movie's finished. I tell Karlie he can shout me a big juicy steak and he agrees, without making a joke. --------------------------------------------------------------------- "The trouble with Wolfie, "Karlie starts to say as he tucks into about a kilo of prime sirloin, "is that he's never had time to grieve over mum and dad's death. Right from the get go he felt it was his responsibility to take over the family's affairs. Y'know he's never had a holiday?" "That's not healthy." "No. It's always work with him. I think he's forgotten to have fun. Even coming up here it's all about promoting 'Motorrad' and whatever line of bikes he's trying to move. He's probably mooching right now, talking the Husqvana make round the riders." "Can't he trust his brothers to do some of the work?" "Ernie's only interested in tinkering with motors. I guess he doesn't think I'm 'serious' enough about business." "And are you?" "To be honest, I don't really give a shit. I run the workshop, but my heart's just not in it anymore. It's really boring me to tears." "So what do YOU want to do?" I ask my brother. "Do up the house... spend some time with Joan... and maybe travel a bit. Y'know, I've never been out of the country. Wolfie sometimes flies to Sydney, but it's always on business and he doesn't spend any longer there than he needs to." Wolfie leans towards me, "He resents you I think. Hates the fact that you're doing what you want, flying the world, getting all the attention and he's stuck here working his arse off and keeping everything together." "Sell the shop!" I suggest, "flog it off and buy an airline ticket to... anywhere!" "He'd never do that," Karlie says in horror, "Papa's memory... 'Motorrad' stays in the family. Something else!" Karlie says, confidentially, "him and Karen can't have kids... she had a problem... a cyst on her ovaries or something." "No heirs?" Karlie shakes his head. "Poor Wolfie," I say gravely, "no-one to take over the shop?" "It depresses him, I know it does. He wants you to breed an heir... Ernie'll never get married, he's not interested. Joan and I, well, we made a decision not to have kids... so it's up to you." "Thanks," I grin wryly, "is that why he keeps pushing candidates at me while I'm here?" Karlie nods. "Jeez... makes me feel like prize ewe." Karlie laughs. --------------------------------------------------------------------- At ten the next morning, just before the production events, the top six qualifiers are expected to line up before the podium. The bikes are rolled out and set up in a line in their grid positions. The TV cameras are there and an interviewer lurks about ready to pounce on the riders after the speeches. The loud speakers roll around the stands as the race promoter winds up the crowd. Kieran and Don, the other two locals, have their bikes painted mostly black, with a silver fern design woven under the sponsors' names. I look sidelong at Kieran, "When did you have THAT done?" "Last night... promoter's idea... not mine," he shrugs. Similarly, the Australian bikes are now sporting kangaroo designs underneath the 'GoldWing Australia' label in prominent green and gold. "Fucking hell!" I mutter under my breath. The Rotol-Yamaha cannot be touched, of course. I only have my little stylised kiwi on the front to indicate my nationality. Us against them, it really makes me sick. Unlike team sports, motorcycling is a sport for individuals, rider against rider. Teams are there to support the individual rider. My bike is owned by a British team, sponsored by a multi-national Engineering conglomerate. I could just as well be riding for a Japanese team, or American for that matter. It's factory 'supported,' but Yamaha also have their own 'official' factory team. It makes no difference to them whose Yamaha wins, they put their money into whoever gives them the best chance. Sponsors want a return on their investment, that is, exposure for their brand. The winner gets more time on television. They don't care if that winner is Australian, British or Mongolian. Last European season my partner was Italian. He wanted to win as much as me, there were no 'team orders.' A few times Giancarlo and I were 1 and 2 and if either of us flinched, the other would have happily passed by, blessing our good fortune. The idea of a quasi-national side versus another country's is anathema to most riders. At the end of the season there is only one champion and everybody wants to be that person. If we wanted to represent our countries in sport, we'd be playing rugby football. --------------------------------------------------------------------- We're to be introduced one by one, step forward, wave and step back. The bikes in front of us are wearing what we call 'boots' and the Aussies call 'gummies.' They're thick vinyl tyre covers, which are there to prevent stones and debris getting into the surface of the tyre before a race. It also serves to conceal from the other teams what kind of compound has been chosen. Choice of tyres is very important. Besides special 'grooved' wet- weather tyres, there's a range of possible 'slicks' a team might select. Each compound is designed to maximise performance on certain track surfaces and circuit designs. You can tell by the grain and colour of the material what tyres a team has selected. Gordon has made my choice for me in consultation with the manufacturer. I can only guess what the Dunlop-Yamaha team, Kieran and Don, are using. They wouldn't tell me and I wouldn't expect them to. So much for our 'National' team. --------------------------------------------------------------------- "Is Helene wearing her knickers today?" Coburn asks Steve in a loud voice. "Cut it out, Coburn," Steve tells him. Don, always the wag, calls from the end of the line, "Is that grass caught in your wheel, Coburn?" There's a ripple of laughter down the line, including Coburn's two team mates. "You'll keep, sheep-shagger," Coburn responds, his voice full of menace. "And rep-pre-senting the Dunlop-Yamaha team, on the Yamaha F03 GP machine, NEW ZEALAND's own Don FLEET!" the speakers roar. Don steps forward and the TV cameraman zooms in for a close-up. The same routine recurs down the line. I notice a section of the crowd has unfurled a large flag. As the first of the Aussies is announced, they wave it enthusiastically in their direction, challenging. A home-made banner reads, 'Helene Ritter is fitter than Aussie litter.' There are others, none of them complimentary to Australia. I look at Steve, he gives me a sidelong glance, "Sorry mate," I tell him. "No worries, mate," he replies, "it's all bullshit. No worse than a footy game." Nevertheless I feel sorry the Australians have to go through this sort of barracking. Coburn pipes up, "This is fucking disgraceful. What's wrong with your fucking country?" For once, all of the riders are in agreement. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Once the ceremony is over, the crews rush forward to roll the bikes back to the pits for final preparation. The riders walk off to the main tent for lunch and a chat. When I get there Leo Kearny, the track marshal, is being besieged by a group of angry riders. "Who the hell are they?" someone yells. "Look lads," Leo says, holding up his hands, "some bloody radio station had this banner competition... I had nothing to do with it..." "They're a rent-a-crowd, Leo... they're making us look like idiots." There's more shouting and accusations. Eventually Leo yells for quiet. "Look, guys," he says, "when we held the GP last year we got, what, maybe a thousand people through the gates? Half of those probably thought they were coming to see cars and got their dates wrong." There's a few chuckles from the riders. "We are a minority sport, gentlemen. 1 minute on the 6pm news if we're lucky, right?" Most agree. "We now have the world champion," he continues, waving in my direction, "and people are going to want to see her. Hell, she could be the world champion nose-picker and and if she was picking her nose against the Australians, 15,000 people are going to turn up to cheer her on." Everyone breaks out in laughter. "So keep it cool, people. We can't throw people out for being morons. Ted Garvey would be in trouble if that was the case." "Hey!" complains Ted, in mock outrage. Actually at 51, the oldest rider in the tent. Leo knows riders and he knows how to work a crowd. --------------------------------------------------------------------- I slip out early and wander past the GoldWing garage. The roller door is down, but I notice some movement inside the big caravan parked outside. On the spur of the moment, I decide to take a peek. I open the door quietly, a whiff of incense stings my nose. Sitting cross-legged on the floor is Kevin Coburn. He has his eyes closed and he's breathing slowly, deliberately. Obviously he's deep in meditation. I try and back out and close the door but, eyes still closed, he says, "What do you want, Helene? Your boyfriend ain't here." "Sorry, Kevin, I didn't mean to disturb you." "You didn't... like I said, he ain't here." I turn to go, however Coburn can't resist a parting shot. "Stevie's a good mate," he says, "and I'm telling you to stop sucking his brains out." "Jesus! Coburn, what's that supposed to mean. Were you ever a human being?" "Who the fuck are you anyway?" he snarls, hate in his eyes, "world champion? The fuck you are, you can't even stay on your bloody bike." "What's your problem, Coburn?" I ask angrily, "what the fuck have I done to you?" The pits are filled with strollers checking out the machinery. A little group begins to form as our voices rise. "I don't like what you've done to Stevie, for a start," he spits. "You're his mother? What the hell have I done to him?" "He's never been right since you fucked him in Bathurst," he answers, "he's lost his edge... and that fucking pisses me off." "Who's number 2 on the grid, then?" I ask him, sarcastically. "You know as well as I do Ritter, it's one thing to do a flying lap, another to win a race. That's what I do, win races." "Y'know... you don't even make me angry anymore," I tell him, a calmness settling over me, "you're so screwed up you're pathetic." As I walk away from the caravan, Coburn yells as loud as he can. "Thanks for the blowjob, Helene." "I thought it was your little finger, Coburn," I yell back. The door slams to peels of laughter from the eavesdroppers. --------------------------------------------------------------------- I go to my own caravan for a rest before the start of the Grand Prix. It's due to begin at 12.30, a good hour away. The race consists of 200 laps, or 500km. Time allowed, 3 hours, in case of hold ups, so it must finish no later than 3.30pm. The crews have set up tents along the pit lane, with mobile refueling rigs and some equipment for minor repairs. This is to allow pit stops during the race away from the garages and the strolling public. There's a tap on the door, I look at my watch, it's noon. The door opens and Gordon's head appears around it. "You alright?" he asks. "Fine." "I heard you and Coburn had a set to," he says. "It was nothing... just trying to rile me up." "I heard you won," he grins. Laughing, I tell him I think it's all an act to unsettle me. Gordon says that he's widely known for it. Even the Aussies are fed up with him. "There's a rumour going around about you and Steve Kelly," Gordon tells me, "somebody saw you at the beach with him, yesterday." "God, talk about the bush telegraph." "You can't keep anything secret around here, that's for sure." Gordon tells me. "Yeah, well, Steve and I go way back, we're old friends, that's all." "Ok, ok," he smiles, "you ready to race. Positive?" I nod. "Positive!" The quiet is shattered by a banging and clattering, followed by the wailing of high performance engines being warmed up. The sounds battle into a cacophony, echoing out and around the racetrack and off the surrounding hills. It's a sound that makes biker's blood rush, the call to arms, the battle bugles calling to the troops. Outside I see Wolfie on the motorcrosser, reving furiously the big single, which rumbles and crackles in response. Ernie is running alongside, checking the throttle movement or a loose bolt, something. The Suzukis next door make their own howling noise, a couple of mechanics are efficiently attending some last-minute problem on one of the gold and white machines. Sounding like firecrackers lit in a tin can, the blue, red and white Rotol-Yamaha lends it's own contribution to the general racket. It soon settles down, however, to an even wail as it's two young attendants ease it off it's supporting cradle. No bigger in physical size than a road 250cc motorcycle, people often comment on how compact a modern GP bike actually is. Seat height is low, allowing the rider to tuck in as low as possible behind the screen. I step over it easily and sit on the seat while I don my gloves. Bouncing in the saddle, the suspension only moves a fraction. It's much stiffer than a road machine. Every bump on the track is immediately communicated to the rider as a jarring shock. By the end of the three hours my body will be aching from the repeated hammering of tiny pebbles and other small debris. At 280kmh, it feels like rolling over riverstones. Such is the sport of motorcycle racing. We are all crazy, of course, addicted to speed and the physical poetry of the perfect lap. Much more a component of the machine than a car driver, it's one of the few real symbiotic relationships between a human and a machine. Perhaps it's the only one. Blue smoke hangs in the air as the mass of machines gradually resolve themselves on the dummy grid, attended by fussy officials in white coats. Steve is beside me, I can see his grinning face behind the tinted visor. He's not smiling at me, he probably doesn't even notice me. No, it's a grin of pure and utter pleasure. Katzmarek (C)