100 Octane 04 By Katzmarek (Part 04) The official steps back and opens the barrier, satisfied that all the bikes are in two orderly rows. With a wave of the arm he directs the racers towards the pit exit. We all move off almost leisurely for our warm up lap. To open full throttle on cold tyres could result in an embarrassing loss of traction right under the main stand. Steve Kelly howls on ahead, getting himself some room to weave and twist, looking to extract the maximum performance out of his tyres before the start. Kevin Coburn pulls up alongside, just to remind me he'll be right behind the Rotol-Yamaha at the start. It's a 'soft' kind of gamesmanship and we all do it. We weave slowly around the track towards the home straight and the starting grid. I slow down and go to the outside of the track, looking back for my brother Wolfie. He's not hard to spot, there are few motorcrossers in the field and only one bright yellow. Soon he hoves into view, visor up, looking enquiringly at me. "You alright?" he mouths to me above the noise. I hold out my right hand, crossing my left to the throttle to keep from stalling. He takes it and smiles, tension forgotten. He juggles his own bike's throttle to keep pace and we ride down the track, hand in hand. "Stay in the saddle, Wolfie," I shout across. "You too, take care!" he yells back. I gun the 5 cylinder engine of the Yamaha and thread my way back to the head of the field. As I pass the local riders, most smile and wave or blow me kisses. They all want me to do well and beat the Australian Hondas, but they all would happily pass me should I make a mistake. There are perhaps 12 'real' GP bikes in the field. Normally the local Grand Prix doesn't attract this sort of competition from such exotic machinery. The most you'd expect would be about half a dozen older models. Only the presence of the world champion has spurred the manufacturers to go to the expense of importing their best machinery. Once GoldWing-Honda announced they would be bringing over their top Australian riders, Suzuki, Kawasaki and Ducati followed suit with their own products. It's all about prestige, profile and sales when the racing's over. The local market is small, but the TV coverage is worldwide. A big win here could have an impact on sales in Germany, Poland or the United States, such is global marketing. --------------------------------------------------------------------- The officials thronging the starting grid encourage, cajole and bully the riders to their proper positions, all the time shouting over the revving engines. Wolfie's somewhere towards the back. Although he performed a good qualifying lap for a motorcross bike, the machine's the wrong type for serious track racing. Tall, unfaired and un-streamlined, narrow tyres, wide handlebars, long suspension travel and an engine more suitable for grinding up hills than outright speed, Wolfie's here for the marketing possibilities... and the fun of it. To the left and slightly to the rear of me, Steve Kelly secures his visor and gives the 'thumb's up' to his mate, Kevin Coburn. Satisfied, the officials scatter towards the pit barrier, securing the bar and finding places to watch the start. The five red lights wink on above and in front of my head. My vision narrows to a 1 metre track down the home straight in front of me. That's my racing line, that's where I'm going. I snatch a glance beside me, Steve's head's down, his bike's bobbing slightly as he revs the powerful Honda motor that snatches at the clutch plates. 5,4, power on, the motor screams high into the rev range and settles back towards launch speed, about 7000rpm. 3,2, my pulse's thumping in my temples, blood saturated with adrenalin, one light then... out. My starts always seem like they're in slow motion. Every little event fixes vividly in my mind. Steve's red and white... and green and gold, bike is close on my left. I sense Kevin Coburn's similarly decorated machine gaining on my right, I'm meat in a Honda sandwich. All that was predicted, we knew the Hondas would get away quickly. I move slightly towards Steve, giving Coburn racing room, as I'm required to do by the rules. I'm NOT required to give up my racing line and approach to the first turn. Steve's trying to get his back wheel clear in front of me, giving him the right to go lower into the sweeper, a better line. To prevent that, I must keep alongside him, forcing him to adopt a higher, slower line. On my right, Kevin will have to tuck in behind, or risk fouling me. Meanwhile, he's going as hard as he can, daring me to flinch. All this takes seconds, but seems like an eternity. At the approach to the sweeper Steve settles for the higher line, he's unable to get clear in front of me. As predicted Kevin flicks right in behind of me, his front wheel nearly touching my back. As we bank through the turn, it's me, Steve on the outside and Kevin in that order. The exit is one of the Yamaha's strengths, it's able to get the power down fractionally earlier than the Hondas. Barring mistakes, it's all predictable. So far it's been textbook. The Yamaha leaps forward out of the turn leaving the Hondas alongside of each other, and clear behind me. The Yamaha technicians opted for a more 'fussier' engine design compared to the 4 cylinder Honda. Honda maximised top end power with lighter internals, Yamaha, 'torque,' or 'drive' at lower revs. It's down to different design philosophies and has produced bikes with differing performances and 'feel'. Hurling towards the chicane, I know I can keep more power down through the two quick turns than the Hondas. Thus my exit will be faster, the same pattern as the world MotoGP. Towards the chicane, Kevin tries to outbrake me, again trying to nudge me high by going 'underneath,' or to the right. I look quickly behind as I go into the chicane 'low.' Kevin, Steve and their buddy Rod Donaldson are strung out single file. The two Dunlop guys are behind them and next I catch a glimpse of the gold and white Suzukis of the other Australians following behind them. Already our group is starting to form a 'leading bunch.' A testament to just how fast these latest GP machines are compared to the domestic competitors. Out of the chicane, I've put a good bike length on the Aussies. The red and white machines move out to give themselves room for the straight line drag to the hairpin. The Hondas gain as their 'revvier' motors release an avalanche of horsepower. The straight is about 'grunt' and the Hondas have it in abundance. I keep to the inside, 'shutting the door' on Kevin, preventing him from gaining the faster line into the corner. On this turn, you have to go in high and cut in low through the apex. This sets you up for a short 'dog leg' bend. It's difficult for two riders to go through it side by side without one running off the track. Nevertheless, that's what Kevin Coburn does. As I go high, he comes in underneath, taking the inside and forcing me to run very close to him through the corner. It's a game of chicken and it's perfectly legal. He's punishing his brakes by slowing later and harder but it's the only way he'll out-corner the Rotol-Yamaha. Banked over, we're almost cheek to cheek. The Honda alongside shudders as Kevin hits the raised kerb with his kneepad but still he doesn't slow. The short length of track ahead goes through a slight bend to the left. In theory I have the best line on the outside of Coburn but he's not giving way and drags me straight through it. He gains half a bike length down to the tight corner and the home straight. This time, however, he has the inside and I have to drop behind him. By the time we cross the finish line after the first lap, Kevin Coburn is a bike length in front and pulling away. From now on it'll be about concentration, tyre and brake wear, guts and determination. Tempted as I am to chase Coburn, I decide to stick to my own race strategy. He's setting a blistering pace, surely he can't maintain that speed for long before something gives way. Rod and Steve are snarling at my heels. It's obvious they're trying to keep me occupied to allow their pal to get a good lead. The Hondas dog me through the second and third laps. It's settling into a pattern, they close up on the straights, I pull away on the corners. They're spoiling my rhythm, they're meant to. Kevin's still running his own race, now well out in front. 'How do I run him down?' I figure I don't need to, at least not at this early stage in the race. The law of mechanics is the same for his bike as well as mine. The harder you stress components, the quicker they'll wear out. He can't maintain this pace through the race, his tyres and brakes will require an early pit stop. Our bunch now consists of 6, me, the two Hondas, the Dunlop boys and a Suzuki that has attached itself to the back. Steve and Rod are going so hard that it's beginning to occur to me that they may be using a harder compound in their tyres. If so, it may explain their slowness out of the turns due to the less traction available. On this surface, they might become 'skittery' when pushed too hard. I file this revelation for later use in the race. Race tracks in Australia tend to be constructed with a higher amount of silica in the material. This makes them more abrasive on the tyres, hence the Aussies tend to go for a more durable compound. They might not be aware that the surface of the Ave' is softer. This allows the use of higher traction tyres. It occurs to me that I can reel them all in in the final period of the race by going hard on fresh rubber. By then the track will be littered in places by minute particles of rubber. On their harder tyres they're going to be in trouble with grip. Till then I should try to keep in touch with Coburn and let him wear himself out. --------------------------------------------------------------------- After 25 laps, most of the cheering crowd, those unfamiliar to motor racing, are either munching burgers, retired to the beer tent, or studying programs trying to figure out what's happening. The bikes are strung out around the track, half the field has been lapped by the leading riders, it's difficult to work out who's ahead. They know, however, that the local hero is not leading the pack in some triumphal procession. The GP is an endurance race, not a sprint. It's as much about strategy as speed. I guess if a baseball crowd was persuaded along to a 4 day cricket match, they'd be similarly confused, or bored. I've settled into a rhythym with my 5 riding companions. None of us want to risk disaster at this stage of the race by being over- exuberant. It's about hanging on till the final period that will then be the test of our various strategies. --------------------------------------------------------------------- A quarter of the race has gone when the yellow flags go out. Someone has come off leaving debris and oil on the track. We all take advantage of the pause to come in for a change of tyres and to re- fuel. The pit lane is crowded with riders hurrying to their various marquees and their crews. I roll to my tent, I see Gordon marshalling the troops, 7 in all. I have 4 tyre men, a refueler, a stand-by with a fire extinguisher and a 'lollipop' man with a stop/go sign. The trolley jack with it's special cradle is pushed under the bike lifting it to allow the tyre men access. Quick-release fasteners are undone, the rear wheel is slid forward to slacken the drive chain that's then clipped into position. The wheel is then rolled backwards off the swing-arm member and replaced with a freshly tyred replacement. Chain unclipped and dropped back onto the sprocket, tensioned adjusted and the wheel tightened. Time, about 11 seconds. Meanwhile Gordon shouts advice to me over the din. "They have the wrong tyres!" he shouts, "hang in there!" I nod in confirmation. The 'lollipop' man swings his sign around to go, the crew are clear... rolling. The crowd feeding hotdogs into their faces maybe completely unaware, but most of the racers are in no doubt what's going to happen later in the race. They might be going to run their second tyre change to the end of the race and drop one pit stop. In that case the time to make my move is over the last 60 laps. Until then I need to pick up the pace and get a little closer to Kevin. I can't let him get too far ahead or I might not have enough time to catch up. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Back out, Steve has managed to get out in front of me, into 2nd. He must have had a faster stop. Rod is behind me, then the two Dunlop guys, a Suzuki and behind that, a local guy on a Ducati Superbike, having the race of his life. After a quiet lap to warm up my new set of tyres, I make a charge along the home straight. Catching the Hondas off guard, I wind the Yamaha into the high teens on the gauge sending the motor screeching. On the first turn I take Steve on the inside and regain my 2nd position. The Hondas respond and chase hard down to the chicane. Taking advantage of my extra grip, I power through and down to the hairpin. Steve's behind me but behind him in fourth? Not the red and white bike of Rod, but the black Yamaha of one of the Dunlop boys. A cloud of dust back at the chicane indicates that Rod has made a mistake allowing the Yamaha through. It's only when I'm halfway along the home straight do I see Rod's bike hove into view, side by side with the other black bike. It's Honda, Yamaha, Honda, Yamaha with Rod slugging it out with the 17 bike of Don Fleet. By the next lap, I've put some distance on Steve and I'm out on my own, chasing hard after Kevin Coburn.Behind me, Kieran Ridgeway is giving Steve a hard time, forcing the Australian to protect his line against the hard-charging Kiwi. I make a mental note to buy Kieran a crate of beer afterwards. It's not my intention to catch up to Kevin Coburn, just to position myself nearer to him for the run to the finish. --------------------------------------------------------------------- At the half point I come in for more fresh tyres and fuel. The Australian Hondas are staying out, choosing to take a later stop. Kieran and Don come in also as do the Aussie Suzuki bikes. When I go back out, I'm accompanied by the black Yamahas and the Suzukis, leaving the Hondas out in front awaiting their next stop. Don, Kieran and I soon leave the Suzukis behind and ride as a group in pursuit of the red and white machines. Gordon hangs a board out as I pass the pit lane informing me of the times the Aussies are doing. It's obvious they're slowing, wrestling with their tyres on the now slippery surface of the race track. They HAVE to pit soon or risk running off into the grass. Rod in particular is in trouble and their crew orders him to come in first. As I pass the pits I see him rolling again back towards the exit. He merges behind our bunch, in with his Suzuki countrymen and well behind. Steve's in by the next lap and roars out along side. He's made such an extraordinary fast stop that I wonder whether he's had time to take on a full tank of gas. Perhaps they've seen the peril they're in and are cutting corners. Coburn is in and now I'll find out just how much I've gained on him. He too does a very fast turnaround and is emerging from the lane just as I turn into the home straight. It's clear now that they intend to keep on the same set of tyres to the end of the race while I'll need another set. Perhaps they have a light fuel load, meaning they may have to make a quick stop for fuel again. --------------------------------------------------------------------- As the race continues the yellow flags come out more and more. Riders get tired and make mistakes, gear fails and tyres blow and then there's the occasional contact as attention wanders. On the whole it's a safe circuit. There's plenty of run-off areas and grass to greet the wayward rider rather than a concrete wall. Back-markers sometimes get in the way and spoil your rhythm. I've passed my brother Wolfie a number of times. His head down into the wind, wrist caning the Husqvana's throttle to get another ounce of power. He must be all in, thrashing the tall motorcrosser along, lap after lap. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Coburn is now pacing himself, relying on his crew chief to inform him whether I'm gaining. He's trying to preserve his tyres for the run to the finish. It's now time for me to stay out of trouble, eat up the laps, hold on for some fresh rubber before making the charge. By the time I pit, at lap 150, I'm 8 seconds behind the leader and racing alone. Further back, Steve and Rod are sparring with Kieran and Don. Behind them, perhaps some 5 seconds, the Aussie Suzuki team are slugging it out with the lone Ducati. Rounding out the top 10 is another local Yamaha, just in front of about 5 other riders. This bunch is a problem for Coburn who has to pass them. My brother has called it a day. Fatigue's finally got the better of him. Wolfie and Ernie come down to see me during my pit stop. He'd seen the GoldWing Honda's last stop, they didn't change their tyres. Bouyed by the news, I'm looking forward to the final period of the race. Their quick stop has allowed Steve and Rod to pull away from the Dunlop boys and Coburn gained another 5 seconds in the lead. Dunlop- Yamaha is using much the same strategy as ourselves so I'm sure the Aussies are going to have a job protecting their position. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Into the last period of the race and I unleash the full potential of the 230hp plus motor. After the middle section of the race, when things can become a bit dull and routine, I get my second big charge of adrenalin. The kerbs pluck at my kneepad and the bike shivers at the impact. I search the track for the slightest bit of additional traction I can find. I keep off the skid marks, particularly in the braking areas, avoid the debris. My focus is on the red dot gradually growing larger in my sight. The red rear of Kevin Coburn's GoldWing- Honda. As it grows a little bigger I notice the red dot shaking as he brakes for the turns. He's taking up more and more of the track as he accelerates away. All signs of tyre wear. His bike is beginning to 'step out' under braking. Car drivers call it understeer. It's when the front wheel starts to move sideways away from the angle of the turn. For him it's going to feel more and more like he's riding on ice. 10 laps to go and I'm right behind him. His bike is weaving and 'tramping' under power and brakes, he's having difficulty keeping control. Kevin Coburn is not one to give up easy. Time and again he baulks my attempts to get around him. I nudge him on the inside, he hugs the kerb, I back off and try to go the outside, he moves out to block. We circulate in this crazy dance for lap after lap, all the time his bike's become more unmanageble. Into the chicane for the last time, I have to tuck in behind him. Out of the second quick turn his bike steps wide raising a cloud of dust as he nudges the edge of the grass verge. I snatch the inside and wind open the Yamaha to the hairpin bend. Neck and neck we ride to the approach together, jostling, so close our knees touch. Around the hairpin we straighten up for the dogleg, I can read the gauges tucked under his front screen. Still together we enter the home straight. I twist the grip to the stops lifting the front wheel for one last charge. Kevin's on the other side of the track, his head tucked right down, wrist furiously working the Honda's throttle. Metres from the finish line his bike shudders as his back tyre loses grip. His bike seems to shimmer as he goes into a high speed wobble. It's enough, and my wheel edges in front across the finish line and the frantically waving chequered flag of the official starter. --------------------------------------------------------------------- We slow the bikes down as we head back to the sweeper, staying high on the track to permit those still circulating room to get past. The Aussie pulls alongside, raising his arms, visor up, he howls like a wolf. Looking down to his back wheel he shouts, "Jesus Christ will you look at my rubber!" I look, a large piece of the tread is starting to delaminate, flapping with the spinning wheel. "What a fucking race!" he yells, followed by more howling. He looks behind. "Hey! Y'seen Stevie?" he asks. I turn back to see the 17 bike of Don Fleet and Rod Donaldson on the third Honda. Rod rides up on the other side of Kevin. Pointing across to the chicane, he yells, "Stevies come off, mate! Over there." We all look to where he's pointing. Already the flashing red lights of the crash crew and paramedics are rippling urgently around the scene. We ride a little faster towards the scene of the accident. Steve's back tyre flaps and bangs on the rear wheel assembly of his bike. As we near the scene we see Kieren Ridgeway walking slowly towards the the crash truck. His black bike lies on it's side at the edge of the track. On the grass is the red and white Honda, it's fairing smashed and lying in pieces along the race track. The rider lies prone on the grass, unmoving, a cluster of Paramedics with red crosses on white boilersuits stoop in a huddle around him. We stop our bikes, look around at the carnage, the bike debris, the spilt gas and the flurry of activity. Seeing us, Kieran walks slowly across, taking off his helmet. "Spilled right in front of me," he yells, agitated, "couldn't avoid him." "No worries mate," Kevin tells him, "is he conscious?" "Dunno, Kevin. He was right in front of me, I think I hit him." I feel a jolt of panic, I go to turn off the bike, run to him. I don't want to lose another one! A big gloved hand grabs mine, holding it up from the kill switch. "Y'can't do anything, Helene," Kevin tells me, "go on... this is your day mate... they're waiting for you. Stevie's a Queenslander... you don't get any tougher." I'm almost in tears, my eyes are locked on the white-leathered figure in the grass. "HELENE!" Kevin shouts, "C'mon, I'll ride with you... to the rostrum." I agonise over the decision for a while longer, until Kevin tugs urgently at my arm. Don Fleet pulls up on the other side of me and pats me on the back. Slowly I snick the bike into gear and we all ride back to the finish line together. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Around the starting grid the crowd has surged onto the track. Many look like they've spent more time in the beer tent than actually watching the race. The white-coated officials have been completely overwhelmed and are desperately trying to force the throng back off the track. We stop our bikes by the pit barrier and pass them onto the waiting crews. As the crowd spots me they advance, cheering and waving flags and banners. The officials try to set up a barrier to guide us to the winners podium, pushing and shoving a path through the mass of humanity. Two strong arms grip me on either side. Arms of white leather with the word Honda written in red. "Fuck off, ya dopey prick!" Kevin's voice rings in my ear. Out of the corner of my eye I see a well-wisher reeling backwards, the can of beer in his hand spilling it's contents over his buddies. Kevin and Rod walk me smartly into the crowd towards the waiting hands of the officials below the podium. The two big Australians push and menace their way to the steps. Other riders too, form a flying wedge around us and soon the way is clear. When the racing's over, we're all pals again. This is what it's like in this part of the world. Bitter enemies for three hours, then a shake of the hand afterwards, all is forgiven and left out on the circuit. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Once more I'm the meat in a Honda sandwich. This time, however, I'm standing atop the winners podium while Kevin Coburn and Rod Donaldson stand on either side. Down in front there's a line of riders and pit crew all in their various liveries. They form an impassible barrier between the placegetters and the milling crowd. I see my brothers there, waving and calling out. The Dunlop crews are there, bedecked in their black outfits. Everyone mixed up together, many shaking hands and congratulating each other. To me, it's what racing is all about. The tinny sound system blares out the national anthems. 'God of Nations' followed by the Japanese for the manufacturer. Everyone stands around trying to be quiet and respectful while grinning from ear to ear. All except, of course, certain sections of the crowd who insist on singing along, badly. After the anthems the speakers whistle and on comes the voice of Leo Kearny, track manager. "Special announcement folks..." Everyone falls silent, even the drunks. "I've just had a report from the Paramedics. Steve Kelly has been airlifted to hospital with a suspected broken femur. He's conscious and sends his congratulations to the winner... our very own HELENE RITTER..." The crowd goes wild, clapping and cheering. I wave my arm as some dignatory, the local politician or something, steps forward with the trophy and a shake of my hand. The crowd is less enthusiastic as Kevin and Rod accept theirs but they smile and shake hands with good grace. The obligatory bottle of champagne follows and everyone left on the podium gets a thorough drenching. As we walk to the official tent, Kevin says, "See, I told you Ritter, just a busted leg... he's got a hard Aussie head." "Are you going to see him after?" I ask. "Yeah, I'll look in... I'll take him a couple of tinnies," he tells me grinning. "Mind if I tag along?" I ask. He shrugs, "Sure, but you'll have to bring your own beer." (C) Katzmarek