The beginning parts were straight, as we left the shop and headed westward. The early morning sun warmed our backs, the day soft with promise. With no rain anywhere in the forecast, surely it was a good day to finally lose my track virginity.
I had hooked up with Alan and the half-dozen others thirty minutes earlier and I'd be lying if I didn't admit that my stomach was full of butterflies. I'd been to Summit Point dozens of times over the years watching the races, of course. But now, for the first time, I'd get a chance to actually get out there myself and see what it was like. Just thinking about it brought shivers of both excitement and fear.
It was also the first time for a new concept that Cycle Sport, the Yamaha dealership where I hung my hat, was trying out. The idea was for a "track day," where riders could ride the track at speed, but without the formality or competitiveness of racing. The instructors and control riders for the day included guys like David Nees and Randy Renfrow, local WERA racers for whom the racetrack was like a second home. Randy would turn pro the following year, exposing his talents to a soon-to-be-appreciative national audience. And a couple years after that he would win the first of his AMA national championships. But to me, then, they were just the pals I hung out with at the shop.
Rolling westward, soon enough we passed Berryville and the topography began to sharpen. The formerly straight tarmac began to turn curvy. A few miles on, David turned down a route I had never been on before, one contorted by twists and turns. In my first surprise of the day-in a day full of them-he turned up the pace. Despite having the fastest and most powerful bike among our little group, I immediately began to struggle. I considered myself a pretty decent rider but these guys were clearly in a different league altogether. Using the extra acceleration at my disposal, I lit it up down every section that was even remotely straight. It didn't make any difference. I lost ground on every corner, the gap between me and the others quickly growing. Soon, the boys were gone. I had been dropped, as they say. Like a piece of rotting cheese.
How does one go fast around a corner? In many ways it's the existential question of our sport.
The answer, at once both simple and complex, begins in our head. In how we decide what is achievable. In what we define as reasonable. And how we frame a task which at first seems straightforward-but which in fact is actually bound to a multitude of factors.
It starts with crafting a balance between our desire-do we want to just hit that corner briskly, really hard, or do we want to absolutely rail through it?-and the risk that we perceive attendant to each of those efforts. The backdrop to it all, of course, is the worry-perhaps morphing into outright fear-of crashing. For at some unconscious level we recognize that there are limits to our ability, the capabilities of the bike, and what the road offers. Exceed any of those and you go down.
Or, as I wrote some years ago, "how much fun shall we have today?"
Once we've made that judgment of risk versus reward, we move into the realm of the corner itself. To all the factors that dictate how we will traverse it.
There are the aspects of the bike itself. How the frame performs. How the geometry of the bike affects its steering. How the tires and the suspension respond to the road. How the characteristics of the engine either expand the opportunities for or else impose limitations upon the rider. And how the ergonomics of the bike either support or detract from the whole effort.
It's interesting that riders focus so often on the bike. They twiddle with suspension settings, believing there is some magic combination which will suddenly make them fast. Or they spend money on a new pipe, expecting that the handful of horsepower they gain will somehow make a difference.