It is the early 1970's and I am a younger guy. One of my friends road races a production bike and he invites me to go with him to the races. I have never been to a road race and it sounds like fun. Thursday evening I pack my sleeping bag, cooking gear, tent, etc on my trusty Honda 350. Always the optimist, I slip a fresh rubber into my wallet.
Friday at work I imagine an evening of light partying, some restful sleep, and an early morning trip to the track. Dreams and reality are different. Friday evening I arrive at my friend's double car garage. It is packed with guys and gals and bikes in all sorts of disassembled states. A dog or two also. I set to work changing tires, etc. Bottles of red wine are passed around and joints, too. It gets dark outside and I am feeling pretty good. Someone hands me a box of Suzooki transmission gear clusters and a greasy shop manual and says "These are our blown clusters. See if you can find enough unbroken parts to make one good set." The night goes on. One by one the bikes are finished and put in the vans. The racers lay their sleeping bags alongside the bikes in the vans and try to get a few hours sleep. The rest of us work. It is just getting light and we are off to the races. I ride my Honda. I did not have a car license in those years.
We get to the track and wait in line to get in. It is Sears Point. I look at the soft brown grass on those gentle California hills and imagine myself sound asleep on top of my down filled paratrooper bag. Dreams. Reality is different. There is not enough money for the entrance fees and several of us are "volunteered" to be corner marshals for the races. The corner worker has several flags. A yellow one, I vaguely remember, is waved if someone crashes in the corner. The other racers see this and slow down. There is another color flag to wave if there is oil on the track. A fellow has to pay attention while doing this job. This was a challenge. No sleep for about 30 hours. A cheap wine hangover. Serious cotton mouth. Lots of hot sun and castor oil fumes. Somehow, everything went OK and no one died due to my funky flagging.
This was a classic thrash and there were many more through the years. I thought I had finally learned how to avoid them. Dreams and reality are not the same. The parts arrived from England late and the bike will be ready to pick up at the shop tomorrow evening. One weekend, maybe two, to turn the bike from street to racing trim. Another thrash...