dpex
14th December 2008, 18:38
Racing is just incredibly, unbelievably, fabulous, even at my appalling skill-level.
Setting up for the start ( I normally get to see most of the field ahead of me, but that's okay) I give my old banger a pat, and Team Zimmerframe is ready to rock.
I managed to enjoy this just twice, today.
On the practice run I made half a lap and the oil light came on. Back to the pits, worrying, till a guy by the name of Discomb (an expert in Yamis) asserted it was probably a loose connection or the sender was munted.
Rang Frosty, the font of all knowledge. 'You sure the oil level is okay?'
'Don't know, but the sight-glass seems full.'
'Then check it. Empty the oil then put it back. If there's enough in there then it'll be the sender.'
Such an elegantly simple solution to not actually knowing if the sight-glass simply had a coating of oil, or it was full.
Did that (Thanks frosty). Out popped 2.6 litres of oil. No probs. Stuffed it back in.
Then started the long wait for the first race.
The call came.
Went to start das velocipede. Nothing! Tried pushing, then went for the jumper leads. Nothing. The others are on the dummy. I'm not even started!
The others are off for the warm-up. I look stupidly at the bike, feeling mounting frustration. The seconds pass. They're all now back on the grid.
Then some kind soul pointed out I had an electrical fault. The fault being, I'd temporarily disconnected the motor from it's power supply by inadvertently flipping the kill-switch.
If I were as person given to temper tantrums, I could have probably had one about then.
But I simply sat down and waited, and waited, and waited.
Finally, race two arrives. Bike starts (kill-switch in right place). Fuck the oil light...I got oil.
Dummy grid time. Heart rate is up a bit, not much but a bit. Feeling really excited. Poom! We're off.
I let everyone go. All I want is hot tyres by the time I get back to the grid.
Then poom! We're away.
What a buzz!
I could have jumped about five places, using Frosty's advice for start technique, but being such a raw newbie to racing I jumped two and let the rest find their place.
And around and around we went. On the second-to-last last lap to the finish some red misted knob jockey came inside me on the right up the hill. He was on the ripple strip. Out knees touch at fuck knows what speed. But I held my line!
That was bizarre. I thought, 'Fuck you, Charlie. I'm coming after you.' And so I didn't. His vastly superior straight-line speed left me hindmost, till Castrol. The guy was king of straight-line, but less than, in the corners.
He went wide at Castrol and I thought, 'Gotcha.' And I did, till we straightened up.... I think I need a faster bike to play this game effectively. :--(((
Came through the flag, took my hands off the bars, sat up, just like I'd watched Andrew Stroud do, and rolled slowly in Jenian, no hands, and felt like a million dollars.
Race three. On the grid. Where's me knob-jockey mate? He's my target.
'There he is. About 8th.
'Right then son. It's time the old man started playing a bit harder.
There were three gaps I could see and I took all three. Knob-jockey was lock up outside.
Poom! I'm through, doing Jenian at way faster than ever (heart-rate's way up, feels great!). There's fucking bikes all over the place, with gaps a mouse couldn't crawl through, between them. I'm utterly loving it!
Knob-Jockey roars past on the straight.
'Yeah well, don't hold ya breath, Buxton. And yes, I brake real late and float into the hairpin and squirt left, right in his face. And then it's time to put the hammer down.
I decide I'm getting a bit tired of being head-tripped by the left-right into the hill.
Behind me, knob-jockey (apparently) tries the same trick he tried with me and (I gather) tried to overtake another by running the ripple-strip again. But this time the poor prick just ahead obviously wasn't quite ready for the game, and Knob-jockey took him and himself out.
When I floated into the pit entrance, I slowed to view the carnage. The guy Knob-Jockey had taken out was sitting up. Knob-Jockey appeared to be laying down. Karma is a strange thing, huh?
So that was the end of that. No restart for Clubmans on account of we're at the bottom of the pecking order.
I appreciate there is likely to be a perception from some readers that I'm complaining about Knob-Jockey, and his ilk, of which there are some whom, for their own reasons don't compete in the class for which they are more suited, but prefer to win Clubmans. But nothing could be further from the truth. Bring'm on.
I would be perfectly happy to race against Stroudy, and get lapped ten times in the process, just to be a part of this racing shit.
To be that close, and so often, to another competitor, at a gazillion miles and hour, is just a superb buzz.
Jeez, but I love this racing shit!
Setting up for the start ( I normally get to see most of the field ahead of me, but that's okay) I give my old banger a pat, and Team Zimmerframe is ready to rock.
I managed to enjoy this just twice, today.
On the practice run I made half a lap and the oil light came on. Back to the pits, worrying, till a guy by the name of Discomb (an expert in Yamis) asserted it was probably a loose connection or the sender was munted.
Rang Frosty, the font of all knowledge. 'You sure the oil level is okay?'
'Don't know, but the sight-glass seems full.'
'Then check it. Empty the oil then put it back. If there's enough in there then it'll be the sender.'
Such an elegantly simple solution to not actually knowing if the sight-glass simply had a coating of oil, or it was full.
Did that (Thanks frosty). Out popped 2.6 litres of oil. No probs. Stuffed it back in.
Then started the long wait for the first race.
The call came.
Went to start das velocipede. Nothing! Tried pushing, then went for the jumper leads. Nothing. The others are on the dummy. I'm not even started!
The others are off for the warm-up. I look stupidly at the bike, feeling mounting frustration. The seconds pass. They're all now back on the grid.
Then some kind soul pointed out I had an electrical fault. The fault being, I'd temporarily disconnected the motor from it's power supply by inadvertently flipping the kill-switch.
If I were as person given to temper tantrums, I could have probably had one about then.
But I simply sat down and waited, and waited, and waited.
Finally, race two arrives. Bike starts (kill-switch in right place). Fuck the oil light...I got oil.
Dummy grid time. Heart rate is up a bit, not much but a bit. Feeling really excited. Poom! We're off.
I let everyone go. All I want is hot tyres by the time I get back to the grid.
Then poom! We're away.
What a buzz!
I could have jumped about five places, using Frosty's advice for start technique, but being such a raw newbie to racing I jumped two and let the rest find their place.
And around and around we went. On the second-to-last last lap to the finish some red misted knob jockey came inside me on the right up the hill. He was on the ripple strip. Out knees touch at fuck knows what speed. But I held my line!
That was bizarre. I thought, 'Fuck you, Charlie. I'm coming after you.' And so I didn't. His vastly superior straight-line speed left me hindmost, till Castrol. The guy was king of straight-line, but less than, in the corners.
He went wide at Castrol and I thought, 'Gotcha.' And I did, till we straightened up.... I think I need a faster bike to play this game effectively. :--(((
Came through the flag, took my hands off the bars, sat up, just like I'd watched Andrew Stroud do, and rolled slowly in Jenian, no hands, and felt like a million dollars.
Race three. On the grid. Where's me knob-jockey mate? He's my target.
'There he is. About 8th.
'Right then son. It's time the old man started playing a bit harder.
There were three gaps I could see and I took all three. Knob-jockey was lock up outside.
Poom! I'm through, doing Jenian at way faster than ever (heart-rate's way up, feels great!). There's fucking bikes all over the place, with gaps a mouse couldn't crawl through, between them. I'm utterly loving it!
Knob-Jockey roars past on the straight.
'Yeah well, don't hold ya breath, Buxton. And yes, I brake real late and float into the hairpin and squirt left, right in his face. And then it's time to put the hammer down.
I decide I'm getting a bit tired of being head-tripped by the left-right into the hill.
Behind me, knob-jockey (apparently) tries the same trick he tried with me and (I gather) tried to overtake another by running the ripple-strip again. But this time the poor prick just ahead obviously wasn't quite ready for the game, and Knob-jockey took him and himself out.
When I floated into the pit entrance, I slowed to view the carnage. The guy Knob-Jockey had taken out was sitting up. Knob-Jockey appeared to be laying down. Karma is a strange thing, huh?
So that was the end of that. No restart for Clubmans on account of we're at the bottom of the pecking order.
I appreciate there is likely to be a perception from some readers that I'm complaining about Knob-Jockey, and his ilk, of which there are some whom, for their own reasons don't compete in the class for which they are more suited, but prefer to win Clubmans. But nothing could be further from the truth. Bring'm on.
I would be perfectly happy to race against Stroudy, and get lapped ten times in the process, just to be a part of this racing shit.
To be that close, and so often, to another competitor, at a gazillion miles and hour, is just a superb buzz.
Jeez, but I love this racing shit!