Fast times at Maxton

MAXTON, N.C. - Here's the first prayer that crosses your mind upon being offered the chance to ride a one-of-a-kind land speed record motorcycle:

Lord, please don't let me wad this thing up.

And here's the second prayer, one blink later:

Lord, please don't let this thing wad me up.

Tim Cyrus, of Tim Cyrus & Family racing, let me take the team's highly modified racer for a run at the East Coast Timing Association's meet in September.

The event, on an old airfield near Laurinburg, N.C., included scores of wild rides and interesting folks of every description.

Count the Cyrus folks - a Deerfield Township land speed racing team - in that mix. Starting with a 1971, 350cc, single-cylinder Harley-Davidson Sprint built by Aermacchi in Italy, the team has set several land speed records for pushrod motorcycle engines in several classes at Maxton and the Bonneville Salt Flats. All have been well over 100 mph, or the "ton," as many motorcyclists call it.

The team plans to return to Maxton later this month to try to nail a 130 mph run.

What's it like to ride? Pretty amazing, actually.

I went through an informal rookie rider orientation from ECTA race director Keith Turk, after plunking down some cash to become an official ECTA member.

We cruised the strip with three other rookies, and Turk kept up a rat-a-tat-tat commentary on the rules and regs. We also stopped to clear off some tennis-ball-sized chunks of concrete and asphalt from the runway, where vehicles routinely run anywhere from 100 to 250 mph.

That was a bit disconcerting, let me tell you.

Cyrus & Family then slipped me into some one-piece, sweaty leathers that Cyrus used that day. And we joined three lines of vehicles staged at the end of the runway.

That's where the waiting began. And that's where your buddy comes up and mutters something like this: "You know, your health insurance won't cover you if you crash this thing."

Thanks, pal.

But back to the run. We'll shift to real time, as if you were there.

Inside the cockpit, everything is all business. There's a data logger on the frame backbone, near your belly button, that captures engine performance data.

A big, tilted tach aims right at your face. The short, stubby handlebars are a deep reach into the wrap-around Fiberglas fairing, where the left-hand, cable-activated clutch lever takes a stiff pull. The carb outlet points dead ahead toward the fully enclosed fairing.

The seat is some thin black foam on a bulbous Fiberglas pan. Rear-set, knurled stubs back by the rear axle serve as foot pegs, stretching the rider way, way out.

Foot controls are rough-looking, welded pieces - shifter on the right, brake on the left, first gear up and the rest down. Those controls and shift pattern are the exact opposite of most street bikes, which make things feel very foreign.

On the bubble in the staging area, the bike gets pushed over to the starter equipment, and the rear tire is centered between two powered rubber rollers. With the team's help, get the bike in second gear, step on the roller switch, get that back tire spinning good and pop the clutch.

The bike fires, dies, fires, catches and settles into a blapping idle. With the bike running, the blasting exhaust note roars and pours out of the rusty megaphone on the back.

Click the bike into neutral and duck-walk it by yourself to the line as your team fades back to the staging area.

You feel all alone, playing without a net, at this point.

The starter, walkie-talkie in hand, makes sure the last competitor is clear of the course. He eyeballs you and your machine up, down and around for anything loose, wrong or stupid, one last time.

Then he wipes his hand down across his eyes, signaling you to put down your face shield. He gives a casual wave to turn you loose. Head up and body out of the full-tuck racing position, you root your foot under the stubby shifter and pull up once for first.

Slip the clutch and try not to stall in front of hundreds of people on takeoff.

Wring the throttle, bang your toe down on the shifter lever for the rest of the gears and track that six-inch white line on the course's initial mild dogleg, flanked by orange cones.

Real soon, after a very slight turn to gain the main part of the runway, a small sign on the right-hand side announces one-half mile is already gone.

Here's where I made my big mistake. With so much going on - the start, the launch, the strange controls, the dogleg, the clutch, the crowd, the stomach butterflies - I didn't glue one eyeball on the tach. So I didn't bang gears at peak power, 8,000 rpm on every shift. I shifted earlier.

Why not? Because things get interesting real fast. The shabby concrete and asphalt looks a whole lot rougher at nearly 100 mph. The seams in the concrete look more dangerous.

But you're still snowballing speed.

By now you should be in fifth gear and flying.

As the speed builds, the fairing starts flexing, flapping and twitching. The handlebars are giving random, rattling inputs from the course, even with a steering damper.

Your head is burbling in the turbulence as you try to remember to hide behind the fairing to cut wind drag. The engine is roaring, pulsing vibration through every contact point with your body.

If you were on a regular street bike, you would slow down. You would hunt up a smoother road. You would pull over and look for a loose bolt. The inputs don't feel right or normal, compared to a street bike.

But this ain't no street bike. There's nothing wrong here - except that you need to dial up more of everything already going on.

Here comes the big orange panels marking the trip lights. You stay on the gas, keeping your eyes locked to the concrete ahead, keeping the throttle pinned to the limit. Picking a line through the little rocks and the concrete seams.

Keeping between the $1,000 light triggers, because if you hit them, you own them.

Meanwhile, like background music, those two little dueling prayers keep repeating deep in your busy little brainpan.

Here's the 132-foot speed trap. It flashes past. That's it. For better or worse, they've caught your speed, and soon will announce it over the loudspeakers.

Now it's time to find the little lever by your left foot for the antique drum brake out back. (There is no front brake.) Pushing on it like your life depends on it causes only the slightest loss of speed. The cones for the first deceleration lane turnoff are coming on fast.

Really reefing on the brake lever with your armored boot now, you can see you won't make the short decelleration turn, so you shoot for the long decel turn, downshifting a time or too. (Actually, upshifting with the upside-down shift pattern - no mean feat with a two-inch shift lever and a size 12 boot.)

More cones, and oh yeah, you really, really got to stomp on that brake now. It's like stepping on a golf ball with a bare foot - you can really feel it, but nothing seems to be happening.

More downshifts, because a stall back here in the boondocks translates into a long, hot push back to the pits.

At last, you slow to idle. The stubby handlebars on the stretched frame makes for a handful in the broad sweeping turn. You gurgle and burble your way back to the pits and timing area, trying to avoid some teeth-rattling potholes and sand.

For the first time in several minutes, you realize you're drenched in sweat. Your wrap-around sunglasses have slid and vibrated down your nose. Your helmet is soaked in perspiration. Your hair is dripping wet.

And you are grinning and laughing and yelling like an idiot.

My rookie speed? 109 mph on bike that can do 124 mph. (I called my bride and told her I survived the ride, and my speed. Here's what she said: "I've been faster than that with you on a bike." Yes, it's hard to impress her.)

What did I learn from my 100-plus mph or "one-ton" Maxton run? You gotta watch that tach. You gotta wring that 350 out. You gotta crank that right wrist.

You gotta have fun, get small and go fast.

And when you're done, there's one more little prayer to say: Lord, I'd like to try that again.

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Originally published in The Flint Journal, October, 2006