Sparkplug 53

This week I want to touch on something personal, something truly near and dear to my heart and probably yours as well, if you're a motocross racer. Something that is an integral part of this great sport we all love; something that touches us all deeply. That something is the simple magic of Sunday mornings.

Now, in some parts of the country, like here in sunny Southern California, you can find motocross races held on days other than Sunday. But the biggest races are always on Sunday, just like in Bruce Brown's famous movie. Even multi-day races usually culminate with the final motos and trophy presentations on Sunday. Sunday is, without question, a special day for motocross racers. And every Sunday always begins with Saturday night.

For most racers, both serious and not so, Saturday night is reserved for final preparations: last minute work on the bike, checking on the gear, packing everything up, making sure to get a good meal and a good night's rest. When my head finally hit the pillow on a Saturday evening before a race, I was usually more than ready to sleep, but not before making sure the alarm clock was set for the early morning call.

I don't know about you, but I never had a problem with oversleeping on a race day. I guess I had so much anticipation for the day ahead that sleeping through it was never going to happen. This is not to say that I never got to the track late, but that was usually due to some unexpected changes in my “pre-flight” schedule.

No matter what time of year I was racing, it seemed I was always getting the holeshot over the Sunrise. Call me strange, but I always enjoy that slightly groggy feeling of pulling on a moto t-shirt and jeans and stumbling around first thing in the morning, looking forward to stepping outside in order to take in that first deep breath of crisp A.M. air.

Out in the driveway, soaking in the solitude of my still-asleep neighborhood, I move as quietly as possible as I hitch up the old three-rail and load my bike and gear. After everything's loaded and checked twice, I settle in the driver's seat and pull off for a day at the track. A lingering glance in the rearview at my immaculately clean bike puts a smile on my face, as I leave the silent street and hit the road. Next stop: heaven on earth.

When I was younger, I used to race with a good friend, Mark. There's a lot to be said about riding and racing with friends; it even adds to the road-trip aspect. Lately, though, I would head to the races by myself and hook up with my friends at the track. That meant driving alone, which I found to be a joy in itself. Even in traffic-congested SoCal, the freeways are pretty empty on Sunday mornings so the drive is always a breeze. And with the clear roads you can relax and just enjoy the scenery. Motoring through majestic hills, winding through wooded lanes, passing by endless prairies... driving to the track holds an allure all its own, no matter how many times I've made the trip. Just me, my truck, my bike and my music.

Before long, I come across other racers heading to the same race. The camaraderie of motocross begins on the highway, miles before the front gate. I wave to everyone with a number on a numberplate, and they all wave back. When I raced with the Over The Hill Gang, one of the cool things about that club was each region had its own designation letter that racers had to run on their numberplates. For the Southern California region, our letter was “G”, so it was easy to see who was headed to a Gang race.

And just when the ride seems to be getting a little too long, I get to the exit for the track. Minutes later, I'm in the queue to get in. And sitting there in the truck, waiting for the young person with the release paperwork to make their way to me, I feel the unmistakable tingle of the first adrenalin rush of the day: I am racing today!

Once through the gate, my truck barely needs my help finding our favorite parking spot. I pull up alongside friends both old and new and tumble out of the cab and enjoy the second long stretch of the morning. Another deep breath, another wonderful lungful of clean air and then it's off to the sign up booth.

Now, I don't know about you, but I ALWAYS enjoy sign up. That's where I get to see just about everyone without having to hike all around the pits; everyone is (usually) clean and fresh-smelling (in stark contrast to what it will be like later in the day), and the sign up ladies' makeup is not-yet-smeared. Everybody is still yawning, many are nursing cups of coffee, some are clearly suffering from hangovers, and yet... EVERYONE is either smiling, or about to. In fact, we are all tickled pink just to be where we are at that exact moment. I cheerfully flirt with the sign up ladies as I fork over my money and then mosey on over to wherever they're posting the practice and race schedules.

It's almost time for the best part of the whole day, and I relish every single step in its direction. This is going to sound silly to some of you, but I even get a kick out of something as plain as unloading my bike. It's all part of the build up... rolling the ultra-clean racebike down the rail, pushing it under the EZ-Up, hoisting it on the stand. Just look at it! We're ready to RACE! Next up, sliding into my cool pants, buckling up my soon-to-be-muddy boots, throwing on a ratty practice jersey. And usually right about now, I hear the first bikes being fired up across the pits. This never fails to elicit another adrenalin response from me, and sends me straight to the gas can. Time to fill up the steed and get this show on the road!

Starting up the bike for the first time of the day is anticlimactic as far as I'm concerned (unless it's a borrowed four-stroke and it's particularly cold-blooded... that's another story!), because at this time there is only one thing I'm really craving, and that's just about to happen. After warming up the bike, I pull on the rest of my gear and head over to the starting area for practice. At the line is usually the first time I run into the other guys and gals in my class, and it's always funny how we subtly check out each other's bikes for new hop-up parts. We make some quick mental notes for later conversations and then turn our attention to the referee, who is just about to give us our fix...

... And finally, the release! The green flag is waved, engines rev all around, the air is filled with flying dirt bombs and practice is officially underway! I toe the gear lever into second, lean forward and drop the clutch, shooting out onto the track, accelerating hard, feeling the rear knobby scramble for traction, feeling the front tire loft and lightly skim over the freshly disced surface, feeling the pressures of the work week subside, feeling at one with my bike, with the track, with the whole world. This is why I came, this is why I am here. This is why I race. This is the magic of Sunday morning.

And Sunday afternoon ain't so bad, either!