Winning Awards!

Excuse me a moment, I’ve just a couple of more connections to make. Could you hand me that screw driver, yeah, the one with the green handle. OK, the relay is secure, now I’ve got to reconnect the ground strap. Where’s that 10mm wrench? Ah, done at last.
Step back a bit, this could be loud. “BLAAM!”.
Oh that sounds good, nothing like an air horn. Watch out, I’ve got to hit this button a couple of more times.
“BLAAAM,” Think I woke the neighbors yet?
“BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Hey, sometimes you’ve got to toot your own horn, after all, who else is gonna do it for you? And I’ve got what to toot about. I earned two major awards this month.

The first is the 2000 APEX Award for Publication Excellence (thumb through this magazine and read that sentence again) and the second is a BMW Motorcycles 300,000 Mile Award. Neither award is on par with a Pulitzer prize, which arrives with a six figure check or an Oscar for which I could dig my Tux out of mothballs, buy my wife a slinky satin dress then parade for an international television audience. So instead I mounted an air horn on my bike.

One more time, “BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!!!!!!!!”

As with all journeys, there is a story behind them. Comparatively, the BMW Award was much longer in coming than the Apex award. Well, maybe not. I started learning printing in seventh grade at the Orangetown Junior High School. I learned how to set type by pulling each letter out of a California type case and placing it in a composing stick. I printed assorted business cards and invitations on a pilot press. By the time I got to High School, photo offset had taken hold and I was printing the school paper, along with being the photography editor. I still have samples of all that old work. during my Senior year in High School I got a job on the local newspaper. I’ve often said that if it wasn’t for wood shop and graphic arts I would have never graduated High School. I studied photography in college then returned to New York City to work in the advertising business. Eventually I opened my own studio in downtown Manhattan and worked as a fashion photographer.

There is a fabulous, little known fact about the fashion business in New York City; from Memorial Day to Labor Day no-one works on Fridays or Mondays. They all have country/weekend/vacation houses that they must go to. So not only can’t you book a model but there are no photographers, make-up artists or hair dressers either. It was the perfect field for someone who wanted to spend weekends traveling by motorcycle. At the coffee maker on Tuesday morning everyone would be talking about so-an-so’s party at the beach and I would tell tall tales of two wheeled travel. I’ve often thought that my career in the fashion business might have reached greater heights had I attended those Hampton beach parties, but truthfully I was happier being in the middle of bum*#@^ nowhere, sweating in my leathers while gassing up my motorcycle at the only filling station within a two hour ride.

The BMW Award started with my first serious motorcycle. I bought an ‘83 BMW R 80 ST. I didn’t start out to be a Beemerphile. I was shopping for a motorcycle to travel long distances and happened to like the R80 when I saw it. It’s inaugural voyage was to the first Rocket City Rally in Huntsville Alabama. Nine hundred and sixteen miles. Cockily, I figured I could do it in eighteen hours straight. I loaded my camping gear, kissed my wife good-bye and hit the road. Four hours later I crossed the Delaware Memorial bridge, my butt was so sore I pulled into the Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge and got a room. (Mikes Famous Harley-Davidson is now on that very spot.)

I finally made it to Alabama around noon Sunday. I rode into an empty campground. There were a couple of members of the Alabama Beemer Club still cleaning up.

“Hey guys,” I called as I took off my helmet. “I just got in from Brooklyn, where’s the rally?”
Well, I missed the Rally, but those who where there took me on an incredible ride that encompassed all the Poker Runs and Tours that they had during the Rally, after which they argued over who would buy me dinner and who’s lawn I could camp out on. That weekend trip turned into ten days and I made friends that I’ve kept in touch with all these years.

After 140,000 miles, 10 rear tires and 14 front tires the R 80 ST became a K 75 S. I wanted a bike with more current technology and more power to carry my ever increasing collection of camping equipment. Then in 1985 I bought a K 1100RS. On September 20th of this year the K 1100 RS will be mine after 60 payments. (At 1.9% APR!!! If you want a BMW, you’ve got to check out BMW’s financing deals!)

Both the motorcycle and the magazine have launched me on more journeys that I have the ink to print. I’ve ridden across the Mojave Desert and the Alpine mountain range. I’ve been lost in the back woods of North Carolina. I rode moto-escort for a photographer as he shot pictures of Lance Armstrong crossing the finish line at the Core States Classic bicycle race in Philadelphia. And I’ve stayed awake for days finishing this publication so all of you could read about it.

So...

“I’d like to thank the Academy and the Board for these Awards, a special thanks to my wife who stood by me all these years and my parents and professors....”

Aw, screw it!

“BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!”

1984 ALL OVER AGAIN

Two-hundred-and-twenty-seven years ago, on December 16, a group of plucky American businessmen were tired of having the British Monarchy erode their profits with taxes. They conspired a protest, then raided a ship in the Boston harbor, dumping its cargo of tea. On July 14, 1789, thousands of French peasants raided the notorious Bastille prison, heralding the French Revolution and replacing the monarchy with a democracy that espoused “Liberty, Equality & Fraternity.” Fifty years ago, a group of refugee Jewish settlers living on the coast of Palestine organized a war to provide self-determination for a Jewish people. Freedom and Democracy has never come easy.

In his novel 1984, George Orwell warned us about a society where everything a citizen does and thinks would be controlled by the government. Back in the year 1984, many parallels were drawn between reality and Mr. Orwell’s fantasy. The general consensus was that we had avoided such a calamity. But have we?

Now that the year 1984 is old enough to drive into the next millennium, perhaps we should take another look. The Orwellian government controlled the populace with torture and repression. We don’t do that here, or do we?

How about the movement we’ve seen in the last decade of political correctness in media. Negro people have become African-American, homosexuals are now Gay, and don’t you dare call a woman a girl! Recently we’ve learned the White House has encouraged the television networks to place anti-drug themes in their productions in exchange for lowering the amount of time required for public service announcements. These things are not exactly torture (unless you’re watching television) but they are certainly a form of repression.

We’ve all seen the signs SPEED CONTROLLED BY RADAR. Think about it—the radar doesn’t control your speed, it only threatens your wallet, your economic viability. If the cop tags you with his radar/laser gun, then you’re going to shell out your hard-earned greenbacks to the government and the insurance company.

Speaking of insurance companies, Progressive Insurance is testing a new idea in Texas. With the car owner’s permission (those stupid suckers!), Progressive installs a black box under the driver’s seat. The box records the amount of time and distance that the car is driven. At least, that is all they say that they’re recording. The theory is that the less time and distance that the car is driven, the less risk that vehicle is in, so the lower the insurance premiums. There’s that wallet factor again.

Progressive isn’t the latest organization to test Orwellian controls on the population. At Leeds University in Britain, they’re testing an “intelligent speed adapter.” This unit will keep track of the vehicle’s location using Global Positioning System satellite signals. Then it will measure the vehicle’s speed and compare it to a database of speed limits. If the operator exceeds the speed limit, the black box will throttle back the fuel supply. Just the thing you need while passing a tandem tractor-trailer on a secondary road at night.

Had enough, kids? Sorry, it ain’t over yet! Over the last few years in Britain they’ve had “Gatso” cameras installed along popular motorcycling roads. These are self-contained camera-radar units that photograph the “violator” with nary a police-person in sight. The unsuspecting motorcyclist arrives home from his Sunday sojourn to find a pair of Bobbies with a set of handcuffs waiting at his front door. On the positive side (if you could possibly see it that way), a British insurance company has risen to the challenge by offering “Loss-of-License” protection. Edgar Hamilton, Ltd., will pay up to 14,400 pounds sterling for your choice of alternate transportation should you get “knicked.” As Fast Bike magazine reports, “. . . [while] they would not wish to condone irresponsible riding, they do recognize that with the prevalence of gatso cameras even Malcom Mild could lose his license in one high-spirited trip to the supermarket.” The insurance is sponsored by MAG (Motorcyclists Against Government) and costs £3.50 per month.

Governments and insurance companies are not the only organizations riding the 1984 bus. Mel Farr Motors of Detroit, MI will sell almost anyone a car, regardless of their creditworthiness. Mel controls the cars with a remote ignition-cut-off device. You don’t make your payment on time and the car won’t run, or if it’s running it will stop. Even if the driver is on his way to Mr. Farr to make a payment. Many industry experts have reported that the devices are dangerous and could even be a fire hazard. Detroit attorneys Lawrence Charfoos and Ken Hylton filed a lawsuit against the used-car dealer, but report little sympathy from the court.

From the Payback-is-a-bitch—Department of Misused-Technology, two Brit highway cops were sitting in wait for motorists on the A1 when their hand-held laser gun measured a speed in excess of 300 mph. The gun then seized and the cops could not reset it. It seems that they had locked onto a NATO Tornado fighter aircraft on a low-level flying exercise. The laser had activated the aircraft’s on-board tactical computer which instantly jammed the machine and armed a Sidewinder missile. Luckily (again, depending on your point of view), the pilot was able to disarm the missile before it vaporized the cops and everything within one square kilometer around them.

Now that’s the kind of laser/radar detector I'd like to have.

Talking My Way Out of a Ticket on the New BMW K1200LT

In 1973, President Richard Nixon was faced with an energy dilemma. The Arab cartels were putting the squeeze on the oil companies and a gasoline shortage ensued. People were waiting on line to buy fuel and a panic was rising among the populace.

Many controls were tried in order to conserve energy. Rationing was invoked. One day only cars with even plates could get gas, the next day cars with odd number plates. Another solution was to impose a national fifty-five mile per hour speed limit. Many states already had a fifty-five limit, but under threat of federal highway funds being withheld all of the other states fell in line, except Montana, they never had a speed limit and weren’t going to be forced to have one by the Feds.

At face value the national speed limit wasn’t a bad idea. It does save gas to drive slower and it reduces pollution. The powers that be also told us that it reduced traffic fatalities. We were propagandized with the phrase, “Speed Kills.” If your speaking about illegal drug use, you would be correct, but as far as highway use it was a lie. The new limit also had some other side affects that were beneficial to the government and industry.

During the duration of the fifty-five limit many grass roots organizations fought the speed limit. It was breeding disrespect for government, highway police and insurance companies because no-one obeyed it anyway.

But it was a money maker to all those powers. Money flowed from our pockets into the coffers of mega corporations and minor governments at an alarming rate. Local judges presiding in small municipalities that reside along highways were bringing money into their towns reaping the financial windfall from the increasing number of speeding tickets. Insurance companies raised the rates that they charged to drivers convicted of speeding and the Feds were just plain enjoying having the power over the states, they were able control one more aspect of our lives.

As the gas shortage became a small footnote on the pages of Nixon’s career, our own federal Department Of Transportation began a serious study on the effect of the fifty-five limit. The study showed a negligible reduction of traffic fatalities. Many accident reports placed “excessive speed” as part of the cause, but despite a continuing government conspiracy the report proved that speed alone didn’t kill. That DOT report was published during Ronald Reagan’s reign, and summarily squashed. But during the Bush presidency it was leaked to the people fighting the speed limit. Now we had evidence created by the very powers that they were fighting against.

It took more than thirty years to prove it but the facts show that the lower speed limit doesn’t affect the traffic fatality rate at all. Most fatal accidents happen at or below the fifty-five miles per hour line. And I haven’t even mentioned the quality of the vehicles that we drive compared to three decades past.

We are now enjoying a sixty-five mile an hour speed limit on most of our highways. But did you noticed that when the sixty-five miles per hour speed limit signs were erected there was a new twist. The phrase, “fines doubled” was added.

The repeal of the fifty-five mile per hour limit happened to the chagrin of the insurance companies and municipalities that I mentioned before. They cried that there would be carnage on the roads, more people would die, but the truth is that they saw their financial free ride flying out their power windows. They were spending more money on high tech cop cars with computers, Vascar, Radar and Laser speed detectors. They have to pay for these toys. Enter the reality of political compromise; raise the limit but double the fines.

When New Jersey put the new higher limit signs up, Governor Christy Whitman said that it was only a test, and if the accident rate went up then the limit would go back down. Meanwhile her own chief of the state troopers was quoted in a newspaper as saying he himself had to exceed the stated speed limit on the Garden State Parkway because if he didn’t someone would drive up his...uh, trunk. The chief was forced to recant. Meanwhile the accident rate dropped, and the new limit will remain.

That’s it for the history lesson, here’s the story; last week I picked up BMW’s new K1200LT for an evaluation. It’s a motorcycle that is made in a country whose highways have no speed limit at all. It’s also a triumph of millennium technology. The bike has anti-lock brakes, electrically controlled windshield height, heated seats and grips, a heated backrest for the passenger, electronic cruise control, and a six CD stereo changer.

I took possesion of the bike at Bob’s BMW in Maryland with plans to ride it all the way to our offices in Nyack, just north of New York City. The weather was a bit on the hot side for full leathers, but I always dress for the ride. I left Bob’s about 11 am for a full days touring. I rode the secondary two laners through the picturesque farmland of Maryland, took the Bay Bridge over the Chesapeake then boarded the ferry, two hours later I was in Cape May, New Jersey.

I treated myself to a broiled fish dinner on Beach Street then began the one hundred and ninety mile trip home. Travel plans included the Garden State Parkway for its entire length, the very same parkway that had chief of the New Jersey State Troopers breaking the speed limit. Then I’d take the New York State Thruway east for a few miles. It was six o’clock when I left Cape May.

The ride up the Parkway was the best that I’d ever had. The temperature was dropping slowly, the thermometer from the onboard computer read 78° and the sun was making its journey toward the horizon at a snail’s pace. I realized that it was the summer solstice, and I’d spent most of the daylight hours on the longest day of the year riding a bike. To say the least. I was very happy.

I kept the motorcycle in the left lane, cruise control set at eighty miles-per-hour. The windshield was cranked all the way up and so was the stereo. I kept checking my mirrors, I passed cars steadily but still had to move over many times for someone to pass me. And I didn’t see a police car the entire ride. At nine PM, when the last rays of daylight faded from the sky I pulled into the Montvale service area, the final gas stop on the Parkway. I topped off the tank then began the last few miles home.

I felt no fatigue at all, the K1200 performed flawlessly and was as comfortable as my favorite chair. Two more exits to go, a mere three miles, and I looked over my left should to see if the lane was clear then passed a group of cars that were doing their bumper to bumper NASCAR impression at seventy miles an hour. The speed limit in that area is only fifty-five. I put on my right signal, looked over other shoulder and moved into the right lane. That’s when I heard the siren and saw the red whoopee lights.

In no time I was stopped on the shoulder. I took off my helmet and waited for the cop. He was a little guy with a big flashlight. I didn’t give him a chance to speak, I looked at him and said, “Man, I’m sorry I made you put on your lights and chase me down.” I held up my thumb and forefinger, “look I’m this far from home, I’ve been on this bike all day, I started in Baltimore, I’m just this far (fingers again) from home,” I pleaded.

“License and registration.”

“Well here’s my license, but I don’t have a registration, this is a manufacturer’s bike that I’m test riding, I do this for a living. Hey I’ve got all these PBA cards,” I fanned out the handful of plastic cards that my police friends had given me.

“They aren’t gonna help you this time.” he was getting stern. I knew that I must have been doing about eighty-five when he spotted me.

“Come, on, I do this for a living, I’ve got a clean license.” Just then two kids on crotch rockets with loud aftermarket pipes blew by. They were wearing full face helmets with t-shirts and shorts. One turned his head and looked at us.

The cop noticed the kid then pointed his flashlight at my boots and ran the beam up my leather pants and jacket. “Well, at least your dressed for it.”

“Like I said,” I repeated, “I do this for a living, I publish a motorcycle magazine.”

“I’m gonna check your license,” was all he said, then he walked back to his cruiser. As I sat there I envisioned him in the cruiser’s air-conditioned cocoon, surrounded with all the latest cop techno-gadgetry, punching the number of my license into his computer terminal. I imagined the electrons bouncing back and forth to some antenna then to Albany, then to some criminal database. I knew that the info would come back clean. But thousands of years from now, that signal would reach a planet in some distant galaxy and some alien scientist will know that I was pulled over by a cop during Earth’s summer solstice.

The Trooper walked back to me and the bike, then returned my license. “It’s your lucky day,” he said, “but I want you to drop off a copy of your magazine at the barracks so I know that you’re telling the truth.” I opened the saddlebag and gave him a copy, on the spot.

He didn’t give me a ticket because I was licensed, properly equiped and pleasant, plus he knew that the limit only exists to raise money. If we trained our drivers better we wouldn’t need to argue this and we could send our troopers out to chase down violent criminals. But money talks in our society and the car and insurance companies would rather sell more products to make more money, and there is no money in arrestng a deadbeat dad or finding a fugitive. If it was more difficult to get a drivers license or you couldn’t buy a vehicle without proper training our roads would be a lot safer, regardless of the legal speed limits.

As I drove off, thrilled with having one of the most perfect rides of my professional moto-journalism career, and with talking my way out of a “NYS Excellent Driver Citation,” I realized something. The edition of CC Motorcycle Newsmagazine that I gave him carried the story about my ride from Minneapolis to Duluth on a Ducati 900ss. One hundred and seventy miles in the rain, travel time; an hour and a half.

I hope he doesn’t read it, because if he does and I ever run into him again, I’m screwed. But hey, it’s my job.

Possibly the End of the Line

A few years ago I was standing in a bike shop on Long Island while the owner whined. “There’s no brotherhood among bikers anymore,” he spouted, comparing the new days of yuppie piloted Harleys versus the old honor among thieves culture. Thinking about the shops that owed me money long past any chance of collecting, supposed writers that promised articles never delivered and the other daily mundane disappointments of being in this business, I agreed. Both of us were wrong, only I learned the hard way.

On Saturday night the 17th of January I was having difficulty breathing. My asthma was acting up. A couple of puffs on my inhaler didn’t help, I could feel my lungs continue to tighten. By midnight I was feeling worse. Asthma is unique disease, it tortures you in your childhood, leaves you alone in your twenties and thirties then comes back with a vengeance in your forties.

Not realizing how sick I really was we called a cab. My wife and I headed for Nyack Hospital. During the ride I was getting exponentially worse. The cab driver flew down the street. He blew through the first stop sign at twice the legal speed, took the first right on two wheels and went completely airborne at the crest of the hill. His speed was a major factor in saving my life.

A block from the hospital I couldn’t breathe at all. Terror gripped my chest. I fought for air. At the entrance to the emergency room my body surrendered. Complete respiratory failure. Then cardiac arrest.

There was no white light, no out of body experience. No floating in a canoe down the river to oblivion. Just nothing. Now I view that as proof that my time on this earth was not up.

The emergency room scene was the reality that mirrors those television doctor shows. Respirator, defibrillator a lot of staff working very fast. They restarted my heart. A respirator pumped oxygen into my lungs.

My wife called my parents and they headed for the hospital. My family practice doctor arrived. He called in a Pulmonary Specialist that drove up from New York City at three o’clock in the morning.

It took ‘till 6:30am for the team of doctors and nurses to stabilize me enough to be moved to the critical care unit. My parents went home. They had aged a lifetime in one night seeing their first born near death. The hospital promised to call if there was any change but the staff was not very optimistic. Five thousand people a year die from similar asthma attacks.

Not that I remember anything after the cab arrived at the hospital, nor do I remember any of the following ten days that I spent in a coma. I pieced the story together from what my wife told me.

Business-wise the timing was pretty poor. Not that spending ten days in a coma was ever on the list of things I wanted to do in my lifetime. The edition of CC Motorcycle Newsmagazine we were working on was our largest of the year. The plan was to distribute 10,000 copies at the Cycle World/International Motorcycle Show. It didn’t look like I was going to be in any shape to pull that off.

My wife stepped in and cracked the whip with the staff. She wrote a column to fill the page where my column usually appeared. She assembled the notes on my European Adventure story finishing the first installment. She organized all the boards and computer discs, delivered them to our printer and had 10,000 copies delivered to our booth at the Jacob Javits Convention Center. Additionally she supervised our staff for the entire show then came to the hospital every night to see me and talk to me. Many have told me since, “your wife’s a rock, she’s definitely a keeper.” I truly love my Roberta, I knew she was special from the first day we met.

At the motorcycle show word of my illness started to spread. As members of our staff wandered about each was asked about my prognosis. The Christian Motorcyclists Association held a prayer vigil at our booth. When conversations turned toward my fate all went quiet.

Meanwhile the story had reached the motorcycle community on the internet. Calls came to the critical care unit from across the country and around the world. Riders that I’ve communicated with but never met had called to check on my progress. They all sent their prayers.

At the request of my neighbors, a group of believers in ancient Indian ways sequestered themselves in a teepee on the Arizona desert. They built a ritual fire and began a “sweat”. As they chanted and prayed perspiration poured down their bodies soaking the desert floor. That day I woke from the coma.

Every day since my vision is more clear. I’ve contacted most of my friends, among them I include those of you that advertise with us. Unanimously I’ve been informed, “we prayed for you.” Everyone asked if there was anything they could do. Was there anything that I needed?

One of my nurses reminded me of the proverb, “if you can count your true friends on one hand, you are a lucky man.” I am much more lucky, I have many more true friends than digits and limbs. I now believe that so many guardian angels were called to hover over me that there must have been a shortage everywhere else.

I count those blessings with each activity of daily life. I remember moments that others may take for granted as milestones of my recovery. The day I was able to feed myself, the day I tied the laces of my sneakers. The day I was able to prepare my own breakfast. The day I was strong enough to pull my Super Sunday T-shirt over my head without help. I look forward to the day I can ride. You see, ten days in a coma can turn a marathon runners muscles to mush.

John Haymond, an Attorney whose name you probably recognize from ads on these pages said to me. “In my business I deal with a lot personal tragedies and the families that survive are those with spirituality.”

John was absolutely correct. Whether you believe in Moses, Mohammed, Jesus, Buddha or Sun, Fire, Earth and Water, it’s your spirituality that counts. Spirituality is the bond of brotherhood.

There definitely is a Brotherhood and it goes beyond bikers.

Thanks to all of you for sending your prayers and caring so much.

Motorcycling Meets Bicycling

            A glance at my speedometer reveals the needle swiftly climbing past 70.  Third gear, near redline.  I begin a sweep over the double yellow to the far left.  It’s raining and visibility is near zero.  I roll off a little trying to avoid the other motorcycles and the three West Virginia State Trooper’s sedans.  Suddenly we’re headed into a hairpin.  The bike ahead of me brakes and my rain-covered visor turns into a translucent red wall.  Terror overcomes excitement.  I flip up my visor and search for the exit of the turn just in time to shift my weight for the switchback.

     Welcome to the West Virginia Mountain Classic… a bicycle race!  Forget roadracing, touring and motocross.  The most exciting motorcycling today is riding for bicycle races.  Don’t believe me?  When was the last time you crossed a double yellow line to pass a state trooper at 25 mph over the legal limit?

     My introduction to motorcycling for bicycle races was by invitation to ride for the 1990 Woodstock Classic.  It was pretty mellow.  A few hills.  Nothing like I was to experience later.  My job at that event was to carry an official with a time board.  Our duties had us passing the racing bicyclists again and again.  This is a little easier said than done.  When passing all the cyclists, safety is the priority.  It is not unusual for the unwary motorcycle to be trapped by the peloton (the official name for the pack of cyclists in a race).  After two Woodstocks, it took all my skill and perhaps a little divine intervention to survive the West Virginia.

     The West Virginia Mountain Classic was big time.  The 531 mile, 6-day stage race drew riders and teams from 19 countries.  It offered $75,000 in prize money and lots of goodies kicked in by corporate sponsors.  In biking circles the Classic was billed as the first part of an American triple crown of bicycle racing.  The Thrift Drug Classic in Pittsburgh and the Core States Classic (which draws upward of half-a-million spectators) being the other two legs.

     Motorcycles are used to carry officials, photographers and, most importantly, TV cameramen.  On special occasion, if enough motorcycles are available, VIP’s can catch a ride.  There is no better view of the race.

     Motorcycles are only a small cell of the huge bicycle race caravan.  The caravan begins with as many screaming police cars as the promoter can glean from the local authorities.  Then follow the motorcycle marshals who block all cross roads, providing a “rolling enclosure.”  The vehicles immediately in front of and behind the peloton carry the two commissars.  The commissars control the movements within the race caravan.  The peloton is the nucleus of the race caravan and dictates the speed of the entire caravan.  This fluctuates from as fast as 60mph downhill to 5 mph uphill.  Following the rear commissar are all the support and team vehicles.

     This is how it works.  You are riding behind the commissar and your photo-passenger needs to get a picture of Greg LeMonde.  So you meander your motorcycle through the caravan to the commissar’s position.  Then you politely gesture.  If he deems it safe, is in a good mood, has eaten recently and hasn’t seen you screw up yet, he will wave you on.  You then enter the peloton put your photo-passenger next to Greg Lemonde for a few seconds and then blast out of there before you anger the cyclists and are squirted or pelted with water bottles, or worse, piss off the commissar.

     At the West Virginia, the free accommodations for volunteer motorcyclists were great.  We spent one night at the Snowshoe Mountain Ski Resort, after which the weather was so poor that the officials decided to start the race at the bottom of the mountain.  A wise decision considering the intermittent rain, dense fog and overall hazardous road conditions.  On another my room included the use of an outdoor Jacuzzi and an indoor whirlpool. 

     For this race, I was carrying the Mavic mechanic who provided neutral support for all the racers.  We dutifully rode in front of the lead commissar.  Have you ever tried maintaining the same speed as the vehicle directly behind you?  Downhill, the acceleration of a modern, lightweight bicycle with a professional racer is astronomical.  Which is why all the motorcycles and cars blast out of the way before the peloton reaches the crest.

     Every racecourse has at least one memorable turn that clearly illustrates the sadistic intent of the course designer.  In the Charleston, West Virginia circuit race, it was an acute off camber left hand turn with a manhole cover in the middle of the best line.  For eight laps, I tried to finesse that turn.  Just as I had finally gotten the hang of it, the driver of the press vehicle in front of me stalled his car.  I swerved to the left, happy not to be spending the rest of the race in the trunk of a Subaru, and left him to be rear-ended by the commissar or eaten by the peloton. 

     On to Freehold, New Jersey for the Hamilton Bank Classic.  This relatively flat course has only two surprises.  They were both dips after railroad tracks.  On back for this race was Scott “You’re killin me” Sholz.  Scott is larger than life.  About 6’4” and as big as a linebacker.  All weekend people were “killin him.”  The commissar and his rules, a not very funny waitress at Pizza Hut, a hard-to-photo cyclist were all “killin him.”

     As National Editor for Southwest Cycling Magazine, Scott’s duty was photos.  We made a great team.  Scott knew exactly who he wanted a picture of.  Even where the racer might be.  I put him there.  On one circuit we even lapped the peloton (remember these guys are going pretty fast).  At the motorcycle briefing we were warned about the two dips after the railroad tracks.  I had ridden over them six times this race.  Scott had just shot a photo of a breakaway.  It was time to blast.  We passed the commissar.  We passed the motorcycle marshals.  We crossed the tracks.  I yelled hang on.  I really don’t know what happened next.  I found myself riding the pegs and trying to keep the bike upright.  I knew Scott was still on the bike.  I heard his screams.  I’m told Scott bounced off the seat about three feet.  I also know that when Scott came down, he bent my right passenger peg down at a 45 degree angle.  “Kalan, you’re killin me, “ was all he said as I left him at the finish line.