(OMED: Brad loves old motorcycles.  See his article on this subject. This summer he took a brief sabbatical from his job in the electronics industry and headed for the track to experience competition.  This is the letter he sent about it.)

Took the bike to practice night at Castle Rock, Friday evening.  She ran great, got lots of compliments on it--many of the racers have heard of BSA but had never actually seen one on the track.  I wasn't expecting so much attention over the bike and became slightly overwhelmed, so consequently was reduced to mumbling "thanks" and not much more.  My "old" buddy Arney, aged 60, was having a great time, and pretty much laughed at me through it all, knowing what would happen and having been through all this himself.

Shown: 1938 BSA Gold Star.  "BSA" stands for "British Small Arms" (or Birmingham Small Arms) company. Photo links to page about the bike.
 

I did pretty well for my first time out.  No particular threat--most of the bikes were more powerful and the riders more experienced, but I learned more in those three-plus hours than I could have imagined.  I went from extreme fear to feeling ignominious when passed by another machine, to completely focused intent on passing those in front of me.  The entire experience was a huge rush.

After about three hours of this, with breaks--we ran in heats based on engine size, so some time spent idling in line--I went for what was to be my last run.  I was tired and knew it, but as it was late and the adrenaline yet coursing through me I kept pushing it.  I knew better.  I came around the back sweeper turn too fast, right on another rider's back tire as we approached the one very tight turn leading to a slight right and over the "jump".  To avoid hitting the guy, I had to go outside of him--wanting to pass--got in some soft stuff and lost control.  Down I went.  Hard.

Matt Benson photo: Alex McLean of Bob McKeever's Champagne Norton Racing Team.  It's a link to the AHRMA (vintage bike racing) website. 

Imagine going about 30mph and suddenly having your foot railroad-spiked to the ground and slamming down on your side.  This is what it's like to crash on a clay track.  You stick. As does the machine.   None of this sliding or rolling or tumbling of the bike and yourself, you just plain stop.  The proverbial brick wall.  This happened so quickly I had only a fraction of a second to realize something was wrong and I was down.  My right thumb, apparently, remained on the handlebar as I was thrown to the ground, and unable to go through that metal, bent accordingly.  Simultaneously, my helmet slammed to earth so hard I thought I heard it break--I still haven't checked to see.  At the same time a pain shot through the
left side of my chest as though I'd broken some ribs and I could no longer breathe comfortably.

I stood, though noticed my body wasn't exactly bouncing up, lifted the bike off the ground and rolled it off the track.  I tried to start it in order to ride it back to the pit.  No fire, so gave that up. The line of the wheel was askew from the line of the handlebars, and I noticed the rear brake lever was bent to above the primary case.  I walked it back.

I drove home, working at breathing, reliving the wreck, re-riding the track.  Slept hardly at all Friday night, part of this due to anticipation of the upcoming race on Saturday.

Saturday I fixed the bike.  I didn't feel right but went through the motions.  My thumb by now was three times normal size, and though I figured out I hadn't broken any ribs nor suffered any intercostal tears--done it before, know what to check for--I also knew things weren't right.  Took the bike to a spray-and-wash and hosed the dirt and dust from it.

Arney thought we'd better start the bike, make sure everything was okay.  I had my thumb taped by this time and that helped some.  Still no fire.  We took off the points cover and found it had water in it.  The gasket is old and had shrunk, so when I washed the bike water had sucked right in there.  Kicking over the engine, we watched as more water pumped out the hole.  No choice but to remove the cover, which required removal of the kicker, the shift lever, etc.  Time was running out.  Arney said, "I don't think we're
gonna make it in time."  These the words I'd quietly been hoping to hear and I felt a flood of relief.  I looked up at him and said, "Arney, let's stop."  He appeared relieved at this, too, so we bagged it.

This morning my thumb is turning a nice shade of black.  I have pain in my chest from my breastbone around to my spine.  My left shoulder has made itself known, my neck hurts on the left side, and the left side of my head hurts.  Dammit, anyway.

The upshot is I have to consider whether or not to continue this racing stuff.  It was huge fun, but goddamn, man--my crash was a minor one, it'll take quite some time to recover from this, and for the first time since I got the idea in my head, I'm considering my 
age--for now.

No regrets, of course.

©2002 Brad Stevens  All photos link to their source.