A Day At The Races...

There are three sounds that never fail to get my pulse pulse racing. The first of these is a husband’s voice saying, “Honey, I’m home.” The second is the abrupt metallic snap of a cartridge being chambered in an automatic pistol. And the third is the barely muffled snarl of dozens of motorcycle engines, raging with hellish fury from the pits at Hagerstown Speedway, in northern Maryland.

I got plenty of the third kind on July 25, 2009 as the invited guest of motorcycle racing superstar Chris Carr at the AMA* Grand National Twins on the Hagerstown Speedway half-mile. Carr is best known to bikers with a taste for speed as one of the world’s fastest men on two wheels, holding the motorcycle land speed world record from September 5, 2006 to September 28, 2008, during which he hit a blazing 350.884 miles per hour on the salt at Bonneville.

The streamlined "motorcycle" that Chris Carr rode to 350.884 miles per hour on September 5, 2006, on the salt flats at Bonneville. (Photo courtesy of Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)

Yet he holds an equally distinguished record for motorcycle racing fans as Seven-Time AMA Grand National Flat Track Champion and a Seven Time AMA 600cc Dirt Track Champion. He is the only rider to hold the title of “Rookie of the Year” for the flat track and for super bike road racing -- ten years apart!

An avid reader of “Twisted Roads,” Carr invited me to join him in the pits for this race event through the auspices of Mac Pac** member Jim Ellenberg, who is a mutual friend. (Ellenberg reads this blog first thing in the morning and last thing at night in lieu of prayer.) Carr and I have exchanged stories on a number of occasions -- most of which were social events in Ellenberg’s yard.

Hagerstown Speedway is a tribute to the back room of American culture. Located at the end of a crumbling asphalt driveway just off US-40, it has the same vacant air about it as a state fairgrounds after a hard winter. We arrived around 2pm and found ourselves at end of a long line of recreational vehicles (some battered and some in the million dollar category), waiting for an element of processing. About a third of the parking area was already filled according to some chaotic plan. RVs, campers, vans, and trailers had staked out spaces in the bare July heat. The occupants of these, racing aficionados I presumed, sat under awnings or brimmed hats, and surveyed the proceedings with a contagious sense of non-expectancy.

Arriving at 2pm, we found ourselves at the end of a long line of RVs and trailers, all waiting for credentials. At the time, I had no idea these were the superstars of dirt track motorcycle racing. The gaps in my education would be filled by the end of the day. (Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

I caught it, and dozed off while “Big Jim” Ellenberg disappeared into the crowd to renew old acquaintances and get the scoop on the day’s agenda. The program seemed somewhat vague to me. I expected to arrive at a kind of stadium, with flags flying, crowds cheering, and the smell of French fry oil vying with engine oil for the predominant fragrance over the stands. This is the result of seeing too many bullshit movies and not attending enough races. In reality, this was only the third motorcycle race I had ever seen up close -- and the only one to be held on a dirt track. It would be nothing like I expected, and so much more.

Once issued my pit credentials (and I love the sound of that phrase), I cruised around the northern end of the track, crossing it about halfway, under the direction of an official whose job it was to see that assholes driving ancient GMC Suburbans didn’t bog them down in the dirt, nor take a practice lap for laughs. My 1995 Suburban is a surefooted old shit box that hasn’t burned an ounce of oil in 14 years. Yet she wallowed like a pig crossing this track. To be exact, the ass end of the truck slipped at little to the right when I stepped on the gas.

“What the fuck is this,” I asked myself philosophically. It had been raining on and off all week and this track had been absorbing water like a huge tea bag for days. It was as slick as fresh cow shit on wet plate glass. “They’re gonna race on this today.... Not likely.” I consoled myself with the thought that I would organizing my notes on a the bar of a nice little gin mill by the track before too long.

The author interviewing Chris Carr, Seven-Time AMA Grand National Flat Track Champion and a Seven Time AMA 600cc Dirt Track Champion, in the pits at Hagerstown Speedway. (Photo by Jim Ellenberg -- Click to enlarge)

Team Carr was set up in an area the size of a commercial campsite... A campsite that was for all intents and purposes a bivouac on the threshold of motorized hell. On one side was the team’s 40-foot truck, which housed a complete workshop, vertical chests of tools, racks of tires, boxes of spare parts, three motorcycles, two complete spare engines, and living quarters for three men. On the other side was an equally impressive bus-type motor home, tricked out with every conceivable convenience. This was chez Carr, the racing season residence of Chris, his wife Pam, their two sons and three dogs (Jack Russell types).

Two hand-built Harley-Davidson XR-750s sat on rubberized mats in the center. Covers concealed both machines from the triple trees on back. I figured this was potential rain protection, but another source informed me it was to prevent the competition from viewing strategic adjustments. Further work was being performed on a third machine, under a tarp. Everyone in Team Carr moved with purpose and military-like precision. I couldn’t help but notice that in the confines of this little campsite was about $2 million dollars worth of equipment.

Carr's pit area included a 40-foot support truck with facilities capable of building a motorcycle from the ground up. His two Harley-Davidson XR-750s were rolled out for prepping, but covered from prying eyes. (Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

The entire center of the race track was given over to dozens of “campsites” like this. Some were bracketed by tractor trailers and motor homes of similar scale. Others were a bit more modest and some more weathered. The pit set-up had all the esprit de corps of a World War I aerodrome, with mechanics working on engines under canvas... Engines that would run flat out under circumstances that would consume the average asphalt bike in seconds. Yet the bonding spirit of the track was limited to circles within circles. It seemed like a big family here, but there was no doubt that some family members were here to kick the asses of the others.

It is just amazing at who drops by to say “hello” to Chris. Among the celebrities was Al Wilcox, (90 years old) and a factory rider for Harley Davidson from in the late 40's and early 50's. After his racing career, Wilcox went on to be a flagman for the AMA for many years. This was his honorary night to flag the “Dash for Cash” race.

Legendary Harley racer from the '40s and '50s and AMA flagman Al Wilcox, 90, gets ready to drop the green flag. Chris Carr, #4, is the second bike from the right. (Photo by Jim Ellenberg, also 90 -- Click to enlarge)

All of the women who hang around motorcycle racing events are hot. That is the law. Whether they are wrenches, racers, reporters, tattoo canvasses or umbrella girls -- each must have the ability to generate 50 gallons of testosterone from a cigar store Indian.

All kinds of folks drop by the pits looking for a story, advice, or a good lead. I tried to be of assistance whenever possible. (Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

I got to meet a legitimate member of the motorcycle press, Miriam S. Deitcher. Deitcher is the author of the “Racer X” column for Flatrack.Com and the Director of Advertising for Progressive. She sashayed into Chris’s enclave looking for a scoop, and I introduced myself as the newest moto editorial parasite. She politely listened to the first four words of my pitch -- "My name is Jack Riepe..." -- before giving me that familiar look which indicates I have been dismissed for life by one more good-looking woman. (I’m used to it.)

Miriam S. Deitcher, author of the “Racer X” column for Flatrack.Com and the Director of Advertising for Progressive (Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

One of the most capable business people I have ever met is also one of the most thorough on-site managers and organizers I have ever come across. This is Pam, Chris Carr’s wife. She could also be the cover girl for a magazine titled, “Women Capable Of Reducing Most Men To Sawdust With A Single Smile.” I tried hard to just look at ground in her presence and not to talk, lest it become instantly apparent to her that I am one of the few males without justification in the food chain. My strategy must have worked as she extended the hospitality of the pit to me without reserve.

Chris Carr took time out of his pre-race preparations to give me a tour of the operation, and to explain what was going on. I asked him about the tires for racing in the dirt, expecting to be shown a set of vicious knobbies. That was not the case. Carr pulled two tires off the rack: one was worn and the other looked newer, but was far from the aggressive tread pattern I expected. Carr explained that tires from other races on the asphalt (that were not too far gone) were selected and sanded down to present an even surface on the dirt. These were considered more effective as the tread pattern would be less inclined to retain the dirt and clay, and to pack it all over the bike.

The tire on the left was prviously used on the pavement and repurposed through sanding and cutting for service on the dirt. The tire on right is a new tire with the same tread but greater depth on it. (Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

Judging from the equipment carried in Carr’s support vehicle, his team, under the direction of crew chief Kenny Tolbert, could easily rebuild a motorcycle from scratch. One cabinet revealed two spare Harley engines, wrapped like Christmas gifts.

The support truck, easily the size of a moving van, was close to being the equal of a full service repair shop. It was nice of Chris Carr to take me on a tour of his operations. (Phoro by the author -- Click to enlarge)

Ominous clouds were stacked up over the race track by 4pm and things were looking grim. Conferring among themselves, Team Carr noted that races at this particular event seemed to have a history of being bedeviled by thunderstorms. Heavy rains used to routinely flood the pit area until an extensive drainage system was installed. Sure enough, raindrops started to fall with the same effect my former in-laws used to have at barbecues. People scattered. Within seconds, Carr’s motorcycles were brought to the lift gate and moved into the truck. Tools, mats, benches and all the gear of preparation disappeared in a matter of seconds. This Chinese fire drill would be repeated a number of times as the weather alternately cleared and worsened.

A formation of official “maintenance” vehicles began endless circuits of the track in an attempt to pack down the clay and present a less porous surface to the rain. These vehicles were an eclectic mix of automotive shit boxes that elevated my truck to the “highly desirable” category. None of this machinery seemed to be equipped with a muffler and they sounded like a squadron of low-flying B-17s coming in over Dresden.

Kenny Tolbert, Team Carr's Crew Chief, rolling out #4 (Photo by the Author -- Click to enlarge)

The rain would lessen, clear, and return in varying strengths over the next four hours. I figured they would just cancel the program, but that would be the very last option as no rain date was available. Team Carr tracked the path and intensity of approaching thunderstorms on the screen of an iPhone.

Throughout all of this, the stands continued to fill. There was a couple of hundred people in the bleachers around 3pm. The number had swelled to 10,000 or so by 6pm. The noise level mounted as motorcycles being prepped screamed in mechanical defiance, and good-old boy announcers shared news and details of races past and to come -- over a sound system that rivaled the one used to announce the retirement of Lou Gehrig from the New York Yankees -- in 1939.

At one point, I heard mechanics yelling for a rule book to gauge the amount of noise a bike was legally allowed to make.

“That’s right,” said Carr. “There was a time when raceways were far out in the country and noise wasn’t a problem. But the suburbs start at the end of the driveway now and local taxpayers are first to stand up at town meetings and yell about the noise. So in response, there is going to be a greater attempt to muffle down the exhausts of the bikes.”

To get the full impact of the noise I experienced at the track this day, turn your speakers 0n "high" and click on the video above. The blonde lady (far left) shucking corn in the video is Chris Carr's wife Pam. The young girl is her neice. Pit crew work is a family effort for the Carrs. His mom and dad were there too. (Extremely primitive video by the author -- Turn up the sound to North Korean interrogation technique levels)

I was amazed. The noise of the bikes was one of the best parts of the whole experience. Quite frankly, I thought the PA system made ten times more noise than the bikes. But in truth, I liked the contribution of the announcer’s voices too. Each part was integral to the overall fabric of this unique experience. Dirt track motorcycle racing is one of the AMA’s best kept secrets... And it is up there with the old wooden board tracks of the ‘20s.

I watched Chris apply a loose-leaf pad of clear tear-off plastic sheets to the face shield of his helmet. This is a well-known practice to those of you who ride in the dirt or who follow dirt racing, but I had never seen it before. It allows the rider to simply tear off a dirt-smeared sheet from his helmet, leaving a clear one underneath, when his vision gets impaired.

I explained to Chris that I have a similar system for condoms on a Friday night... Simply pulling off the last one with each encounter.

At 8pm, the brain-washing PA system droned that conditions had just about improved for racing to commence.

“Bullshit,” said Carr. “They really need to get a grader out here or riders will be stacking up in those curves.” Almost on cue, a road construction grader was rolled out and run around the track.

Shortly thereafter, the riders lined up for the starting flag.

I wouldn’t have considered walking my bike on a surface like that track. It glistened with moisture in suspension and offered all the traction of goose shit mixed with wet leaves.

Lined up for the main event, the racers take their starting positions on one of the slickest surfaces I have ever seen. (Photo by Jim Ellenberg -- Click to enlarge)

Yet a wave of the flag brought a new explosion of sound as the riders jockeyed for control of the track. I would like to nonchalantly say that the drenched half-mile dirt track limits the speed of the riders going into the curves to about 75 miles-per-hour, with a higher speed of 95 miles-per-hour reached in the straightaway -- except there was nothing nonchalant about it. These riders exercised tremendous control maneuvering around each other, while trading sweat for inch-by-inch gains in curves where centrifugal force and gravity threw dice for their souls.

A chocolate-tinted miasma hung above the track, caught in the glare of the floodlights, quickly covering riders and machines with a coating of clay slime. I had one of the best vantage points in the house, and it was almost impossible for me to pick out individual numbers, let alone critique riding technique. I was mesmerized by the way these riders not only anticipated a degree of slippage in these curves, but how they used it to their best advantage.

Chris Carr had offered to let me watch the race from the roof his support vehicle. “You’ve lost enough weight to fit out the port-hole door in the roof,” he said. Looking up the steel ladder, I realized the roof door was about 58 inches in circumference. I could fit through it now. The roof of Chris’s support truck sported a railed-in verandah that gave a nice 360-degree view of the track. But then I had a vision of myself leaning on the rail, and the whole truck falling over sideways, crushing the two Harleys.

“Thanks,” I said. “Next year.”

From a vantage point by one of the curves, I found it hard to watch these guys face the sausage monster in each turn, while wagging their asses in its jaws as their rear tires blindly sought purchase in the mud.

The racers passed by in a blur of motion. If I were ten years younger, maybe even three, I'd be out there with them. (Photo by Jim Ellenberg -- Click to enlarge)

Carr competed in two events that night, but failed to place in the top money in either one. The second event was slated to run 25 laps, but was stopped after 18 due to falling rain. It could be argued by some that Carr’s race strategy called for a stronger finish in the second heat, but that weather could have deprived him of the opportunity.

I used a lull in activity to get my Suburban across the track again on my way out, and the rear wheels spun all the way across. The condition of the track had dramatically worsened since the afternoon. I was secretly delighted that no dirt track Suburban races had been scheduled that night, as I was able to leave for the two-hour ride home with the water-tight integrity of my jeans intact.

I was wise to try and beat the crowd out the crumbling drive to the road, as the parking lot was jammed with thousands of cars, pick-ups, and motorcycles, clustered around rain flys, tents, barbecue grills and coolers. It was apparent this night that the back room of American culture had spilled out into the parlor -- and it made me sorry to be leaving.

Author’s note:

I would like to thank Chris Carr and Jim Ellenberg for a great day at the track. Chris Carr assured me that he was going back after the title of “World’s Fastest Man on Two Wheels” at Bonneville this fall and encouraged me to attend the event. (Actually encouraged me.)

“You can even ride ‘Fire Balls’ over the course and get a timed certificate,” said Chris. Now that prospect appealed to me mightily. To ride the same course as the likes of Bert Munro and Chris Carr has set my imagination in gear. The movie could be called, “Fire Balls Like Mine.”

Jim Ellenberg is a pisser. Jim and his wife Dot drove 90 miles out of their way last week to have hot dogs with my brother Robert and myself at Rutt’s Hutt in Clifton, NJ. Rutt’s is an armpit of a place that has been there forever. My dad’s dad took him there as a kid. On that trip, my dad, who was about six at the time (1929), sent my grandfather inside to get him a chocolate ice cream cone.

“Is that chocolate,” asked my dad, inspecting the cone with skepticism.

“No, it’s shit,” replied my Grandfather, starting a new tradition for Riepe family factual brevity in dealing with children. (True story)

•AMA -- American Motorcycle Association
•• Mac Pac -- The premier charted BMW riding club in southeast Pennsylvania

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2009
AKA The Lindbergh Baby: The Mac Pac
AKA Vindak8r: Motorcycle Views
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)