One of these teams
is not like the others,
one of these teams
is blonde....

We have turn signals on our race bike, but we don't use them.

A spinoff of Team Poop, Team Blonde is infinitely less serious about motorcycle racing but also, because of their little blondy natures, infinitely more fun. Come meet the little angels:

Blonde #1 Pat "Fluffbutt" Hahn

Blonde #2 John "Curling Iron" Gateley

Blonde #3 Joe "Peaches" Birchhill

I learned three important things, both about riding and about life:
1. Preparation is critical
2. Skill is no match for experience
3. Darren Hickey is a bad influence on me

(cont'd below)

Two Teams Poop and a Blonde Crew (in Red) 2005

After a few fits and starts, four TeamPoop.org endurance teams evolved. Team 1 Team Poop: Karl and his CRA competitors, gunning for points. Team 2 The Feculent: Tony M, Sheldon N, and George. Team 3 The Sarcaustic Assholes: Birch, John G, and me. Team 4 The Doodyful: Kent, Chad, and Sheldon H. I’ll tell the story from the perspective of one member of the Sarcaustic Assholes.

There was some serious smacktalking between me and Tony, John G and Sheldon N had a bit of a match going, and Birch just kinda wanted to mess with everybody, especially George. Previous lap times were compared and the stage was set for some fierce competition as well as some friendly side bets involving Mexican food and sophisticated adult refreshments. Back-door deals were struck to acquire some quality help in the pits, with racers practically fighting over the best pit bitches. Team Sarcaustic Asshole ended up smiling with Brent, Richard, John’s Patty, Birch’s Amy, and Birch’s new buddy Mike. (Mike was a little hung over after a BIR Saturday night with Birch. Rookie mistake.)

Of course, all hell has to break loose at the last minute. Karl’s Team Poop fell apart and Kent decided he didn’t want to race, so Team 4 The Doodyful disappeared and Chad and Sheldon H hopped onto Karl’s team, the official Team Poop, rarin’ to go and fast as shit.

Then, the morning of the race, Karl’s bike pooped out in practice and Team 1 Team Poop was out of the race. They were welcome to ride on the other Poopy teams, but the CRA wouldn’t allow last-minute switching. Rats for those guys, they really wanted to race. We all felt really bad that they were stuck spectating. There were some words exchanged early on in the summer of planning as they were looking for an endurance ride and no one ponied up. Now we couldn’t give them a ride, even though we wanted to! That sucks, sorry guys, let’s plan better next year. They fortunately stuck around to watch and ultimately help other teams out.

(Personally, I think a $190 endurance fee for a 3-person team should get you track time, a trophy, and a just a little freaking customer service along with it, but that didn’t seem to be the case on Sunday. C’MON, it’s supposed to be FUN.)

(cont'd below)

The Blonde Crew 2004

The Sarcaustic Assholes’ first setback was the officials’ condemnation of John’s brain child: The Gassinator. A 12-foot tall contraption with race gas at the top and a high-flow siphon for pit stops, flags denouncing the other teams and various scatological references emblazoned all over it. Richard, Brent, and John all worked hard to get The Gassinator set up, and we ended up using it for decoration. The damn pit marshals knew they were going to shitcan it, but let us work hard to get it all set up and pumping gas before they dropped the hammer. George told us they were laughing about it discussing how they let us set it all up before the kyboshed it. Next year it’ll be back, but probably pouring Gatorade at 4 seconds per gallon.

The Feculent’s first setback, in true Team Poop fashion, was to find George in the shitter at the third call to grid. After a mad dash to get riding gear on, they missed gridding and took a 30-second hit to their first lap. THAT, my friends, is the poster child for serendipity. Team Poop lives!

The Feculent then switched riders after about 25 minutes, a foul in endurance rules. Riders need to make at least 30 minutes or a penalty is assessed. Of course, by the time the pit marshal made it up to hot pit 29, The Feculent was long gone, the marshal couldn’t remember which pit switched riders, and The Sarcaustic Assholes were about to make the same switch. The marshal informed us that we had to run for 30 minutes, so when Birch came in after his first session we had to send him back out for another lap, costing us 30 seconds. Birch came in again and John headed out after a slap on the butt.

The Feculent were never assessed a penalty, lucky shits. The two teams were neck and neck so far.

By the time I got on the bike for my first session, The Sarcaustic Assholes were ahead by a slim margin, but then got passed by Sheldon while in the pits. With Amy at the wall timing and signaling riders, and Patty relaying information from Amy via two-way radios to the riders and pit crew, our procedures were aligned for battle. When John came roaring in, Mike grabbed the bike from the front and steadied it for John to get off. Patty had a key for the gas tank and opened it for Brent, awaiting with a gas can and a serious look on his face. Richard stood by with the fire extinguisher and was ready for anything. 30 seconds later, the bike was ready and I got on and floored it.

I took off on the little SV and right away beat my best lap time from the year before. Cool!

(cont'd below)

The Original Team Poop (circa. 2003)

I should take some time to describe a lap around BIR. This track is as bumpy as a Wisconsin letter road, with seven right turns and three lefts, and a looooooong fast straightaway that’s almost a mile, but seems to go by much quicker. I think I counted one dead skunk or squirrel or something at the pit exit.

Ripping out of the pits, you can’t be too hot because you’ve got a quick little chicane to make to enter the track. This is third gear at about 45 for me. From there, I pin the throttle and try to get my speed up to about 110 before Turn one, a long sweeping right turn. Riders entering from the pits have to stay wide all the way through one until their speed’s up—riders already on the track come into one at 120 to 170 mph and you definitely DON’T want to get in their way! You just stay tucked in tight against the bike with the crack of your ass on the right side of the seat, knees in, and try to hang on. The wind from the south was blowing good, and the bike moved around a lot and the wind was constantly trying to rip your head off your neck. In turn one, you try to be as aerodynamic as possible.

Wringing it up to about 130 by the time I hit turn two, I can finally move a little farther toward the race line, but not quite—there are still riders approaching from behind at 140-170, and when you’re on a little bike like the SV, you’ve got to give them room or someone will get hurt. Turn two is tighter than one, but still a long righthand sweeper that can be run on an SV in 6th gear, wide open. Me being the risk-averse wusscake that I am would be scared poopless with that, so I back it off from 9,500 (10,000 redline) in one to about 8,500 rpm for two—about 135 for me. I’m still completely tucked in, but when I’d get uncomfortable I’d flop my right knee out a little bit to help steer the bike a little more into the corner. (In theory, that should help, right?)

Turn one and two, especially in this wind, are a lot of work managing the bike. Even riding a perfectly-set-up SV, it’s still a lot like wrestling with my younger, larger brother. Imagine trying to pin down a struggling 190-lb high schooler, and you know what it’s like to try to control a bike in a bumpyass 140-mph turn.

Now comes the test. Screaming into turn three at 135, you’ve got about a 120-degree tight, banked right hander. While most of the time you feel kind of alone in the wider and faster turns one and two, all of the sudden you’ve got company coming into three. Fast guys come ripping past me on the brakes, all the way up to turn in. Three really separates the poop from the crap. Being the inexperienced lunkhead hamfist that I am, I start decelerating at the first brake marker then hard on the brakes at the third, dumping the bike down one, two, three gears into third, (gotta love them new Ferrodo brake pads!) and easily give up lots of room for others, even on SVs, to pass me. Someday I’ll work up doing that corner right. A late, late turn in right as the candy stripe on the inside starts, set the bike at about 50 or 60 mph, and roll that throttle back on and watch from the corner of my eye as the outside candy stripe gets closer…closer…ahhh! Made it! Whack the throttle open, grab fourth gear, and head for turn four, winding it up again to about 90.

Turn four comes up FAST, and it’s tighter than three and is also the first left hander I’ve seen in awhile. Back down to third, brake really hard, set the speed at about 45 or 50, and throw it in to the left just after the huge bump that completely craps the suspension out for the majority of the turn. Boing! Boing! Boing! The bike is like a freaking pogo stick! Ahhh…there’s the pavement again. Finish close to the inside and crank the throttle open again, whip it up to about 60, leave it in third, then calmly settle the bike for five.

Five is a great, flat, 90-degree right hander with tons of runout room. (Hey! There’s Kyle and Carrie!) Lots of guys go way too slow through five. This is my favorite corner. I feel like Miguel Duhamel through this turn. I roll on just slightly before I flip the bike in, then keep a solid, slight acceleration all the way through, wringing the bike all the way up to redline before the next turn, but I have to leave it in third. I usually hit the rev limiter here (the SV screams in protest—it definitely does NOT like bouncing up against the revs), but six is too tight for fourth gear and there’s not enough room to shift up and back down again. There’s also a dip at the exit that requires great care for a 160-lb fluffbutt like me. If I am hard on the gas and move my body at ALL, the dip sends my front tire airborne that could start a tankslapper. Yikes. I keep my cool until I’m past the dip and set my sights on six.

Six is a tight left hander at about 90 degrees and always surprises me by how soon it’s there. Every time, it came up so fast that I felt like I had forgotten to brake. (When you’re at redline in third, things do come up on you a little fast.) Haul the bike down from about 80 to about 45 or 50, I try to catch a glimpse of the far outside end of the candystripe and toss the bike in towards the apex. As soon as I can clearly see the end of the outside candystripe, I run it up to redline and grab fourth, then crank the throttle again and roar towards seven. NOW the bike likes me again. I give it it’s head and let it carry me toward the fun stuff.

Seven’s a modest left hander, more of a bend than a turn, maybe 60-degrees, that I take at about 70 or 75. (You could do it a lot faster but eight will catch you and you’ll be landscaping before you know it.) Starting way outside and nearly jumping the inside candy stripe, I open the throttle slightly as I’m heeled over, then straighten it up QUICK and decelerate—not brake. Eight’s there before you know it, and you’ve got more work to do to not screw up these two turns. Seven and eight are more like a really long chicane than two turns, and are a shitload of fun. Putting them together well sounds like Eddie Van Halen cranking away up on the library tabletops in “Hot for Teacher.”

Eight is about an 80 degree right hander, taken in fourth gear at about 60 or 65 mph. This is a scary part of the track, because if you look at anything other than turn nine while you’re in turn eight, all you see is trees, trees, trees on the outside and sometimes Jonah with his expensive camera equipment and sneaky little hiding place—my other goal is to try not to take HIM out. Spectators see some great saves in this turn as riders fixate on the trees and run off the track.

Seven and eight are what I describe as “bike friendly turns.” Somehow, the suspension, motor, wind, and sound all seem in perfect harmony and slicing through these corners is like doing some superslick dance move that leaves everyone breathless. (This is how I feel. To those on the sidelines, I probably look like a monkey riding a toaster.)

Eight’s over before you know it and you’ve got a short straightaway before the tricky turn nine. Wring that motor up as much as you can in fourth, get to about 80 or 85, then brake hard and take it down a gear for nine, a very slow, very tight right hander, about 90 degrees, that is most comfy at about 35 or 40 mph. Here you have a crowd watching you: people on the bleachers, corner workers, medics, a freaking get together of white shirts and blue and orange safety vests. Someone even has a bike parked right next to the track. Seems crowded! I try to forget about it and concentrate on entry speed. The trick with nine is to make one nice, sweeping, outside-inside-outside arc that has you pointed at ten long before you get to the bridge—provided someone doesn’t try to sneak in on you and take out your apex, which also happens to be right up against a largish concrete berm. Too far inside and you’ll whack your knee or your wheel and send yourself somewhere you’d rather not be! I never feel quite right through nine, there’s just too much crap on the sidelines that are begging to grab your bike.

Once through nine, now it’s time to relax. You’ve got one turn to make in the next 1 ½ miles or so, so you catch your breath a little as you crank that throttle, wind it up to redline, grab fourth, wind it up again, grab fifth, wind it up—until complete panic sets in, then grab lots-O-brake and bang it back down into fourth for turn ten, a faster, right-hand 90-degree, well-banked turn with lots of room for passing and lotsa runout. I think turn ten finds me at about 65 or 70 and staring down the nearly mile-long straight leading up to one. Wring that motor for all it’s worth (damn this SV can seem slow sometimes!), tuck in, and try to catch a rest before doing it all over again in turn one, this time at full speed of 140-145 mph.

All the while I’ve got riders on Gixxer 750s and various 600s whipping past me 30 mph faster. Damn I’m slow.

This whole thing takes about two minutes. How long did it take to read it?

Riding like hell, trying to keep it in the 1:59-2:00 range, I passed Sheldon of Team Feculent and was feeling good when I was suddenly passed by another friend, Darren Hickey, coming into turn 3. Great fun! Now it’s like a really fast group ride! I had a target and a playmate out on the racetrack.

(Emphasis on the word “target.”)

(cont'd below)

Guess Who?

Now I had a hunch Darren and I are about even in lap times on SV 650s, so I decided to chase him. That poophead held me up in turns 4-9, I’d draft him coming into turn 1, and then he’d pass my terrified ass at the entrance to turn 3. Follow slow as shit through the infield, damn I want to go faster, finally catch my draft, pass, hang on, get passed, repeat. THIS is RACING! (Karl told me later he saw how close Darren and I were, and he got a BAD feeling about it, because he knew how competitive that can get, and how easy it is to lose your concentration fixating on getting ahead of someone.)

So then, after a couple laps of this, I completely lost my mind. I was having so much fun passing and getting passed, chasing my bud down, that I focused on getting around him and forgot that I still had to keep the bike on the track. Besides, I was getting a little frustrated getting held up in the infield. I target fixated, narrowed my focus, and saw nothing except for Mr. Hickey and that huge open space in front of him where I wanted my motorcycle to go. It actually occurred to me at this time that I could IMPRESS Darren by passing him in the infield.

Damn, friends can be such a mixed blessing.

After watching Darren for several turns, I decided I could take him on the outside of turn 5, my favorite turn, a 90-degree with lots of runout. Rookie mistake. Darren threw the bike into the turn, I threw it in after him, but unfortunately miscalculated my turn-in point so badly in my hunger to show off I unfortunately discovered that the track did have edges, no matter how excited I was or how much I wanted to get in front of him. I heeled the bike over as far as I could and focused on the exit, but there was no way I was going to make it. I ran out of tires and instead lowsided the bike into the grass. Kyle O told me he could see my big, round eyes as it happened—even sliding along at 50, I was still looking through the corner trying to focus on turn 6. (Damn MSF training!)

According to Keith Code, you don’t beat other racers, you beat the track better than the other racers do. In my hurry to beat another racer, I lost sight of the more important upright and moving forward clause! My limited racing experience meant that I lost my concentration in the spirit of raw competition, and it cost me bigtime.

Aside from a couple parking lot spills as a newbie 15 years ago and a 10 mph idiot moment at Dakota County last May, I’ve never had potentially serious crash, so this was a new experience for me. One minute I was convinced that Darren was going to think I was really cool and fast that I could pass him on the outside of 5, and then next thing I know I feel something on my leg. (That’d be the asphalt.) The bike just sort of drifted away from me, out of my grasp. (That’d be the momentum.) Some instinct told me to let go, so I did, layed on my back, and let centripetal force do its thing.

When I came to a stop in the grass, I jumped up and ran for the bike. My intention was to get right back on and catch Darren.

Yeah, right.

I needed a brake lever. I needed a footpeg. Oh shit, I needed another brake lever. And my leathers had a hole the size of a gascap in the thigh. I think I was done riding for a little while.

Geez. What a rookie mistake. Forgot to ride the bike, forgot to stay on the track, forgot to ride consistently instead of riding fast, and look where it got me.

That crash cost us almost an hour.

The medic and corner captain checked me out and helped push the bike into the trees. Kyle O (stationed in corner 5) called in that I was okay but going to need parts. I got the bike started and rode it over to the gate (nearly disqualifying my team in the process as I almost rode it OUT of the gate! Damn adrenaline high) and hitched a ride with Karl back to the pits.

Immediately it seemed I was surrounded by friends. Kyle and Carrie were there on the corner, Sheldon H was ready to give me a ride, Chad was there, Karl showed up, there were lots of friendly, concerned faces. Damn, friends are great. The adrenaline was still pouring out of my ears and I could only concentrate on the motorcycle parts that I’d need to fix the bike and the tools I’d need to do it as I rode back with Karl to round up spares. My wife and Brent rode by us going the other way, both obviously relieved to see me grinning. (Yes, even after a crash, I was still having fun.)

Leaving me to stew in my mistake, John G and Birch and Karl raced out to turn 5 to fix the bike. They somehow managed to borrow a part out there that we didn’t have, and within about 45 minutes of sliding sideways on the pegs and levers through the dirt, the Sarcaustic Assholes were back on the track and ready to have some serious fun.

Fortunately, the crash cost us nearly an hour, and The Feculent had a good gap on us. There was nothing left to do but play track day and try to finish the race in a place other than last. The Feculent, for what it’s worth, were awesome out there: running consistent fast lap times, making very few mistakes, and keeping their stopped time in the pits—literally—to about 15 seconds. (Sorry Brent, I had to use that word. It fits here.) Amazing what planning and teamwork can do.

By the time the last hour rolled around, there were quite a few less bikes on the track. This was good, because I was scared as all hell that I was going to crash again in the same spot. What helped that along were that the kneepucks on Karl’s leathers (which I borrowed for my last two sessions) were quite a bit taller than mine, and I’d touch down far earlier and at less lean angle than I did before the crash. I made it a point to have fun, stay in control, and to sightsee a little. I got a wave and a long stare into Kyle and Carrie on turn 5, and had fun making little hands signals to the crew on the pit wall.

With about 20 minutes left to race, I unfortunately saw The Feculent’s bike and Sheldon N in the grass in turn 5, right where I lost my run at Darren. Nauseous at first, I was relieved to see Sheldon up and around and looking fairly pissed off. It seems another rider clipped his right handlebar passing him on the inside of 5 and sent Sheldon into the weeds. The big Pooper is limping around a little with a sore knee, but is otherwise okay. He had a word with the racer who took him out and told the folks in the CRA about it, but it looks like nothing will come of that. Rubbin’ is racin’, according to that Tex character, and Sheldon got the worse end of it this time.

So how’d we finish? The Feculent took 5th place in lightweight gran prix with 131 laps, and the Sarcaustic Assholes took 7th in lightweight supersport with 113 laps. Without our respective crashes, both teams would have probably come in right at 143 laps and we might have had a photofinish. Next year, poopheads….

The Denoument

But then all at once, the race is over. A whole year of buildup, then the fastest five hours you’ll ever spend and then BOOM. Done. Finis. It’s a lot like Christmas when you’re a a kid: you look forward to it all year, you’re practically crazy with anticipation, trying to be good, and then all at once it’s over and you’re left with a bunch of broken toys and a helluva mess to clean up. We loaded up the motorcycles and tools, tore down the Gassinator and packed it away, and helped store the air fence for the CRA. After a quick “traditional” dinner and beers at Grizzly’s, we hauled our tired asses home to get back to the real world.

See more of Team Blonde by clicking here.