Running on Salt

I proceed for all who are or have been young men,
To tell the secret of my nights and days,
To celebrate the need of comrades.

~Walt Whitman

While our destination was only an hour away, our journey was far from over. The fourth day was certainly one for the books as the event I had knowingly set out to attend was at hand. On this day, come hell or high water, I would race.

The usual routine; get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, find out where everyone was, head east. Pretty much a "copy/paste" kind of day to begin with. Then I tried to find my wallet. I panicked. I was out of the country with only a passport and no way to pay for the remaining four days. Not good. I spoke with Jim, who mentioned it to my father, who talked to John, who told Brian and Richard who told Geoff and Mike. They asked me where the last place was that I remember having it. Easy, I remember seeing it on my dashboard in my truck out in the desert the previous night. I had drove out into the Nevada desert to take some time lapse at night of the sky and Wells. I had this horrible feeling that I left it out in the desert. Questions was, could I remember where I was and how the hell was I going to pay for the rest of the trip. I had some cash, but only enough to carry me one more day.

Everyone was out that morning, 5 miles up highway 93 on the side of the road helping me look for my wallet. After a good fifteen minutes, we realized it was useless. I was certain I had found the spot that I had parked my truck, but I wondered away from the vehicle and my foot steps were not so easy to see. We left the site and headed back into town. I called Visa and suspended my cards for 48 hours, just in case and then packed up and headed to Wendover.

I needed to put the loss of my wallet out of my mind. I wasn't about to let that mishap spoil an otherwise perfect day. We drove out to the salt flats and unloaded the Cafe Racer. The thought was that I would simply go to the registration tent and pay the fee and race. I clearly had no idea what I was doing or what was required of me. Like most things though, I didn't really care. Roll the dice.

I walked into the inspection tent and introduced myself. Right away I could tell this wasn't going to go very well. After a few quick questions and an assertion that I had not done my homework, I was told to go and buy a rule book and come back when I had met their criteria. That had to be the politest "fuck-off" I have ever received, and I've been told that quite a few times, rest assured.

I walked back to the tent we had set up next to the pits and met with the rest of the gang. They could tell by the look on my face that I had been declined. I shook my head and smiled. "Sure looks like a good day to race."

My brother, father and rest of the crew agreed. We knew we didn't just travel over 2000 kilometers just to sit and watch everyone else have a good time. "Plenty of salt to go around" my dad said. "Lets do this", said Jim.

I had been experiencing some issues with the air/fuel mixture at higher revs during some runs out on the highway. I figured that the addition of the velocity stacks I installed meant that the carburetors were now getting too much air. I opened the jets via the pilot screw another three full turns and fired it up. It was running a touch rough. Calgary's elevation sits at around 3500 feet above sea level, the Bonneville salt flats sits at around 4200 feet above sea level. This meant that my bike would be running lean. Not a good thing if you want to break 100 mph on a bike that was originally meant to go no faster than 90 mph. Not to mention that I'm not exactly a light weight either. I stand 6'3" and run around 245 to 250 lbs. A lot of work for a little bike but then this is, in part, what the Bonneville Speedway is all about. Taking the improbable and making it unlikely.

I handed the camcorder to my father and asked him to film what ever happened next. Jim and I rode our bikes down the salt road for three miles next to the eight mile track and turned around. Some speed week organizers slowed down next to us on the road. I suspected that they knew what we were about to do. Good luck stopping us. With both of our helmet cameras on and recording, we agreed to give each other a couple second head start before Jim would take his turn. Jim's bike was a 750cc Yamaha so catching me wouldn't be very difficult. Time to test my mettle.

I opened up the throttle. First gear quickly shifted to second. The salt was a touch slick from the rain they had two days prior. I could feel the bike kick a bit. I feathered the throttle. Third gear. My speedometer showed 80 kph. Fourth. I had Beethoven's 9th symphony playing loud on my iPod. The sweetest music the composer ever produced felt like it was working in perfect harmony with the twin cylinder engine. I was chasing nirvana and passing other spectators on the road in. 130 kph. Keep pushing. I was hugging the tank as tightly as I could to reduce any wind resistance and squeeze as much aerodynamics out of my situation as I could. Fifth and last gear. I wasn't paying close enough attention and passed an Austin Mini so close I could have reached out and smacked the mirror clean off of the car. A quick peek at my speedometer was showing 150 to 155. The needle was shaky so it was hard to tell exactly. I needed 160. The engine was starving for fuel. It started to skip. I watched my father fly by; camera in hand. Come on! So close. I pushed it until I ran out of road and found myself suddenly out on to virgin salt. Here it was like riding on mush. I let go of the throttle enough to steer the bike and turned around. Jim was close behind, so was the Austin Mini. We figured we better high tail it back to the camp.





We sped back not quite as quickly as our run out, but fast enough to lose the driver of the car that I believe now was actually related to the race. I suspected this because shortly after returning to the tent, several white organizer trucks stopped not far from us and were staring out of their windows in our direction. Time to leave.

The day was almost done, and so was our trip to the hallowed ground. As we were loading up the tent, bike and gear, a half ton and trailer stopped in the line up to the inspection bus a stones throw from us. In the back of the trailer was a familiar sight. Bill Anderson's side car class motor bike.

I'll get into Bill's history later. His racing past is an incredible journey and one I hope to be able to share with you all later.

Back five years ago I discovered the culture of Cafe Racing and the history associated with it. The best resource I have found so far with the best bunch of folks was a website called dotheton.com. Here I learned how to change the bike from a restored 77 CB400T to the bike you see in the pictures today.Cafe racing has been around since the late 50s. The culture came about in Europe and the sport bike industry owes it's heritage in part to the Cafe scene.

If you were to ask anyone on the "Do the Ton" forum about the Bonneville Salt Flats, they'll point you in Bill's direction. At the time I only knew Bill as "HoofHearted". We sent correspondence back and forth a few times and I learned that Bill would be at the Speed Week event as well. From the look of his posted pictures of his bike, he would be easy to pick out of a crowd. However, circumstances and some event organizers made our meeting rather brief.

As Bill will attest to, when you get down to Bonneville to race, your spend 90 percent of your time running around trying to get back in line after each run down the track. Time to be sociable is in short supply. So, Bill and I merely exchanged a brief handshake before he had to move on to the inspection van to get back in line. Short but sweet. I sincerely hope I can sit and hear some of his stories. I'd be all ears.

With the event security still watching us, we left the speedway and headed back for the last time to Wells. Just shy of the exit, I stopped and told the rest of the gang to head on up the road. I'd see them in a bit back at the hotel.

I pulled off the road, set up some camera gear, pulled the Cafe off of the trailer once again and rolled out onto the virgin mushy salt. Every story should have some sort of dramatic ending. I finished with filming and took a moment to soak it all in. Something I hadn't time to do since I arrived the day before. I closed my eyes. A slight hot breeze was blowing in from the north. The sound of high octane internal combustion roared like a lion following it's pride off in the distance. I can still hear it. "I'm going to come back".

I loaded the bike back into the trailer and drove the truck off of the salt. A quick stop at the gas station just off the highway and down the road I went.

Little did I know that the trip home would be almost as exciting as the journey down.

A close call and an encounter with Hells Angels. The difference ten minutes made in my life meant that I am able to sit here and tell you this story. The last few days of reflection and new schemes.

Cheers to you my friends.