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Friday, November 16, 2012
Supersport Racing in Britain, 1993-94
A spur of the moment, almost afterthought, move to Calgary from Toronto in 1992 was one more indicator that I had not yet settled down or found my stride in life. Sure enough, 18 months later I not only found myself accepting a position in London, but also contemplating the bucket-list-esque plans I had for myself before reaching the monumental milestone of 30 years of age. What could I not live without having tried, if (when?) time, age or circumstance became an obstacle? Racing a motorcycle was the immediate and easy answer!
I attained a street license at 17 (thanks for the CB350 loan, Rob!), following 8 years apprenticeship in the dirt. Then, with the exception of one summer's lessons on a KZ650, did not regularly own a street motorcycle until almost 26. Bored of the long straight roads in Ontario, there were relatively few tracks/opportunities in Canada to get out and find out what I really knew - or rather, didn't - of precision riding at speed. A one-day race school at Shannonville aboard a Seca 650 with what were virtually kiln-dried tires provided meager insight, but still left me needing and wanting more. The move to Alberta proved far better than Ontario for street riding, but only once you hit that steep sedimentary wall to the west of Calgary. So I bought a used '92 Honda CBR600 (dubbed the 'Hurricane') to join my '85 750 Sabre. It had been raced one season; was pre-drilled for safety wire and still presented quite suitably. The street plastic was pristine since it had essentially sat in a box up to that point. I even had several months to ride it on the street before it joined my other "household" goods to be shipped by my company to England.
Having arrived uneventfully in the UK, I then had to wait a month while my vehicle cleared customs. Now finally ready to join a club and start racing, I actually no idea where to start! Fortune and dumb luck took pity, and the manager of a small local motorcycle shop soon bestowed upon me all the secret words and hand-shakes I'd need to pass as a motorcycle racer. You can't race without joining a racing club; and since clubs tend to be focused around certain tracks, more club memberships provided access to more tracks. I joined New Era and BMRC that I can recall.
I also needed a rig to transport my racing effort - some small effort connected me with a Leyland Daf van for about £2K. Seemed a great deal, although maybe I got taken as they even agreed to weld up a couple tie-down rails for free! That diesel brute had no top end and took hours to reach motorway speed, but it faithfully made it around southern England and Wales for 18 months alright. And doubled as my workshop while home or away.
My first UK track day (and second ever) was at the Wigan Alps (aka Three Sisters track). A very short, narrow, tight track where you really couldn't get past 2nd gear. It proved useful, however, in soon getting a sense of lean angles, braking markers, entry speeds and apex points. Since almost all the guys were doing it, I agreed to a fast lap with Performance Bikes editor Mark Forsyth riding. And I will NEVER do that again! Scared me absolutely catatonic on the back of his two-up race bike. OK, handlebars back under my control now, please! In truth, it dramatically demonstrated to me how utterly far I had yet to progress in my track riding skills.
A follow-up track day at Cadwell Park elevated the game significantly. What an eye-opener that was, given everything from the circus of moto-anything vendors to a real clubhouse and the radical elevation changes around the track. The last section wasn't called The Mountain for nothing! And these guys were SERIOUS. A little bar-banging and paint-swapping never hurt anyone (ok, well, it sometimes can).
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| Author cresting the 'mountain' section of Cadwell Park circuit in Lincolnshire, UK |
Most race weekends started with buckets of butterflies in anticipation of confronting the long speculated realities of real racing. These feelings soon eased somewhat but they never go away. I always got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I approached the starting grid. Once the starter's flag waived and the red mist of race-ace descended, however, vision and focus were directed tunnel-like onto the asphalt ribbon ahead. I was fortunate to have few mishaps; a crazy 'tank slapper' once, as well as a gear shifter falling off another time leaving me stuck in 3rd gear.
A life-long stingy bastard, I raced on a strict budget: no such thing as too old or too worn out. I'd keep a set of tires for practically a whole season while the real-deal boys were changing tires each day of a race weekend! Swap the shock or forks for better feedback and compliance? Nope - stock items. What about changing the exhaust for more horsepower and reduced weight? Uh-uh, I like the challenge. My sponsorship came from one of two sources on any given weekend - the money in my pocket or the card in my wallet. A rattle-can and tape "graphics package" emblazoned my after-market bodywork, inexpertly pinstriped in the lot behind my flat. For many races before finally gluing a foam rubber pad to the tail section, I would return from each track session with a silver paint butt imprint on my red leathers.
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| author posing with father, Kevin Tompkins, at Lydden |
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| at Lydden, last turn before front straight at back of the pack (or am I that far ahead?) |
I started in 23 races at five different tracks over two seasons. My last race came at Lydden. As a legendary hotshot in my own mind coming off the prior race weekend with a 4th and a 5th (good enough for a mention in the paper!), I felt ready to finally break through the pack and win. But, I came at the day too hot and eager, ultimately departing the echelons of motorsport as anonymously as I'd arrived. Cold tires combined with the early descent of red mist led me to misjudge the double-apex right. I was soon bouncing across the grass and ended in a stacked wall of tires when I ran out of room to turn. The ignoble truck lift back to the paddock has a distinct way of knocking one down a peg or three.
So I was done racing after two seasons. I slapped the still-new-looking plastic back on my 600cc beast and sold it for over $1000 more than I'd paid for it. My Leyland Daf was let go for somewhere a little less than I paid, so when all was said and done my brief racing career almost kinda paid for itself....! But perhaps I shouldn't have left the country with a stack of worn tires and used oil containers still in the lot behind my flat (insert guilt here).
Thursday, November 15, 2012
FTW Roadtrip, 1990
Two Yamaha 650's on an Ontario adventure, August 1990
"Oh, geez, my head hurts". Followed almost immediately by, "I got the zactly's", I continued. What I was really hoping at that point was that the Opeongo Lake Monster would come and separate my head and body so I didn't have to go on feeling this way. Dehydration stemming directly from liquid indulgences the night before was not at all kind, and the building morning's heat within our tent added exponentially to the effect. Empty bottles of Vodka and Yukon Jack, plus an empty OJ carton informed me that re-hydration may be some time in coming - our breakfast drink became the cocktail mix on hand the night before, being the only other fluids we'd brought with us. Drinking directly from the lake would be a regrettable mistake, but we weren't going anywhere this day until we got something in us soon. This was roughly half-way into our FTW roadtrip....
Two Yamahas, a 650 Special and an '82 Seca 650 would be our primary means of transportation for the week's adventure, during what Paul Helpard dubbed our 'FTW Tour' in the summer of 1990. A break in school and work obligations was the nucleation point for a more ambitious ride than we had yet attempted; though much less ambitious than many, this trip would take us on a journey of land, sea and air.
After an overnight visit, then on to Algonquin Park and Lake Opeongo for the next two nights. Our steel horses left in the outfitter's corral, we temporarily traded them in for a spankin' new canoe. This time taking along inflatable mattresses for tent sleeping comfort, too. After a short paddle we set up camp on a rocky point.
To this day, one of Paul's favorite stories involves our encounter with a friendly couple paddling in the opposite direction that morning. As he tells it, my response to their simple greeting of "Where are you guys coming from?" devolved into a detailed recounting of my entire life's story from birth. By the time I was finished, we were already on opposite sides of the lake. Anyway, more paddling, yaking and portaging later, we returned to our original campsite, and out came the Yukon Jack and Vodka. Several hours later it was gone, along with our orange juice, the only fluids we had managed to bring with us. This we would severely regret the following morning as we waited for our boiled lake water to cool (barely) while chasing the thunder claps in our heads with aspirin.
Following two nights in Ottawa, the next morning we progressed to our third and final stage of the FTW roadtrip - a plane flight in a Cessna 152 over the city of Kingston. I had become a licensed private pilot two years earlier, yet had few opportunities to take a passenger up for a tour. Paul was most likely scared shitless the entire flight, but I got us around for a brief flight around the town and University campus, and safely back to Norman Rogers airfield. Our return ride to Toronto would be somewhat less exciting and eventful....
Fortunately, many other trips would follow. A few examples shown here in 2007 and 2008.
And twenty-five years after this trip we headed for Italy, including the epic Amalfi Coast, riding Ducatis for a week and about 2000 miles.
"Oh, geez, my head hurts". Followed almost immediately by, "I got the zactly's", I continued. What I was really hoping at that point was that the Opeongo Lake Monster would come and separate my head and body so I didn't have to go on feeling this way. Dehydration stemming directly from liquid indulgences the night before was not at all kind, and the building morning's heat within our tent added exponentially to the effect. Empty bottles of Vodka and Yukon Jack, plus an empty OJ carton informed me that re-hydration may be some time in coming - our breakfast drink became the cocktail mix on hand the night before, being the only other fluids we'd brought with us. Drinking directly from the lake would be a regrettable mistake, but we weren't going anywhere this day until we got something in us soon. This was roughly half-way into our FTW roadtrip....
Two Yamahas, a 650 Special and an '82 Seca 650 would be our primary means of transportation for the week's adventure, during what Paul Helpard dubbed our 'FTW Tour' in the summer of 1990. A break in school and work obligations was the nucleation point for a more ambitious ride than we had yet attempted; though much less ambitious than many, this trip would take us on a journey of land, sea and air.
We would pack and re-pack, strap and re-strap enough times to finally get the balance and security necessary for a (mostly) drama-free ride. I had purchased a box-store tent that morning and was not yet confident that it would remain in place. The departure from Hamilton through Oakville led us deeper into the Canadian Shield (through
Gravenhurst, Bracebridge, Hunstville and Baysville) and finally Arrowhead Provincial park - though for us not much more than a stop along the way, and a horrible night's
sleep. We packed light and did not bring sleeping pads. Our sleeping
bags lay directly on the tent base, meaning roots and rocks in your back
no matter where you moved, and it was a cold, rainy night. But we have from this spot a memorable
photo of the trip as we were packing to leave the next morning. At this
point Paul needed a newspaper and we both need fluids and food, all of
which a little greasy-spoon around the corner obliged.
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| Arrowhead Provincial Park |
That day led us north to North Bay and an overnight stay at (my university roommate) Stuart Jones' place. A bright but somewhat cloudy sky this morning soon opened up to pouring rain. Though the worst of the downpour lasted roughly 15 minutes, the debate in my head
only lasted 30 seconds before realizing the futility of stopping to put
on rain gear once it began. For a time we could hardly see anything through fogged helmet shields and the clouds of water tossed up by passing cars. As the rain eased we found ourselves not quite soaked through, however, and once temperatures returned to a tolerable level we had little else to do but keep moving and
let the summer day air-dry our gear.
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| North Bay |
We eventually poured ourselves back into the rented canoe later that morning for a grim paddle to the outfitter's lodge. Just within sight of the dock, our path was blocked by a boat of 'lake police', who challenged us for life jackets, a signaling device and a bailing bucket. While we were able to show the necessary PFD's, we were finally sent on our way with a stern warning regarding the lack of the other two. No other drama returning the canoe, we found our bikes as we had left them and packed up for our return to the road. Oddly, at a re-supply stop, we bumped into an older gentleman with whom we had chatted several days earlier.
Later on that afternoon we rode on to Kingston and yet another overnight with university friends Rita and Claire-Marie. Once settled, Paul took another opportunity to adjust the valves on his 650, then we all hit the old college haunts late into the evening.
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| Ottawa |
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| Kingston |
Our next destination was a little over 100km away in Ottawa, to
meet up with a university friend of Paul's, and hopefully another place
to crash. Mission accomplished, we hit the city downtown for the night. The second day, spent off the bikes, again held some cloud
and sun, but we got drenched before a short walking tour of our
Nation's capital, including the national library and museum of man. The air conditioning
freezing us in our wet t-shirts.
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| aerial photo of Queen's campus from our Cessna flight that day |
Paul had always been with me during most of my life adventures since the age of 7.* This road trip represented both a fitting summer farewell and hard separation, of the time before and the time since as we turned towards the rituals of career and life development.
*(well, except for that time I dumped my cousin Don Thomson over the bars after hitting a rock and coming down hard into the handle bars. Knocked the wind out of me. As I gasped for air, I staggered out onto a gravel road and passed out, face first. The resulting cut on my chin left a visible reminder that is with me to this day).
Fortunately, many other trips would follow. A few examples shown here in 2007 and 2008.
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| 200 miles south of the Mexican border |
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| several hundred miles north of Vancouver, CA |
And twenty-five years after this trip we headed for Italy, including the epic Amalfi Coast, riding Ducatis for a week and about 2000 miles.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Learning To Fly, 1987-88
Ice is forming, on the tips of my wings
Unheeded warnings; I thought I thought of everything
No navigator, to find my way home
Unladen, empty, and turned to stone
A soul in tension that's learning to fly
Condition: grounded, but determined to try
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted; just an earth-bound misfit, I
........ David Gilmour, Pink Floyd, Learning To Fly, 1987
In the summer of 1987 I barely had two loonies to rub together (actually, 'loonie' coins were only just introduced into circulation in 1987 and hardly anyone had seen one yet; but I digress). I always knew I needed to experience the freedom of flight, and my mother and a sister had in fact taken lessons some years earlier. Paper airplanes had long fascinated me and I endlessly perfected variations that would fly farther and longer. Dime store balsa wood airplanes were a favorite for their simplicity and grace. Long before I'd heard this song written by private pilot David Gilmour, I knew that I'd one day have my own opportunity to begin. This summer would be my time!
I had an $800 limit on my credit card - I suppose I'm lucky the Bank of Montreal was foolish enough to even issue one to this 'lab rat'. My University research salary was roughly $1100 per month, but fortunately for the bank, I suppose, I had been taught that credit cards were about convenience and not actually racking up credit. The cost of flight time (plane, fuel, instructor) was $75/hr, however, so this limit could be reached very, very quickly! Cramming rent and food into the remaining cash I had each month left little for anything else that year. The number of training hours I flew each month was dictated solely by the credit available; no earn, no pay, no fly. So, I 'flew within my means' and dutifully paid the balance in full each month.
While earthbound between card payments, I engaged in gruesome research experiments (no, not really - well, some - but not all equally gruesome). My biggest claim to fame during the years I spent at the Pharmacology Lab may have been in taking over the grad student coffee racket. The honor system has some serious drawbacks - honest intentions do not pay the bills or keep the coffee pot full, and it was time for a radical approach. In the end I had the thing running like a mob enterprise, and maintained a wide selection of great coffees and fresh creamers on hand (none of that powdered crap), all at a cheaper cost than before! Geez, where is this going?
Anyway, I would cycle 12km out to the air field and back home again each lesson - neither I nor many of my peers had a car back then. I had graduated from starving student to lowly lab tech. The first car that I could call my own came thanks to a $3K down-payment from mom at age 26. A 1990 Volkswagen Jetta. Pretty sweet, actually! Had to sell it before moving from Calgary to the UK, and have always regretted seeing that car go. Yet again, I digress.
My instructor, Bob, was as patient as they come, and a credit to all pilot instructors. While putting in such tiresome and nerve-wracking seat-time beside anxious students, he endured for that to which all flight instructors truly aspire, a real captain's seat. So he suffered through many a sweaty day stuffed into a small Cessna cockpit, the cost of northeast summer humidity. Classroom sessions addressing necessary topics such as meteorology and theory of flight, were periodically traded for the more highly anticipated hours behind the control column. I don't recall the necessary flight hours threshold in effect then, but after roughly a year, the day finally came for my written exam, flying exam and then solo.
My solo was quite a turbulent day, by both physical and mental descriptions. A pass meant successfully navigating a triangle via two distant air fields, returning to one's point of origin. I departed on this roughly 3 hour solo journey on one of the windiest days on which I had ever flown. The cross-wind at the small airstrip to which I'd first arrived was pushing 25 knots. Although I should have flown on, this was my solo test and I was determined to complete it. Crabbing 30-40 degrees into the wind and adjusting for bursting gusts, I smacked the plane down and stuck the landing. Good thing this was a solo, as there is no way the passenger seat would have remained unsoiled otherwise!
So I passed, and proudly held my own private pilot's license. It seems, however, this post is as much a series of semi-related digressions as it is about learning to fly. Yet, I suppose these semi-relations also reflect the building blocks that lead one to life's eventual flight into adulthood. Control of a small aircraft is relatively easy - the basics plus a little feel and intuition go a long way. Maintaining the near 'battle-hardened' concentration and necessary spatial awareness required to hold your own in a busy, controlled airspace is where it gets tricky; especially when the radio crackles incessantly and often unintelligibly inside your headphones. I would fly on and off for a few years until past migraine aura came up during a routine Aviation Physical, which kept my license from being renewed one year. Until resolved with a brief trip to a Neurologist, I effectively remain in 'condition: grounded, but determined to try'.
Unheeded warnings; I thought I thought of everything
No navigator, to find my way home
Unladen, empty, and turned to stone
A soul in tension that's learning to fly
Condition: grounded, but determined to try
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted; just an earth-bound misfit, I
........ David Gilmour, Pink Floyd, Learning To Fly, 1987
In the summer of 1987 I barely had two loonies to rub together (actually, 'loonie' coins were only just introduced into circulation in 1987 and hardly anyone had seen one yet; but I digress). I always knew I needed to experience the freedom of flight, and my mother and a sister had in fact taken lessons some years earlier. Paper airplanes had long fascinated me and I endlessly perfected variations that would fly farther and longer. Dime store balsa wood airplanes were a favorite for their simplicity and grace. Long before I'd heard this song written by private pilot David Gilmour, I knew that I'd one day have my own opportunity to begin. This summer would be my time!
I had an $800 limit on my credit card - I suppose I'm lucky the Bank of Montreal was foolish enough to even issue one to this 'lab rat'. My University research salary was roughly $1100 per month, but fortunately for the bank, I suppose, I had been taught that credit cards were about convenience and not actually racking up credit. The cost of flight time (plane, fuel, instructor) was $75/hr, however, so this limit could be reached very, very quickly! Cramming rent and food into the remaining cash I had each month left little for anything else that year. The number of training hours I flew each month was dictated solely by the credit available; no earn, no pay, no fly. So, I 'flew within my means' and dutifully paid the balance in full each month.
While earthbound between card payments, I engaged in gruesome research experiments (no, not really - well, some - but not all equally gruesome). My biggest claim to fame during the years I spent at the Pharmacology Lab may have been in taking over the grad student coffee racket. The honor system has some serious drawbacks - honest intentions do not pay the bills or keep the coffee pot full, and it was time for a radical approach. In the end I had the thing running like a mob enterprise, and maintained a wide selection of great coffees and fresh creamers on hand (none of that powdered crap), all at a cheaper cost than before! Geez, where is this going?
Anyway, I would cycle 12km out to the air field and back home again each lesson - neither I nor many of my peers had a car back then. I had graduated from starving student to lowly lab tech. The first car that I could call my own came thanks to a $3K down-payment from mom at age 26. A 1990 Volkswagen Jetta. Pretty sweet, actually! Had to sell it before moving from Calgary to the UK, and have always regretted seeing that car go. Yet again, I digress.
My instructor, Bob, was as patient as they come, and a credit to all pilot instructors. While putting in such tiresome and nerve-wracking seat-time beside anxious students, he endured for that to which all flight instructors truly aspire, a real captain's seat. So he suffered through many a sweaty day stuffed into a small Cessna cockpit, the cost of northeast summer humidity. Classroom sessions addressing necessary topics such as meteorology and theory of flight, were periodically traded for the more highly anticipated hours behind the control column. I don't recall the necessary flight hours threshold in effect then, but after roughly a year, the day finally came for my written exam, flying exam and then solo.
My solo was quite a turbulent day, by both physical and mental descriptions. A pass meant successfully navigating a triangle via two distant air fields, returning to one's point of origin. I departed on this roughly 3 hour solo journey on one of the windiest days on which I had ever flown. The cross-wind at the small airstrip to which I'd first arrived was pushing 25 knots. Although I should have flown on, this was my solo test and I was determined to complete it. Crabbing 30-40 degrees into the wind and adjusting for bursting gusts, I smacked the plane down and stuck the landing. Good thing this was a solo, as there is no way the passenger seat would have remained unsoiled otherwise!
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| Blogger in 1990 at Norman Rogers airfield |
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| Blogger's Alma Mater, Queen's University, from the air by Paul Helpard |
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