I have been on a motorcycle exactly three times, the last of which was the day before yesterday, and never really on a freeway. Nonetheless, I am standing fully suited in borrowed gear (funny looking boots with steel plates on the shins, leather pants and jacket, a spine guard that is distinctly turtle-ish, heavy gloves, and a visored helmet), about to mount the back of a Suzuki GSXR 1000, or “Gixxer,” which I’m told is the fastest production 1000cc road bike you can race. Luke Gaylor, president of the Washington Motorcycle Road Racing Association (WMRRA), has been kind enough to arrange a few “hot laps”–more or less full-speed rips around the track–on the back of Lash Mullins’ bike (who I later heard was described as “the craziest fucking guy on the grid”).
Once on the bike, Mullins explained that instead of clinging to him by the torso, I would have to keep my hands flat on the gas tank in front of him, putting my right hand against him as he accelerated and then both hands back down as he braked–basically to prevent me from flying off backwards or flipping over him. I really like clinging safely to the driver by the torso, as well as closing my eyes. But what the hell. I may be inexperienced, but I’m not a wimp. Although, for a second, I reconsidered my non-wimp standing when we bolted out onto the straightaway. The bike accelerated very quickly and I let out a very feminine, almost wimp-ish gasp of alarm, acutely aware of the fact that I was basically holding on with the palm of one hand, blasting nearly 150 mph on wet pavement. Raindrops streaked across the visor of my helmet, and my left hand began to palsy as I resisted the instinct to remove it from the tank.
Mullins respectfully took the corners of the track with care (he crashed in the race immediately following my joy ride), though apparently some of my comrades on the sidelines were very surprised by how fast he took the curves. But by far the most thrilling parts of the track were the straight, accelerating shots. That and the gigantic wheelie he did before barreling down the third lap of the straightaway (this garnered another equally feminine gasp, followed immediately by a warm rush of gratitude).
After three laps I was sufficiently exhilarated, a little trembly, and grinning. They told me how fast we were going, and I remembered someone saying he could have gone more like 180. Damn! Now I want to do it again! Faster! Faster!