66/67/68/69 Triumph T120R Bonneville 650 vintage roadracer

THE PLAN & THE PROJECT

It all started as an idea for a 50th birthday present to myself, I decided I wanted to go vintage bike racing with AHRMA.

About a year before the anticipated date, I started to get to work on an old ’72 BMW R60/5 airhead/boxer 650 twin that was missing the Left side top end and had been partially disassembled.



I found the replacement top end parts from a guy named Bruce (Boxers by Bruce) that I met at the BMOA New Ulm Rallye; he gave me a great deal on the head, pushrods, carb parts and a few assorted bits. It wasn’t that big a chore to clean up the stump that had been left open for nearly a dozen years, install the top end, overhaul the carbs and kick the little boxer to life. It ran well enough, but the thought lingered in the back of my mind that the engine internals might not be all that anxious to propel the rusty roller at race pace for any length of time without protest.



Nearly a full year came and went without another thought to the entire project, but as the calendar pages came away, my anticipatory notes started appearing with more frequency, so I started to formulate a more concrete plan. I applied on line to the most convenient sanctioning body, CMRA, for a racing license to be obtained after a track day and racing school presented by Lone Star Track Days at Texas World Speedway; as a happy coincidence, the scheduled date was September 10th, my 50th birthday (2007).

Then came the harder part – assembling a reliable road racer for the project. I wandered around my shop, garage and sheds, looking over the various bikes and parts parked, stacked and scattered around; I considered a couple of my complete running Bonnevilles in the garage, but decided I’d much rather leave them alone as they are mostly original. I considered my Yamaha RD400, but quickly determined I could never be competitive against the 500s I’d be running against.

My first choice fell to a ’63 Triumph Bonneville street tracker chassis that I had just acquired as a project bike for resale, with a fairly decent ’72 Bonnie engine that was the best of 5 Triumph lumps I had laying on the shop floor. I quickly got to work stripping the chassis to the bare essentials and readying the lump for cleanup and assembly, then it occurred to me that I ought to examine the rules for anything on the street tracker that might not be compliant, as the last thing I wanted was to be disqualified before I ever got to race. This decision proved fortunate, as the frame had been modified to accept the fiberglass bodywork, and the wheels were neither original nor factory options for the bike’s vintage. At this point, I had only lost two half-days’ work, but time was getting tight!

Pretty quickly I concluded that I had enough parts to build a rolling chassis that wouldn’t require much effort to put together, and a complete running ’68 Triumph TR6 650 engine with a ’67 dual carb Bonneville head that had been pulled from a running “donor bike” that I acquired about a year and a half earlier for a client project. I had been saving the engine for a ’68 Bonnie that I intended to refurbish to near-original condition “one of these days”, and the chassis parts were supposed to be for project ’69 Bonneville that I intended to sell; no matter, they were the best choices for the project.



It didn’t take long to get it put together, and then it was a simple matter to drop the engine in and bolt it in place. In just about a week’s time, I had what resembled a motorcycle cobbled together from scratch.

It took another couple of days to receive the new Dunlop Arrowmax GT501 tires, new cables, levers and a few other bits & bobs for the project, and I quickly got them installed. I pulled my best pair of used Amal concentric carbs off the shelf (I had previously overhauled them and set them aside for my ’68 Bonnie project), as well as a good used Boyer ignition box, and installed them. Then I decided on a set of big-bore exhaust headers over 2 other sets of stock headers with crossover pipes that had much better chrome, and a pair of slightly acid-etched original Bonnie style straight-through mufflers. I wanted to do something a little different with the exhaust, so I installed a pair of “kink adapters” from newbonneville.com for mounting old style mufflers to New Bonnevilles, which in my case resulted in a much steeper upsweep at the tailpipes; the final assembly resulted in pipes which didn’t need to be disturbed to service either the rear axle, suspension, or primary cover screws.

I then freshened up the front suspension with a good flush and inspection (which revealed seals, stanchion tubes and bushings in great shape), and re-assembled with new rubber fork gaiters. I had previously packed the steering head bearings when I assembled the rolling project, so I didn’t mess with the fork yokes. It was a quick and easy task to pull the ½ clamps off the street tracker (they are much better than the OEM “P” clamps), and a set of clubman bars I had on the BMW, and mount them up. I took the opportunity to inspect, clean & service the front brakes, and make sure I had good free play in the actuation pivot points, and full contact on the brake linings. I could have saved myself a day’s work by taking 10 or 15 more minutes on the front yokes and Swingarm, but a bit more on that later.

I had a nice 2-1/2 gallon Bonneville tank set aside for the ’68 Bonnie, but that would fall victim to the racing project, as would an almost new set of Hagon shocks and a slightly used set of Barnett clutch plates. A bit more scrounging around the storage room and I came up with a seat pan, a crusty, crumbling seat foam, and a mostly intact seat cover; I did a bit of trimming on the foam to minimize the dribbling dust and lower the front section height, then clipped it in with the cover onto the pan. I had to spread the hinges apart a bit to install the seat, as they had been welded onto the pan, then bend them back together and that part was done. The oil tank was in good shape, but the only spare sidecover I had needed some repairs and adaptation involving the “blue tipped wrench” (oxygen-acetylene torch); a bit of fitting & fiddling, welding and drilling, and it was neatly installed. I made a happy discovery there, as an empty bottle of transmission oil fit perfectly in the sidecover to serve as my crankcase vent catch tank.

At this point, all that remained was to wire the bike, which took one day, plumb all the oil & fuel lines, and connect all the remaining cables and wires (one more day). Now nearly two full weeks into the project, it was time to test-fire the engine. I used a ratty battery that held enough charge to produce a solid honk from my test horn (I don’t need no steenking volt meter), dumped in a gallon of gas and a couple of quarts of oil, turned on the switch and started kicking. After about the third kick, I got a couple of pops and a backfire; re-checking the static timing, and a bit of re-adjustment, and I got it to run on one cylinder.

I did the math in my head and calculated the remaining days ‘till my track day, and decided it would be best to eliminate the three biggest potential problems. I pulled the brand new set of Amal concentrics and Sparx ignition system off the shelf (yep, the ’68 Bonnie’s parts), and did the swap; only one additional day lost. After that chore, the bike fired right up and I was able to balance the carbs and set the timing.





The first test ride was only up to about 30 MPH on our private drive which is about a quarter mile long with 3 slight curves and a turn-around in a relative’s driveway; so although the bike felt okay, it was not nearly sufficient to reveal the pending issues with the chassis. The bike was starting, idling, running and stopping well, and there was virtually no oil leakage whatsoever.

The next step was to grab my helmet and take it out for a bit more of a shake-down run of about 4 miles around the more open stretches of road in the neighborhood. The first thing that became apparent was a bit of a rear end twitch once I was able to pour on some throttle, then another twitch as I snapped off the throttle to check the carb slide return springs. The twitch didn’t seem at all violent, so I continued on at a modest pace in order to see how the higher revs felt. The second thing that became apparent was some looseness in the front end that manifested itself under heavy braking; this wasn’t bad, either, so the test continued.

Back in the garage, I determined that the top yoke hadn’t fully seated on the steering stem, so a bit of nipping up was in order; that done, the looseness of the front end went away, resulting in a nice snug yoke with a good range of damping available from the OEM Triumph “faucet handle” steering damper.

The twitch in the rear end proved to be a good bit more troublesome, as a firm sideward tug on the rear wheel revealed a significant looseness in the Swingarm bushings. Thankfully, I realized that I could address the issue by simply pulling the footpeg/engine mounting plates, loosening off the lower shock bolts, and pulling the main pivot bolt. What I found was both amazing and extremely relieving; amazing in that one of the two main pivot blocks was missing entirely, and relieving in that If I had dismissed it, it would have caused a tech inspection failure and could have caused a nasty get-off.

So, almost two weeks to the day that I started the project, the bike was done, generally sorted, and running well; the best thing was that I had essentially completed the project just in time to load up and hit the road. The trip planning had formalized into one stop for a weekend at Port Aransas on the Texas coast with my family to scatter my Dad’s ashes in the Gulf of Mexico (his favorite fishing spot), Monday track day / racing school at College Station, travel to Austin to meet up with my friend Charlie and take advantage of his bolt-drilling drill press / bench vise setup to lockwire my bike, then two days of driving to Albuquerque for race weekend at the Sandia Motor Raceway.



continued...

RACING SCHOOL

The family weekend was solemn but enjoyable, and I hit the road for College Station. As it turned out, my cousin who invited me to share his condo at the beach made arrangements with his son who lives in College Station to put me up for the night. This could not have been a better situation, as his house was less than a mile from the track! I set my alarm in anticipation of arriving at the track early to check out the layout and accommodations, then got in a solid night’s sleep.

As with every other step in this entire journey, setting the early alarm proved to be a very good thing; I must have mis-read the track day website and understood the class start time to be noon, when in reality the course started at 7 A.M.! Basically, I arrived no later than the other half of the students in my class and we got underway.

Although the Bonnie was not yet safety wired, the tech inspectors were only checking for bike roadworthiness and rider safety equipment, which I was well prepared for. After the very first kickstart attempt resulted in a backfire / kickback which produced a bloodied shin, I got in my first three track sessions without so much as a misfire.

As the class progressed, I gained confidence in the Bonnie, and it happily chugged along albeit at a bit slower pace than the rest of the class. The Dunlop tires felt great, and I was already experiencing greater lean angles and higher cornering speeds in my first few laps on the track, than I had ever experienced in the winding curves of the Texas Hill Country. The instruction and instructors were very conscientious and with a nearly one-on-one student / teacher ratio, the on-track tips and procedures were extremely helpful in getting me up to a reasonable pace in a short time. I may not have been going as fast as the other riders, but they were ALL on modern sportbikes, some with more than double the horsepower, and all with far better brakes; these facts made feel all the better when I’d ride by them as they were dusting themselves off in the grass and picking up their battered bikes. Sometimes it isn’t all about power and speed.

After the third and last morning track session, I did a quick visual inspection and found one missing valve adjuster inspection cap, and one missing rocker oil line acorn nut. This also proved to be a very fortunate happenstance, as it revealed the fact that the top end was not oiling! As a testament to the durability of the engine, it hadn’t so much as started tapping or even given any hint of stress after 12 full laps at track speeds.

Thankfully, my younger son had talked me into taking his 2000 Ducati 900 Monster along with me “just in case”; the fact that I had a backup bike meant that I was able to continue with the afternoon track sessions.

The afternoon sessions went well in the late summer Texas heat, my speed and confidence increased progressively as I learned the track and practiced the techniques. I felt I was at somewhat of a disadvantage on the Ducati, as I had not ridden the bike very much at all and actually disliked the riding position; to make matters worse, it was also the first time I had ever worn full leathers, I had on new race boots, and armored gloves which were a size or two too small. The higher speeds of the Ducati had my eyeglasses rattling on the bridge of my nose at over 140 MPH on the rough front stretch of the high-banked track, a feeling I won’t soon forget!

Although I was bordering on information and sensory overload, I managed to stay composed and kept both tires on the track for the entire day. After completing the written portion of the CMRA exam with a perfect score, I took my place on the starting line for the final exam – the mock race.

The grid must not have been set alphabetically, as I was lined up outside in position 4 on the front row, with two other students and two instructors lined up on row two. At the drop of the Green flag, I managed to almost pull even with the leader, but two other riders eased past me by the time we dove off the high bank into turn 1. As we entered turn 2, one of the instructors shot past and settled in behind the three lead riders; every few turns, another rider got past me, with the second instructor passing me as we climbed back onto the high banking on the front straight and rocketed up past 100 miles per hour.

All too quickly, I got the half-way sign from the flag man, and continued to grind away at the track. I got passed again before the White flag by the leader who was not new to the track but just receiving his license, and by both instructors and one other rider before I took the checkered flag after lap four. I took a cool-down lap and suddenly came to the realization that I had officially completed the course and would receive my certificate. I was now a racer! A nifty burn from one of the Ducati’s mufflers tarnished the end of a near-perfect day, as I loaded the bike back in the truck. It didn’t hurt one bit; in fact, it felt great.

FINAL PREPARATIONS

With the afternoon sun staring me in the face, I turned West and headed toward Austin to Charlie’s house; my next goal was to get the Bonnie’s top end oiling problem sorted out and get it lockwired for race tech inspection. I made good time and arrived just a little after dark, we unloaded the bike and sat around the shop chitchatting and making plans for Wednesday’s run to Sandia.

I slept in on Tuesday, enjoyed a leisurely cup of coffee, then made contact with Mike Kingsley of Austin, the friend of my good friend Jimmy Gates, who recommended him as the man to call in Austin for replacement parts for the ones that came adrift on the track. Mike assured me he had the parts and would be waiting for me at his shop, which was exactly what happened later that morning; I also picked up a couple of rear wheels for other Bonneville projects that I was needing, as he offered them at a very decent price.

By the time Charlie got home from work, I had sorted the top end oiling problem (obstructed oil line at the tank outlet), installed the missing bits, and drilled and safety wired about 80% of the required items on the tech inspection list. We enjoyed a couple of lovely large bowls of chicken stew prepared by Charlie’s wife, Pat, then relaxed for the evening watching TIVO replays of Speed channel’s Motorcycle GP races from the previous weekend.

Wednesday morning I got started early and started to finish up the safety wiring; the process was going smooth enough until it came to the main crankcase sump plug, which I drilled to deep into the head and penetrated the inside cavity. I didn’t notice until after I started the engine later, then the leak advertised itself pretty quickly with a steady drip. I quickly called Charlie and asked if he’d swing by Mikes and pick me up a replacement plug, to which he replied, “Why not just fill it with J.B. Weld?” That was an excellent question, to which I replied in the affirmative and quickly did.

Since I had mixed way too much J.B. Weld, I used the remainder to patch two ugly holes in the top of the rear fender that I hadn’t taken the time to braze up; sort of a “freebie”, that one. I also installed a temporary belly pan which was just a very thin aluminum turkey pan zip-stripped to the frame; that was that! The bike was done and ready to race.



With the race preparations completely done, I couldn’t resist flipping on the fuel, kicking the bike awake, and taking a spin around Charlie’s neighborhood loop for a “safety check” before prepping the bike to be loaded for the trip; it ran flawlessly and settled into a nice, steady tickover. No drips, no smoke, perfect.

I didn’t have time to finish the last half-cup of coffee before Charlie arrived with a big grin on his face, and we quickly started arranging all the gear for loading. Charlie has a really nice fully enclosed 2-bike trailer which doubled as our sleeping quarters; we got Charlie’s Thruxton loaded, then the bonnie, then the Yamaha QT pit bike that Charlie had built from 2 rolling basket cases. After that, it was just a matter of loading all the stuff into the remaining spaces and shutting the doors.

ROAD TRIP!

After the requisite good-byes, we hopped in the truck and headed west out across the New Mexico desert via the Texas Hill Country. We must have covered at least eight miles before Charlie pulled over at a taco stand, but he was mightily disappointed because it was closed. No problem, we crossed the street and had a couple of really decent chopped BBQ beef sandwiches; back on the road.

Late summer in the Texas Hill Country is a beautiful sight to behold, flora and fauna on display in the form of a real-time travel brochure. The miles tick off by the hundreds and then West Texas suddenly appears, a vast and stark ovary for a billion tumbleweeds. Hundreds more miles seem to fly by to the tune of Allison Krause, Jackson Browne and Stephen Stills, then the wind turbines start to appear across the ridges of the mesas; in a few miles, they are everywhere. These windmills are monsters with the main mast rising nearly 200 feet, and each blade about 60 feet long. When they are being transported to the area, it takes a separate 18-wheeler for each of the 3 blades and 2 or 3 more trucks for the mast and generator!

Out in the middle of nowhere a gas station sign appears; Charlie checks the gas gauge and determines it might be best if we top off here, as the next service is over a hundred miles further on and the sun is approaching the horizon. Timing is everything; the shopkeeper was just about to close before the car ahead of us pulled in. Gas & go, with a brief pause to de-water. No sooner did the sun dip below the mountains, then we started feeling the miles; Van Horn seemed like a good choice for the night at well over half way, so we pulled in to a Super 8 and zonked out.



After a good night’s well-earned sleep, we jumped back in the truck and hit the gas for long pull across the desert. El Paso was in our mirrors well before noon, and we ticked off a couple hundred more miles before stopping to chow down at the Buckhorn in San Antonio, NM, #7 in America for a burger (they are shooting for #6) http://www.nmgastronome.com/nm/burgers/buckhorn.htm We passed on the highly rated burgers and ate New Mexican food instead (not really new, and not really Mexican).

ARRIVAL AND ORIENTATION

We had barely stopped belching when we dropped over the top into Albuquerque, then it was just a hop, skip and a jump to the Sandia Motorsports Raceway, which is just West of town. Our travel schedule got us there early enough to register, pick out and set up our pit, run back to town for groceries, and have a look around the track before evening. We picked a choice spot, which was triangulated near the track entrance, concession stand, and restrooms.

We had barely gotten settled in when Andrew, the husband of the AHRMA Executive Director (Cindy), stopped by the pit to welcome us to the race; he and Charlie were already acquainted. He offered to take us for a drive around the track in a rental car to save us the 1.1 miles of walking the course, and show us the preferred lines in the various sections of the track. The two laps we did were enough to get a really good feel for what to expect, Andrew pointing out his marker spots was a bit of inside information that most of the other riders would not get to benefit from.

Along with the groceries, I had purchased a sturdy metal cake pan to replace the wimpy aluminum turkey pan I had temporarily installed as a belly pan; a few carefully drilled holes, a couple of zip-ties and some safety wire, and I had a new belly pan that was much more likely to pass tech inspection. I goofed with a couple of other details on my bike and we topped them both off with race fuel.

Pitted next to us on one side was a guy on a Honda 350 Sportsman class bike who was not camping at the track, on the other side was a fellow Thruxton Cup rider named Fred, whom Charlie was also acquainted with. Fred was already set up and came over to chat as the evening cooled off; he and Charlie discussed the upcoming activities and some of the finer points of Thruxton setup. Not long afterwards, Malcolm Dixon drove up in his desert sled, pulling his trusty ’70 Bonneville, which I would be competing against (more like getting whipped by). We moved Charlie’s truck to make some space and Malcolm squeezed his trailer in and parked. After Malcolm had laid out his pit, we chatted a while, then he took off to get some sleep at a motel near the track.



There was not much else to do for the day, and the night air was cooling down significantly, so we set up our cots & sleeping bags and crashed out.

FRIDAY - PRACTICE DAY

After a chilly night with the trailer doors open, we awoke to NO COFFEE! Both of us had forgotten to pack a coffee maker, each assuming that the concession stand would be selling coffee; they did indeed sell coffee, but didn’t open ‘till 8 AM. As we were growling around our pits waiting for registration and tech to open, a nice lady two pits down walked by looking for a place to plug her coffee maker in; we directed her to an outlet hidden on the corner of the concession stand building, and she thanked us with two cups of hot coffee about 10 minutes later! Her husband, Mike, was racing a 750 Yamaha that was tricked out to the extent that he won both his races while lapping most of the other riders in the accompanying faster classes that gridded with him.

While we sipped the steaming starter fluid, the tech guys set up their tent, and the registration ladies set up their tables. As soon as they were set up, my first stop was the registration desk. It only took the nice lady, Les, a few seconds to determine that I was a “problem child” and she had me sit at a side table while she waited on a half-dozen other racers in line behind me. I helped set up the copier and printed out a copy of my racing school certificate to add to the copy of my membership application (which I had sent in a week earlier), the copy of my American Motorcyclist’s Association (www.amadirectlink.com) membership card (required to race in AHRMA), and the completed race entry form; then I twiddled my thumbs as a few more racers signed in, not a problem child among them. Finally, the crowd thinned out and I got her full attention. It was just a few key-taps later and she confirmed that I would be allowed to race after filling out one more form, which was basically just a more recent copy of the race entry form I had already pre-filled. The only blank space on my form was for ‘racer number’, and I asked her what I should put there; she said “pick a number”, and I replied “111”. She tapped her keyboard a few more times and said that would be fine, the number was not taken by any other racers at the event. She mentioned that people will usually use a “T” or an “X” on the number plate to indicate that the number is a temporary one. Next stop: Tech inspection.



The tech guys seemed happy to get right to my bike, as I had the requisite colorful copies of the race entry form. The guy that took my papers and started looking over the bike was Cal, whom it turns out is married to Les, the registration lady, whom it turns out is actually a grid marshal, but that is neither here nor there. I liked them both right off, as we share single-syllable names.

Cal started at the front end first, pulling the bike back and forth with the front brake applied, which confirmed that the steering stem adjustments I made were satisfactory. As he looked up and down the bike, he stated that I ought to tape over the faces of the instruments to avoid the possibility of broken glass on the track, and that I should also lockwire a bit of rubber hose over the end of the rear brake rod to avoid puncturing a competitors front tire, should they drill me from behind. After that, he stuck a very nondescript little White sticker on my front number plate that had a number “2” on it. I asked him if that meant I would be going out with the second group, and responded in the affirmative; I replied that I was a Novice, that this was my first race, and that I would rather be practicing with the slowest group. With that cleared up, he stuck a new sticker on the plate with a number “1” on it, and sent me on my way. I was all smiles as I pushed my bike back to the pit; the Bonnie was now an officially approved race machine.

Next, I gathered up my leathers, boots, gloves and helmet, and carried them over to tech to get them inspected; everything was going fine ‘till he got to my helmet. I had just purchased the Fulmer full-face helmet from Laredo Yamaha, but it was not Snell certified, an AHRMA requirement. Oh boy, what to do next? Charlie had a spare helmet, but his head size is larger than mine, and the last thing I needed was a helmet doing a 180 on my head while I tried to ride. I asked Malcolm if he might have a spare and he replied that he not only had one, but it was brand new, and of course I could use it. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I made my way back to the tech tent, and within seconds, I had a Green sticker on the helmet, indicating approval.

I barely had time to slosh down the last few drops of cool coffee and get my thoughts together as the track announcer made the first call to practice for my group. Believe it or not, I wasn’t very nervous at all as I pulled on my gear and set up my bike for take-off. The bike had been starting on the first kick every time, but I removed the kickstart lever the night before (an AHRMA rule), so I prepared to push off when one of the guys in the pits asked if I wanted to use an automatic roller starter. I declined the offer, dropped the bike in gear and started to push when Charlie tucked in behind and gave me a mighty shove; the bike fired off the instant I dropped the clutch, but died as soon as I lowered my butt onto the seat.

I fiddled around for a second and realized that I had inadvertently turned off the main switch, (which I had mounted in the left sidecover), with my thigh, as I sat down. I quickly turned it back on and was about to jump off for another push when a guy on a dirt bike behind me mashed his foot against my footpeg and yelled “Hang on!” We got rolling and I dumped the clutch and roared off down the pit lane. The bike sounded really nice and smooth, so I eased off the choke lever and blipped the throttle; the Bonnie answered with a smart tug of the handlebars. Joy of joys.

Right as I pulled up to ‘pit out’, the track marshal waved several riders onto the track; I took my place in the procession and made the hard left around the grandstand wall through the extremely narrow rows of marker cones onto ‘pit out’ and the racing surface. The air temp was around 75 which felt marvelous blowing through the AXO leathers that my oldest son, Jason, lent me, (actually, they are too small for him and fit me just right, so I’m keeping them). I still felt a bit uncomfortable with my youngest son, Kevin’s, armored racing gloves and my brand new boots, but that would all soon go away.

The 1.1 mile road course at Sandia is laid out as follows: utilizing one end and both straights of the ½ mile oval track, the start line is about half way down the front straight. Turn one is the North end of the oval; a very fast, banked, constant-radius Right-hand turn leading on to the backstretch. The road course jumps the end of the backstretch with an off-camber hump into turn two. Turn two is an off-camber Right-hander with a short chute into turn three, a “hairpin” Left-hander. Turn three leads onto a short straight to the only other Left-hander, turn four, which dumps onto another short chute to turn five, a double-apex Right-hander. Turn five leads almost immediately onto turn six, which is a long, sweeping Right-hander with a short straight onto the final turn, or straight into ‘hot tech’ as you exit the racing surface. The final turn, turn seven, is a medium-length, slightly banked, very fast Right-hander that jumps the backside hump of the oval track, slightly off-camber, back onto the front stretch to the finish line.

I did the first lap very slowly, right around the center of the track, so that all the other racers could get around me on either side, and up to speed. The Bonnie felt nice sweeping though the curves, and the brakes hauled it right down for the hairpin. The remaining laps were just a slow, steady progressive learning experience with my brain shouting over the howling pipes at my various body parts to ease up, tuck in, lean out, breathe, look ahead, and all the other commands that resulted in keeping the bike upright with the speed steadily increasing. By the third lap, the faster riders were lapping me, but they were all very courteous and I’m sure appreciative of the bright Orange ‘Novice’ t-shirt that I was wearing over my leathers. The bike stayed running, and I kept both tires on the track until the flagman and corner marshals waved the checkered flag, indicating the end of first practice.

The ‘hot tech’ guys gave the bike a quick look-over, smacked my back protector, and waved me through; I was chiseling those few moments into my brain as slowly as I could, so that I could retrieve and re-play them later to try and fully soak in the smells, sounds and exhilarating feelings I was experiencing. So THAT’S what it’s like to ride a race bike on a track! It was an unbelievable feeling, to be sure. Surprisingly, I felt totally relaxed and was hardly sweating in the late morning sun.



Between glugging water and Gatorade, and looking over the bike for any potential problems, we got in three more practice sessions, and then pitted the bikes for the evening. My confidence level was slowly increasing, as my lines and movements got smoother and my speed increased; every session out it took longer for the faster guys to lap me, ‘till I finished on the same lap with them in the final session. I was ready.

Sleep was easy and sweet after the long evening of fellowship in the pits; our group had an excellent day, not a single mechanical problem or off-track excursion. About the only thing we did to the bikes was to watch Malcolm re-torque his head since he was breaking in a new cylinder, and recheck tire pressures and fluid levels.

SATUDAY – RACE DAY 1 (Pre-Race)

Another really good (and chilly) night’s sleep, and another beautiful sunrise with the picture of the first rays streaming through the tunnel beneath the grandstands, and the Star & Stripes waving in the breeze, framed by the drop-gate of the trailer; it doesn’t get a whole lot more inspiring than that unless you also smell the coffee perking, which I didn’t. Soon enough, the nice lady two pits down had a caffinated kickstart for us, and we got the day rolling.

Except for Malcolm getting in all of the practice sessions to allow his new cylinder the best break-in possible, the rest of us sat out at least one of the three sessions to recoup a bit of extra energy for the afternoon’s races. It was a Conehead style consumption of mass quantities of Gatorade, banana and/or oatmeal cakes, and concession stand burgers or lunchmeat sandwiches as we carbo-loaded and rested up for the first round.

Malcolm had suggested I remove the main switch and instead simply pull out my fuse to turn off power to the ignition system in the pits, I followed that advice and made myself a reminder by writing “FUSE, FUEL, FUN” on the red tape covering the Speedometer’s face. I was getting antsy now, with nothing left to do to the bike but stare at it.

Between the first and second Practice round, we had the mandatory Rider’s Meeting; it was pretty straight forward with the Chief Steward and track marshals setting out the particulars and a few AHRMA announcements were made. Then, completely unnoticed, a spiffy restored Yamaha RD250 was unveiled and presented to one of the track workers who had recently celebrated her birthday; her husband had set the whole thing up a long time in advance, and she was floored. That got us off on a high note for the day.

Meanwhile, the folks at the Sandia Raceway provided a really nice program of events including Motocross racing at the adjoining track we shared pits with, a classic bike show, Honda exhibit featuring a bunch of original and perfectly restored classic and collectible Hondas including street, off-road, and race bikes, past multi-titled National Champion Bubba Shobert signing autographs, and a swap meet. Between the main races, several exhibition races were held including the Super Motos, which ran for a cash purse, and both high-tech street, and cool leading-link dirt bike sidecars.

The lineup for the main feature 8-lap races included the following:

Race 1: Sidecars
Race 2: 200 GP (1st wave), Formula 125 and Pre-1940 (2nd wave)
Race 3: Battle Of Twins Formula 2 (1st wave), SuperMono, and Sound of Singles
2-strokes (2nd wave)
Race 4: Vintage Superbike Lightweight & Production Lightweight (1st wave), 350 Sportsman, Classic 60s & Classic 650s (2nd wave)
Exhibition Race: Super Moto
Race 5: 250 GP (1st wave), Class C & Class C Hand Shifters (2nd wave)
Race 6: 350 GP & Sportsman 500 (1st wave), Production Heavyweight (2nd wave)
Race 7: Battle Of Twins Formula 1 (1st wave), Formula 3 (2nd wave)
Race 8: 500 Premier & B.E.A.R.S. (1st wave), Formula 500 (2nd wave)
Race 9: Thruxton Challenge (1st wave), Motards (2nd wave)
Race 10: Formula 750 (1st wave), Vintage Superbike Heavyweight and 750 Sportsman (2nd wave)
Race 11: Vintage Superbike Middleweight, Formula 250 & SuperMono 2
Race 12: Sound of Thunder & Formula Vintage
Somewhere in there, they also ran an exhibition Sidecar race.

The organizers and track workers managed to get in three morning practice sessions, the rider’s meeting, opening ceremonies, the first 4 main events, and an exhibition race before the afternoon lunch break; I’ve really got to hand it to those people, that was a major accomplishment.

By the time I finished my hand-crafted Dagwood sandwich and what seemed like the ninth Gatorade of the day, the racing started back up with race 5; that meant 1st call for my group (Historic Production Heavyweight) was not far off, so I started preparing my gear and checking over the bike one last time. I could hear the zany track announcer pumping up the crowd with his dramatic call of Race 5 when there was a pause and then the call I had been anticipating for over a year: “Attention in the paddock, first call for race 6”.

I’ll admit that my pulse started to quicken and I felt a butterfly or twelve in my stomach, but I swigged the last of the Gatorade, took a few deep breaths, and started pulling my gear on. I glanced over at Malcolm; he just smiled and wished me well as he pulled his old Lineman’s boots on. Just to look at this kindly old gent of 70-plus years and his slightly tatty old Bonnie (with a fresh paint job on the tank), you’d never in a million years think he was a holeshot hotshoe with a room full of racing trophies to his credit.

“Attention in the paddock, second call for race 6”, said the announcer as I zipped up my leathers and pulled my Orange ‘Novice’ T-shirt over my head. I gestured to Malcolm and thanked him again for the use of his spare helmet. A dozen different things could have gone wrong in the last couple of days and kept me from being at that place, on that bike, in those pits, at that point in time; the fact that my helmet was not race approved was only one of them. I opened the seat and plugged in the fuse, then reached down, turned on both fuel taps, and tickled the Amal concentrics till they squirted a healthy few drops each.

Finally, the track announcer made the third and final call for race 6; Charlie grabbed hold of my handlebars and I dropped my bike off the stand and backed the Bonnie into pit lane. Charlie grabbed me by the helmet with both hands, looked me in the eye, and said “Slow and Smooth”, then patted me on the back reassuringly. We turned the bike down the lane and pushed off (I’m more excited recalling that moment and typing this than I remember being while on the bike).

The Bonnie fired off instantly and made a gorgeous burbling sound as I rode the choke at a high idle down through the pits to the track marshal’s position. As I pulled up, I turned the choke lever off and blipped the throttle a couple of times; the pipes sang a happy tune in response. A couple of other racers were warming up engines, tires and clutches in the secluded tarmac between hot tech and pit out, so I joined them in the parade and did the same. Then the track marshal waved us down to pit out and we were off!

SATURDAY, RACE 1

I knew I would be gridded in the last row, on the inside, so I let the traffic go ahead of me and did one more turn around the tarmac, then joined up as two other late arrivals pulled in behind me. The line of safety cones designating pit out only allowed for a very tight squeeze past the grandstand concrete wall to get out onto the straight and I almost clipped a few of them before I ever got on the track, but I managed to tighten my turn-in and wound the Bonnie up through the gears and into turn one behind a couple of 350 GP and 500 sportsman riders.

The track looked and felt the same as it had in the last morning practice, the bike was running beautifully, and I was cool, calm, and collected. The field pulled up in their positions, the last few guys rode around me and dropped into their slots, and I took my place ‘shotgun’ on the field. One of the track workers took her place between the 350 and 500 guys and held up the “Wave 2” sign, meaning everyone who was gridded behind that row would start in the 2nd wave. Now I was getting a bit nervous! The forward track worker scampered off the grid and we were under starters orders. The starter held up the “3” sign, the bikes near the front started revving up; when he flipped it around to the other side with a “2” on it, the front group started howling louder and louder. When the starter turned the sign sideways, it was a cacophony of megaphones and stingers ‘till the Green flag flew up in the air and they were gone in a mad dash to turn one, a Blue haze wafting off the track behind them.

This was it, the moment of truth. I honestly don’t remember feeling anything in particular, I didn’t hear the other bikes, I only saw the track worker walk briskly off the track to the infield and I was locked onto the starter in the tower. The “3” sign went up and I blipped the throttle, pulled in the clutch, dropped the Bonnie in gear and took a quick glance at my fuel taps to make sure they were both on (they were), then at my choke lever to be sure it was fully off (it was).

The starter flipped the sign over to the “2” and I started bringing up the revs and adjusted my seating and footing, I had a good grip on the bars and I could feel a bit of perspiration starting to cause my glasses to slip down the bridge of my nose.

In just a second, the sign was on it’s side and I remember wondering where the starter was hiding the Green flag; all of a sudden, there it was, waving briskly in the starter’s hand. I could see Malcolm and Flori jump out a dozen feet before I dumped the clutch and launched just a bit behind Mike on his BSA; everyone was falling in line right in front of my line, but they were drifting away from me at what seemed an alarming rate.

By the time we swept through Turn 1, I could only see 3 or 4 bikes ahead of me, the rest of the field was moving at a significantly higher rate of speed than we few at the back of the pack. I tried to hang with the “slow” bunch, but they, too, were inching away from me at every turn. I had to mentally slap myself in the face a few times and shout a wake-up call to my brain to settle down and mind my marks and the racing line. By the end of lap 1, I knew I was running faster than I had in practice, and I hadn’t let the 3 or 4 guys in front of me out of my sight. I could feel the difference in later, harder braking and steeper lean angles I was achieving at race pace than I was able to do in practice. The more I stopped thinking about all the details of riding, and the more I just followed the marks we studied on our reconnaissance laps, the smoother it felt.

It seemed like I had only started to get settled in and the starter held up the crossed flags as I crossed the start finish line, we were half way through the race already! I never caught the other guys, but I at least kept them in sight on the long straights. By the 6th lap, I had already seen the White flag and was being passed by the race leaders and fastest riders, I believe Malcolm passed me as he was dicing for 4th or 5th place on the track. When I crossed the finish line for the 7th time, I got the checkered flags and took a deep breath as I decelerated into Turn 1 and just held it in 3rd gear; the Bonnie was running as smooth as silk, it had performed flawlessly and it just sounded sweetly perfect.



(I'm not ahead of 'Bodger, he's about to lap me!)

The cool-down lap was done, I pulled through hot tech, they gave me a once-over and pat on the back, and I was headed back to the pits. The Bonnie stayed running and I had kept it on the pavement; I had achieved my primary goal, I had finished my first race!

Charlie was waiting for me to roll back in the pit and snapped off a couple of pix, Malcolm was already off his bike and removing his helmet; he had a smile a mile wide which you can only ever see half of, the top half is covered by that dead mouse disguised as a mustache. All the guys in our pits came over and congratulated Malcolm on his win, and me on my successful first race.

With Charlie’s help, I set the bike on it’s stand and proceeded to remove my helmet & gloves, then I helped Malcolm remove his boots & leathers. We all yukked it up for a good little while, then it was time to send Charlie off to the grid for his race. Once he was underway, I took off for a spot in the shade on the upper bleachers so I could video Charlie’s race.

Except for the names and a few of the faces, Charlie’s race looked similar to mine, but the pack didn’t leave him behind, and he was able to reel in some of the slower bikes in the other classes that had gone off in the first wave. I got his entire race including warm-up and cool-down laps on video; I only lost him for a couple of turns when I had to move for a guy coming down from the announce booth through the bleachers in front of me. He looked every bit as smooth as the guys in front of him, but his horsepower-to-weight ratio had him at a bit of a disadvantage.

Soon enough, the Thruxton race was done and Charlie pulled into the pit; we spent a while chatting and watching his video, then we headed over to the award ceremony for some Mexican food and to cheer on Malcolm as he collected his stone trophy. Malcolm and I stayed around for the AHRMA “Town Hall” meeting and offered a few positive comments when they opened the floor for discussion. I must say I’m very pleased with the experience I had at Sandia, it was altogether excellent, and I’m proud to be a member of the organization.

Later that evening there was some live music playing at the motocross track, we appreciated the fact that they ended the concert at a reasonable hour, and dozed off to sleep once again under a clear, cool sky.

SUNDAY – RACE 2

As the sun peeked over the mountains in the distance east of Albuquerque, the folks who spent the night in hotels began to arrive at the track. The coffee lady graciously poured us some hot racing fuel, we gave our bikes the once-over, and settled in to await our call to practice. This time we each sat out one of the three practice sessions, including Malcolm. He had already done a second re-torque, and his bike was running well, other than a bit of richness which he addressed by lowering the needles in his carbs after already having re-jetted to the smallest pair he had with him.

I had pulled my plugs earlier, just to see what they looked like (just a tad bit rich), and decided to leave the carbs alone; I installed a fresh set of Champion N3C plugs and left it at that. However, I had been noticing a bit of a stumble somewhere in the transition from partial throttle to full throttle, and from full throttle to trailing throttle; Malcolm had been trying to encourage me to lower my needles, but I was resisting doing anything that might cause an issue that close to finishing the event. After mulling it over for a while, I decided to go ahead and lower the needles one notch. As I started on the Right carb, I noticed it had excessive cable slack, checking the two cable at the throttle end revealed at least 1/8” of slack in the cable, with the left side cable perfectly adjusted. A quick twiddle and good snugging of the lock nuts and that was it, I decided not to lower the needles, which turned out to be a good decision.

The morning seemed to drag on until the racing started, then the time seemed to fly by. At lunchtime, Malcolm pulled out his video camera and started to set up the bracket just above the handlebar clamps, then we strapped the camera in the cradle with a half-dozen zip-ties. I think Malcolm tested the aim and made sure the battery was charged, but I had turned my attention to the Bonnie and pre-race preparations.

A quick once-over to check tires, fuel, oil and cables, and I was satisfied that we would last 8 more laps. The adrenaline charged announcer was doing his thing as a lady walked by our pits with what looked like a disfigured white cat a leash. It was a cute little 6 month-old albino raccoon kit that kind of shuffled and cowered as people walked up to pet it, it was just as nice as could be. That took my mind off the track announcer’s voice which was calling 1st call for race 6, but Malcolm called me over for something or another, and I got down to the routine.

This time I remembered to pull out the video camera and hand it to Charlie with the tape queued up to the right spot to get my race in. By now the routing had become a lot easier - 1st call: leathers on loosely, boots on, choke on, area around the bike cleared. 2nd call: turn on fuel, tickle carbs, plug in fuse, close seat, zip up leathers, put on ‘novice’ T-shirt. 3rd call: helmet on, gloves on, bike off the stand and a quick bump start. No drama, no issues.

As usual, the bike was running perfectly. I milled about the tarmac and warmed the Bonnie up, then pulled alongside Malcolm and Flori to await the track marshal’s signal to exit the pit onto the track. The Bonnie idled happily without a hiccup as everyone else seemed to be revving their engines to keep them lit. In a moment, it was once again time to make that hard left onto the track; I followed Flori as he followed Malcolm out, then we swept through the long turn 1 onto the back stretch, over the hump, through the hairpin and around the back section of the track, finally onto the grid for the start.

I didn’t even notice Charlie, who had found an empty observation tower and taken his place with the video camera. The field formed up almost exactly as before, I took my usual spot in the last slot. The first wave got their start, then the track worker with the 2nd Wave sign scooted out of our way and we all fixed our gaze on the starter stand.

The starter went through his usual motions, then the green flag flew and I found myself in front of Mike on his BSA, with Malcolm a couple of bike lengths out in the lead, and Flori tucked in behind him. We swept through Turn 1 at a pretty good pace and I could tell I was a full butt-cheek off the seat where I had been “half a cheek” off in the previous race and practice; I also remembered Fred’s advice to keep my outside elbow planted on the tank top, and my inside knee pointed at the racing line and the results were a much smoother feeling as I was able to lay the bike over with more confidence at a greater lean angle.

This time, I was keeping more of the field in my sight as we made our way around the seven turns and back onto the front stretch, faster than I had run the entire weekend. I detected a bit more stumble from the carbs than I had experienced in the previous race and morning practice, but as I swept through Turn 2, I realized the choke lever had worked it’s way to about the ¼ on position; I reached over and pulled it all the way off as I flew down the back stretch and over the hump, a couple of 350 Grand Prix and 500 Sportsman guys dicing for position through the hairpin ahead of me.

We settled in to a few smooth laps and I was finally staying with the back of the field, which was a couple of guys on 350 GP bikes. Either I was getting faster, or they were getting slower, because by the crossed flags, I was catching the first guy in front of me. I continued to inch up to him, one turn at a time. At the end of the 4th lap, I had a close call as the leaders passed me in Turn 7; the two leaders pulled up behind me, then went around me on either side as we approached the hump onto the front straight. As they were passing me, the inside guy swept a little bit wide and I was still leaned in as far as I was willing to go, leaving him plenty of room to pass me on the inside; as he got a bit too close for comfort, I straightened it out and he shot past, right in my line.

On Lap 5, I was reeling in the guy in front of me and finally caught him in the hairpin; as he swept wide, I turned in as tight as I could and stuck the Bonnie into the apex, passing him cleanly and continuing on. I had just completed my first pass in competition! Never mind that it was a smaller bike, a pass is a pass.

Pulling onto the front stretch for the 6th lap, I could tell that the choke was working it’s way on again, so I reached over ad shut it off as I cruised down the back straight and over the hump into turn two. I edged away from the guy behind me and seemed to be catching up to the next guy in front of me, ever so slowly. The Bonnie hummed a perfect note as it wound up through the gears, never missing a beat and not complaining as I grabbed double-handfuls of front brake and stomped on the shifter approaching the turns. As I still had a good ½” of unused tread on either side of the tires, that never even started to become an issue; the Dunlop Arrowmax tires performed flawlessly with hardly any wear on the V-rated tread. I flew past the starter stand and could see the starter waving the White flag, last lap!

My 7th and last lap was smoother than ever, with the racer in front of me just a tad slower, but still well ahead with no chance for me to catch or pass him in the one remaining lap. As I wound the Bonnie up in third gear and into fourth on the back stretch, I could hear the harmonic tone of another set of pipes mingling with the Bonnie’s straight-through teardrop mufflers; it was Malcolm, hot on my tail and looking to lap me. We entered the hairpin pretty much in lock-step, I swung out to the middle of the track and Malcolm dove into the apex, sitting bolt upright with the bike leaning in nicely. I thought I looked pretty stiff with an almost imperceptible hang-off, but Malcolm look like he was frozen on his bike; his style works well for him, as evidenced by his performance and the extreme wear on his tires at the outside edge of the tread.

Malcolm took the checkers and was long gone on his cool-down lap as I completed the last few turns and crossed under the waving checkered flags. My cool down lap was filled with ‘thumbs up’ and congratulations from all the corner workers. I think they were happy that the rookie in the Orange t-shirt stayed on the track, managed to stay out of everyone’s way, and didn’t T-bone any of the other racers.

Hot tech was a quick glance at the bike, a pat on the back protector, and a wave from the crew as I rolled back to the pits with a huge grin on my face. Charlie was there to greet and congratulate me as I pulled up, and we could hear Malcolm’s voice on the loudspeaker as he gave his winner’s interview. I was pleased that he thanked the track workers and AHRMA officials for all of us, for putting on an excellent show and letting us old guys ride our tatty old bikes on the track with the younger crowd on their machines.

So that was that, I had successfully completed my first race weekend, my body and bike none the worse for wear. Whoever put that engine together from the donor bike, which sat quietly on my workbench for well over a year, must have known what they were doing; I thrashed that Bonnie harder than any other bike I have ever built, and it rewarded me with impeccable performance, despite it’s rider’s shortcomings.

I popped the bike up on it’s paddock stand, turned off the fuel, pulled out the fuse and just stared at it for what seemed like five full minutes, as I slugged down an ice cold Pepsi (no more Gatorade, the racing was done). I think my cheeks were sore from all the smiling. I almost couldn’t believe the Bonnie and I had survived!

Bottom line: Two 4th place finishes, my first time out. Even though there were only 4 bikes in my class, it sounds a lot better than "9th" or "12th".

If there is anything I want people to take away from reading this, its that age doesn't matter, ability doesn't matter, money doesn't matter (much), and chrome and paint don't matter. Desire and perseverance are all it really takes to go racing in AHRMA. Just do it. I figure if i convince enough new racers to come into the sport, I'll eventually be able to beat somebody in my own class!

Great story and congrats on finishing your first race!

I bet you're still grinning. 8)

I thought I mentioned at the beginning that this all happened in 2007. There's a lot more to com as far as pix and stories of other races and other places.

I had a fantastic time racing, but haven't been back on a road course since 2010. Maybe once I retire...

O'k, well...

... get writing! ;D 8)