September 2012 - CityBike

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AMA Flat Track: Sacramento
By Courtney Olive
Photos by Bob Stokstad
No sooner does the national anthem
hit its last note than an Apache
attack helicopter soars upward,
banks a few times for a good show, then
thunders out of view. Seconds later the
booming of the Apache is overpowered
by the music of twin-cylinder motorcycles
roaring to life. Mechanics lugging starter
motors scurry out of the grid as the
HarleyKawiTriumDucati symphony
reaches full thunder.
The AMA track boss, a no-nonsense lady if
ever there was one, stomps her way in front
of the rows of bikes. She snaps her forearm
forward at one-second intervals and points
an authoritative finger at each rider. This
touches off a volley of clutch-feathering/
tire-spinning/front-lifting as each blasts
forth on their warm-up lap.
Returning to the grid, they take their
positions, engines revving purposefully. A
few look around, most stare straight ahead
at turn one. A trophy girl parades across
with the 10-second sign. Riders crouch.
Seconds tick. RPMs skyrocket. BAM, the
flag drops!
The Sacramento Mile is underway.
The first thing you notice is the pack. The
bikes circulate in one big mob. There are no
back markers like you’d see in a roadrace.
As the pack approaches on each lap, the
ground starts to shake, there’s a deafening
roar as they blur by, then they’re past and
you’re hit with a high-speed dust cloud, like
the tail of a comet. The sound fades and the
cloud is gone as fast as it arrived. You pivot
and follow the pack through turn Two, then
Three, then Four. They tuck in, left hands
on the tank, and here comes that ground
rumbling again. All this in 38 seconds.
No wonder fans at The Mile know how to
cheer. Arms wave wildly, fists pump, and
everybody is out of their seat as the riders
scream by. Every rider carries a nickname:
“Flyin” Bryan Smith, Jared “The Jammer”
Mees, and “Jersey” Jake Johnson—the
number-one plate holder. To call it close
racing is a woeful understatement. Bikes
return to the pits with tire marks burned
onto their side number plates.
In the Main Event so many vie for the lead
that it’s a wonder the announcer can keep
all the nicknames straight. It’s a five-way
battle between Smith, Mees, Johnson,
“Slammin” Sammy Halbert, and “B-Rob”
Brandon Robinson. Smith is on board a
Kawasaki, a Versys-powered 650 that is
blisteringly fast. The bike has been specially
designed to compete only on mile tracks,
unlike any other at the race. The tank is a
sliver that scarcely rises three inches above
the frame. It’s a wonder the fuel inside is
enough for the 25-mile Main event. But
looking at the cutting-edge crispness of
the rest of the bike and the sanitary nature
of Smith’s pit, you get the impression his
team knows exactly what they are doing.
And when Smith tucks down tight against
The
Magic
of the Mile
Pro Singles Heat Race: 28P - Michael Bickerton,
76L - Gerit Callies. 30S - Jason Inennock, 2and
5A - Shayna Texter, winner of the Pro Singles
main event.
that low tank and rockets ahead on the
straights, your impression is confirmed.
Johnson and Mees fight fiercely with Smith
in the Main. The three form a tight pack for
the whole race, with Halbert and Robinson
keeping constant pressure, just a bikelength
behind. At times Smith loses the
lead but he reels it right back within a lap.
When the checker falls they roar by, Smith
taking the victory, then Johnson, Mees,
Robinson and Halbert.
But the night’s show-stopper is the Pro
Singles race and Miss Shayna Texter.
Standing five feet sharp and weighing 95
pounds (with steel shoe), Texter takes
command right off the line. She is the first
to turn one and almost instantly establishes
a gaping lead. A hard-fought battle rages for
second and third, but Texter remains well
ahead. It’s almost as though she’s running
an entirely different race.
This affords time to study each rider’s
stunning transition from full tuck on the
front-straight to winging through turn
one. In one motion they snap themselves
upright to attention while their waist
bounds forward from the back of the
seat up onto the tank, right elbow shoots
skyward as the bike tosses over and left foot
touches down. With each, it’s a skill. With
Texter, it’s poetry. While others seem to
use their body weight to sling the bike into
submission, her transition is so smooth as
to be almost imperceptible. It’s as though
the bike scarcely notices her tiny frame
as it sails through the corner completely
unrattled by the rough dirt below.
As the 12-lap race passes its half-way
point, the pack of Stephen Vanderkuur,
Jake Shoemaker, Dominic Colindres and
Brian Smith on his Versys-powered, race-winning Twin.
Gerit Callies seems to expend so much
effort battling for second and third that
Texter might remain unchallenged for the
win. But as the race nears the end, things
change quickly. The pack suddenly catches
Texter in what seems like three turns.
Because they’ve caught her so quickly, the
instant thought on every fan’s mind: Can
she hang on?
Soon the answer is no. Vanderkuur and
Shoemaker pass her in quick succession
on lap 11. Deflated, the crowd watches
what seemed like a sure win slip through
Texter’s fingers. “She must be getting tired,”
some say. As other racers close in on her,
even third place now looks uncertain. But
suddenly there’s no more losing ground.
Texter is tucked in and locked on to
Vanderkuur and Shoemaker. Four turns
to go and, as with the whole race, her form
exemplifies smoothness.
Charging through the back straight
Vandekuur/Shoemaker/Texter are ankles
to axles. It will be decided by the final turn,
and the crazed crowd may bring down the
grandstand. The pack charges in, pitches
their bikes over and Texter begins to make
her move. Sling-shotting out of the turn,
they enter a three wide dash for the finish.
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Texter’s perfect cornering fluidity results
in tremendous drive. Halfway down the
straight she has passed Shoemaker and
is closing on Vanderkuur to retake the
lead—if only the
track will allow her
enough distance to
get it done. She edges
beside Vanderkuur,
they streak across the
finish line—a photo
finish with her wheel
just a spoke-length
ahead of his.
The crowd goes
into orbit as Texter
adds to her string of
firsts for women in
motorcycle racing.
With this victory, she
is the first female to
win a Grand National
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Is Shayna wondering
when AMA promoters
will start hiring
beefcake to provide
alternate eye candy on
the grid?
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event at a mile-long track. “It just feels like a
fairy tale,” she says.
Podium speeches and champagne wind
down the night. Racers excitedly shuffle
their way to each other’s pits to celebrate,
skid shoes sound out a ringing thud on
the sandy soil. Once the track is clear,
officials open the stands and the fans take
the infield to join the fun. No whiff of
pretention - more backyard cookout than
fashion runway. A meet-and-greet line
forms at Shayna Texter’s pit, her giant
grin is constant.
The house lights dim and fireworks erupt.
On the far side of the track a couple of true
devotees can be seen walking a lap of the
sacred ground. They follow the blue groove
of rubber that is the racing line, stopping
every so often to gesture with imaginary
handlebars. One kneels down and grabs a
pinch of dirt as a souvenir.
Courtney Olive is a City Bike Contributor
who lives, rides, and writes in Portland, OR.
Motorcycle time travel is one of his favorite
pastimes.
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September 2012 | 16 | CityBike.com
September 2012 | 17 | CityBike.com