CLASS

CLASS

Jeff Hughes

Finally up to speed and anxious to get some miles in, I’m dialed in and flowing as I exit the sharp right-left esses. Ahead, a hard, curling right-hand turn swiftly approaches. The corner is barren of trees or other obstructions and I can see entirely through it. Sharper even than most hairpins, I can see where the turn continues to tighten inwardly on it’s far side. Multiple apex, decreasing radius, neutral camber. Two hundred, maybe two hundred twenty, degrees. Hmm. I hold a tight line, eschewing any kind of preparatory movement to the left-hand side of the road. I flow easily into the entrance, countersteering the big red BMW K1100RS, pushing firmly on the right handlebar. The motorcycle dips, rolling over smoothly into the turn. “This is so awesome,”I think to myself, as the bike begins to hew a circular path through the turn. A grin breaks across my face.

Too soon. Throttle steady, my eyes sweep through the arc of the corner, scanning the pavement surface. It’s only then that I notice it, and I am aghast. The surface is striped in curling patterns of black, not just here or there, but over the entire roadway. How could I not have noticed it before? OIL, my mind screams, and twenty years of street riding experience tells me there is no possible way that the compromised surface will sustain the lean angle I’m now carrying. My wrists begin to rotate clockwise, the move to lift the front end and extend my line almost subliminal. No, it’s not true! Hold the line! Even as my stomach involuntarily tightens in response to the impending crash, my mind wrestles with the visual input. It can’t be oil!

June, 1995. Work intervenes, and Paul Milhalka cannot go. But he has put me in touch with George McNabb, his friend and riding buddy. George and I talk, and it’s agreed that he and I will ride out and room together.

I may be new to all this, but George certainly isn’t. A self-described CLASS junkie, he has attended eighteen or nineteen CLASS sessions, at track locations throughout the east. He rides a blue and yellow BMW K1. Swiftly. How swiftly I can gather by the scrapes alongside the underside of his belly pan. The belly pan! Geez. I have touched pegs and centerstand, but never a belly pan. The ride from Virginia to Ohio will comprise some nearly five hundred miles. And in the weeks prior, the opportunity to ride with such an accomplished rider causes me to look forward to the ride out to Ohio almost as much as the CLASS session itself.

Accompanying us on that ride out will be Matt Kilbourne and Parks Talley. I meet them, inadvertently, the Saturday before our departure, all three of us arriving early in the morning at Bob’s BMW for the installation of new tires. Serious guys. Matt, dressed in full racing leathers, rolls in on his K75S. Parks, like I wearing an Aerostich Roadcrafter, rides an R100GS. Like George, both Matt and Parks are CLASS repeats. Go-fast guys, I surmise. And so, despite an occassional penchant for swift riding myself, I can’t help but wonder if I haven’t gotten in over my head - with the trip out to Ohio a WFO excursion teetering on the edge of disaster.

I needn’t have worried. All three of my partners have long years of riding experience; and the sensibilities that usually accompany such experience. The pace going out is, if anything, for the most part quite sedate. The weather, true to form for this incredibly-hot summer, blazes heat and humidity. And West Virginia, normally my favored venue for motorcycle riding, is unusually thick with traffic. The ride is actually almost irritating until the afternoon when, on entering northern West Virginia, we finally hit a forty-mile stretch full of curves and free of traffic. There our pace picks up and we’re finally able to scrub in the outermost regions our new tires.

Rolling northwest into the heartland of Ohio, we ride through darkening skies and, finally, late in the afternoon, a booming thunderstorm. The storm leaves behind cool, pleasant temperatures. And four very dirty motorcycles.

The Ohio countryside itself seems much flatter and featureless than the two Virginia’s. Better, perhaps, for farming. Correspondingly less so for having the sorts of roads that appeal to sport motorcyclists.

The little town of Lexington, located just south of Mansfield, and maybe an hour’s ride from Lake Erie, is the site of the aptly-named Mid-Ohio racetrack, and our destination. It’s a pleasant little town and, riding through it, my gaze wanders, as it is wont to do when visiting new locales, and I wonder what it must be like to live here. I ponder what it must feel like to ride the roads everyday, to jog along the countryside on a summer’s evening, to work and play here? How it is for those who call this place home?

After dinner, and a quick visit to the entrance of the track, Matt and Parks head back east. They will be staying at Matt’s in-laws, thirty-five miles or so away. George and I check into our hotel, and prepare for tomorrow.

Kevin Hawkins, another friend of mine, is also here. Kevin has driven up from Greensboro, North Carolina with his girlfriend Trish, trailering his Yamaha GTS. He attended his first CLASS session, in mostly-driving rain, at Road Atlanta four weeks ago. He loved it in spite of the rain and is back for more. We stand around talking in the hotel parking lot, in a light drizzle, while George and I do a quick-wash of our riding-through-thunderstorms-dirtied bikes.

By dark, the rain has stopped and the hotel has filled with motorcycles. Some trailered, many ridden. Serious hardware. Ducatis, hard-core Japanese sport machinery, and breathed-on BMW’s predominate. And, wandering around by myself in the dark, looking at all this iron, I once again wonder what I have gotten myself into.

Having gassed up and cleaned the bike the evening before, there is nothing much of import to do in the morning. Shower, shave, and dress. Walk down to the small dining room where a Continental breakfast is being served. Juice, coffee, a banana, and a couple of donuts will do. I'm amazingly calm.

We're seated at the first table inside the door. George greets several folks as they come in. I don't pay much attention, not realizing for several moments that Reg and Jason Pridmore, and most of the red-shirted instructor crew, have come in and seated themselves at the next table. Looking over at Reg, it's kind of weird, seeing for the first time this man whom I read about for years. Pridmore was in his dominant prime, winning multiple superbike championships back in the 70's, when I first began riding motorcycles.

Outside there is a heavy overcast, but it didn't rain during the night and the roads are dry. I hope it stays that way.

The ride to the track is quick and easy - we're only six miles away. I'm not especially nervous - which continues to surprise me. But I'm glad we're finally getting this show on the road.

We arrive around 7:30. The pits are already filled. George splits off and grabs a share of a pit with one of the earlier arrivals. I espy Kevin down at the end of the row unloading his GTS. I mosey on down and join him.

It takes only a few moments to remove the tank bag and saddlebags; and to duct-tape the mirrors and tail light. Then I climb back into the Aerostich and head back up and around the pits to where the instructors have set up tech inspection. Park the bike, again. We have to do the paperwork first. There are two lines. In the first, Reg validates the release signatures. I guess that's in case I get killed today. Reg is smiling and joking with everyone, though, so I guess he’s not too worried. Then we move to the other line, stepping up into the long CLASS trailer, where Jason verifies everyone's billing, and passes out self-adhesive nametags and numbers. The paper nametags go on your shirt. The number goes on the back of your helmet. I'm number twenty.

Back outside to the bike. I motor up and around to the back of the pit building where Reg and several other instructors are now running tech inspection. One of the instructors performs a quick spot check of my bike and then places a small, yellow TECH OK sticker on the headlamp. Passed. OK, I'm set to do this thing.

I park my bike and wander back inside the classroom for the initiation session. The classroom here being one of the pits in which foldup chairs and a chalkboard have been placed. Donuts and coffee are provided. I don’t feel much like eating, but eat a donut and get another cup of coffee, anyway. The place is awash with nervous energy.

A few minutes after eight, we get started. Reg introduces himself, Jason, and the other instructors. Then he spends the next forty minutes or so going over the rules and strategies for the day. Simple, common-sense stuff. The biggie is no passing on the inside. “No problem”, I think to myself. “I’ll just wait for the straights”. I have resolved to take things easy today.

There are two straights on this racetrack, the long backstraight and a shorter front straight. Reg goes over where folks should position themselves on each, depending on the speed they're running. “The slow guys are the ones only doing a hundred, or so”, he says. I shake my head. This sure is a different world. Looking at the lines on the chalkboard, and mentally envisioning the rapid closure rate between the fast and slow riders, I determine not to be one of the slow ones. It’s a situation where I conclude there is much greater safety in speed.

On the chalkboard, Reg works through several generic corners, showing the proper lines. Basic stuff to any fan of motorcycle roadracing. But I discern there are some in the room without even that exposure.

Finally, Reg describes how to enter and exit the track properly; and tells what to do if someone crashes (don’t stop; definitely don’t turn around and come back!).

Reg does all this with spontaneity and good humor. The man clearly enjoys doing this sort of thing. That contrasts with the audience where, despite quite a number of obvious CLASS repeats, an overall subdued quiet hangs in the air. The nervousness is almost palpable. You can tell it in people’s faces; and in the questions they ask.

Finally, around nine, we get started. Track time. The ‘A’ group, faster riders, and those already familiar with the track, head out first. Right behind them, those of us in the ‘B’ group get ready to pull out. Reg is going to take us out to several corners and critique the ‘A’ riders as they pass by. I wonder whether I should put my earplugs in now - will we immediately be sent out on the track after that; or will there be time for the plugs when we’re done? I decide to leave the plugs out for now.

Helmet and gloves on, Aerostich zipped up. Ready. The ‘A’ group is already circling the track. The sound of numerous wailing engines marks their progress. OK, now I have butterflies!

The instructors have the ‘A’ group fairly bunched up. Immediately after they roll by the pits on one of their sighting laps, Reg quickly leads us out. No speed here. We putter slowly around the sweeping turn one, and halt just down past the first chicane. Not far, a couple hundred yards. There we dismount and walk over to the outside of the chicane. Reg, speaking with a bull horn, describes how to manage the chicane. How to set up for it. What gear to use. Where the proper line is. The ‘A’ group comes around a couple times and Reg describes what individual riders in that group are doing right. And wrong.

Reg points around through the tight, sweeping turn immediately after the chicane - the infamous Keyhole. Smiling, he tells us how to ride that.

We mount up again, slowly circumscribe the Keyhole, and roll down the back straight. We stop again about two thirds down that long straightaway, parking on the right-hand part of the track. Reg again takes his bullhorn and points out various things and places on the track. “Slow riders keep to the right!” The ‘A’ group comes by a couple more times and undergo more friendly critiques. I feel less than comfortable, standing on the track. Even though they’re traveling relatively slowly, it occurs to me that an ‘A’ group rider, not paying attention, could plow right into our tightly-bunched collection of parked bikes and riders.

Finally, we move again. Slowly circling the rest of the track, too bunched up and slow to get the bikes leaned over very much; but fast enough to know that this is going to be fun. The butterflies are now gone and I’m eager to get to it.

Rolling through the last turn, the one leading back onto the front straight, we all raise our left arms in the universal roadracer’s signal, steer to the far left, and pull off onto the pit road. The ‘A’ group riders have just pulled off the track. Now it’s our turn.

Crossways, across the pit road, Reg has lined up his instructors, all wearing matching white Vanson leathers and riding identical red Honda VFR 750’s. We each choose a line behind an instructor and wait for everyone to regroup, eight or so riders behind each instructor. While waiting, I pull off my helmet and insert my earplugs.

In a few moments, the ‘B’ group is properly re-sorted. Starting out again, one by one, each compact little group of instructor and pupils pulls out. The intent here, through actual riding, is to demonstrate the proper line to take through each of the corners around the racetrack. The rider immediately behind the instructor will follow him around the road course for an entire lap, observing where they should be positioned for each corner. After lapping the course, and on again entering the front straight, that rider will then slow and pull to the far left, allowing the next person in line to move up behind the instructor. The first rider drifts back and rejoins the group at the rear, very much like a team time trial in bicycle racing.

Reg, back in the classroom intro session, had suggested we make a mental map of the track, pulling the various puzzle pieces of each turn into a single thread. I figured at the time that doing that would take the better part of a day. The track first seemed distant and difficult to discern, hard to understand in a single, flowing context. In practice I find it’s not so hard, after all. Following the instructor, I find the lines to be pretty much where I might have expected them to be. No surprises.

After the eight or so laps needed to give everyone a sighting lap behind their instructor, we’re waved by to ride on our own. Free track time. The moment of truth! The instructors continue to circulate, but now they’re just observing.

I bump my speed up to a brisk pace. Just getting used to the track at speed. Easy, swooping, curling loops through the curves. Throttle to the stops, maximum acceleration on the straights. “This is so utterly incredible”, I think to myself. We’re still pretty spread out over the track.

Soon, though, bikes begin to slow and coalesce around the corners. Riders swirl around me, like eddies in a pool. I’m reminded of a school of minnows, darting to and fro.

A few pass me. On the straights, I pass a few others. There are a lot of riders out here, though, and, after a couple of laps, bikes are seriously stacking up in the corners. Watching the multitude of lines chosen by those in front of me, I wonder to myself if I was the only one watching our instructor during the sighting laps. There is a lot of sorting of position through each of the turns; and I’m, frankly, afraid to attempt a pass anywhere except on the two straights.

The initial euphoria is replaced by frustration. With bikes everywhere on the track, I feel like a lone ball tossed into the middle of a billiard break. And the feeling of having a target painted on my back will not go away. Twenty years of street-riding survival instincts have my senses crying out for information. The taped mirrors are a frustration. “Where are those riders coming up behind me”?

Soon, our collective speed declines to that of the slowest riders through each of the turns. Pretty slow indeed. Leaning through the Keyhole on one lap, I’ve become so lackadaisical that I’ve stopped concentrating and perform the stupidest maneuver I’ll pull all day. We’re going so slowly that, midway through the turn, I decide to downshift another gear - into first. Not real smart. Being leaned over, the rear end steps out big time as soon as I release the clutch. Like maybe a foot. It scares the hell out of me and, I’m sure, gives notice to those riding behind to lay off that guy on the big red BMW!

Finally the instructors signal us in. I’m actually glad. Totally bummed by the session, I wonder to myself what in the world people could possibly find in this that is so delightful; that would make them want to come back and do it again.

I’ll soon see.

Down in the pits, I park the bike, shrug out of my Aerostich, and head back to the classroom. Back at the blackboard, Reg begins to refine some of his riding theory, explaining in greater detail some of those things he mentioned in passing at the intro session. This becomes his modus operandi for the day - a detailed classroom discussion of one of his several key topics, followed by a track session in which the students may put to actual practice what they have just learned.

And there is a lot to learn. Reg covers several key topics in his basic curriculum, including throttle management, gear selection, shifting, braking, steering, positioning, and attitude. They all roll up into the one word which summarizes the Pridmore riding paradigm - smoothness.

The techniques are clearly oriented mostly to high-performance track use, but Reg and Jason both make frequent references to situations on the street. This course is all about better-controlling the physical motorcycle, with the accompanying notion that such improvement will benefit a rider, regardless of their environment. It’s a concept difficult to argue with.

In what seems no time at all, it’s our turn to head back out. The ‘A’ riders are pulling in. And, despite my frustrations during the last session, I find I’m once again eager to get out there.

I hurry to be one of the first out, reasoning that there might be less crowding up front. There is, but people also seem to be gaining a bit of confidence, as well. Paces, in general, are up a bit and I’m able to bump my speed to a more-comfortable level.

So it is, that on that first full flying lap I find myself exiting the chicane, the double-tap right-left ess, and enter the Keyhole - the longest and sharpest corner on the track, only to find the surface covered in what seemed to be oil. I am amazed I had not noticed the discoloration before. But it’s not oil, but rather only the heavy deposits of rubber, spread by the thousands of soft-compound tires which over the years have gone sliding through that turn. My conscious mind knows this, almost instantly. But, survival instincts ever-doubtful, it almost as quickly questions the traction of that, the rubber. The stuff sure looks slippery as hell! It takes a moment to convince my psyche that we’ll be OK. It helps that I don’t crash.

Very quickly, a rhythm establishes itself. Lap upon lap, the track rolls past like a graceful video. I’m left with only a couple of problems, both occurring at the end of the back straight. In the mountains, my favorite riding venue, I generally prefer a somewhat-brisk pace. But in carrying that pace, I tend to hold a reasonably steady speed throughout a section, with minimal use of the brakes. I studiously avoid the squid-like maneuver of bumping my speed in the straight sections only to have to brake hard and late for the corners. Here, though, at the end of the back straight, I’m doing upwards of 130 MPH as I close on a sharp, ninety-degree right-hander. Which means either setting up way early for the turn; or else going in way deep and then having to nail the brakes hard and snap the bike hard over into the turn.

Since setting up early is the approach most-akin to what happens on the street, that’s exactly what I do. Only now, invariably, when I do that one or a couple of riders, themselves braking deeper into the corner, go past me. Not a problem were they fast everywhere on the track. But they’re not.

The place is full of wannabes. Guys with seriously-fast motorcycles and attired in all the latest accouterments. Full-race, armored and knee-pucked leathers. Matching gloves and boots. And some riders really are fast, everywhere. But an equally-large number are fast only on the straights. It occurs to me that money can buy a lot of things, but speed is not one of them.

From the end of the back straight to the beginning of the front straight is the most-technical part of the track. A series of connected second and third-gear turns weave left and right, back and forth. With Reg’s number-one rule in mind, “no passing on the inside”, I find getting around other riders in this section to be exceedingly difficult. A legitimate pass which begins on the outside very quickly turns into a no-no pass on the inside as the track snakes back in the other direction. So I work and work to finally get around a rider who has no notion of how little lean angle they are carrying, only to have them blow past me once again at the end of the back straight. Then we toddle through the next few corners until I can get back around them once more.

After several laps of this hip-hopping nonsense, I shrug inwardly and discard the street approach - adopting the racer’s. Holding second gear coming out of the Keyhole at the beginning of the long back straight, I pin the throttle as soon as the bike is straightened, crouched down behind the fairing against the swiftly-building speed. I hold full throttle through third and fourth gears, now going deep, deep, deeper, into that hard right-hander at the end of the long straight. NOW. Quick downshifts, a handful of front brake, hard right now, then rolling sharply into the turn as I come back onto the throttle. It’s an easy transition to describe; difficult to do. It’s the one part of this racetrack, and the one kind of riding transition, which has no similarity to any kind of street riding I ever do. But nobody passes me there anymore.

More classroom sessions. More track sessions. As the morning progresses, so does everyone’s confidence. Speeds and pace elevate. The early-morning nervousness, so prevalent, is slowly being replaced by grins and talkativeness.

For many, these hours are a revelation. They find themselves using dramatically-greater lean angles than they ever have before; and find they have far greater control over their motorcycles than they ever imagined possible.

Even for more-experienced riders, for whom some of it’s lessons might be more subtle, the day is an exhilarating joy.

Midday. Reg holds a semi-optional braking exercise. In pit lane, he has us in several lines. At the mark of an instructor a hundred feet or so downrange, we individually take off, accelerating briskly towards the instructor. At their signal, we then stop - swiftly and, hopefully, smoothly. Reg suggests “Imagine carrying an ice-cold glass of beer on your gas tank. You need to stop in a hurry; but you don’t want to spill your beer...” In the day’s oppressive heat and humidity, that whimsical little comment is startling in it’s clarity.

On my second pass the instructor nods enthusiastically. “Good. Real good”, he says. “You might use a little more rear brake; but that was real good”. Satisfied, I motor around to my pit area and begin spinning the knurled knobs on my clutch adjuster. A little too much freeplay, and the clutch is getting really grabby. The freeplay I fix. The grabbing clutch will be with me, intermittently, the rest of the afternoon.

The concessionaire facilities are open for lunch. Standard track fare - burgers, fries, and sodas. Which is just fine. I find I’m intensely hungry after the morning’s adrenaline-charged sessions. It’s also a time to come down a little from this amazing high we all seem to be riding. To reflect just a bit on an extraordinary morning. This truly is an amazing experience...

After eating, I catch up with George. He is having a great day over in the ‘A’ group, as he always does. Probably the fastest student out here today, George is asked by Reg to lead the ‘A’ group out in one of the sessions. A little test? I don’t know, but within a few days Reg will ask him to become one his instructors. The Watkins Glen CLASS session, a week hence, will see George wearing the official white Vanson leathers and piloting one of the red Honda VFR’s.

As lunch ends, George and I motor up the hill to fill up with gas. Expensive, high-octane racing fuel. Good stuff. Working the pumps is - who else? - Reg. The man does everything.

Then, the afternoon sessions. Reg starts off with a demonstration of what he calls “body steering”. A devout believer in countersteering, I had previously heard of Reg’s body steering concepts, and came prepared to reject them. As Reg explains, though, these different methods are not necessarily mutually exclusive, but rather two different ways to achieve steering change in a motorcycle. He emphasizes that, especially when riding near the edge of, say tire adhesion, he feels more comfortable with the finer and less-upsetting movements induced by body steering. His demonstration of all this is to sit upon one of the centerstand-mounted VFR’s. Using only his legs, hips, and thighs, he then rocks the motorcycle back and forth - teetering first on one leg of the centerstand, then the other. The VFR handlebars flop back and forth while Reg casually discusses the benefits of body steering. We hold our breath, waiting for him to fall over. He doesn’t, of course, and the new possibilities in using body steering are not lost on us.

As we prepare to go back out on the track again, Reg finishes his talk with a playful suggestion to those who might be embarrassed by their still-virgin knee pucks. “The best way, really, to scuff them in is to just pop them off, see...” here he breaks off one of his own well-scratched pucks “and just rub them back and forth on the ground with your hand”. Everyone laughs as we head back out.

One of the nice things about the midday break is that everyone comes back in the afternoon mentally fresh. Speeds are generally crisp and most riders have the track pretty well-sorted by now. People are making a lot fewer unpredictable moves, and because of that passing is a lot easier. The whole afternoon is about listening to Reg and Jason, riding your own ride, working on your own techniques, and having an almost unimaginably good time. If there is a downside, it’s only that all this can’t be bottled...

I work on putting together clean, smooth laps. The video being recorded in my head spins with greater and greater consistency.

Coming out of the pit area, accelerating down and into the first turn, a sweeping, ninety-degree left-hander, Reg had mentioned - no, had insisted - that we stay far to the inside. Doing so keeps one in the acceleration lane until fully up to speed, just like on a freeway. A yellow-painted concrete speed bump runs along through the turn, and serves to separate the acceleration lane from the track proper. Just like merging onto a freeway.

Once past turn one there is only a short straight section before a gentle forty-five degree right-hander into the chicane, but it’s enough to pick up some serious speed. Third gear and wailing. I love the chicane. A softly-edged right, then left, then left some more combo. During the morning sessions a puddle of water had percolated out onto the left side of the track, there in the middle of the chicane. Right where the racing line is. I adjusted my line a foot or so to the right in order to miss the water. Most folks just motored on through it.

Coming out of the left-hander from the chicane, punch a downshift into second, then snap roll to the right and we’re into the Keyhole, a hard, curling, two hundred or two hundred and twenty-degree right-hander which just sucks you in. Most riders sweep far left coming out of the chicane, then dive back in into this right-hander; I eschew the leftwards drift and stay tight straight into the entrance. The turn is patched with a concrete section stretching in an even arc through the corner, the concrete-asphalt seam running just inches from the inside edge of the track. Right along the racing line. The whole turn is heavily blackened by those scrubbed-off rubber deposits which had so frightened me early on. OK. Relax, arms loose. Feed the bike an even, constant throttle - and try to hold that throttle through the turn. Leaned way over, the bike shifts and drifts slightly, the tires breaking loose just a bit, as we wander back and forth over that concrete seam. This is mind over what you are feeling and what you know. The tire breaks; you have to believe that it will catch again. As if that were not enough, midway through the turn, the corner tightens just a bit more. Great. Most folks are already cranking through the turn at what they think is the absolute edge of tire adhesion. When it tightens, the only choices left are to lean the bike over some more, or come off throttle and extend the line. This is probably most people’s least-liked corner.

Coming out of the Keyhole dumps us out onto the back straight. This is the fastest portion of the racetrack. Racers on high-level race equipment will hit 170+ mph here. I settle for 130-odd mph, the most I can get out of the K1100RS in the available distance. That’s quite enough, thank you very much.

Mid-way through the back straight is a little dogleg curl to the right. Just a bit of a kink at lower speeds, it becomes almost another turn as speed increases - requiring very real lean angle to get through. The sensation of negotiating it at speed is wondrous. In second gear coming out of the Keyhole, with the engine on the boil, we have one of those rare opportunities for full use of all-available power. Second gear launches us like a rocket down the straight. Tucked behind the bubble of quiet air behind the fairing, accelerate all the way to redline. Quickly shift into third; the throttle stays pinned. Now here’s the kink. Pull the bike right, hard now against the rapidly-building gyroscopic forces. Motorcycles don’t turn easily at this speed. Through the kink, another quick shift into fourth and, still, the throttle stays pinned. The edges of the track are now but a gray-green blur; a narrow tunnel through which we observe the end of the straight approaching terribly fast and way quick.

The approaching terminus is a hard, ninety-degree right-hander. A second-gear turn. Go into the corner as deep as we dare, trying to ignore the screaming voice in our head, which over and over insists that this is nuts. Finally, NOW! Sit up, grab lots of front brake, and simultaneously punch two quick downshifts, all in time to let the bike settle before we roll hard and, hopefully smoothly, into the turn. The transition is nothing if not abrupt. It is, for me, the hardest part of the track to sort.

Once into that right-hander, we just dial in lots of lean angle and hold the throttle steady. A piece of cake if enough speed was scrubbed off from the back straight; a wobbling, sliding, nightmare if it wasn’t.

Now turned, pick the bike up off the edge of it’s tires, accelerating gently. As it comes vertical, continue the rolling movement over onto it’s left side, all the while our line swings us across the track from far right to far left. The sweeping left-hander now in front of us is sharp - a hundred and ten degrees or so. Worse, it’s off-camber and decreasing radius. As we come whirling in, tucked tight to the left side, the turn simultaneously tightens even as the pavement falls away from us. This is the place where smoothness - and faith in one’s tires - are worth their weight in gold.

Done right, we are able to maintain a line to the left, and are positioned properly for the right-hander which is even now rolling up before us. Steady throttle; still in second gear. If entered properly, this right-hander is simple if for no other reason than it is not preceded by any abrupt transitions. Just a smooth, sweeping roll hard over to the right.

Through the turn, now picking the bike upright and accelerating hard up the hill to the bridge. The track passes under the bridge, cresting just past it, then curls gently left. A blind turn. Too far left, or too far right, on cresting the hill and the track won’t be there under us when we come down over the crest. Not good.

In the distance, a line of trees grows, distant on the horizon. During the morning intro session Reg had described a small cut in those trees, and had suggested we use that as a marker. It’s a strange sensation to go rocketing up the hill, aiming for a gap in distant trees, but it works. If you’re riding a powerful motorcycle, and are brave (foolish?!) enough to keep the throttle pinned all the way to the crest, then the front wheel will go airborne as you top the hill. Not a problem - just as long as your wheels don’t get crossed up, coming back down.

Having crossed that hill, however one does it, there is a brief descent into a gentle forty-five degree right-hander. Hold second gear. Steady throttle. Lean right, quickly upright the machine, sweeping across the track to the far left, then almost immediately lean right again, this time hard, into a ninety-degree right-hander. The tires stick like glue and we feel like a whirling dervish, for sure.

Out of the turn, accelerating hard, upshifting into third. First tracking straight and level. Then uphill and gently rolling to the right, into another chicane. Still on the throttle, almost to the left-hander now in front of us. Downshift back to second. Hold even throttle as the bike rolls hard to the left, arcing around the tiger stripes. This is where the Ducati went down.

We’re holding a tight, inside line, tracking along the far left side of the track. Almost immediately we snap roll back over to the right, sweeping back across the track. This turn is a one hundred and eighty-degree, decreasing radius, right-hander. The pit exit is there on the left. We stay tucked in hard right. Two-thirds through, the turn tightens. Same choice as the Keyhole: dial in more lean angle, or extend your line.

Uprighting the bike, we accelerate hard towards the front straight, upshifting once into third. A forty-five degree left-hander deposits us at the top of the front straight. Don’t blow that entrance - the concrete wall separating the front straight from the infield would be absolutely unforgiving. I suspect it has claimed more than one racing fatality.

The front straight itself is actually quite short, perhaps half the length of the back straight. It’s long enough to get fourth gear, though, and some serious speed. Here, however, turn one - marking the end of the straight - is a long, flowing, high-speed, ninety-degree left-hand sweeper. Punch a downshift into third, but otherwise keep the engine wailing. Crossing far to the left, right alongside the yellow-painted speed bump which originally guided us out onto the track, the turn is negotiated at what seems to be a terrific speed. A wonderful turn.

And then the video plays again.

Late afternoon. One of the much-touted highlights of CLASS is riding passenger behind Reg or Jason. Jason still has his leg wired up and immobilized from a racing crash many months earlier, so today Reg is doing all the courtesy laps. I’ve tried to catch up with Reg all afternoon to cop one of these rides, but there has always been a line in front of me. Finally, with the afternoon slipping away, I sacrifice an entire track session to wait my turn. Three people are in front of me, then two, then one. At last, it’s my turn.

Climbing on behind Reg, he tells me to place both my hands, palm down, on the top of the VFR’s gas tank. OK. I do as I’m told, though this position doesn’t feel very secure.

In twenty years of street riding, I’ve been a passenger on a motorcycle exactly - once. And that was maybe five minutes behind a friend, at relatively slow speed, while I shot a few photographs. So I’m now totally unprepared for the emotions that swirl through my gut as Reg takes off.

Rolling smoothly down pit road, accelerating briskly, Reg dips over into the left-hander that comprises turn one, and which will take us out onto the racetrack proper. Since we’re just coming out of the pits, our speed is quite modest. And our lean angle, though decent, is by no means radical. I’ve been wailing through turn one, by myself, much faster all day long.

Only now, I’m just along for the ride. Our roll over into that left turn feels like nothing so much as the cresting descent of a mondo roller coaster. My stomach flips. And I’m convinced I’ve just pressed two deep palm prints into the top of Reg’s tank.

I’m sure it gets better. Unfortunately for me, it ends right there. The overcast skies today have been a blessed respite from the broiling sun. They have darkened during the last hour, though. And now they unload. Even as we accelerate down the little straight into the first chicane, a wall of rain sweeps over the track, inundating us. Reg shakes his head, motoring gently around the track and pulling back into the pits. Climbing off, we sprint for the pit classroom - but not before I note with relief that Reg’s gas tank is undamaged by any dents.

My pillion ride with Reg will have to await another day.

With our last classroom session completed, Reg sends us out for our final laps, cautioning us to be smooth and careful on the now-wet racetrack. As I walk around to my KRS I pass George, who has just come in from the rain-soaked session with the other ‘A’ group riders.

“You going back out?”, he asks.

“Yeah. It’s our last session”, I reply.

“Umm. It’s awful slippery out there.”, he says, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I’d go back out if I were you”.

I look at George for a moment, wanting these last few miles of track time, but knowing that his considerable experience counts for an awful lot.

“Yeah. You’re probably right”, I finally decide. “I guess I’ll bag this one”.

As it turns out, George’s suggested prudence is warranted. Two guys will go down in this session.

Finally, the day is over. Reg pulls everyone together for his final summation. He talks a little. Jokes a bit. Then he calls out each of our names, handing out our certificates and shaking our hands.

The unmitigated joy of this high we have been experiencing all day, this rush, is offset only by the mental weariness which now slowly creeps in upon us. But even in my fatigue, I know that nothing I have ever done in my entire life can match the exhilaration of this day. It’s been a positive, creative, fulfilling adventure. And I cannot imagine not coming back to do it again.