Race day
Race day dawns at 2.30am, naturally. Battered by a mild dose of food poisoning and Pierce’s insistent and terrible farting, all of us are exhausted. Incredibly, despite driving to the mountain for the last four days on the trot, we miss the exit for the mountain. Landers nearly rolls the motorhome trying to make it.
At 3am there’s a mile-long queue of spectators waiting to get onto the mountain. They’ve been camping all night and most of them are drunk as lords. “Kick that mountain’s ass!” one of them roars as we pass, stumbling and spilling his Coors; “Get some!” We feel like Marines moving to the front line.
The morning briefing with Statler and Waldorf contains the funniest explanation of flag protocol I’ve ever heard in my life. When asked about red flags, the answer comes back thus: “We’ve enquired about this and if a red flag is waved during race conditions, carry on as if there’s nothing blocking your way. A red flag constitutes nothing more than a yellow flag.” Should we slow down if we see a yellow flag? “Not sure – best use your common sense.” Utter genius. Pikes Peak makes its own rules and long may it continue.
The cars and trucks are warming up; 1000bhp turbocharged V8s with wings on them the size of a Boeing, monster trucks with tyres that could crush a car, engine blocks bigger than a Hayabusa – it’s old-fashioned horsepower meets the Dynojet fuelling map. Our bikes are perfect. Having been prepped at local legend Davey Durelle’s immaculate workshop the day before, Team Ebsco/Visordown are getting ready for the race by catching forty winks in the motorhome. At 5.30am one final and monstrous guff from Pierce drives us all gasping for air outside and we start preparing in earnest.
There are only 2,500 spectators on the hill but the buzz is tangible. Families of rednecks are whooping and hollering, meeting the stars of the race and requesting autographs. Nobody asks for ours. A disorderly line of cars and bikes forms at the base of the course, sheltering from the sun and grabbing nervous, last-minute conversations with other racers. I speak to rally legend Marcus Gronholm and Japanese driver Nobuhiro Tajima, the fastest man up the mountain. Tajima’s looking to break the ten minute barrier. “I go maximum attack, this is my way!” he laughs. Any advice for a rookie? “Be more like samurai, not kamikaze!” he roars, slapping me on the back. Thanks, chief.
I get numerous comments on my race number - 911 is the emergency service number in the US, or is it a reference to 9/11? - then vintage cars go first, then quads, then the ultimate cars. Andrea Eriksson doesn’t make it two miles before launching his 800bhp Ford into a tree at 90mph.
Landers is in the 450 class ahead of us and I try messing with his head: “Watch turn five, I hear it’s really slippery.” The flag drops and Pierce and I watch as Landers gets a flyer of a start, holeshotting his group of five and blazing off into the distance. I’ve got a race on my hands to beat the old goat, that’s for sure.
Five minutes before my start I’ve got motocross butterflies in my stomach and Pierce is visibly shaking. “I’m shitting in my pants, man,” he says. “I haven’t been this scared in years.” Two minutes to go and we line up behind the fastest qualifiers in our group. They’re flagged off and then it’s our turn. Transponders; check. Helmet-cams; on. One minute to go; goggles on, engines warming. 30 seconds; watch the flag man like a hawk. 10 seconds; steady 5000rpm, motocross launch, green flag... Go!
I nail my start and lead the pack into the first turn. Behind me, Pierce forgets to put his bike in gear and is last off the line. The KTM feels punchy and responsive; the brakes are monster and the Dunlop wets are sheer grip off the line. I don’t look back, just get my head down and go mental. At Picnic Ground I hit the dirt flat-out in fourth gear and move all my weight to the front as the rear pendulums in the dust. Into Brown Bush hairpin, the spectators are inches from my face and yelling support.
I ride a powerslide all the way out; it’s amazing the speed and ferocity you can fi nd under actual race conditions. I have no idea if there’s anyone else on the hill – all alone as we thunder through Glen Cove, where I catch a massive bump that kicks my arse two feet in the air at 80mph. From there it’s into the hairpin section. Maximum attack! Tajima’s words ring in my ears as we set about the series of five hairpins. I remember this section and although a mistake means pitching 100ft off the mountain onto rocks, we’re not hanging about. Th e rear tyre slides predictably out of the hairpins; more roaring crowds, and we’re back on the dirt at Devil’s Playground.
That’s when my head goes light, my lips turn blue and I start dry-gagging in my helmet. Nine miles into the course and at 13,000ft the early effects of hypoxia are kicking in. Bet Valentino doesn’t have to deal with this. Into Bottomless Pit with a 70mph slide where getting it wrong means a 1,600ft vertical plunge to the bottom. Our photographer Kevin is somewhere here but he’s the last thing on my mind. It becomes harder and harder to concentrate. I have no idea where the next corner goes. I knock the bike down into second gear, only to be presented with an opening, fourth-gear corner. Sawing hopelessly at the throttle, trying to carry as much speed as possible, I scream at myself in my helmet and hold the bike sideways through Cog Cut and take the chequered flag. Done it!
Elation surges through me and I’m actually quite emotional, hammering at the handlebars and whooping. Pierce comes in and I give him a huge man-hug: “Awesome work fella, just awesome.”
We posted respectable times, we didn’t crash and didn’t make arses of ourselves. Hell, I even received a cheque for $125 for my fifth place finish. If we can ever afford to return, we’ll be back in a shot. This is one of those unique events that gets under your skin. And you can only get better...
Read on for how to NOT tackle the Pikes Peak race
