“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes you get what you need,” sings Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones. That was the anthem for my 40th birthday. Usually, these were planned affairs accommodating the needs of many. It’s a gift, right? For reasons still unknown, my wife Janet that year came out and simply asked me what I wanted. “Hmm, is this a trick question?” 40 is a unique birthday. According to Social Security actuarial tables, your life is half over. At the apex of life’s highest curve, I told her what I wanted in “Wow, this is as good as it gets” detail. Then I waited for the negotiation around my weirdness and the realities involved. Except, it never came. She did exactly what I asked for. Should I be worried?
One of the G rated items on my list was a motorcycle track day near Ft. Worth Texas. Motorsport Ranch at the time was a 1.3 mile tight paved course for those with fast cars and motorcycles. Chaperoned by experienced riding instructors, these events help the rider learn that their motorcycle is far more capable than they are. Check your ego at the door. It’s not a race; rather, it’s guided exploration of riding technique in an environment much safer and legal than on public roads. In other words, no cops, no worries. Said exploration process can and does involve the real risk of a crash.
Delighted, yet surprised by this gift, there were three possibilities. First, seeing me recently buy a 150 horsepower Yamaha R1 sport bike capable of a 172 mph top speed (classified info at the time), she wanted to explore my new world of speed with loving curiosity. Second, she held visions of being one of those skimpily dressed pit babes holding a shade umbrella over her gladiator on the race track starting line. Or third, there was insurance money to be collected and who could blame her for being such a supportive wife? I went with option one and prayed for option two. She is hot after all.
There are few things more stirring to a man’s soul than his girl wanting a taste of the gooey center in his passions. It’s as if they came into your man cave, smiled and popped open a beer without commenting on your décor or cleanliness of the place. Comfortable acceptance feels good. She brought the full package, lunch for the day, her Canon camera and the umbrella. Always in pursuit of impressing her Wile E Coyote style, this would be my magnum opus.
When you mention “race track” what comes to mind for most people is what they’ve seen on video like Indianapolis or Daytona. Stadium seating or sky boxes allow spectators to take in all the action, rooting for their favorite drivers. Club tracks like Motorsport Ranch on the other hand, are designed with only the driver in mind. Aside from the sprawling, usually flat, track in a field there are metal industrial buildings scattered across a large parking area. Have you ever picked a vacation spot by images of Balinese huts arrayed over clear blue water and found yourself in a Ramada Inn by the ice machine facing the parking lot? That folks, were Janet’s spectator accommodations.
Two existential problems were at work here. In the evolved version of “Look Ma! No hands!” I really wanted to impress Janet, showing her that I could handle those 150 raging horses under rein with a flick of my right wrist without becoming bug spat on the side of a metal building. Really, I just wanted her to have a good time on one of my crazy endeavors. All men have (or should have) insane ideas to keep themselves from joining a long gray line of gelded manhood. When your girl is willing to join you, that’s the special sauce. That’s not to say there’s no give and take or consideration of consequence. It’s “willingness” that keeps the hope of possibility alive in a committed relationship. Having seen a flicker of that flame in this mother of all birthday outings, I wanted to keep it burning. Going on 17 years, we weren’t newlyweds anymore.
Wearing my matching red riding suit with the usual butterflies of being on a track with other fast guys, I settled down and remembered how to ride the bike. Always start with the fundamentals. On a short twisty track like this, your skill and technique are more important than raw horsepower. It’s not a drag race. Mind bending focus is required for each 20 minute session. There’s no time to think about anything off the track. Yet around a sweeping turn called Big Bend which opened onto the only straight section, I could make my Wile E Coyote move. Janet, would of course be watching from the chain link fence between the straight and the parking lot. Big Bend was my chance to keep possibility alive! Relationship and manhood were on the line.
The combination of a liter of 93 octane burning fury in a motor spinning at 9,000 RPM cocked over in an unfolding corner and a coyote brain equals a wheelie down the front straight. Front wheel in the air, “That ought to keep the flame alive,” I thought. Rinse and repeat each lap. Idling back into the pit area with adrenaline spent, I looked for a pit babe shimmying a “Let’s party” dance with high fives. “Hmm…, where is she?” Parking by our RV and trailer, I thought, “She must have another kind of birthday surprise for me; I’m sweaty but good with that.” Stepping inside with full gear still on, all I could hear was the sound of crickets… “Is anyone home?” Resolving the mystery, Janet walked down the hall from the back bedroom with a yawn saying, “I was just taking a nap, are you hungry?” This is known in track day terms as a non sequitur. Was our flame in jeopardy?
In the end, my pit babe checked everything off the 40th list making it the best birthday curve I’ve ever apexed. Many tend experience life as growth and decline. It’s gravity, right? What goes up, must come down. Some things defy those curves though where the flame of possibility transcends the gravity of age. Beyond proving I could ride a racing motorcycle in a circle without falling down, it proved that presence, not impression was really what I wanted and needed all along. Her “willingness” to be with me at a track day was the gift, of herself.
Hot wives like her are the pit babes’ real men need.