In early June of 2002 I sat in the waiting room of the ICU @ National Rehabilitation Hospital in our nationâs capital heavily conflicted. My close friend and fellow motorcyclist lay in a room nearby, having broken his neck @ Summit Point Raceway a few days earlier, and it had become painfully obvious that he would not only never move again, but might never even be able to breathe on his own again. With a noticeable amount of guilt, I quietly wished he would die, as I knew that there was no way that I would have the emotional strength to live with his new reality, and feared that he might not either. But this wasnât my first time here....No, as a wannabe racer since 1976, I had watched friends and heroes alike draw the hand that we all fear the most, and in some cases, end their lives in the relentless pursuit of speed. But what was different on this day, was that my friendâs father, a tall, thin African man who had traveled thousands of miles from the Ivory Coast to see what was left of the life he had created, looked into my eyes and asked the question that none of us can really answer....âWhy would anyone put themselves in a position where they can do this to themselves if they donât have to?â A fair question. My friend was barely 30 years old, and having graduated from an Ivy League university and graduate school, was privy to a six figure income and a more than promising future, yet put himself in harmâs way at the racetrack as often as possible. Many of us do, and although most do so in denial of the harsh realities of the risks we take, some of us know them only too well. The âBrknBnzâ that is embroidered on the seat of my leathers and adorns the license plate of my daily driver doesnât describe the often criticized profile of my C230 Sport Coupe, but pokes fun at the dozen or so orthopedic procedures that have been required to put me back together after the mechanical issues (always a short circuit between my brain and my right wrist) that have caused me to repeatedly fling myself onto the pavement at the racetrack for the past 30 years. Yet, even after the last 25 months during which I was not only unable to ride due to having two hip replacements, but having trouble tackling a staircase, all I wanted to do was to return to the seat of my GSXR Superbike, and drop my knee onto the pavement at triple digit speeds. When I finally did return earlier this month, although I was certainly a bit shaky at best, I felt a sense of relief that nothing else could have given. Why? I wish that I was eloquent enough to explain to those who donât understand, why I canât stay away, but the reality is that it would be like trying to explain the pleasures of sex to a child.....they will never understand until they are there and until that day, will look at us and say âewwwwww....I would never want to do that!â My friend did not die, although I know much of the time that has passed he wishes that he had. He is able to breathe on this own, but the life that his future once promised certainly never materialized. I have never thrown my bike into turn 3 @ Summit Point Raceway without thinking of him, yet those thoughts not only donât prevent me from being there, I might even throw it in a bit harder because of my anger at fate for not allowing him to escape unscathed. But life is little more than the period of time that fate has given us to enjoy the rewards that only taking risks can give. For some of us, the greater the risks, the greater the rewards, and to that note.....I envy you Sic. You may have lived more in your short 24 years than most do in 84 years.
