Don’t Try This at Home: A Bike Story
By Bill Bath
Mickey the biker loved living in Motorcycle City. The mayor didn’t call it Motorcycle City, but that’s how Mickey and his friends thought of it. They called it Motorcycle City because it had so many great roads and high-speed curves. Mickey’s favorite was The Wall of Death off-ramp where the Interstate went past downtown. This particular ramp was a 180-degree switchback turn with a 25-mph speed limit and a solid concrete wall on the inside and outside radius. The base of the concrete wall was angled out a little bit, which if the wall were straight instead of curved, would tend to push a car tire back toward the center of the road. So this little inclined ramp, plus the inevitable dirt that built up at the base, was just what a good rider needed.
Mickey didn’t exactly plan his first encounter with The Wall, but he lived to tell the tale, which is all that really matters. Mickey was racing down the Interstate that day on his way to Motorcycle City’s version of the Ace Café when he peeled off on The Wall of Death off-ramp. He was hard on the brakes, trying to burn off enough speed to make the turn, but he knew he was still going too fast. He entered the ramp as close to the inside wall as he dared, but not so close that the shoulder of his black leather jacket would brush it. He knew he was going too fast, but what could he do? He was in-between the curved walls and committed to the turn. Heeled over as far as he dared, his turn radius was still a little wider than the radius of the ramp, and he saw he was heading toward that outside wall. With the brakes heating up and the bike rapidly running out of road, Mickey’s front wheel hit the little fill of dirt and ran up part way onto the wall. The bike’s forward momentum and the horizontal force against the wall were just enough to allow Mickey to lean in a little farther and point the bike back toward the road. The front wheel slid off the wall; the back wheel rode the dirt for a split second, and Mickey was through the turn and back on the surface street.
Three blocks down, two left turns and a right, and Mickey slid into the parking lot of the Backstreet Ice House (aka The Ace Café). Mickey was a classic biker and his Triton drew the usual admiring glances from other bikers sitting by the big open doors. Mickey took off his helmet and gloves and laid them on the seat of the Triton. The gleaming 750cc Triumph engine was just starting to make those sharp little cooling-down, popping noises as Mickey walked into the building and pulled up a chair at a table half surrounded by his biker friends. “Hey Mick, you still keepin’ that old bike on the road?” said one of the guys at the table. “That bike and me will run forever,” Mickey replied. Some of the older riders sitting around the table nodded in agreement. The modern Thruxton rider at the table just shook his head. “How can you expect to stay up with traffic on a 30-year-old motorcycle?” he asked. “My Triton handles better than any modern bike and the soft compound racing tires I’m runnin’ provide all the grip I need to stay out in front of bikes like yours,” said Mickey. The Thruxton rider knew the Triton was fast and Mickey was a true go-faster, but he just couldn’t believe the classic café racer could outrun his bright-yellow 900cc Thruxton.
About a week later, Mickey and the Thruxton rider had a chance to see who had the better bike and which one was the better rider. Mickey and his pals, including the Thruxton rider, were on their way back to the Ace Café after a long Sunday morning ride through the hills and back roads on the north side of Motorcycle City. They had been riding since early morning, and now it was time to head back to the Ace for burgers and beer. Just about every rider in the group had taken a turn at being the leader. This usually happened when one rider pulled out in front and led the group down a road to a particularly good turn that the rider knew well. Every rider had some favorite curve that fit his riding style and his bike so well that he could sail through the turn faster than anybody else. Some riders are drawn to these favorite curves for the adrenaline rush and the satisfaction of sticking to the perfect line through the turn. Some do it for the sheer joy of feeling the bike leaning over to a near-impossible angle and then pulling it back up as they power out of the turn. In any case, when a rider found a curve like this, he practiced his line and his technique over and over until he could take that turn at maximum speed, maximum lean, and maximum exit speed. Other riders were wise to this fact, and they followed the lead rider with caution. Better to enter the turn a little slower and follow the right line than to go in too fast only to have to brake too hard, go off line, and scare themselves silly trying to stay on the road.
The Thruxton rider had a favorite turn, too. It was The Wall of Death, and the group was quickly closing on the entrance. Mickey had been dueling with the Thruxton all day, and now the Thruxton rider was in the lead and lining up on the entrance to The Wall. Mickey saw his chance to put an end to the Classic vs. Modern bike debate and show his friends that those old British engineers knew what they were doing when they designed the Norton featherbed frame.
The Thruxton rider moved to the right side of the exit lane preparing to lean his bike hard to the left as he entered the turn. His technique was to brake hard just before leaning in, ride a line that just clipped the inside apex of the turn, and then smoothly apply power on exiting the turn. Mickey was right behind him, and he knew this technique well. He had seen the Thruxton rider do it a dozen times before. Now was his chance. Mickey resisted the urge to clamp down on the brakes. Instead of diving toward the apex, Mickey stayed on the outside and lined up on the outside wall. He knew he had only one chance to make this turn, and he knew the only way to do it was to keep the throttle on and the engine wound up tight. Mickey guided the Triton almost parallel with the beginning of the outside wall. At the last second, he heeled the bike over and let the front wheel ride up the dirt and onto the wall. Instead of turning down toward the road, Mickey chose a line right down the center of the wall. He let the bike lean over until he was horizontal, and the bike was parallel to the roadway. He rode The Wall of Death, and he passed the Thruxton in the middle of the turn.
Now it was time to brake. He knew he had to be slow enough to get at least half way back to vertical before he ran out of wall, but he had to balance that need against the centrifugal force that was holding him to the wall. Backing off the throttle and quickly clamping down on the brakes, he let the bike rise up from horizontal as he aimed for the dirt curving at the bottom of the wall. He was still leaning at about 45 degrees when the bike came off the end of the wall. For a split second, he felt that stomach-pit sensation of falling before his race tires bit into the road. He fed in more throttle as he pulled the bike up to vertical and looked back over his shoulder to see where the Thruxton was. Luckily, the Thruxton rider had the good manners to slow down as the Triton came down in front of him. Maybe it wasn’t good manners. Maybe it was the astonishment of Mickey’s ride on The Wall of Death, but in any case, they all lived to tell the tale. And tell it they did. For years afterwards, when anyone mentioned The Wall of Death, everyone would have to tell what they saw that day. As for Mickey, he never rode The Wall again. For some things, once is enough.
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