A Girl in the Pits
That insane adrenaline rush, the high-pitched whine of engines pushed to their limits, bodies crouched over streamlined metal on wheels, and time stands still.
She had come fully prepared to be bored. A novel in one hand and her laptop in the other, she was kindly shown the staff room where she thought she would spend the rest of the day after she had tired of the repetitive laps that the bikers made round and round the track. Eager to show some interest at least at the start, she dumped her bags and climbed to the top of the event manager's building to look at the view from the top.
The Apex Riding Academy it is called, and they have lessons and track time for all interested bikers who want to learn the fundamentals of racing a bike - whether as a hobby or professionally is entirely up to you. They had a fleet of bikes called R15s that are ideal for both learners and experienced bikers to understand the proper mechanics of handling a bike on the track. She sat with them in the temporary stalls that worked as the "pits" and listened, struck by the passion and intensity that filled the air. Lap timings; how to shave of half a second here and another there; when to release the throttle and when to brake; how to go in to a curve; why it was important to stay close to the edge to avoid crosswinds; oh and not to forget the insane leather get-ups the men all wore.
As she drew of the gloves, yanked off the sweaty helmet and returned the jacket to its owner, she felt certain that whatever else had passed, this had been one of those mind-altering experiences. She admired these men who had worked hard to follow their passion. Most of them worked full-time jobs or were students, and when they had the time and money they made their way to this track or the one near Chennai and let their hearts just go. She realised racing was a serious hobby and an expensive one. To own a bike, leathers and helmet was in itself an investment, let alone paying for lessons, petrol, and track time.
A recent arrival on the scene of motorbike racing, she was initially puzzled at all the fuss. Yes, she knew motorbikes; had been on a few in her time. A bit of a speed junkie herself, she got the whole thrill of the race. But she did not really understand it until she stepped into the pits at the Kari Motor Speedway in Coimbatore.
She had come fully prepared to be bored. A novel in one hand and her laptop in the other, she was kindly shown the staff room where she thought she would spend the rest of the day after she had tired of the repetitive laps that the bikers made round and round the track. Eager to show some interest at least at the start, she dumped her bags and climbed to the top of the event manager's building to look at the view from the top.
Everyone looked tiny and ready to be roasted that summer morning. The track stretched naked under the hot sun, parched and rubber ready. The wind turbines in the distance the only reminder that there was other civilisation. The bikes stood ready and shining, their riders hovering over them, tuning, wiping, admiring and raring to go. She thought about the bikes: there was a Ducati, a Honda, a KTM, and some others called R15s. All bikes built for racing, shorn of all manner of hindrance from tail lights to rear-view mirrors. An ambulance and medical team stood by at the ready nearby.
The first rider moved off on to the track. She watched him do the first lap, easing into corners and speeding up on the straight parts, warming up to the curves and lines of the track, allowing the rubber of the tyres to also learn its place. She watched as lap after lap the pace increased and the method looked smoother and the rider more confident. Slowly where the slant of the bike was tentative, the knee now stuck out at a right angle, the rider leaning into the curve, his machine hugging the tar. This was technique, she realised! There was more to this than hopping on to that mean looking motorbike and zipping and zooming all over the place. She decided to learn some more about it and went back down and over to the pits. That was the last she saw of her book and laptop that day.
Who was riding? Why were they riding? What was all this about? So she chatted with the group who had organised the event.
The Apex Riding Academy it is called, and they have lessons and track time for all interested bikers who want to learn the fundamentals of racing a bike - whether as a hobby or professionally is entirely up to you. They had a fleet of bikes called R15s that are ideal for both learners and experienced bikers to understand the proper mechanics of handling a bike on the track. She sat with them in the temporary stalls that worked as the "pits" and listened, struck by the passion and intensity that filled the air. Lap timings; how to shave of half a second here and another there; when to release the throttle and when to brake; how to go in to a curve; why it was important to stay close to the edge to avoid crosswinds; oh and not to forget the insane leather get-ups the men all wore.
Already perspiring in her light summer clothing, she felt sorry for the guys all in their leather suits, boots and helmets. Under the suits they wore "inners" made of synthetic material that allowed the skin to cool faster. The suits were like armour, and the men like soldiers, and it was all beginning to look like something out of Game of Thrones until she understood the necessity for it all.
As she listened she heard the story of how the previous day a man had flown off his bike, landed hard on the track, and had spun a fair distance before he could stand again. Something that in ordinary clothes would have ripped his skin right off and left him a gory mess. And of course the helmet had saved his life as that fancy Ducati she had noticed earlier had struck him square in the jaw and left him only mildly concussed.
As the stories became grimmer and funny in turns, she witnessed a whole world of unknown territory unravel before her. Suddenly she understood the grit of each rider, the thirst for getting each curve right, the determination to beat his previous time, and the sheer love of the race. Before she knew it she was standing by the track, timing bikers, writing down their lap times, becoming completely absorbed in the whole festivity that was motor racing.
As the day drew to a close, there was one thought that stood out of the many that had been running through her mind: "I want to do this too!" One of the instructors must have read her mind, for before she knew it he had found her a jacket, gloves and helmet and told her he would take her for a spin around the track. "Any tips for how to sit?" she asked him. "Be a sack of potatoes!" was his reply! Clinging on almost for life, she felt the thrill of the track whizzing by from under her, wondering only slightly if she would fall off! Several times the kerb seemed like it would rise up and smack her in the face and other times the road ahead seemed too short. And while her mind was processing all this, she thought: "I finally really do get it!"
As she drew of the gloves, yanked off the sweaty helmet and returned the jacket to its owner, she felt certain that whatever else had passed, this had been one of those mind-altering experiences. She admired these men who had worked hard to follow their passion. Most of them worked full-time jobs or were students, and when they had the time and money they made their way to this track or the one near Chennai and let their hearts just go. She realised racing was a serious hobby and an expensive one. To own a bike, leathers and helmet was in itself an investment, let alone paying for lessons, petrol, and track time.
This was no boy's pastime. These were men following dreams in the best way they knew how. As they left the track that evening, she looked at her book and laptop. They seemed strange to her now. Already she missed the whine of the engines and the wind in her face. She hoped Apex would start something for women too. She asked and has been assured that they will!
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