Motor Mouth: A dastardly deed done dirt cheap

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The villain. The scoundrel. The rapscallion. There I was, minding my own business, leading, much to my surprise, the first motorcycle race I had ever entered and some miscreant — oh, hell, why should he remain nameless? It was my good friend — OK, my former good friend, Costa Mouzouris — who knocked me off my bike. As in ass-over-tea-kettle, fall-down-and-go-bump, flying-through-the air-in-a-perfect-Flying-W, the drama only exacerbated because it was all happening at high speed.

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It was my first serious motorcycle race event. Yes, I am 54 years old and, yes, it is very foolish to take up motorcycle racing in one’s golden years. But they were only teeny, tiny, little bikes, barely full-grown, in fact, so I couldn’t possibly hurt myself, right? I mean, how dangerous can a 26-horsepower Honda CBR250 be?

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Ah, but I hadn’t counted on the knavishness of my competition. You see, as a dedicated never-was, I wasn’t supposed to be fast. And, indeed, at the beginning of the weekend, I wasn’t, slow-poking around like the geriatric, I-can’t-hang-off-the-bike-because-my-back-doesn’t-work Walter Mitty that I am.

But then something miraculous happened. I — and here would be a good time to cue the incredulity — got faster. I actually don’t know what caused it. It certainly couldn’t be talent. I credit muscle relaxants. It might have been just that my all competition were big, old fatties and, when you only have 26 measly horsepower to work with, my lithe and gazelle-like 170 pounds were a distinct advantage.

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Anyway, there I was — again, much to my surprise — in the lead on the very last lap. Indeed, I am not sure who was more amazed, me or my new sworn enemy (did I mention he has a large villainous nose?). This certainly wasn’t supposed to be the order of things as Mouzouris is a seasoned racer and I am normally the most timid of track demons.

I suspect it was that very astonishment of losing to me, of all people, that so discombobulated the blackheart. It was almost certainly the adrenalin one always gets when one races anything (even lawn tractors, I am told). Maybe the sun got in his eyes.

But whatever the reason, with less than half a lap remaining — a measly nine corners from my very first triumphant checkered flag — the knave torpedoed into me like Steve Bernier taking out Rob Scuderi in Game Six of the Stanley Cup finals. One minute I was gracefully arcing my way through Shannonville Motorsport Park’s Turn 3 to certain victory, the next I was flying through the air, looking down at the ground and trying to imagine how much this was going to hurt. I barely had time for a pitiful “what is he doing passing here? Nobody passes here. Doesn’t he realize I am winning my first race?!” before touching down and all went black.

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Now, before I continue with this narrative, there are some things I am proud of despite the inherent not-goodness of flying off the track (sort of) attached to a motorcycle. First — and have I mentioned this yet? — I was leading the race. Second — and I think I am actually more proud of this than actually leading the race — when Mouzouris, in an attempt to redeem his roguish behaviour, stopped to minister to my injuries, the first words out of my mouth were: “Did I win?” which, again, had it not been for his scandalous behaviour, I would have. Did I mention that my 1.23:30 lap times were the quickest of the race?

Another good thing is that we were, again, only running the diminutive little Hondas. That means that, although falling off a motorcycle at any speed is never a good thing, falling off a 26-hp version usually happens at a decidedly reduced rate of knots than tumbling from a 190-hp GP bike. The last thing is that the CBR250, again being diminutive, doesn’t weigh a whole bunch so the impact didn’t send me leaping off the motorcycle so much as push me overboard.

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We’ll take these as small blessings for, as I sit here in Belleville’s finest (OK, only) hospital, my injuries are limited to some seriously bruised ribs and (again, another first) a dislocated shoulder. I know that this will sound ridiculous — and probably brand me as one of those ridiculous Melanie Griffith-like optimists that always sees the sunny side of life — but methinks that any time you fall off the “high side” of a motorcycle and you can manage the pain without opioids or sedation, things are still relative rosy.

That said, I now know Damon Hill’s pain and, indeed, I now have my own Michael Schumacher-like foil. I just wished Costa was a little more famous. That would make my (again) leading the race that much more triumphant.