1985 Yamaha FZ750
(Page 2 of 2)
January/February 2009
By Neale Bayly
And they’re off …
Dumping the clutch and juddering off the line in a cloud of exhaust smoke and strange noises, I am completely alone by the time the telegram goes out to the brakes that turn one is approaching. Completely left for dead by the other riders, I gingerly ease through the turn before gently applying some throttle. The bike turns with all the agility of a double-wide on the back of a semi. By a mixture of extreme body language and some judicious leverage on the bars, it makes the turn before heading up over the hill. The gearing is wicked short, sending the tach needle instantly into the red and forcing some hurried upshifts to avoid grenading the engine. By the time I’m wobbling my way down through the esses, the last bike in the lead pack is exiting for turn five. I’m alone.
Having an internal word to get a hurry on to see if I can hang with the tail rider in the group ahead, the message translates to the rear tire spinning, the bike going uncomfortably sideways, and the Bayly shorts changing color. “Wrong move,” I think to myself, before continuing on at my snail pace while attempting to get my heart rate out of the cardiac arrest zone.
This crazy game of cat and mouse with the throttle, lean angle and where to put the hopeless brakes into action before the turns is actually more fun than I could ever have imagined. Once I set my marks, the remaining few laps speed by as I actually get to look around the beautiful Road Atlanta track, though I’m wishing I could peel some of the duct tape off and get rid of the large white letters on my back that spell out my name. Watching the response from the enthusiastic crowd soon eliminates such thoughts though, and I just concentrate on getting home in one piece.
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Just like royalty
There are some tense moments (like getting all crossed up when I try to put too much power down going under the Toyota Bridge), but not all of them are life-threatening. Knowing that Bill Brown and the gang will be coming past, I make sure to stay on line, and on the last lap I think I make Bill’s day.
Heading into turn 10a, sitting up and doing my best Lady Di wave to the crowd, the peloton passes by me wheel-to-wheel at high speed. Although Bill would go on to win this race that wasn’t a race, I’m sure his ability to pilot his hyper-fast R1 is compromised due to laughing at my crazy waving routine.
Taking the checkered flag dead last feels as good as a win. Having never ridden such a pile, it has without doubt been a unique experience I wouldn’t change for the world. The old FZ held together, it didn’t spit me off, and we both made it home in one piece. Bill and the boys put on a spectacular show for the car guys, and the whole race was a great success.
As my first introduction to vintage racing, it has me hooked and wanting more. My world now involves long conversations with Bill Brown about racing brakes, trick radiators and all the cool stuff he is doing to the FZ for my next race. MC
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