|
|
 |
A moment of weightlessness
|
|
|
|
|
|
Valentino Rossi’s Moto GP
Neale Bayly
07/01/2006
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
Illustration by Philippe Lechien
|
Paralyzed by perception, the call confirming I would be riding Valentino
Rossi’s Moto GP bike sent seismic waves across the phone lines, rocking and
shaking the fabric of my known world. Seconds turned to hours, minutes to days,
as every heartbeat began ticking down the time till I would take the ultimate
motorcycle challenge. How could one motorcycle strike so much fear in my heart,
and so categorically undermine every component of my life that represented
stability and security?
Not cut from the same cloth as Rossi, nor possessing
the heart of a lion or the courage of David, there was no machine I had ridden
that could have prepared me to ride his personal steed. Lifting the front wheel
of an AMA Superbike at 170 mph, setting a land speed record of 202.247 mph on a
nitrous oxide devouring two-wheeled beast, or twisting the throttle of Rich
Yancy’s insane, 260 mph, street legal, turbocharged Hayabusa seemed hopelessly
inadequate as qualifiers for this test.
Factor in a value of more than $1
million, or that the number 46 emblazoned on the hand-made carbon fiber bodywork
belongs to possibly the greatest motorcycle racer ever sent by the gods to taunt
us fragile, fallible humans, and at least there was valid justification for my
fears. Valentino Rossi is without doubt blessed with superhuman abilities, but
the marvel of modern technology that sits beneath him should not be overlooked
in this equation of world dominance. Producing 250 tire-shredding,
blood-sweating Ferghana horses, propelling a package weighing 320 pounds, and
hiding a Pandora’s box of electronic and mechanical secrets that contribute to
its phenomenal achievements on the world’s toughest stage, just the chance to
see this machine at close quarters is an honor and highlight that could last a
motorcycle lifetime.
But as the inline four-cylinder engine roared violently
to life, and the mechanic blipped the throttle to warm it up for me, there was
no more room for thought. Slipping the M1 into first gear, sliding out the
clutch and tiptoeing onto the Valencia racetrack under the brilliant Spanish
sun, the weeks of expectation were over. Even as the battle of reason and terror
still waged in my mind, mercifully, I had enough pre-programmed motorcycle
responses left to navigate the famous circuit for my four allotted laps.
Riding slowly and cautiously, there was a release after I had won the fight
and climbed into the saddle of doubt on the horse of all my fears. There, on the
long front straight, with the throttle pinned to the stop, the inline
four-cylinder shrieking its blood curdling battle cry at 15,000 rpm, I found
salvation. Experiencing the sound, feeling and mind-altering exhilaration of
Valentino Rossi’s Yamaha M1 at full power was my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity
to sit at the feet of the gods, if only for a brief few moments.
Fifteen
minutes later, I was standing in the Yamaha pit feeling an incredible moment of
weightlessness. I was a lover hearing the words “I do,” a father holding his
newborn child, or maybe Vale himself climbing the top step of the podium, his
foes vanquished one more time and his place among the gods secure. I won’t ever
win a world championship, but this brilliant memory will last forever. I had
ridden and experienced the world’s fastest, most famous race bike and, contrary
to my perceptions, lived to tell the tale.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
