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Salt of the Earth
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Salt Flats
Jeff Buchanan
12/01/2003
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Photography by Chris Chomyn
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To race on the salt is a very private
affair. The opponent is the ephemeral invisibility of speed. Racers will tell
you about the stimulated silence they experience when making a run, their
perception of movement deceived by the endless expanse. For at speed, with eyes
focused on the remote mountain range, there is no sensation of drawing closer.
The distant peaks stay where they are. When the sun is directly overhead, the
shadows are non-existent and a sense of direction evaporates along with the
sensation of time.
 Finally, after days of waiting, the salt is deemed
suitable to run. But the course is not “fast.” Everyone is off their pace,
robbed of as much as fifteen miles per hour by the wet salt. Out here, the loss
of fifteen miles per hour is devastating. (Click image to enlarge)
The Confederate team pushes the
Wraith to the staging area. More waiting. Then, at last, their time on the salt
is at hand. They roll to the line. Rider Chris Roberts, eyes focused ahead on
the famous measured mile, fires the engine. He feathers out the clutch gingerly
and the Wraith’s wheels begin churning up a light spray of salt as he progresses
through the gears, gradually, carefully building momentum. The Salt Flats,
though known for speed, reward patience. Top gear, and the Wraith’s engine
builds rpms.
Nesbitt, Chambers and Case watch their Wraith as it makes its
maiden run at Bonneville. This moment embodies two years of dreams, two years of
questions. J.T., his face red from the harsh sun, utters, “It’s a symphony of
sound.” Tears streak down his cheeks as he watches the motorcycle pass through
the trap at speed, the sonorous V-twin’s exhaust note swallowed up and
dissipated by the landscape. The three men stare in silence at the diminutive
spec as it floats away on a mirage spilling out in the distance.
Their
timing in the trap is somewhat inconsequential. Just to be here with their
creation is the victory. Given the sluggish conditions of the salt, many of the
competitors chose not to run and have packed up and departed. Plagued by the
ghosts of engine tuning created by the altitude, Nesbitt, Case, Chambers and
Roberts are happy with an initial run of 131 miles per hour. A subtle
vindication echoes in the voices of other competitors. They are complaining of
tires slipping on the wet salt. Roberts smiles; he and the others know that
their Wraith never broke traction. The platform has proven its
stability.
 Bonneville - the mountains of the moon.
The men of the Confederate Motor Company pack
the Wraith into their van, like a wild animal reluctantly returning to the
confines of its cage, safe in the knowledge it will be let loose to run again.
Across the country, machines will be returned to garages. The salt will fall
silent as engines are modified, designs improved, and dreams are forged anew.
Men will repair to their homes and conceive new ways to go faster than before.
And the salt will be waiting for them.
Price: production Wraith $45,000
www.confederate.com
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