Bliss

4:59 A.M.

You snap awake, turning off your alarm clock one minute before it's set to ring. You quietly set your feet on the ground, ease onto your feet, and turn on your bedside lamp. You throw on your favorite shorts, slap on a t-shirt, grab some socks and head towards the garage. It's 5 in the morning, and your going RACING BABY! But not before you load your bike. You open your garage door to a dark, but soothing morning. Your skin prickles ever so lightly from the still unseen humidity hovering off the ground , and you practically bounce to your truck tail gate. Nothing like the summer nights in Texas.

The night is still quiet, people are still peacefully locked away in their houses, getting ready to have a peaceful Sunday. Little do they know that, on this very day, your absolute peace is LOUD, OBNOXIOUS, challenging, WARLIKE. War with your competitors, war with yourself, and war with the track soon to be in front of you.

5:10 A.M.

But not yet; you still need to get the ramp, load your bike in the the back of the truck, which can sometimes feel like war, and try not to forget one glove, or one helmet pad, or one of your nuts as you load your gear. Finally, as you throw the ramp in the bed of the truck, scan for your gas can, gear bag, stand (sometimes called the side of your truck), and ice chest, you hop in the truck as you try not to peel away. Your excitement makes your insides feel like they're bouncing across stadium whoops, but you keep them in check. When you hit the highway, the light of morning can just be seen in the far horizon.

6:35 A.M.

"Sign here please" says the twelve year old manning the entrance gate.
It snaps you from your stupor. Your excitement begins to climb again. You see all the campers and tents peacefully sitting inside the premises, all the trucks and bikes glistening from the morning light. The dew lingers on each bike, truck, and tent still trying to maintain its grasp before the day's heat removes from the item it has claimed overnight. You sign, pay the 10 bucks to enter, and slowly drive across the pit area to your favorite spot. You park, stretch, snort, spit, and do whatever other weird shit it is you do before unloading the truck. As you unload, you see a couple of the mini dads getting their future superstars bikes "extra" ready, checking, rechecking, and even rechecking their rechecks on the Yamaha PW50, being cautious to not wake the little tyke sleeping in the truck.

6:50 A.M.

A couple of your riding buddies pull in next to you in a mini convoy, two in one truck, two in the other. You exchange pleasantries and point out how great the track looks, but don't converse too much with them, you still have to race them later, and don't want to get too pleasant. You mosey over to the sign up booth, put yourself in two classes, saying hi to the various people you recognize. It's gonna be quite the day.

7:15 A.M.

You then proceed to walk the track. You may have ridden it 20 times in the past year, but just to make sure, you walk every inch. It's quite the spectacle, actually. You pause on top of the largest jump, looking around at the entire track, and see true beauty. The morning fog lingers 2 feet above the track. Riders encompass the track's compound, inspecting every pebble, every muddy patch to look out for, every new nuance from the passing of the tractor's blade the night before. Suddenly, a sound cracks across the track.
"wuuuhing!"
"wuudududING"
"whaadadadadaWHAP!"
"WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!"
"WHAAAAAHHHHHP!"
The last sound hangs in the air as the engine is shut off.
The sound of your local pro's two stroke 125 getting warmed up. It sounds so unlike your buddies 125; the slow, "boorrING" sound his makes replaced with that of a distinct new sound which slaps the air with authority, crisp, fast to rev, but even faster returning to idle.
The bike defines tuning at its pinnacle.
Then you hear a new sound.
"Rung"
"rrruung"
"BaaaRUNG"
"bruuuuuuuAP."
"BRAAHHHHHAAAP. brap, brap, BRRAAP!"
The same pro's 250 now shuts off. It too assaults the air, stimulating your senses at the same time.


Then the smell hits you, a sweet, yet pungent mix of race gas and premix. The smell sets off your subconscious, sparking moments of every race you ever attended with that same unique smell present at each one. Adrenaline begins to pump.



The day may be young, but the racing soon to transpire is.... not.