Well it had to be done. Pembrey was dry (there's a first time for everything), and there was a cheap track day going on there today. I bullied Mr Campbell into dragging the Hippo out for a play, and although he overslept, he just made it there before the start of proceedings.

It's now clear to me the difference between a £60 track day and a £120 track day. There was no scrutineering, there were no instructors, the briefing was sparse to the point of almost complete absence - basically, don't pull wheelies coming out of the hairpin 'coz we don't like it, thank you and go for it. The cock-up over advertising meant that there was only one group running, which meant that we had to share the track with the psychopaths setting up their race-bikes; being passed on the inside through Dibeni 2 by a full race spec VTR1000 on slick tyres at my speed +20mph when I'm clipping the apex and he's over the white line and using the paddock access road is... well... interesting. On the plus side, there were marshals, paramedics, ambulances and a crash tender there, and after I dropped a hint with the organiser yesterday, they coned all the lines up so that ignoramuses like me (and Geoff come to think of it) didn't take a wrong turning and end up buried in a tyre wall.

Myself and our 'steamed mod went out together, him on the Green Hippo and me on my trusty VFR. It was certainly an interesting contrast - particularly as Mr Campbell had often opined that the Trophy was not, however much I wound him up by re-stating the charge, a lardy great bouncy castle of a motorcycle quite unsuited to sporty riding. My VFR is shod with Battlaxe BT57 rubber front and rear - and since these tyres were fitted about the time that winter bit hardest, they contrived to be both somehat squared off, and complete with a more or less unscuffed set of bobbles at the edges. This is no longer the case, needless to say - the edges at the back are now graced by a rather nice orange-peel effect, and the front tyre shows some evidence of balling. Geoff, meanwhile was handicapped by BT54 touring compound tyres, which were already 95% cattled even before he started abusing them round a race track. In addition, I'm on the sports-biased sports tourer with the steel braided brake hoses and the adequately firm suspension, he's on the very softly sprung, rear-weight-biased, full dress tourer - with panniers fitted of course. It therefore wasn't surprising that I walked away from him initially. As the lap count mounted, I was getting well into it, getting quicker and quicker, more and more committed (well, by my wussish standards, anyway) and less and less intimidated. In fact the only place that I was wimping out and behaving sanely was the braking area for Hatchets - courtesy of an unplanned 100 yard 100mph front-wheel slide there back in October in the wet which has left a scar on my soul. Sadly this couldn't last and as I peeled into Hatchetts hairpin tighter and harder on the throttle than ever before, the peg feeler, the centre stand, and the exhaust collector all grounded out at once with a fearsome graunch and levered the rear wheel about a foot sideways (well, it felt like it anyway). I'm happy to report that my kecks withstood this unplanned test of gusset integrity, but the shot of adrenaline was quite spectacular, and I backed off a tad round the next couple of corners - which was the point when I was first set upon by the full race Firestorm diving under me right off the track. I backed off a tad more and started making use of my mirrors - not ideal on a track I'm sure, but better than an ambulance ride and surgery to extract a CBR600 from my rectal cavity. Shortly thereafter I was swamped by a whole crowd of Pembrey regulars on 916 Bipostos, Blades and R1s, who I felt compelled to make room for, since the briefing had sadly not explicitly (or even implicitly) made clear any rules for passing. They went under me, over me and would I'm sure have gone through me if I hadn't drifted right off line for them. It was about this time that I noticed how much my palms were sweating - buckets in fact. It wasn't until two laps later that I realised that I had actually been riding with my heated grips switched on :-). Anyway, it wasn't long before a looming if somewhat bouncy presence filled my mirrors as a Green Hippopotomus closed slowly but inexorably, and eventually passed me through the Brooklands hairpin before romping away, as I found my ability to concentrate evaporating. I called it a draw for the session and pulled in to the pits. Three laps later the Hippo did likewise - a monumental puckering in the vinyl cover of the Corbin Saddle telling the tale of Geoff's lurid front wheel slide at Brooklands which finally convinced him to take a break, and intense wankers cramp in both his wrists due to holding the plot together as his forks bottomed violently and without fail under braking for Hatchets, aggravated by the strain of wrestling a recalcitrant Hippo through the subsequent hairpin (or indeed any of the other corners on the track), which should have told him to bring it in a couple of laps earlier. We paused. I don't know about Geoff, but it took a while for my heart rate to return to something like normal and for the idea of getting on the bike again to seem attractive. First, though, I grabbed my new toy (a camcorder) and caught a few action shots as Geoff went back out to conduct a few more experiments in Hippo abuse. Initially, the torquey motor with it's road legal exhausts sounded anodyne on the start finish straight, as the lardy great thing trundled past the pit wall on the Hippo, but after a gentle lap as he tried forlornly to work some heat into the teflon touring hoops, the beast was bouncing off the rev limiter as it charged past, screaming like a... well a tortured Hippo! The tale of the watch was very telling. His best lap - measured from the flag pole at the paddock crossing - was a 1:32+, stunning really considering the bike he was on. Later, when I went out and Geoff demonstrated why he's not a world beating TV documentary maker by filming me, he only timed one of my laps - a 1:36, on a (post-scare) lap where I was forced to tour round the Esses by a couple of fuckwits on Fireblades who thought it would be sensible to pass me on both sides at once. I suspect that - before I scared myself shitless with that unplanned tarmac-bike interface at Hatchets - I was probably doing consistent sub-1:30 laps, which certainly feels pretty quick - until a race prepped Firestorm blasts past you like you were standing still, outbrakes five sports bikes into Hatchets then goes round at some silly speed like it's on rails, before shooting off again like a missile.

Anyway, we'd just strapped the camera to the VFR ready for an on-bike lap of Pembrey when somebody binned their bike coming out of Hatchets, so they called an early lunch break and we decided to exercise discretion and knock it on the head, since we didn't fancy the hour's wait.

Lessons:

I'm respectably quick (or at least, not dog slow), and once I'm on the bike and out there (rather than thinking about it in advance, which sets my ringpiece quivering nicely) I enjoy myself immensely.

Geoff is respectably quick (or at least, not dog slow). He also claimed to enjoy himself, and he too was buzzing nicely after each session.

The VFR is a truly awesome bike. I know there are bikes better suited to the track, but none of them can do what mine will tomorrow - that is take a vast load of my goods and chattels, and carry both me and them back home without complaint.

The Green Hippo has many glorious features, and there are many things it does very well I'm sure (says Ken who may allegedly have seen 130mph [all caught on candid camera m'lud] as he attempted to remain in the same Time Zone as said Hippo on the way back from Pembrey), but as a track bike it's about as much use as indicators on a Volvo 340. Maybe if Geoff installed a big anchor on the tailpiece which he could lob off the back in lieue of heavy braking, plus a set of cowhorn motocross bars, plus maybe ask the circuit builders to install power-operated railway-style turntables at each of the hairpins, it'd be alright but...

Having said all that, the flabby great thing did surpringly well, as did the Hippo (same joke twice - but hell, it was worth a repeat...).

I never did get my knee down. Mind you, even though several times (like every time through Hatchets before I scared myself, and half the time on every other corner, particularly Honda) I was well aware that if I'd had the faith, confidence or desire to hang off the bike with my leg stuck out then it would have touched down quite naturally.

It goes without saying; anyone who races bikes is clearly madder than a box of frogs!

 

Ken Haylock - [VFR750FL + CD200 Rat]