The final part of the story behind how I got to ride on the Salt Flats during Speed Week 2019. Part 3 can be found here

Tired and emotional

We needed to move fast now, really fast. The Hayabusa had failed tech inspection because the tire valve stems had to be metal, not rubber. But the good news was, that was the only failure. So, we hastily rolled the bike back onto the trailer and quickly researched local tire and motorbike workshops. Although Wendover the town just off the speedway was not right next door, it wasn’t a long drive away so 30 minutes later and we had managed to find what we needed. Next stop the tire fitting shop.

​We pulled up to S&R Auto on Wendover Boulevard to find a hive of activity in the oily workshop. Eventually we tracked down the frazzled owner who scratched his head with a greasy finger and said it’d be a couple of hours before they could sort it. There must have been a horrified look on our faces because he quickly followed up apologetically telling us the reason – tbe fire chief’s truck was being seen to and it was an emergency and nothing, just nothing and no-one, could jump the queue. ​

I pleaded with all my womanly charms, I explained that I’d come all the way from the UK, that this was the one chance I had of running on the salt flats. Pleeeaaasseeee! He was sympathetic, up to a point. He said he’d rush me through but he had to deal with the fire chief first, his hands were tied – this was really, really important. What if there was a fire? He then disappeared saying “I’ll be back in just a minute.” I saw his head disappear around the corner.

Forty tense minutes later and still no sign of him. No movement on the bike which sat forlornly in the shop, our hopes being slowly dashed as the clock ticked on. But just then, Eleanora, one of the Open Eyes Dream Crew and a talented custom illustrator, arrived with a present. The numbers and class designation letters for the bike all made up and ready in red and white. She only had a couple of sharpie pens and some sticker paper but did a great job. One less thing to worry about, but still stickers would not get those valve stems changed any faster. 

Time was ticking. The bike was waiting in the workshop, looking anything like a vehicle about to ride on the salt flats. We kicked around old screws while we waited in the now very familiar work bay, eyes eagerly searching for a mechanic who was free or the face of the owner. But everyone was busying around on cars and wouldn’t make eye contact. It was excruciating!

Then some bad news via social. The salt was getting so rough and cut up they were going to close the rookie course in an hour. One hour! That wasn’t nearly enough time for us to get the bike done and returned, through tech inspection and on the course. I tried to get a message to the SCTA, to ask them to hold it open, telling them how we were doing all we could to move things along. But there was no way that would fly – if it was a safety concern then no amount of sob story was going to cut it.

We decided to just keep on going, get the bike fixed up and see what could be done when we got back to the flats. What else could we do? But to come all this way, to have all these obstacles removed one by one to miss by a pinch would be a bitter pill to swallow indeed. Finally a single mechanic became free but he clearly usually just worked on cars. Vidal to the rescue. My friend rolled up his sleeves and got down on the floor and helped the mechanic hoist the bike up and change out the valve stems. If he hadn’t have got involved, that job would have taken a lot longer and maybe this story would have a different ending. Actually, no maybe about it. He was the hero of the hour.

Finally we were done. Bike reloaded on the trailer and back to the tech bay. The inspectors checked it over and fortunately immediately gave it the green light while the stickers were applied simultaneously along with some red sticky tape on the white fairings. The colouring was so that if the bike had a fall the bits and pieces would be found more easily in the white salt. Practical, but not particularly reassuring. Stickers were attached to the front to confirm to the starter that tech inspection was passed and the limit the bike could go to which was generally the fastest speed allowable with the tires.

Then crunch time. I had to talk to someone about the rookie course because it was at least an hour or two since the deadline had passed, it would be closed for sure. How was I going to somehow get them to let me ride? It seemed an impossible ask, but a tiny speck of hope was still alight, light an ember in a fire.

I went up to a course inspector and explained the delay. The whole story about the fire chief, how we’d only bought the bike yesterday and how this was all about a dream that I could share so that others could be inspired to go out and have adventures themselves. Surely they could see how hard we’d worked to get the bike ready, could I please have my one rookie run? Just to say I did it… I’d ridden on Bonneville Salt Flats. It had taken me a couple of minutes to spill my story out, as emotional as I was. The inspector waited patiently for me to finish. “Oh yeah, you can do it on the long course, no problem.” WHAT!?! YES!!!!??? I actually jumped for joy. The show could and would go on!

Best advice in the world

The bike was ready to roll but I needed to quickly chat with Jim Hoogerhyde, one of the senior course inspectors at SCTA about the course, the salt, my tactics. That talk was monumentally perfect for me. He was calm, he knew exactly what to say. He told me about the three centrifugal forces that were working to keep me up and that there was nothing to hit out there so I should just ride and be confident in my own abilities. That people may tell me stuff about the salt not being good, but it was safe enough to ride.

His words and his manner calmed me after the rushing around that morning and I was ready to face anything now. I cheekily asked if it would look bad if I went over 149 mph (the limit for a rookie run). He said just don’t do it and he looked serious so I knew that was my upper limit. But then he told me something I didn’t know.

If I managed to get over 125 mph I could be awarded my ‘D’ licence. That means I could, on my next run, go to a ‘C’ licence and ride over 150 < 174 mph.  That seemed perfect, a rookie pass and a ‘D’ licence in one pass! My target now then was anything over 125 < 149. Not so easy when you think that you can’t trust your speedometer. With the salt, your back tire spins. That means the dial will show anything from 20 mph to 40 mph over your actual speed. It’s a bit hit and miss to say the least. Your speed would be guesswork. It would need to be estimated on the fly, at the moment when you’re experiencing perhaps the single most defining moment of your life.

We got to the start line, there were about 10-15 bikes and cars in front. Nothing like how it had been for Dino, with his 8 hour wait in the boiling sun that Tuesday. It was late in the day, around 4pm and I reckoned there was about another hour’s racing to be had. It looked like I was going to get one run in if it was quick, but the shadows were growing ever longer by the second. An hour later – three to the line. So close now.

As I stood there, the warm sun beating down on me, the exertion of the day subsiding a little I can remember a song on continuous loop in my head. It was ‘Forever Autumn’ from War of the Worlds by Jeff Wayne. I think the tempo had a soothing effect, particularly the guitar. That song stayed with me for the entire run, I later recalled. I doubt if I could ever listen to it again and not remember this singular moment of my existence.

When you’re close to the front you need to be ready to roll when the starter calls you forward. You need to have your suit, boots and helmet on ready at least 2 or 3 back so that you don’t hold up the line so even though it’s hot, you got to comply with the rules or be forced to go to the end of the line. It was getting really blistering now and I heard there had been a vehicle fire on the track. No one was hurt but that meant another delay on what was already borrowed time. I had a few people come up and wish me luck, sometimes they would (in a well meaning sort of way) tell me of accidents earlier in the day, that the salt was dangerous. That they were going home. But nothing got to me anymore, I had found a place of pure focus. Calm and confident. My mind was clear and I knew what I had to do.

Moment of truth

I got to the line and looked down the white, slushy snow. Jim warned me that the centre of the track may be churned up with car tracks so I decided to go way left. I knew the rules, don’t go over 149 mph. Slow down after the mile marker, don’t use brakes, peel off to the left under power when ready but stop in the return lane. No power allowed in the return lane at all. Wait there and my crew will pick me up. So now it was just a look down the track. Everything went quiet, although that really was just in my head. I felt no fear at all, I felt … perfect. Like this moment was somehow perfect and the run would be all I wanted it to be. I thanked all the people out loud who had helped me get here. I thanked the universe for the chance to race here, I thanked all the things that had happened to me just at the right time for this moment. I thanked it that I got exactly what I needed at every step.

​One great thing about setting off on a landspeed is that there’s no drama at the start. A wink from the starter. A nod, a smile. They’re always so good at putting you at ease at this time. You feel like you’re the first and last person they’ll ever wave off. It’s a great feeling. I nearly forgot my visor down but the starter quickly gestured to me and saved me from a rather embarrassing start! They know to look for these absent minded moments though. 

​I was pleased with my start, there was no need to hurry, no need to go mad revving up the gears and risk wheelspin and wobble. This was just a normal, slowly off the traffic lights kind of moment. Then, crucially, I adjusted my bottom. Slid it back and hunkered myself down. This is not necessarily easy when you’re wearing leathers that aren’t broken in well! But I did my best and got comfortable at about 50 mph. Then I just pulled that throttle back gradually and the Busa picked up speed. Faster and faster and faster until… oh shit!… I’m reading 175 mph! That happened so quickly! I best be careful, I know this is more like 150 mph in the real world but even that would be too fast. Keeping it between 160-170 to get a reading of around 140 mph was my aim.

At about a quarter mile from the end I could see I was drifting towards the middle and there was a little shimmy in the bike. That felt like riding on sand. It wasn’t a problem, I just moved over to the left a bit more but I realised how prudent it was to take the line I did. You don’t want to be looking at the track when you’re going flat out, sliding around like you’re on ice.

​Then, just like that, it was all over in the blink of an eye. I barely had time for the first three lines of Forever Autumn in my head although the song was in there in the background like ambient music in a shopping mall. The black quarter mile markers had flown past and the orange mile marker was now behind me. I’d done it! It was absolutely serene. I’d made it to the mile. The moment had arrived when I could breathe again.

So how fast, exactly??

I shut down the throttle carefully, knowing that to do it too fast was dangerous, then when I’d lost enough speed I gently swung over to the left and into the return lane. I stopped then and waited. I know I had a minute to myself before everyone was on me and I took that time to look up to the sky and smile. Boy, it was good to be alive.

Jim the SCTA inspector drew up first and congratulated me. What was my speed? 130 mph! Wow, that’s perfect! I was to get my Rookie and Cat D licence together! As that run was likely the only one I’d get I was happy to get myself a licence too. I told him how fundamentally important his advice had been and he too caught my happiness. He went off to fetch my timing slip as a favour.

Josh, Vidal and Suzanne pulled up and sprinted towards me. Massive hugs, massive high fives – I nearly fell off the bike with all the fantastic congratulations I was getting. They too had tears in their eyes, they had come on this journey with me.

These new friends had been an integral part – without them this would not have happened and it was right they were as happy as I was. I was glad the bike would be going home with them.

Jim came back with three copies of the slip, one of which had the words in black ink on top: “Perfect, D”. There was another number on there though – 139 mph! That was the mile marker speed, the 130 mph was the mile and a quarter speed, when I was slowing. So I’d done even better than I thought! I jumped and screamed and swore and hollered at this and I thought I’d never stop.

I was all at once five, ten, 20, 30, 40, 50 years old. I was every moment of joy I’d ever had. I was every loving kiss, every heartbeat, every smile. I was everything and nothing. I was totally oblivious to my surroundings, I was the most alive I’ve ever been, most present and most absent. No words will ever come close to capturing that moment of pure, existential, bliss.

In the nick of time!

I found out they shut the course right after my run. Speed Week also closed a day early this year due to the salt conditions, not allowing anything but qualifying runs on the Friday – so those who had hit a record speed on Thursday and then just needed to repeat it next day (as is the rules) in order for it to stand.

​So that really had been my one and only chance and every moment in that day was critical for me to make it. Which made it even more special.

Driving back from the speedway to Salt Lake City, myself, Josh, Suzanne and Vidal cycled between ecstatically talking about what had happened to moments of quiet reflection as the sun set and drew long golden shadows over the salt and mountains.

​Vidal and Suzanne had to leave for SLC that night so Josh and I hitched a lift with them to get us closer to the airport. Public transport links to the airport from Wendover are pretty non-existent, so you have to hire a car or get a cab.  The next couple of days we spent in Salt Lake City, cleaning the car and bike from head to toe, I was still floating from the experience and getting to grips with what happened. To be honest, I still am.

Hang on, why did I do that?

So, I did it. I rode on the salt flats at Bonneville. In just five months I came from nowhere, not even having sat on a sports bike, to racing on the famous salt flats with champions and legends of speed. It was the stuff of movies. But why?

Simple, to show it can be done. To demonstrate that even the extraordinary is within the grasp of the ordinary. A person with no prior experience can get out there and with the right attitude, determination and the support of good people can do so much more than the stereotype that someone else, particularly the media, imposes.

It’s all down to your choices in life. You can do way more than you think you can. You are much stronger than you think you are and you always have more choices than you think you do. Don’t let fear or anyone else stop you. Take that trip, start that hobby, join that club, set yourself a high target. Find time for things you love to do and the people you love to be around. This isn’t about racing or taking up extreme sports, it’s about experiences. Put them ahead of ‘things’ every time. Don’t leave it too late.