Cycle News is a weekly magazine that covers all aspects of motorcycling including Supercross, Motocross and MotoGP as well as new motorcycles
Issue link: https://magazine.cyclenews.com/i/128210
By ometimes, after slaving over my laptop for hours on end putting together a race report from who knows where, I sit back and wonder if you, our readers, could possibly appreciate what goes into those 7000 or so words that you read through in a matter of 15 minutes. But the question really is, How could you know? Take my most recent trip to Pontiac, Michigan, for the Pontiac Supercross for example: I got up at about 4:30 a.m., showered and drove to the Ontario Airport, where I was set to fly out to Phoenix and catch a connecting flight into Detroit. I promptly got into a "you're the bigger idiot" stareoff with the guy at the security checkpoint when he claimed I walked through the metal detector before he could say the words, "Remove your hat," and I was subsequently thoroughly searched - and my size-7 3/4 fitted ballcap was thoroughly investigated. I asked the guy what the big deal was, and he responded, "Well, there's a war on." Duh. Once they determined it was indeed a hat, I repacked my laptop, replaced my shoes on my feet, put my cap back on and headed for my flight. The flight to Phoenix was short and sweet, and I was looking forward to breakfast during the hour break before my next plane left. I got off the plane, only to figure out that, even though I flew in on America West Airlines, my flight to Detroit was on Northwest Airlines, which was in another terminal altogether - and I'd have to go out through security, hop on a bus and return through security to catch the flight. Nice. Phoenix is one of the most crowded airports I've ever seen, and I made it through security as quickly as could be expected in a crowd of barefoot, human jackasses (and I mean that, literally, like the pack animal) and I remembered to remove my hat, but there went breakfast. After I made it into my window seat, a nice-looking family of five people of Middle-Eastern descent took the three seats in front and two seats beside me, and they were all eating Wendy's. The smell of their food made me hungry, and angry, because I didn't know I could just bring fast food onto the airplane. For the entire five-hour flight to Detroit, the father of the family was either yelling at his kids or his wife or his kids were yelling, or his wife was - which meant I had to re-read 'ust about every paragraph in my ewly purchased Tom Clancy novel t least twice before I understood it. After the four plus hours in the air, milY have read 50 pages, but at S LCI} STEVE COX least it was some sort of distraction from the chaos around me. Upon arrival in Detroit, I was immediately greeted with an invigorating wind - of about 28 degrees. I think it was actually colder at this year's RCA Dome in Indianapolis, but the humidity in Michigan was in the area of 70 percent, and that cold wind went through anything and everything I had thought to bring to protect me from the elements. I'm from California, so it's a bit shocking to hit the ground running in that kind of weather when Southern California was in the 70s when I left. I spent Friday night in the hotel room playing around on the internet and watching repeats of "The X-Files" as planes thundered overhead. As it turns out, staying by the airport was a blessing, though, as many of the teams' hotels near the track lost power that night, and the team members were forced to relocate, sometimes in the middle of the night. At least I got some real, warm sleep between flights. On the way to the Silverdome Saturday morning, lighted signs on the freeway read: "Sleep Awareness Week: Don't Drive Drowsy." I wondered how the powers that be in Michigan didn't realize that "sleep awareness" is an oxymoron and also if sleeping while driving is okay the other 51 weeks of the year. I arrived at the Pontiac Silverdome expecting that the pits would be indoors, as they were in Indy. They weren't. The factory teams were doing most of their actually mechanical work with the bikes inside their trailers, the privateers were basically screwed, and I spent 20 minutes with a photographer from Racer X standing at the top of the ramp that led down to the track as the security people questioned us as to why we didn't have green vests on. We both figured they meant gray vests, which is the color of the Clear Channel photography vests', but they were adamant about the vests' having to be green. It was too cold to stand around, so I eventually went the long way around to the Press Box, and I assume my comrade in cold made it through eventually. During afternoon practice, for about 30 seconds in the pits it was sunny while it was hailing and snowing, which was a new experience for me. Apparently there were over 200,000 houses without electricity because of the ice, but the Silverdome was running on generators, so it was lit up like a Christmas tree. Denny Hartwig of CCE asked me to put a release on www.cyclenews.com letting the people in the area know that, despite the power outages, the races would go on. My question of gestured my intentions as clearly as I could without being rude about it, and she finally let me out of the seat. Then, as I got to the back of the plane, there she was. She must've thought I motioned for her to go to the bathroom with me. "No, I have to go to the bathroom," I said at the top of my lungs. "No Engaletch! No Engaletch! No Engaletch!" she barked. I peed in privacy and embarrassment at the same time, which was also a first. Soon afterward, I landed in Phoenix and did the whole "out through security, on the bus, back through security" exchange, and I still had an hour until my next flight left. I took the time to finish up some agate from the night before and was one of the first people on the plane. Secure in my seat, I dozed off. Soon, I was greeted by 15 or so members of a Riverside, California, adolescent synchronized swimming team on their way back from a meet in Colorado. They occupied most of the seats around me. If you ever find out that you have a day to live, try to find 15 or so 15year-old girls and sit right in the middle of them as they gossip, because it'll make that day seem like a friggin' eternity. "I can't, like, believe that you, like, did, like, your nails with, like, a flower on them!" "Durrr! It's, like, cute!" I must've heard the word "like" about 10,000 times within, like, an hour. "How about some synchronized shut the f&@$ up?!" I yelled in my head as I cradled my face in my arms. I landed at about 2:30 p.m. and finished my story up by about 10, with a few interruptions (such as dinner). Then I got up at 5 a.m. in order to get to the office by 7. Just like everyone here, I got my story done on time - with as much information as I could muster. So that's how it goes sometimes, and not just for me. Everyone of my colleagues here at Cycle News has at least a handful of similar horror stories as they traverse the globe each season in their quest to bring you the best information on your favorite sport. Sometimes it does get to be a little too much. I just hope that I can get the vision of that whacky family, the freaked-out nun and the noisy swim chicks out of my head when I'm riding with Ricky Carmichael and the rest of the factory guys at Broc Glover's swank Dunlop tire intro on the Glen Helen National track this Wednesday - all day. Hey, I never said that this gig doesn't have its perks... eN how a web posting would help people without electricity fell on deaf ears, so I posted it anyway - Denny's usually a good guy, so I didn't want to give him too much of a hard time. After I finished my reporting from the race, I drove a little over 45 minutes back to my hotel room. I finished my posting on www.cyclenews.com. recounting the basics of 'the night's racing, typed up results, packed my stuff and hit the hay. Then I remembered about Daylight Saving Time and had to reset my alarm clock an hour ahead. Now it read 3:30 a.m., and I had to be up and on the move by 6. I turned off the alarm a little after 6, got dressed, grabbed my bags and zombied out to the breakfast area, where I had a pile of hot, egg-like fluff and some bacon that squeaked when I chewed it, then drove to the airport. I just caught my flight after a security person made me remove my pullover hooded sweatshirt before I passed through the metal detector, and then a security lady inspected my laptop with what looked like a Stridex pad before asking me to turn it on. Once she was satisfied it was indeed a laptop computer, she sent me to repack it and then on my way. I immediately set up pillows against the window of the 757 and began to doze off, but I was awakened by someone rubbing and bumping my left arm. We hadn't taken off yet, and a lady who my best guess was a 92-year-old Eastern European nun or something was frantically stroking her rosary and praying aloud. At least it appeared to me that she was praying, but I couldn't understand a word. Then she began wrapping, unwrapping and rewrapping her shawl around her head like a maniac, punching me every time she pulled it across her head. For the rest of the flight, any time we hit turbulence or made a turn, she would break out in prayer (I'll never understand how the most devoutly religious people can sometimes be the most afraid to die). About four hours into the flight, my urethra sent signals that I couldn't dam up the day's beverages any longer, so I asked the lady if she could let me out to go to the bathroom. "No Engaletch!" she said loudly. I slowed down and spoke louder, because everyone knows that people who don't speak your language can miraculously understand you when it's delivered more deliberately at a higher volume. "I - just - have - to go - back - there - to - the - bathroom!" "No Engaletch! No Engaletch!" she said, slower and louder than before. Everybody was staring at me as I eye' e n e _ 50 • APRIL 23, 2003 111