VOL. 52 ISSUE 43 OCTOBER 27, 2015 P99
handing the bike to Cantle. He's
pumped and ready, but after
half an hour, with the sun bear-
ing down like an overzealous
in-law, his lap times slow. We're
20 laps in front of sixth and 23
behind fourth, and this is the
most dangerous, boring part of
the race. Who wants to race just
to hold position? He has an hour
left in the blazing sun, and he's
hurting. Cantle punts the little
Haprilia around like a pig skin,
his pace going the opposite way
to the day's heat, now well into
the 90s.
At the end he looks like he's
spent 14 hours in a sauna in
a straight jacket. The man is
broken, collapsed on a hay bale.
The little Japanese kids on the
Groms look like they could do
another 24 hours right away. I
was never that sharp, even at
their teenage years.
To reach the end of a 24-hour,
no matter where you finish, is one
of the best feelings you'll ever get
in motorcycling. It doesn't matter
if you're riding at Le Mans or Le
Willow, there's an eerie, creepy
satisfaction that comes from
racing a motorcycle at a time
when you know you should be
comatosed in your digs. Racers
always talk about the team, but
never is that more important than
in a 24-hour. Team work must
come to the fore, you need to
back each other up, cheer them
on in the grandstand at 6 a.m.
when no one else on the planet
could give two f***s whether you
won or went home. That's the
contagious beauty of endurance
racing.
And, goddamn it, I'll be back
next year. CN
MY EYELIDS ARE SO HEAVY, LIKE
ROLLER DOORS WAITING TO
BE SLAMMED. MY BACK FEELS
SEMI-BROKEN. THIS BIKE IS TOO
SMALL, TOO SLOW.
We've already forgotten the pain, maybe not Cantle, but we'll
be back next year with greater firepower.
