SUNDAY, MAY 4, 2025 – Warmup and Race 2
Still buzzing from a successful Saturday, we all showed up back at the Pit early Sunday morning, looking forward to an even more successful race 2. However, there was one giant and looming variable – rain. The forecast all weekend had been shifting and changing even more frequently than the attention of someone with AD/H…squirrel!!
Throughout the weekend, I was assured multiple times that a wet race was a certainty, entirely unavoidable at some point or another. Regardless of whether or when the rain would fall, we had already been soaked by a few different passing weather cells that would soak the tarmac, with barely enough time for it to dry out before the next one passed. Fortunately, by Sunday morning, most of the forecasting apps agreed that the worst and wettest was behind us. So, it was possible that I had somehow managed to beat the odds, and this time God was smiling instead of laughing. Nevertheless, we had rain tires mounted on our backup wheels, ready for whatever the weather spirits had in store for us.
The warm-up session for Super Hooligans was only 10 minutes. I went out on Saturday’s tires, with a plan to simply try out a few small changes we made to the bike setup in preparation for the final race. I didn’t push very hard, but was able to determine that the changes would give me a slight edge over the bike’s performance from the prior day.
We spent the next couple of hours making a few more small adjustments to the bike, putting on fresh tires, and adding enough fuel to get me through six more hot laps. The weather was still questionable, but more and more it was looking like I might actually get lucky. There was definitely rain in the forecast, guaranteed to fall before the end of the last race, but it wasn’t clear which classes would have to ride in the wet. Fortunately, I would be first up and therefore had the best chance of a dry race before the skies opened up and soaked the track.
All weekend, spectators made their way through the paddock, several stopping by our Pit to check out the bike, grab a fan poster or one of our pamphlets highlighting our nonprofit organization, The Remix Racing Project. I really enjoyed meeting the fans, talking about racing, but even more so telling them about our nonprofit work and why we race – to raise mental health and addiction recovery awareness, fight stigma, and smash negative stereotypes. The conversations were so uplifting. I was honored to hear many personal stories about people’s own lived mental health or addiction experience, or that of a family member or loved one, and how they felt a connection to our mission, and were inspired by what we were doing.
About an hour and a half before my race, the “fan walk” started. We were set up at the entry of the Hot Pit, so we were the first table that fans passed on their way in, and the last one as they made their way back out again. This was another huge highlight of the weekend. A train of people stopped by our table to say hi, wish me luck, and have me sign fan posters, T-shirts, and even takeoff tires that they were carrying through the paddock. I also enjoyed so many more heartwarming conversations about mental health and addiction recovery.
One of my favorite moments of the fan walk was when a father with two young boys came up to our table to grab some stickers and a couple of signed posters. The dad asked me how fast we go. When I told him, the look on his youngest son’s face was priceless! It lit up like he had just learned that he was getting a visit from Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy all at once!
As the fan walk ended, we packed up and I headed back to our Pit to make my final preparations for race two. The nervous butterflies started fluttering in my stomach. I was feeling confident I would be competitive, but I was also wrestling with some demons of insecurity.
I wanted to be satisfied with my P17 finish from race one, and already having achieved my goal for the weekend of qualifying and finishing “not last.“ However, Carbon and my new friend Jordan, whom I practiced with two weeks prior, had been pushing me to “win a MotoAmerica championship point.” That would require finishing P 15, a feat that felt entirely out of reach. There were more than 15 big-name riders who were all former podium finishers, race winners, and even champions. As far as I was concerned, I was completely outclassed. Not only were there so many talented, semi-famous riders in front of me on the grid, all of whom were far younger and more experienced, but also on much faster bikes, many built and maintained by professional factory teams. In fact, many of these riders were full-time professionals, getting paid to race, whereas I was merely a privateer, going deep in debt just to be here at all.
On the drive to the track that morning, I confided in Sam that I didn’t believe I would be earning a championship point today. I knew that all my friends would still love and accept me, even when I failed to earn a top 15 finish, but the pressure I felt not to let them down was super intense and threatened to completely overwhelm me. I tried to put it out of my mind and just focus on doing my very best, but it was still a nagging thought that had wormed its way deep into my brain.
I had gone through all my pre-race rituals – one final trip to the outhouse, a stretching routine (including eyeball stretches), then another final trip to the outhouse. A few more gulps of electrolyte-infused water, then one last final trip to the outhouse.
Carbon asked me to meet the team at the Hot Pit 20 minutes before the race start. Just as I was getting ready to leave the Pit and head over to meet the team, Mark, the “Race Pastor,“ pulled up on his motor scooter. He told me he had been trying to find me all day to offer some prayers, but every time he stopped by the Pit I wasn’t around. I told him there was no time like the present and asked if he would take a few minutes to pray with me. Mind you, I am Jewish, and not particularly religious, but years ago I decided to never pass up the opportunity to take any additional prayers, good wishes, and luck that I can get before a race.
Mark threw his arm around my shoulder, and we both bowed our heads. I don’t remember everything he prayed for, only that it felt perfect. He asked God to watch over me during the race, give me strength, courage, and focus. He prayed that my bike would perform at its best, and that I not only stay safe, but also competitive. He prayed for the other racers I would be sharing the track with, as well as my team, and even my family. All of it was exactly what I needed in that moment. As he wrapped it up, we said “Amen“ in unison and shared a warm hug. He wished me luck, and I made my way to Hot Pit.
When I arrived, my team greeted me with smiles, fist bumps, and high-fives. I was still buzzing from Mark‘s prayer and decided to make a pre-race video for Shanea. Paul handed me my phone, and I set it to record.
“Hey, babe. Sitting here in Hot Pit about 15 minutes before we’re about to go out. I just thought I’d make a little video for you ’cause I wish you were here. I miss you so much. Um, I’m pumped. I’m excited. Uh, right before I came to Hot Pit I saw the guy who, uh, prays with riders and teams and asked him if he could gimme one. And, it was so awesome. And I just, I feel at peace. I feel pumped and excited. Confident.
I love you so much. I hope you’re having a great weekend. I hope Hailey does fantastic. Uh. I’ll be thinking about you while I’m on the bike. I know you’ll be watching me, rooting for me, and I know you’ll be with me.
I love you. I miss you. And I’ll call you when I’m in Parc Ferme, hopefully with FANTASTIC news. Love you.”
Race control had made the decision to shorten all the prestart procedures for the afternoon, which they published on the “minute by minute” report released earlier that morning. So, we were prepared to make sure I wouldn’t be late and suffer any penalties. If I was going to improve my finishing position and lap times over race one, I couldn’t afford to make any careless mistakes. Carbon touched his earpiece as an update came through the radio, then he turned to me and made the “5-minute call” – time to gear up and mount up!
I threw my helmet and gloves on, walked around the hot pit wall, and climbed onto the bike.
I looked down Hot Pit lane and saw all my competitors and their teams getting ready. As the adrenaline started pumping through my veins, I switched on the ignition and hit the starter button. The bike roared back to life for what would be my final race of the weekend. The energy throughout the hot pit was electric, and I could feel every cell in my body start to vibrate with anticipation. Carbon made the call to pull the warmers and stands. Paul was at the front and complied with the efficiency of a machine. As soon as he dropped the front of the bike, he said, “You got this!” and gave me an enthusiastic fist bump. “Back wheel coming down!” My rear wheel was lowered to the tarmac, and the boys patted my back and cheered me on. I made my way to the track entrance and blended into traffic for the sighting lap. Just as I did in race one, I ripped through the circuit at close to top speed.
When Corey Alexander crashed out of the first race, he fractured his wrist and was unable to make the grid for race two, capping off a very disappointing race weekend for Keanu Reeve’s ARCH race team. Too bad for Corey and Keanu, but great for me! Instead of an empty grid spot in front of me, everyone with a slower qualifying time than Corey was advanced one spot, putting me in position 19 on the far left side of the grid. Not only had I gained a grid spot, but I was starting from the outside of the track, precisely where I had to fight my way to the prior day to set up my line into turn 1, where I had my best opportunity to gain precious early positions. So, as I came through the final turn of the sighting lap, I made my way to Carbon, who was waiting for me at my new grid spot. He caught my bike, gave me a fist bump and a few words of encouragement, then made his way off the grid and back to our Hot Pit.
Moments later, we were released for our warmup lap. As we all finished the circuit and slotted back into our starting positions, I could feel the electricity building and vibrating throughout my entire body. Then everything went perfectly quiet and still as my focus narrowed to a pinpoint, my sights locked onto the starting lights.
Lights on. The silence inside my helmet was shattered as engines revved and roared, and we all dropped our chests to our tanks. Lights out…LAUNCH!!!
My bike surged off the line as I dumped the clutch. I wound up first gear and could feel my bike pulling hard down the long run to turn 1. It was a great launch, but apparently not as good as a couple of my competitors got from behind me on the grid, and I lost a few positions as we raced from the starting line. I held to the outside of the track, and just as expected, almost everyone else tried to cram their way to the apex, trying to fit way too many bikes onto the narrow race line. My strategy worked, and heading through the first turn, I not only gained back my lost positions but managed to pick up a couple more before we all bunched up into turn 2 and the entry to the chicane, securing my new spot in the crowded field. Stuck in our positions through the tight switchbacks, I waited patiently to be released on the other side, where we all put our heads down and ripped open the throttle, racing down the hill through the S’s.
The next couple of laps were a blur as I jockeyed for position where I could, doing my best to hit all my marks, throttle early, brake as late as possible, and not make any mistakes. I was in the zone and making great progress, dicing it up with other riders and making my way through the pack. I had been pushing hard to hang with a couple of guys who were clearly faster than me, but not by enough to completely drop me from their tails. I used them as carrots, getting a tow into some super-hot lap times and ensuring that no one behind me would have a chance to overtake my position. Well, apparently, I was pushing just a bit too hard trying to keep up, and on the third lap, as I came out of turn 7 – yes, the same one where I crashed on Friday – I got a little too greedy on the throttle, still at full lean, and completely lost rear traction! The back end of my bike kicked violently to the left underneath me, then caught and whipped back to the right. A piercing alarm went off inside my helmet, and I was almost certain I was going to be launched to the moon in an epic high side.
In actuality, this was all happening in the blink of an eye, but for me, time slowed to a crawl. Over the years, I have had my share of high-speed crashes. Of course, that’s what happens when you’re searching for the limit – sometimes you find it by crossing it! But to my credit, I have saved exponentially more close calls than I’ve lost. Early in my racing career, I learned to override the impulse to try and muscle an out-of-control bike back into submission, and instead get as loose as possible to let the bike do exactly what it wants to – straighten itself out. Gyro forces, self-aligning torque, and tire dynamics will usually cause the motorcycle to naturally recover from near crashes, and it is often the panicked rider tensing up and making way too many steering inputs that gets in the way.
As the bike whipped back and forth, tossing me off the seat like a cowboy on a bucking rodeo bull, my instincts kicked in, and I gently backed off the throttle and got as loose as possible, putting my full trust in the bike – and physics – to save me from total disaster. I still had alarms ringing in my head louder than air raid sirens during the Pearl Harbor attack, but as fate would have it, my race wasn’t going to come to a tragic early end after all. Not today, Satan! A few more kicks and bucks of the rear tire, then the bike finally settled, and I was back in action!
I almost couldn’t believe my luck. What a save!! I took a quick glance behind me and saw that I hadn’t lost too much of the gap I had gained on the trailing pack. Unfortunately, however, when I turned back to the mission at hand and began ripping through the gears down the back straight, I could see the two bikes I had been chasing pulling further out of reach. Disappointed that I had lost my tow, I was nevertheless relieved that I was still in the fight and otherwise no worse for wear!
I kept pushing, knowing I would at least have to consolidate my position and keep the rest of the field behind me. I could still see the bikes that had gotten away from me, so I kept my head down and did what I could to try and reel them back in. I ripped off a couple more laps, doing everything I could to keep pace, and little by little, it seemed I was making up some ground.
White flag! One final lap to hold it together. I was still making progress toward the two that got away, but I was going to need more than one lap to catch them. So what?! I could either make excuses or make progress. I chose the latter. I hit every mark – braking later, throttling earlier. I was on a hot one, making up ground one corner at a time. As I came out of turn 5 – the left-hander that transitions from a sweeping downhill to a mixed camber uphill – my front wheel lifted off the asphalt. I hung off the side of the bike to keep it vertical while short-shifting to steady the chassis and settle the front wheel back down. I hit the apex of turn 6 perfectly and started my short drive to the outside of the track to set up for the infamous turn 7, but just as I was picking the bike back up from a hard lean, my giant, clumsy, size 47 boot accidentally hit the shifter, and rather than dropping a gear to get some engine breaking into the tight turn, I kicked the gearing in the wrong direction! With only a fraction of a second to try and limit the damage, I managed to get one downshift before the turn. I threw the bike hard to the right, trail braking and desperately trying to get it back to the apex without a repeat of my Q1 tipoff. If Pastor Mark’s prayers were worth anything, we were about to find out!
Well, it wasn’t pretty, but I barely managed to get the bike safely through the turn. I lost much of my drive onto the back straight, but better slow than stopped! Fortunately, my MT-09 is a very forgiving and generous machine. Throttle wide open, I wrung its neck until just before I hit the rev limiter. Fourth gear. Fifth. The engine screamed, and my MT pulled its way down the straight, through the right bend, and down into the heaving braking zone of turn 10A.
Making up for my stupid mistake in the previous turn, I made sure to hit every apex perfectly, smooth on the throttle and deep on the brakes. I bent the final corner and dropped my chin onto the tank, powering my way to the finish line. Despite charging hard as if I were in a drag race, in my mind, everything was happening in slow motion. I briefly glanced up to notice the waving checkered flag in the tower to the left of the start/finish, then put my head back down and watched the finish line slide under my bike as I completed my first MotoAmerica Super Hooligan race weekend!
I had lost count of how many bikes I had passed, but I was fairly certain I finished either 16th or 15th. Could it be possible? Had I earned my first championship point on my first race weekend in a new class, on a new bike, on a new track? All I knew for sure was that I had gone faster and advanced more positions than in race one, and I felt absolutely incredible!!!
As I finally backed off the throttle to start my cool-down lap, I was able to take in the full gravity of the moment. I let it wash over me as I cruised through turn one and saw hundreds of fans lined up at the fence, all standing and cheering. I waved them a huge thank you, and saw some of them wave back. I was overcome with a powerful mix of pride and gratitude. Around every turn, there was a new crowd of fans, applauding and cheering. I was vibing from their energy and felt like a celebrity. I took it all in and started pointing as if I recognized them, throwing heart signs, and even applauding them in return. Soaking it all in, I couldn’t get enough, and it seemed that neither could they. P16 or 15 at best, and I was acting like I had just won the race! Who cares?! I was having the time of my life!
Having completed the cool-down lap, the cheers and admiration of thousands of adoring fans still ringing inside my helmet, I made my way to Parc Ferme where my team was waiting for me. I still didn’t know if I had managed a P15 finish and my first championship point, but from the excited looks on all their faces, I started thinking I may have actually pulled it off.
Paul caught me, and I dismounted the bike. He leaned in so I could hear him through my helmet. “Do you know how you finished?”
“No, but did I get P15?!?! Did I get a point?!?!” With a big smirk on his face, clearly enjoying my pensive anticipation, he said, “I’ll let Carbon tell you…”
I pulled off my helmet as Carbon slipped the rear stand under the bike. “Well??” I asked with palpable eagerness.
He simply and calmly said, “P13.” Then his face broke into a huge, ear-to-ear smile.
I can’t overstate how profound that moment felt to me, and it’s one I don’t think I’ll ever forget. I was completely overwhelmed by a sense of pride and accomplishment, and so much gratitude for everyone who helped make it happen. Only twenty minutes earlier, I honestly believed that a top-15 finish was impossible and completely out of reach. Not only achieving the unthinkable, but exceeding it felt utterly unreal.
I know all this sounds a bit overdramatic, but if you know, you know. You see, for me, racing motorcycles is not merely a hobby. It’s not something I just do for fun, or the thing I’m doing for now. It’s who I am. It’s so much a part of me, of my very identity, that I ride the highs and lows like the wildest rollercoaster you can imagine. Throughout my racing career, on far more occasions than I care to remember, I have experienced the devastating agony of defeat. Not only losing races, but also with painful, debilitating injuries. I am fully aware that every time I throw my leg over a bike and test the limits of my skills and the performance of the machine, I am literally risking life and limb. At my worst moments, I have questioned whether I can or should ever race again. I’ve doubted my talent, felt like an impostor, and feared the cold, harsh judgment of my critics.
But that incredibly precious moment, when the impossible became my new reality, washed away all the self-doubt, made up for all the lows and losses, and even justified the obscene amount of time, money, energy, and resources I have devoted to this sport.
That moment will always be one of my most cherished memories.