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A DAYTONA TAINTED; A STRAW HAT REBELLION BEGINS

By Ohlin Metzeler

PACECAR, FL (VPI) People of the land rise early, and so do Webmasters. There are computers to be milked, and urgent calls from the East.

And here in the land where the race fuel in the paddock mixes with the jet fuel from the airport and is overwhelmed by the scent of Clydesdale poop if you stand in the right place, crews rise with the sun, polish their tools, and set to the business of speed.

And we here that labor to inform and uplift you, and share the joys, sorrows and bizarre rule-changing snafus of roadracing, always try to stand in the right place. You have to smell the poop if you want to tell the truth.

And we have smelled it all, man. Or most of it. And lately things have taken a turn for the weird around here. Not only in recent history have we seen dual compound tires become multicompound hoops and Superbikes relegated to support class status at the World Center of Racing, while these things have been going on old traditions have died. It seems like eons since we've had a prominent roadracer get his jaw jacked up at Razzles just a few precious hours before a big race.

Sad, really.

But such things were then, and then has Done Gone. Now we have other intrigues, such as the Strange Case of melted engine cases. In additions, we have the even Stranger Case of the Misplaced Pace Car. This former situation, where you allegedly could melt and then recast an engine case and say it was still a stock mill ("Hey man, I'm using the same atoms. I think. So back off.") adds the pepper to the Soup where we used to have mangled mandibles and Meester Daytonas.

The only thing constant is change. Oh, and apparently, Pace Car Fever (Catch it!).

And speaking of change, in my long association with the plucky Amish Superbike concern known as Team Longbeard I have never seen them really angry before.

Never.

They are a stoic people, and don't express much emotion at all. At least that's what I used to think. Now I have seen another side to these plucky people. But they have had it in for the Buell team the moment they got wind that they may be taking liberties with the rule book, as they see it. The Book is the Word in their view, and must not be defiled (even their own interpretation of the rules is sort of melted down and recast itsownself, but in a different way).

As you may recall from an earlier post, this breach of the Book made a quiet man into a briefly raging Pulpit of Passion as Brother Heathcliff raged against the machine. However, the fire subsided nearly as quickly as it had begun. And after Brother Heathcliff's semi-violent outburst in the Buell garage he had not spoken to me about the incident.

And believe me, I tried to get him to talk about what had happened and comment on what Team Longbeard might have in store for the 200. I did this subtly, by asking him to watch Superbike practice with me over at the International Horseshoe.

"Why do you want me to watch a horseshoe, English?" He asked. "Your ways are strange. Do you expect something to happen with the shoe? Do you study the halter as well? Perhaps you can watch Brother Teamster polish one of ours, before we depart for home."

It took awhile but I finally got him to stroll over to watch practice, and as the brightly colored fossil fuel-powered machines roared through the wicked hairpin. One of the Kawasaki 10R's (or "Tenors," as they may become known as due to their banshee-like wail at high RPMs) got off the gas diving into the turn (or "hook," as it my become known as due to its curly, prickly nature) and let go a wicked blast of unburned fuel (or "combustipuke, as it may become known as due to its explosive, fiery nature) that flamed out of the bike's twin pipes.

I pointed this out to Heathcliff, in the hopes of getting some sort of a raise out of him that might "spark" extended conversation. He raised an eyebrow and pointed his walking stick at the departing green motorcycle.

"The devil's breath coughs from their roller, English," he observed. "They must feed it a sinful feed."

Indeed. This is quite possible. There has been much sinful feeding, Souplings. In fact, the early morning rumor dejour revolved not around weird-ass tire choices for the 200, but rather that the Buell camp had struck back against the Amish for Brother Heathcliff's outburst in the garage. They allegedly did this by kidnapping Daisy (a lead Clydesdale for the team transporter) and ultimately serving her up in the Media Center as race day's mystery meat.

Now that's cruel. Sick. Diabolical, even. Those Buellies wouldn't actually do something so barbarous, would they?

Of course not. Daisy was later found alive and well, wandering peacefully near the airport and grazing far from the noise of the speedway. No animals were harmed in the reporting of this epic weekend.

Not that the authorities know about, anyway.

Although it must be said there was harm to certain human animals, which we'll get to in a moment.

After Superbike practice, we wandered over to the pits to watch the Formula Exx-Treme practice, and I asked the Bro why he wasn't helping to push the Team Longbeard roller out for some laps.

"No practice, English," he said.

I didn't ask why as I probably just would have received an empty stare, but I assumed it was because there was little to no wind. At all. A wind powered Superbike needs wind, you see, almost as bad as a Media Center needs mystery meat. No meat, no work. You see.

But as I would later learn, the lack of wind had nothing to do with Team Longbeard's absence. We meandered through the throngs of crewmembers, hangers on, fans, hung-over journalists and Dave Despain groupies and lo and behold we were at the Buell pits of Steve Crevier. Brother Heathcliff grimaced as he watched, and then looked like he was having a heart attack.

I searched the pit area to see what had turned him as pale as a Connecticut Yankee in Florida, and saw a Buell technician wiggling in a strangely provocative fashion next to the motorcycle. I have to admit, from this angle it looking like he was pleasuring the XB12R (which is really an XB13.4R). I knew he was just inserting the battery-powered starter and cranking the beast up.

Heathcliff dropped his walking stick, and sputtered out "I didn't think man could be so wicked! These defilers of the Book are Satan's own farmhands. I am in the presence of evil incarnate!"

He staggered and fell to the ground. I tried help him up and handed him his stick and he staggered again.

"Angels writing in the sky!" He rasped, and pointed upward. Oh boy. This guy has some issues when he leaves the farm. He was right, of course. There was writing in the sky, but it wasn't written by angels unless the skywriting pilot was named Angel.

"Is it the hand of God or more devilry?" He moaned, and I helped him up and steered him towards the Team Longbeard camp. He seemed to regain his composure, and I thought that would be it for him for the day.

Man, was I wrong.

Mladin cunningly passed the BenSpies for a Superbike win, and before we knew it the grid was set for the 200. Right before the warm-up lap, I was admiring the muscle tone of a maiden with a parasol when I heard a booming, baritone voice on the grid near me.

"Abandon your ways and heed the Sacred Book, English!"

Brother Heathcliff stood defiantly before the racers, holding the brightly colored '06 AMA Rule Book (with Mat Mladin on it, of course) aloft in one hand and his walking stick (with paragraph C from page 21 still carved in it, of course) held aloft in the other.

"Though ye be Evil, you can join us in a revolt of righteousness," Heath blasted on, and sadly, no one seemed to be listening. The cameras, microphones and other assorted news gathering bits were aimed elsewhere.

"Join us in our pilgrimage to the town of Pickerington, where we will have our witness. We will not race in a tainted contest! There is no Glory for God when you roll with the unjust!

Still, no reaction. He took a step closer to the front row, but no one seemed to see or hear the dude in the ultra clean overalls and huge, flawless straw hat.

"Do not ride your rollers today, brothers! Join us, and force the Overloads to Obey the Word of the Book!"

An AMA official came over, and gently escorted Brother Heathcliff off the grid.

You didn't see this on Speed, did you? You won't hear about it on the podcasts of the unrighteous, either. There will be no print coverage of Team Longbeard's bold, principled stand, and all that is left of their '06 Daytona experience is the corn they planted, and the manure their horses left behind.

The others raced. One fell with great violence, yet remounted magnificently. Well after The Book and the Stick were held aloft, single fingers were held aloft as well on live television. The controversial Buells all DNFed in Every Sense, and even saw their controversial mechanicals eclipsed by the far greater mess of the 200's Pace Car Fever, which unfortunately we all caught. There was righteous riding that saw three young guns on the podium, yet there was a mess 'o taint to the whole affair.

This is not right or fair for these guys, although in the end there was initially far less grumbling than I expected. Heads should have rolled, and then pummeling with fire and brimstone should have ensued.

Or maybe I've been hanging with the Amish too long.

Or maybe not. There may be protests. Maybe there will be a groundswell of righteous anger to correct the mess that we witnessed.

Speaking of which, somewhere between here and Ohio there is a caravan of black buggies and a big-ass wooden ark of a transporter hauling Team Longbeard, on a crusade to see the Book upheld. Team Longbeard will not race when there's an unholy taint.

There didn't have to be. Evil was done, as Heath would say.

I blame all you Tainters. You know who you are.