Pool is open. To swimming, not so much. image by jim mcdermott

Click your eyes to black-and-white, and The Stratford in Danville could be a crime-scene setting from the early 60's. The kind of place where failed comedians go to overdose, tired cops break up domestic disturbances between exotic dancers and their unemployed boyfriends, and infants bawl through the Kool smoke exhaled by their pregnant mothers. If you want a $49 tour of the biggest dive hotels in America, just become a roadracing journalist.

There's a big sign out in front of the hotel that says "POOL IS OPEN." Exactly what it is open to is anyone's guess...maybe alligators. The concrete hole brims with vile green liquid, dead leaves, and fast-food wrappers floating on the surface, inviting bathers seeking hepatitis or dysentery to dive right in. Evan and I sat by the Stratford's pool until quite late, bullsh*tting and listening to the guests yell over their color TVs. Eerily lit, it was a great backdrop for a little benchracing.

There was lots to talk about, but the real story is the ongoing Mexican standoff between DMG and the manufacturers—whose vision of motorcycle racing will prevail? When the news hit Friday that the DMG "Factory Superbike" deadline had passed without a response from the manufacturers, we knew there would be hell to pay. Lines had been drawn in the sand, sidearms unsheathed, tempers flaring. People can only point guns at each other for so long before one goes off, and the hammer finally clicked down on a loaded chamber. No deadline response from the mannies = no Factory Superbike class next year, according to DMG. An AMA racing season without factory participation now seems quite possible. Will there be two competing series, like the Champ Car/IRL fiasco? Looks like they're going to the mattresses, even though everyone knows war is bad for business.

It was 2 am. The Virginia summer heat, the diesel fumes from trucks driving by the hotel, and the flickering lights of the pool brought a mickey-slipped quality to the evening. It was easy to half-close your eyes, and be transported back to 1962; wearing a badge and strapped, answering a 10-54 call—possible dead body in The Stratford's pool.