It's October of 2006. Sha Edwards is out on the track. While the bike he's riding is familiar to him, the machine itself is a stranger to this pavement. Plagued by one mechanical problem after another all season long, his racebike finally gave up on him, forcing him to put his streetbike—his very own means of day-to-day transportation—on the track.

He's racing in Formula 40 Expert—a class for former championship winners 40 years of age and older--but he's not your ordinary 40-something. You wouldn't think he was any more than 25 or 30 years old if it weren't for the gray stubble in his day-old beard. As he rides through a turn, falling further back in the pack, he sits up in his seat, bending over to examine his engine. Something is awry, again.

His fuel injection system has a short. His bike is getting fuel off and on. He can't race for the win; he can barely get the bike through a turn without it wanting to die and fall over, but he's happy. He's here and he's racing. He, along with every spectator, racer, and organizer who's converged upon this track are hopelessly addicted and forever enraptured by the sights and sounds of the race. They are the worshippers of speed.

The CMRA Championships are tight, with many to be decided in the last race weekend of the year at the now-defunct NASCAR track known as Texas World Speedway in College Station, Texas. My friend Joe Catalano, who goes by the name Crash (living up to it in full glory by crashing as a provisional novice in his first race), is an ex-stunt rider turned club racer who simply ran out of money to compete but wanted to go to the last race weekend, earn a few extra bucks as a corner worker, and see his friends, The Desert Rats, battle on the ragged edge of their last tire in the endurance championship finale. He asked me if I'd like to come along. I answered yes almost immediately.

We arrive at Texas World Speedway on Saturday at about six in the morning. The track is hidden behind a large, sunless hill and you enter through one of two tunnels running beneath a massive banked turn, a remnant of its former NASCAR oval racing glory. The track is not yet apparent, still covered in complete black, a white moon shining on the horizon. It's late summer, yet the morning chill feels like winter. We dig through the trunk and pull on a couple of coats that we will soon be forced to remove under a merciless sun.

We sign up for corner work and pick out our turns. Crash recommends turn nine. After getting our fluorescent green shirts, a bottle of ice cold water and sugary, pre-packaged cake donuts for breakfast, Crash takes me on a short walk down the front straight to show me through the end of the course down to where my corner will be.

As the faint glow of sunlight peers over the east horizon, the track reveals itself in patchy shades of gray. The high-banked turn on the left side of the track jabs upward into a stark, white wall with large black letters spelling "Texas World Speedway." This proud turn stands as a memorial to the past. It is now condemned, deemed unsafe to drive on. Tufts of dry, browning weeds push through cracks in the pavement. This is not Laguna Seca.

The track as used by the CMRA is two ovals, one long and one short, with two straights jutting between them from the back straight of the main oval like a mushroom growing out of the back of the speedway's bowl. Avoiding those condemned, banked turns, riders shoot through the infield along turns and chicanes built for roadracing.

Turn nine is the right-hander that flows into the back straight as riders come down from the mushroom. It is a long, flowing right preceded by a short straight and followed by a long, hard left flowing into a big chicane that shoots onto the front straight, all visible from a concrete bunker surrounded by tire-walls underneath a large metal canopy that is my home for the next thirteen hours.

We return to the pits and report for the cornerworkers meeting to be briefed on protocol. As we sit in a small room with about 30 people and six chairs, the corner marshal explains a few rules, shows us how to operate the radio and scanner, and unfolds flag after flag, letting us know when to use what and why. There are a few I hope I won't have to use, all of which will see daylight before the end of the day.

During the meeting, I look out over the track lying underneath a soft sunrise. Thousands of small clouds float in formation like a quilt as the sun peaks through with sherbet-orange rays melting each cloud into a soft and faded magenta with purple, cotton-candy tops. As they shine down on the camp of worshippers, white canopies dot the landscape like snow-peaked mountains while the sun's growing intensity rouses the sleeping racers to prepare for the day's battle.

There's a rumor bouncing along the radio waves that Ben Spies is here. Spies is a young man of 22 who just won a battle of epic proportions a week ago, battling six-time champion Mat Mladin to the wire for the AMA Superbike Championship. As a former CMRA rider, he's a hero here. Race officials on the radio refer to him only as "Mr. Spies" although many are at least twice his age.

After winning many Superbike races by a wide margin, tying up the record for most consecutive race wins in the class, and otherwise finishing no worse than second, he broke his hand one weekend during practice. While injured, he finished a comfortable second, letting Mladin pull away as he settled into his own pace. In the last race, he played it cool and cruised in at seventh, his championship sealed. I watched all season long, cheering on my fellow Texan. It was the stuff of legends, the kind of stories I'll be telling my grandkids. And now, the legend is here.

Before practice begins for the big endurance race, several radios call in to race control asking for the number on Spies' bike. "Could we not tell by the factory Suzuki leathers?" I ask. No reply. After much silence, the number is called: "Number two-eight". Sitting in my concrete bunker, like a soldier waiting for the bomb to drop, the call comes over the radio: "Bikes are on the track."

They fly into my turn--an orchestra of metal and gas. The doppler effect is heard and then felt in full array as the bikes, approaching at full speed, bang down through the gears, their engines wailing, the pulse of each beat compressing in mid-air, hitting me in rapid fire. Their rear tires chirp, desperately seeking traction. The riders throw themselves--man and machine--into the flowing right bend. The engines level out mid-turn, lowering in pulse and frequency.

As they crack open the throttles, their exhaust notes explode into another high-pitched frenzy, turning the doppler effect upside-down as the machines get only louder, escaping the turn at a speed not designated for mere mortals. These are motorcycle racers.

This constant, violent ebb and flow is bored into my memory, and at night serves as my personal wave song, lulling me to sleep. Half believing that Spies is actually here, I eye every rider who goes past. There's a red Suzuki with the number 28, but it's not him. Or at least I don't think it's him. After a while of practice, I no longer see the bike out. Suddenly, over the hill comes a flash of red bearing the number 28. Flying through turn nine, with the bike leaned over, I see the words "Spies" across a blue camouflage speed hump and "Elbows" across the lower back and blazing orange Suzuki logos just above the elbows floating inches from the ground in signature riding style.

The answer is obvious, but not immediately apparent. As much of a legend as he is among these club racers and organizers, as much money as he makes getting paid to ride one of the fastest race bikes on the planet, he is, in essence, a speed worshipper. After all, this isn't below him--these are his roots. These are his beginnings. He's raced this track time and time again, and most likely on bikes in much worse shape than the one he's on right now.

Spies is not the only star on the team. Grand Prix legend and native Texan Kevin Schwantz is here, as well. Schwantz battled on the world stage in the early 90's and was known for riding his bike to the very limit, and oftentimes beyond, in search of a win. It's been 20 years since he's raced here, but these are his roots, too. It was here in 1985 that Schwantz caught some influential attention as he blazed through a rain-soaked track during a long, gritty endurance race. Officially retiring from competition in 1995, with one world championship in '93, he never really stopped racing; today is no different.

The air is thick with exhaust fumes as the practice comes to a close. There's not much time to relax, as the grueling six-hour endurance race is about to get underway. After choking down a quick sandwich for lunch, we retune our radios and organize the flags. The riders come out for a warm-up lap. Spies is starting for the "Momma's Boys", the name of the recently assembled team on the 28 bike. The bikes line up on the front straight, the fans watching from a high-rise structure just ahead of the pack.

The flag is up. Riders rev their engines, ready to launch their machines down the straight, peaking in varied rhythms spattered about the grid. The flag drops and every engine sings in unison. The sound is like an approaching storm.

At first, he's cautious, feeling out the bike, the riders around him, the track itself; not pushing anything, just setting his pace. Soon, he's fast and passing bikes everywhere.

Spies and company torment the field on the number 28 bike. They play about in the top ten for a while; Spies then goes out and runs it right up to first place again. But in the last hour, the borrowed motorcycle, prepped primarily for sprint races, gives up on them and forces the team to hang up their leathers for the day.

Leading up to the final race of the season, endurance racing rivals Northwest Honda and the Desert Rats are first and second in the standings. The Desert Rats, accustomed to finishing second place in the championship, need only to finish two spots ahead of Northwest Honda to win the Championship.

Friday was a bad day for Northwest. One of their riders crashed during practice in the infamous turn eight. In the back half of the racetrack, turn eight is a hard right-hander with no run-off. If you were to go straight, without turning, you would run right into a wall. It's the only part of the track with a wall directly outside the turn and it's the one turn that the riders truly fear. Friday's crash found Northwest Honda with one of their riders, Ronnie Lunsford, suffering a broken leg after hitting the wall.

About 50 laps into Saturday's race as I'm watching a rider exit my turn, I hear an implosive thud in the distance behind me. My head snaps around to find a bike flopping to a stop after wedging itself beneath the air-fence.

"All corners go red! All corners go red!"

The red flag—one I didn't want to use—is a last resort. The race must be stopped. Either a rider is too badly hurt, the track conditions too dangerous, or both.

The ambulance is on the track, bringing out another flag I never wanted to see. I later find out that the rider broke his pelvis and his ankle, as well as just being all around banged-up.

A solemn presence casts its shadow over this palace of speed. Everyone hurts; a brother has fallen.

But as the race gets underway again, the Rats know what they have to do. At any second, it could be one of them in the wall. Their bike could break down. Anything could happen. They're there to win and there is still a war at hand. Northwest still has riders on the track, and they're nowhere near giving up. Both teams are fight till the end.

The day comes to a close. The Desert Rats have won the championship. Underneath one of the open-air garages filled with bikes and tents in the center of the complex, the podium celebrations are underway. The Desert Rats accept their award.

The alcohol is soon flowing from chests of ice, meat is searing on grills, and fans and racers celebrate another glorious day of speed. They toast each other, their bikes, and the track. Stories are told--some slightly exaggerated. Plans are made for next year. They've paid their respects, and they'll be back. They are the worshippers of speed, and they are faithful.

Post this story to: digg