(Satire) By Ohlin Metzeler
CORKSCREW, CA (VPI) The World SuperCircus may have been in town, but all eyes were on the epic Race of the Fans (“incorrectly billed as the Fan Ride”), where ordinary motorcyclists take to the track for a few laps of high-speed mayhem. And, as expected, there was carnage in the New Century. Thousands and thousands of punters, most completely distorted by a strange tropical punch one of the AMA Superbike teams apparently left behind in a big steel drum, raced like crazed weasels in what would turn out to be the most violent display of unsportsmanlike conduct witnessed since Scott Russell stuck a potato in Doug Poland’s exhaust and won Daytona in ’92.
I am not exaggerating, here. Even the fight scenes in “Braveheart” were Tiddlywinks by comparison to this display of wilding by tanked-up civilianson OEM equipment.
This contest was ugly before it even began, as a lot of the competitors felt they had insufficient set-up time before the race.
Gus “Value Meal” Septic, a hen-teaser from Ammo, New Hampshire, was especially vocal as he frantically shifted his big, lardy ass around on his Gold Wing in anticipation of the racing to come.
“Man, my lack of set-up time has made me all stroppy,” Septic said from his mighty steed. “The bike hasn’t been working well at all in the infield parking lot, and I got stuck behind some freak on a Bultaco that was going so slow through the Skip Barber garage that it made me puke. I puked again when some other guy was taking too damn long in the crapper. Oh yeah, I also tossed the chili when announcer, Big Bill Spencer, stole that World Superbike umbrella girl’s leotard and started dancing around in it and telling me he was a love machine. You know, I think I puked pretty much non-stop all weekend now that I think about it.”
It is worth noting that Mr. Septic was observed eating literally thousands of Fudge burritos all weekend as well. Could mean nothing. Could mean everything.
The race itself was a real barn-burner, which resulted in several air-drops of fire retardant that made portions of the track “greasy.” A lot of people thought Keith Code’s outrigger-equipped Superbike School sliding bike (or whatever that thing is called) was the favorite to win the race, but this was not to be. You see, the school’s famous founder may know a lot about riding motorcycles and Scientology, but he clearly didn’t knew enough about the determination of one Clyde “Composte” Fesser of Burrow, Arkansas, to prepare his rider for the beating he was about to receive.
Things went south in this contest (literally) when there was a huge pile-up involving hundreds of bikes in the corkscrew. This chain-reaction collision commenced when a Boss Hoss ridden by Melba Sweatie of Bricks, Montana, seized its air conditioning compressor. The machines piled up like chrome firewood, allowing our man Composte to blast by through the dirt (like Mladin yesterday) on his Corvair-powered Strike Trike.
While the Code School Outrigger Oddity was in front of the massive mound of machines and therefore maintained its lead, Composte was having none of it and blasted by the freak motorcycle in turn 11.
“L. Ron Hubbard squatted when he took a leak!” screamed Fesser who also made an obscene gesture at the school tool when he passed it on two of his three wheels.
The rest of the schedule was delayed slightly as Marshals worked to clean up the mess in the corkscrew. Ultimately they decided to just set the
mountain of twisted metal on fire and roast weenies, which were later fed to underfed members of the press. Bless ’em.