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After the first of 4 airlift medevac helicopter rides, and an ambulance roll every session red-flagged, I had expected a stern talking-to, a net call for an ad hoc Riders’ Meeting for something along the lines of:
“Straighten up,
fly right
…
shit-fer-brains.”
I wasn’t the only one apparently. Paddock friends said that the ass-chewing was conspicuous for its absence.
On Sunday morning, Day 3 of 3, management broke the suspense.
His voice as booming and gravel-busted as the bleached ink of his USMC forearm tattoo crushing aluminum can after can of his Monster energy drink, Breaker-Bar lit into us like any cranky NCO:
“My Coach Charlie won’t even ride with you clowns anymore, you’re being that unsafe.
You’re inside-passing.
You’re riding like maniacs out there.”
When he blamed us, customers, for every felony short of money-laundering,
Customer-Pete spoke up:
“I got split by 2 coaches out of Turn 19 who were racing each other.
There’s racing, there’s slicing-and-dicing, but no coaching out there.
If I was pulling wheelies like the coaches are,
I would’ve got the Meatball Flag pointed at me,
got called in and
got my ass chewed.”
Breaker-Bar gave Customer-Pete a dismissive wave of his polar-bear paw.
I chimed in:
“Breaker-Bar,
Pete’s right.
As I pedal around the paddock,
peeps are talking about your coaches.”
Lumberjack voice mumble-grumbles with an about-face in the opposite direction from me and Customer Pete:
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.
You and I already talked all about that yesterday.”
“And I’ve heard nothing since from you.”
Dismissive wave of other polar-bear paw.
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life … fully-descended
scrotocycles.rip 