Read Online Ride Like Hell and You'll Get There by Paul Carter - Free Book Online

exercise was not about speed but more about going over the bike, so I just eased down, turned her round in a huge arc (her battleship turning circle had not improved), and gunned her back to the pits.
    My ride back was interrupted by the metabolic chain reaction of riding a fast but homemade experimental motorcycle down a racetrack after consuming a dodgy curry the night before, followed by coffee. As I leant forward to lie over the fuel tank, my brain put a bit too much effort into getting the gear changes right and forgot to maintain the clench and I passed what felt like a gram of gas. No problem, I thought, I can make it to the pits, get my leathers off and find a toilet before I lose my arse. Then it hit me. The tiny fart had expanded into a cubic metre of horrendous air that rose sharply up through my leathers and filled my helmet. I gagged, my eyes stung, the bike was passing 160 kph, I sat up and flipped open my visor in a desperate effort to breathe fresh air, nearly crashing when the wind hit my open lid and tried to rip my head off my shoulders.
    Pulling up fast I leapt off, handed the bike to the boys and ran off pointing at the toilet block. Our bike passed the shakedown with flying colours, so did my curry.
    That was it; everything was prepped, organised, checked, approved and ready to go. All we had to do now was wait for Speed Week to kick off in a fortnight.

SPEED WEEK 2,
2012
    I WAS WALKING down a tree-lined street near the city towards my motorcycle having just left a meeting. It was lunchtime and West Perth was awash with business people rushing about and packing the most into one hour out of the office. Crossing the street, wondering if I got a parking ticket, past a busy al fresco restaurant, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. It was just past 1 p.m. on Friday, 9 March.
    ‘Hi, Paul, it’s David Hinds here.’ As soon as I heard his voice I stopped walking and closed my eyes. ‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’
    ‘No,’ I lied, as my mind raced through his reasons for calling me and instantly deduced that whatever his reason it was not a good thing.
    ‘Mate, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but Speed Week is officially canc—’
    ‘ Fuuuuuuucckk! Noooooooo! ’ At least half the diners jumped as I cut David off, dropped the phone and my helmet, tried to kick it and missed, which is really embarrassing and extra infuriating because when you miss on a big kick and totally disconnect in rage, the momentum will tear muscles and send your body into the air in a banana-skin slip that ends with a very sore tail bone.
    Then, as I rolled onto my chest and tried to stand up, I put my palms down on the pavement pinning my neck tie and that choked me slightly, so the rage diverted to a high-speed tie-removal throat disco that went on for entirely too long.
    At some point I became aware of stillness and stopped my thrashing to discover that every single person around me was staring. One woman was filming me on her iPhone. I felt my head turn purple. I picked up my phone and helmet and walked straight to the nearest bar.
    So one week away from the start of Speed Week and it was cancelled again for the second year. The rain had lashed down over the preceding few days, putting 8 inches of water on top of the salt. The Dry Lakes Racers officials had made the huge effort of regularly going out to the lake and checking its condition, only to return with the sad news. Faced with the amount of water and the knowledge that it would not dissipate and dry up in time, they had no choice but to cancel.
    I sat at the bar plying myself with whiskey and going over the options.There was no way I was giving up. Sure, as a backup plan we could just go back to Tailem Bend, but it was a desperately close call on whether the bike could get the record there—the track’s only 1.4 k’s long, and we’d have to make considerable changes to the bike then have it re-scrutineered by the officials.
    I needed more room, a