Startup and never Stop
By Shawn McDonald
Steve looked at the digital clock next to his bed through eyes that had never really shut all night. The clock glowed a radiation green that read 5:00am. All night he had been wrestled awake from his dreams, with no thoughts in his head or heart. He was just awake and waiting for the dawn to slowly arrive.
Steve used the remote to turn on the Weather Channel –the forecaster once again predicted overcast skies with a slight chance of rain, and temperatures in the mid 40s for tomorrow’s weather, which was now today. It sounded like a typical Western Washington day for ten months of the year. There had recently been too many of these nights to deny the reality of what was, in the waking hours of the workday, a resounding distant thunder which echoed inside his eardrums.
The sound rolled upon him at work, a low and repetitive rumble that slowly crescendoed into an obliterating shriek. His head would turn cautiously side to side as he walked through the office to see where such a sound might emanate from. He went cautiously to the windows to check on any construction in the area. He gazed into the skies for jets or helicopters that passed near. In all his searches he found nothing, but nothing.
None of his fellow employees seemed to notice the cacophony of sound that permeated the air about him. Steve could not dare to ask any of these people if they also heard the sounds that were in his head. He had starved too long and worked too hard, starting off as an uneducated motocrosser, finishing college and then moving onto an MBA at Cal-Berkeley. After all, why should he risk his position and career as a project manager at Getnet.com for what was probably just an ear infection? With his stock options he had been able to achieve the assets to buy a $2 million dollar house in eastern King County, a Dodge Viper, two divorces, a Bellevue high maintenance girlfriend and the debt to pay off all those purchases.
Strangely enough the house he now lived in was exactly where he would ride as a young teenager. Back then it was an arduous trip to get Mom to put the bumper carriers on the station wagon and drive him out to what, at the time, seemed like an undiscovered virgin land.
This morning Steve decided that instead of putting on the well-tailored casual look of pressed Dockers and golf shirt, and then fighting his way through traffic, he would find his crusty hiking boots, some jeans and a warm coat and head out into the deep valleys of the Cascade Mountains Range. As the Viper warmed its V-10 engine, Steve walked outside the garage and caught a glimpse of the discolored white 1975 Dodge van that he now used to haul yard work to the dump with. The van seemed to be flickering under the florescent bulbs that hanged above. "The lights probably needed a new ballast", he thought to himself. The van had earned the name "Garbage Scow" from his friends for its use and its smell.
The van had once sparkled when it was parked at the numerous tracks across the northwest. It had once stored boots, gasoline cans, toolboxes, bikes and occasionally women across the country in the search for national recognition against the best riders. Since that time it had been used for driving to school, romancing his first wife, and then hauling the ex-wives’ belongings to their new addresses.
Steve said "What the fuck" and went back in the house to get the Scow’s keys. He figured that if it started up, he could open the windows to blow some of that compost smell out and it might be kind of fun sitting up so high while driving again. The Scow still had its huge Bel-Ray oil sticker stuck to the back window as it headed off into the darkness, with the dim and dirty headlights searching for the road. Even in the darkness he could remember the way to Highway 2.
The rain was beginning to appear on his windshield as he headed higher into the foothills. The deteriorated rubber of the wipers made huge streaks on the screen, so it was almost easier to see without them being on. After a short time the rain softened the rubber wipers and the years of dirt washed away. As Steve entered the town of Monroe he could begin to see the pale yellows and smoky grays of sunrise as the Cascades lifted their skirts of darkness.
Driving through the town, the abandoned 200-foot tall smokestack of a long forgotten mill pierced the sky above the one story skyline like some ancient phallic symbol. Steve remembered that Bill’s Bultaco motorcycle shop used to be right next door to the smokestack, located in one of the remaining mill buildings. Bill’s had now been renovated and a lawyer’s office. It had been the last motorcycle shop on the way to the track and the last place to grab some Oury grips, a Champion spark plug or that spare inner tube for a flat tire.
"That’s where I’m going," thought Steve. "I’m going to the Startup Race Track." Out of the befuddled and bemused state of the last few months he finally had some clarity to the answers he sought. He was going to Startup.
Steve drove deeper into the rising valleys that led to the mountaintops. Landmarks by the roadside started to appear and trigger synapses in Steve’s brain, landmarks like the ‘Little Chapel’ which was large enough to get three people inside it if they slumped over, the sewage treatment plant churning debris on the city limits of Sultan, the 15 foot high white painted rocks on the hillside that said "Sultan Warriors." "God, it couldn’t be," he thought to himself, as he spotted a large Hereford black bull with a ring in its nose, that was attached to a rope tied to a concrete post in the ground. Was that the same bull he passed 18 times a season for eight years more than 20 years ago?
There was the Alpine Inn that signaled the outer city limits of Startup. It was just a drive-through burger joint with a Swiss chalet-type building, and a Viking oar boat next to the fence – something only America could try to duplicate in a cheesy way. The owners were big supporters of the racers and we all ate there after the races because of that, plus it was the only digestible food for miles to come. There was nothing remarkable about the Startup grocery. It was just a very small town grocery that occasionally accommodated ski junkies on their way to Stevens pass with some beer, candy bars to head off the munchies and deep fried chicken cooked two days before, if you were lucky. They also operated the MX track, and would look to the side if you asked for beer after the race.
At the end of town Steve desperately tried to remember the left hand turn to the track. In the past there were no street signs. There was only a pie plate that said "MX Races" stapled on the power pole. A board, but nothing more elaborate than that later replaced the pie plate. Where was it? He scrambled through his mind as he hunched over the steering wheel.
There it was! Steve clicked down two gears in the Scow and pressed heavily on the accelerator pedal. The rpm rose noisily close to red-line. In a quick burst he threw the steering wheel to the left. The van entered the unofficial pit road in a fury.
The scene of probably the most intense racing of the day happened on this winding paved hill course, the just under two miles that took you from Highway 2 to the entrance of the track. Steve thought back to the bikes pulling heavily to one side of the van on the tie down straps as he entered a left or right turn. The five-gallon, fully filled jeep gas tanks skidding across under the bikes to make a small dent for eternity in the side of the van. Milk crates stolen from dairies tumbled over and over dropping the chain lube, pre-mix oil and clothing across the floor. Steve came to the first left hand corner and held the accelerator down long past sensible thinking. The rear wheels immediately locked up and started to fishtail the rear end as Steve crushed the brake pedal down on the old drum brakes. He was in the apex of the corner now and again he did not feather the throttle, he slammed it to the floor. The next corner was a blind right-hander with no view of oncoming cars or farm equipment. They used to go side by side around this corner when racing to the pits. They were young. Some would live long, like Steve, and some would come short in other ways. The Scow drifted into the oncoming lane as the inner wheels scratched the pavement. It now entered a set of fast esses surrounded by green pastures spotted with cows and sheep. The van’s engine was detonating slightly under the torture of Steve’s foot. He went straight-line through the esses, taking up both sides of the road – he wasn’t concentrating on the next corner, but on the two corners beyond that.
"Oh shit," he said to himself as he realized he had just missed the turn-off by a half mile. Steve slowed the engine down to a rumble, and turned back towards the track entrance.
The van swung to the right onto a gravel road leading to the race gate entrance. Steve shot his foot down on the accelerator a couple of times. The Scow’s rear tires would break loose, and he could feel the van fishtail. To his left, over the four-foot high fence, was a gigantic oak tree. Underneath its massive limbs was the prime space to pit on any race day. In the heat or in the rain the tree kept you cool, dry and protected. There were no tents to cover your race bike when it rained in those days; you just hid in your van with the girl you brought to the races. It wasn’t a girlfriend who would take away your money and your mind away from racing. It would be just a girl.
Startup race track was the depth of Hell when it rained, and even deeper in Hell when it didn’t, but for two to three races in the year it was the best track in the United States. The problem was you never knew which races would be perfect. You couldn’t miss a race because that was when it would be perfect.
The racers had to memorize the track when the earth would only exhale choking dust. The racer’s field of vision was their front tire. Your hands would remember the ruts that lead into jumps or corners by the feel in the handlebars. The way the bars tugged the biceps, forearm or individual finger muscles. Your muscles remembered the motion; you just had to turn off your brain – thinking was always dangerous when racing at Startup. The fastest riders never slowed down because of the dust. They didn’t think, they remembered.
Steve loved racing in the mud. The track had a clay base to it, and when the water dribbled or drenched from the clouds above it was like watching the circus clowns bicycle ride on an ice rink. The photographers would all gather next to the creek crossing, with cameras constantly in focus to snap the next rider’s entry. They would seek out a rider who approached the crossing anxiously, like hunters stalking wild Gazelles coming to a waterhole. The rider would hit the gas hard at the last moment before entry, until both wheels were stuck solidly and suddenly in the three-foot-deep ruts.
The rider now became an airborne projectile looking for a soft landing. Snap, snap, snap, snap. A good picture was now in the cameras, a picture that would make the cover of the Everett Herald newspaper or the motorcycle news. Steve never slowed down in the mud, in fact he may have gone faster. In the mud at Startup it was either sink or swim, and he always rose above the muddy sea with a steady throttle, not thinking much about anything else.
Steve got out of the van and hopped over the fence. To the right was the caretaker’s house. "I don’t know what there’s left to take care of," he said to no-one in particular. As he walked under the oak tree, the track opened up – a grand vista beneath him. He wasn’t sure exactly what he would see when he arrived. Could some local riders sneak up here to practice? Were cows grazing in the fields? Were there new houses with streets built on it?
What now lived there were six foot-oak saplings standing closely bundled together across the entire field. Steve saw the saplings were growing only on the original race track itself. He could see the track layout by following the saplings around the field. The infield was still covered by the stubbly grass, kept short by the remaining cows grazing on the track. The posts that used to hold the surgical tube rubber band starting gate were still standing. When Steve first started racing they used to have to put their left hand on the helmet until the green flag dropped. Then they had progressed to surgical tube rubber band starting gates. Now at least you could put both hands on the handlebars.
The start line would flip around every few races, and the track would run backwards or forward depending upon whether your glass was half empty or half full. There was the cavity gravity on the backside that led up to the extreme off-camber back straight. When that back straight had water on top of the clay surface it didn’t matter where you started, because you were taking a slow ride to the bottom and the barbed wire fence. The good guys hit the gas gingerly at first, and slowly applied more throttle to just miss the barbed wire at the end of the straight. The slower guys had no option.
Those past memories started to flood back and the sound in his head was becoming clearer. "The sound, I know that sound," he muttered to himself. It was the sound of two strokes. There were many of them, surrounding him whichever way he turned. He could hear in the background the sounds of Ted Nugent rocking with Cat Scratch Fever from the echo chambers of vans with their doors open. Steve had been driven to this place by the siren call of crackling two strokes, music, and people laughing and bullshitting.
"Excuse me," said the caretaker. Steve almost collapsed, hearing an unexpected voice from behind. "What, excuse me, I’m sorry!" He blurted out as he turned around, and searched for the origin of the voice. There, before him, stood a young man of about 22 years of age.
"I take care of the field," he said to this visitor. "I’m sorry," Steve said, "I just came up to take a look." The caretaker had a little smile and told Steve, "It’s okay. I get people all the time who come up here to take a look. I should be charging admission." Steve looked out at the field and said, to no-one in particular, "The trees." The smile still remained on the young caretaker’s face as he said, "Oh the trees? They also asked about them. I mean the people who come up here. I guess it was because where the motocross track used to be was where the earth was turned over like a giant spade. The big oak let loose its seeds, and there you are with a bunch of new trees. I’ve got to get back to the house, but take all the time you need to look it over."
"Thanks," was the only word to came out of Steve’s mouth. Slowly he drifted back to the Scow and started up the trusty engine for the drive home. Steve was wondering what home really was, and where it was.
The tracks that he and so many other racers had laid down in the decades before was now a place for the youthful saplings. As the Scow moved slowly down the gravel road the only sound in his head were his own words of "I’ve got to get back to the race. The race is everything in life." Steve turned right onto Highway 2.
By Shawn McDonald
Steve looked at the digital clock next to his bed through eyes that had never really shut all night. The clock glowed a radiation green that read 5:00am. All night he had been wrestled awake from his dreams, with no thoughts in his head or heart. He was just awake and waiting for the dawn to slowly arrive.
Steve used the remote to turn on the Weather Channel –the forecaster once again predicted overcast skies with a slight chance of rain, and temperatures in the mid 40s for tomorrow’s weather, which was now today. It sounded like a typical Western Washington day for ten months of the year. There had recently been too many of these nights to deny the reality of what was, in the waking hours of the workday, a resounding distant thunder which echoed inside his eardrums.
The sound rolled upon him at work, a low and repetitive rumble that slowly crescendoed into an obliterating shriek. His head would turn cautiously side to side as he walked through the office to see where such a sound might emanate from. He went cautiously to the windows to check on any construction in the area. He gazed into the skies for jets or helicopters that passed near. In all his searches he found nothing, but nothing.
None of his fellow employees seemed to notice the cacophony of sound that permeated the air about him. Steve could not dare to ask any of these people if they also heard the sounds that were in his head. He had starved too long and worked too hard, starting off as an uneducated motocrosser, finishing college and then moving onto an MBA at Cal-Berkeley. After all, why should he risk his position and career as a project manager at Getnet.com for what was probably just an ear infection? With his stock options he had been able to achieve the assets to buy a $2 million dollar house in eastern King County, a Dodge Viper, two divorces, a Bellevue high maintenance girlfriend and the debt to pay off all those purchases.
Strangely enough the house he now lived in was exactly where he would ride as a young teenager. Back then it was an arduous trip to get Mom to put the bumper carriers on the station wagon and drive him out to what, at the time, seemed like an undiscovered virgin land.
This morning Steve decided that instead of putting on the well-tailored casual look of pressed Dockers and golf shirt, and then fighting his way through traffic, he would find his crusty hiking boots, some jeans and a warm coat and head out into the deep valleys of the Cascade Mountains Range. As the Viper warmed its V-10 engine, Steve walked outside the garage and caught a glimpse of the discolored white 1975 Dodge van that he now used to haul yard work to the dump with. The van seemed to be flickering under the florescent bulbs that hanged above. "The lights probably needed a new ballast", he thought to himself. The van had earned the name "Garbage Scow" from his friends for its use and its smell.
The van had once sparkled when it was parked at the numerous tracks across the northwest. It had once stored boots, gasoline cans, toolboxes, bikes and occasionally women across the country in the search for national recognition against the best riders. Since that time it had been used for driving to school, romancing his first wife, and then hauling the ex-wives’ belongings to their new addresses.
Steve said "What the fuck" and went back in the house to get the Scow’s keys. He figured that if it started up, he could open the windows to blow some of that compost smell out and it might be kind of fun sitting up so high while driving again. The Scow still had its huge Bel-Ray oil sticker stuck to the back window as it headed off into the darkness, with the dim and dirty headlights searching for the road. Even in the darkness he could remember the way to Highway 2.
The rain was beginning to appear on his windshield as he headed higher into the foothills. The deteriorated rubber of the wipers made huge streaks on the screen, so it was almost easier to see without them being on. After a short time the rain softened the rubber wipers and the years of dirt washed away. As Steve entered the town of Monroe he could begin to see the pale yellows and smoky grays of sunrise as the Cascades lifted their skirts of darkness.
Driving through the town, the abandoned 200-foot tall smokestack of a long forgotten mill pierced the sky above the one story skyline like some ancient phallic symbol. Steve remembered that Bill’s Bultaco motorcycle shop used to be right next door to the smokestack, located in one of the remaining mill buildings. Bill’s had now been renovated and a lawyer’s office. It had been the last motorcycle shop on the way to the track and the last place to grab some Oury grips, a Champion spark plug or that spare inner tube for a flat tire.
"That’s where I’m going," thought Steve. "I’m going to the Startup Race Track." Out of the befuddled and bemused state of the last few months he finally had some clarity to the answers he sought. He was going to Startup.
Steve drove deeper into the rising valleys that led to the mountaintops. Landmarks by the roadside started to appear and trigger synapses in Steve’s brain, landmarks like the ‘Little Chapel’ which was large enough to get three people inside it if they slumped over, the sewage treatment plant churning debris on the city limits of Sultan, the 15 foot high white painted rocks on the hillside that said "Sultan Warriors." "God, it couldn’t be," he thought to himself, as he spotted a large Hereford black bull with a ring in its nose, that was attached to a rope tied to a concrete post in the ground. Was that the same bull he passed 18 times a season for eight years more than 20 years ago?
There was the Alpine Inn that signaled the outer city limits of Startup. It was just a drive-through burger joint with a Swiss chalet-type building, and a Viking oar boat next to the fence – something only America could try to duplicate in a cheesy way. The owners were big supporters of the racers and we all ate there after the races because of that, plus it was the only digestible food for miles to come. There was nothing remarkable about the Startup grocery. It was just a very small town grocery that occasionally accommodated ski junkies on their way to Stevens pass with some beer, candy bars to head off the munchies and deep fried chicken cooked two days before, if you were lucky. They also operated the MX track, and would look to the side if you asked for beer after the race.
At the end of town Steve desperately tried to remember the left hand turn to the track. In the past there were no street signs. There was only a pie plate that said "MX Races" stapled on the power pole. A board, but nothing more elaborate than that later replaced the pie plate. Where was it? He scrambled through his mind as he hunched over the steering wheel.
There it was! Steve clicked down two gears in the Scow and pressed heavily on the accelerator pedal. The rpm rose noisily close to red-line. In a quick burst he threw the steering wheel to the left. The van entered the unofficial pit road in a fury.
The scene of probably the most intense racing of the day happened on this winding paved hill course, the just under two miles that took you from Highway 2 to the entrance of the track. Steve thought back to the bikes pulling heavily to one side of the van on the tie down straps as he entered a left or right turn. The five-gallon, fully filled jeep gas tanks skidding across under the bikes to make a small dent for eternity in the side of the van. Milk crates stolen from dairies tumbled over and over dropping the chain lube, pre-mix oil and clothing across the floor. Steve came to the first left hand corner and held the accelerator down long past sensible thinking. The rear wheels immediately locked up and started to fishtail the rear end as Steve crushed the brake pedal down on the old drum brakes. He was in the apex of the corner now and again he did not feather the throttle, he slammed it to the floor. The next corner was a blind right-hander with no view of oncoming cars or farm equipment. They used to go side by side around this corner when racing to the pits. They were young. Some would live long, like Steve, and some would come short in other ways. The Scow drifted into the oncoming lane as the inner wheels scratched the pavement. It now entered a set of fast esses surrounded by green pastures spotted with cows and sheep. The van’s engine was detonating slightly under the torture of Steve’s foot. He went straight-line through the esses, taking up both sides of the road – he wasn’t concentrating on the next corner, but on the two corners beyond that.
"Oh shit," he said to himself as he realized he had just missed the turn-off by a half mile. Steve slowed the engine down to a rumble, and turned back towards the track entrance.
The van swung to the right onto a gravel road leading to the race gate entrance. Steve shot his foot down on the accelerator a couple of times. The Scow’s rear tires would break loose, and he could feel the van fishtail. To his left, over the four-foot high fence, was a gigantic oak tree. Underneath its massive limbs was the prime space to pit on any race day. In the heat or in the rain the tree kept you cool, dry and protected. There were no tents to cover your race bike when it rained in those days; you just hid in your van with the girl you brought to the races. It wasn’t a girlfriend who would take away your money and your mind away from racing. It would be just a girl.
Startup race track was the depth of Hell when it rained, and even deeper in Hell when it didn’t, but for two to three races in the year it was the best track in the United States. The problem was you never knew which races would be perfect. You couldn’t miss a race because that was when it would be perfect.
The racers had to memorize the track when the earth would only exhale choking dust. The racer’s field of vision was their front tire. Your hands would remember the ruts that lead into jumps or corners by the feel in the handlebars. The way the bars tugged the biceps, forearm or individual finger muscles. Your muscles remembered the motion; you just had to turn off your brain – thinking was always dangerous when racing at Startup. The fastest riders never slowed down because of the dust. They didn’t think, they remembered.
Steve loved racing in the mud. The track had a clay base to it, and when the water dribbled or drenched from the clouds above it was like watching the circus clowns bicycle ride on an ice rink. The photographers would all gather next to the creek crossing, with cameras constantly in focus to snap the next rider’s entry. They would seek out a rider who approached the crossing anxiously, like hunters stalking wild Gazelles coming to a waterhole. The rider would hit the gas hard at the last moment before entry, until both wheels were stuck solidly and suddenly in the three-foot-deep ruts.
The rider now became an airborne projectile looking for a soft landing. Snap, snap, snap, snap. A good picture was now in the cameras, a picture that would make the cover of the Everett Herald newspaper or the motorcycle news. Steve never slowed down in the mud, in fact he may have gone faster. In the mud at Startup it was either sink or swim, and he always rose above the muddy sea with a steady throttle, not thinking much about anything else.
Steve got out of the van and hopped over the fence. To the right was the caretaker’s house. "I don’t know what there’s left to take care of," he said to no-one in particular. As he walked under the oak tree, the track opened up – a grand vista beneath him. He wasn’t sure exactly what he would see when he arrived. Could some local riders sneak up here to practice? Were cows grazing in the fields? Were there new houses with streets built on it?
What now lived there were six foot-oak saplings standing closely bundled together across the entire field. Steve saw the saplings were growing only on the original race track itself. He could see the track layout by following the saplings around the field. The infield was still covered by the stubbly grass, kept short by the remaining cows grazing on the track. The posts that used to hold the surgical tube rubber band starting gate were still standing. When Steve first started racing they used to have to put their left hand on the helmet until the green flag dropped. Then they had progressed to surgical tube rubber band starting gates. Now at least you could put both hands on the handlebars.
The start line would flip around every few races, and the track would run backwards or forward depending upon whether your glass was half empty or half full. There was the cavity gravity on the backside that led up to the extreme off-camber back straight. When that back straight had water on top of the clay surface it didn’t matter where you started, because you were taking a slow ride to the bottom and the barbed wire fence. The good guys hit the gas gingerly at first, and slowly applied more throttle to just miss the barbed wire at the end of the straight. The slower guys had no option.
Those past memories started to flood back and the sound in his head was becoming clearer. "The sound, I know that sound," he muttered to himself. It was the sound of two strokes. There were many of them, surrounding him whichever way he turned. He could hear in the background the sounds of Ted Nugent rocking with Cat Scratch Fever from the echo chambers of vans with their doors open. Steve had been driven to this place by the siren call of crackling two strokes, music, and people laughing and bullshitting.
"Excuse me," said the caretaker. Steve almost collapsed, hearing an unexpected voice from behind. "What, excuse me, I’m sorry!" He blurted out as he turned around, and searched for the origin of the voice. There, before him, stood a young man of about 22 years of age.
"I take care of the field," he said to this visitor. "I’m sorry," Steve said, "I just came up to take a look." The caretaker had a little smile and told Steve, "It’s okay. I get people all the time who come up here to take a look. I should be charging admission." Steve looked out at the field and said, to no-one in particular, "The trees." The smile still remained on the young caretaker’s face as he said, "Oh the trees? They also asked about them. I mean the people who come up here. I guess it was because where the motocross track used to be was where the earth was turned over like a giant spade. The big oak let loose its seeds, and there you are with a bunch of new trees. I’ve got to get back to the house, but take all the time you need to look it over."
"Thanks," was the only word to came out of Steve’s mouth. Slowly he drifted back to the Scow and started up the trusty engine for the drive home. Steve was wondering what home really was, and where it was.
The tracks that he and so many other racers had laid down in the decades before was now a place for the youthful saplings. As the Scow moved slowly down the gravel road the only sound in his head were his own words of "I’ve got to get back to the race. The race is everything in life." Steve turned right onto Highway 2.
