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2007
A year to remember, to forget

I’m seven.  It’s morning.  I’m wearing a cowboy hat and gun holster for Halloween.  At full tilt I jump the lake of a puddle in-between me and the first step of a big yellow school bus filled with sixteen kids - all waiting for me.  My feet land the step but my ass doesn’t have the height.  It all goes bad.  From flat on my back, elbows deep in muddy water, with a straw hat cocked half across my brow I look up at Mr. Smith.  His face is wrinkled in disgust.  His hairy hand grips the squeaky silver knob just waiting to swing that folding door shut on my boots to go pick up more kids.  He rumbles, “Nice move kid….  So, you comin or goin?”

I got up and went – wet ass, back, books and all. 

That day sucked.  I’ll always remember it.  Milk was 5¢ a pint and my draws were still wet by lunch.

Last year I made a movie about the year.  It wasn’t very good.  I knew nothing compared to what I know now.  But now I’ve got nothing to edit.  The irony is killing me.

I’ve been told a thousand times by now, usually after trouble, “Just try the modern inlines.  They’re not what you remember.”  So after things went to hell in a handbasket for me this year, I did try the modern inlines.  Holy shit they’re fast.  And light as a bitch too.  It took thirty laps…  just thirty, laps, to go faster than I ever had on a Duc. 

So I found speed again.  But I’d lost the heart.
I finally had the power that I’ve always chased, in my own grip.  But I didn’t care. 
I’d made it back, to the track.  But this wasn’t the track.

I did the math this fall.  Cost me 5G’s to run Buttonwillow backwards.  5G’s for one weekend.  That drove a point home – you wanna race anymore, you’re gonna have to pay, a lot.  Good luck getting me to drop boat loads of cash into something my heart’s not set on.  Go ask Tracy when Macy’s is set to deliver our new pink rug.  Yeah, right.  That’s gonna happen. 

So I sent the Suzuki back.  Good people, great bike, wonderful opportunity.  Just not for me. 

I remember Michael Lock telling me once that Brian Catterson’s cut arm would bleed Ducati red.  Just the way he was – front to back.  I remember Adamo making fun of me as I ran my FZR600 up the ramp into his van.  He said my bike was gay - I threw him into a pool.  I miss NY. 

So maybe all the dog-fights came from some place deeper.  Maybe those bikes really are different.  Maybe I’m just dumb.  But I did learn a few things this year.  And I’m glad it’s finally over. 

Here’s to a better 08, for everyone.  I don't drink but I'm gettin' shit faced this Monday..

Love and hugs, GoGo

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