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Bagwell By Dimelza Cassidy Just a story about motorcycles and cross-dressing For many reasons I had abandoned organized motorcycling. I lost interest once big money and television ruined it by taking it mainstream. "Sonny" Barger even went corporate writing two books and touring to sell them. A headline in the business section of the New York Times chronicled Harley Davidson buying itself from American Machine and Foundry. "What Did the Hell's Angels and the California Highway Patrol Have in Common?" A picture of the buyout group surrounded a production motorcycle, while the story spoke of the huge financial transaction. Consequently, I surprised myself by attending a motorcycle club race at New Hampshire International Speedway. Even the Speedway had gone corporate. The track holds two NASCAR events plus local events. Its rebuild left only remnants of the original track. The motorcycle road course combines parts of the super speedway with parts of the infield and the old track. I rode my '70's motorcycle commonly known at the time as a UJM (Universal Japanese Motorcycle) into the pit area, parked it, and started a tour. Not much had changed: orderly garages, repaved portions of the track, and uneatable food. The current crop of racers had better equipment...and flaunted it. Campers pulled tandem axle trailers; fifth-wheel trailers were dragged behind custom pick-up trucks; and some of those trailers came with combined living and shop quarters. Even club racing had gone "up town." As I walked the pit area I saw a tired Lumina mini-van attached to a prehistoric three-railed trailer. Next to it sat an early '90's Moto- Liberty 125cc GP bike. Its stick-on letters spelled out Bagwell Racing. I paused for a moment to take a nostalgic-laden look at the bike. Ancient by today's standards, but in its day it had been a runner. In the hands of a good tuner the potent two-stroke could run with the 600cc four-stroke race bikes. In its current state of repair it could hardly keep pace with the latest and greatest from Honda and Aprilla. As I viewed the bike from a distance a girl who couldn't have been more than eighteen approached it dressed in ill-fitting, well-worn leathers. She and the other racers in her class prepared themselves for their event. She was unique in that she worked alone. I too had worked alone. Van driver, mechanic, rider-all rolled into one. The memories stirred my emotions; I hoped no one noticed the tear I wiped from my eye. She took the bike from its stand, mounted it, and pushed it to the pre- starting area. I followed from a distance, spurred by a need to watch her race. The other racers in her class walked along behind while crew members pushed their bikes, carried stands, and pulled along the remote starters. She didn't have a remote starter, making me wonder how she intended to fire up her engine. When the club officials gave the signal to proceed to the track to take their warm-up laps, she slipped the bike into gear, squeezed the clutch, and then ran with it to build enough speed to jump on and bump-start the engine. Once her bike came to life I was put off by its anemic sound. She completed her warm-up lap, took her position on the grid, and then waited. The one-minute board came up, and then turned sideways. When the green light flashed she popped the clutch and bogged the engine -- allowing several other riders to pass her. She had fallen to last place amongst a group of fifteen. As she entered turn one and headed for the esses I chuckled as she tried to emulate the riding styles of the Hayden and Bostrom brothers. No one must have told her that hanging off the bike by itself won't steer it. She did manage to improve her position down the short chute leading to the old track section but lost positions again because of her cornering style. As the racers came down the hill and headed toward the infield she had picked up a position, but lost it through the second set of esses. She then gained four positions as she headed down the NASCAR front-stretch. After she positioned herself for turn one and the second of seven laps, she raised her left hand to signal the others that she had a problem. Her engine had seized; a common occurrence for 125cc two-strokes with incorrect fuel-air jetting. She had incorrectly set-up the bike; and she now faced an engine rebuild. The safety truck drove to her assistance. The driver helped her push the bike onto the truck; and she and the bike made their way back to the pit area. I walked back to the vicinity of her van curious as to how she would react to her bad luck. As she pushed the bike back to her trailer a thirty-something woman wearing jeans and a t-shirt joined her. The woman, who could have been the girl's mother, hadn't lost her beauty, but looked worn. Together they pushed the bike onto the trailer and strapped it down. The mother then packed the van while daughter changed into shorts and a halter top. When the race ended, her fellow competitors returned to the pit area. "Hey, Bagwell," the winner said. "You should change the name to 'Bag Lady Racing.'" The others laughed. "Give it up, Bagwell," he said. "You'll never get any where with that old piece of junk." The mother frowned fiercely. Her daughter's shoulders drooped but she didn't say anything to the boys. "Leave us alone," the mother said, as she tried in vain to console her daughter. The young men laughed as they moved on to their next conquest. The Bagwells finished loading their van, and then headed toward the facilities to wash up. I searched my jacket for a business card from my dormant motorcycle repair business to place on the windshield of their van. I hadn't decided if I pitied them - or genuinely wanted to help them -- or if I wanted to punish the arrogant leader of the laughing-boys. I stayed long enough to watch the 750cc race. Upon arriving home I showered, shaved, powered my face, pulled on my brown pageboy wig, put on a caftan, stepped into four-inch heel sandals, and clattered to the kitchen to prepare something to eat. Living as a hermit freed me from the rigors of motorcycling, society, Prozac, and life itself. Survival outside my three-bedroom suburban cell consisted of infrequent trips to buy provisions. Since I filled my days with reading Victorian and Lost Generation novels, television and radio did not exist in my cell. As I prepared my meal, I questioned myself about leaving my telephone number with the teen-aged girl and her mother. Did I want to help them, or was I making one more attempt at life. My meal eaten and my kitchen cleaned I situated myself at my desk and began to re-read "Sons and Lovers" by D.H. Lawrence. I had an affinity for all that was Lawrence and owned his entire body of work: poems, plays, novels, short stories, and novellas. I would alternate between the novels and the short stories; reading them in succession left me no time to contemplate. I had given up thinking. I had picked up the telephone receiver to stop it from ringing and hadn't bothered to give a salutation. "Is this Barton's Motorcycle Repairs? --- May I speak to Jonathan Barton?" "Yes," I finally answered. "My name is Becca Bagwell and I found - err - my mom found your business card on our van. Can you help us? We're trying to make a race team, but we keep breaking down. We don't know what to do, and every shop that we take the bike to can't seem to fix the problem." The call didn't surprise me. The desperation in her voice moved me to want to help them, but it would also mean that I would have to leave my sanctuary. "Drop the bike off and I'll see what I can do. You may have a jetting problem. Two-strokes are finicky." Even though I was interested, I could barely register emotion with my voice. "That's what the last shop said. They said they fixed it -- and the engine wouldn't break any more." I imagined tears in her eyes. "Jetting has to be set at the time of the race, if it isn't the engine will seize-up." "How much do you charge to rebuild motors?" she asked hesitantly. "Let's see what's broken...then we can talk money," I mumbled. "When can Mom and I bring it over?" Her voice had once again found strength. "Tomorrow." "We'll see you then. Do you think that you could have it ready for the next race?" I again sensed urgency. "When is that?" I deadpanned. "Two weeks from yesterday." "Let's see what's wrong first." Her "Bye, now" had contained a glimmer of hope amongst all of her desperation. I really did want to help, but feared involvement and participation, and the unending cycle of wine and Prozac outside my confined and controlled world. I opened the door to my garage dressed in a cotton bra and overalls; cleaning one of my bikes was the order of the day. "Is this Barton's Motorcycle repair?" The gleaming metal on my bike offered a reflection of the young woman I saw at HNIS standing in the doorway. "Yes it is." I didn't look up. "I'm Becca and this is my mom, Rita," she said. At the mention of her mother I turned my head; both mother and daughter wore jeans and t-shirts. Becca had blonde-hair and blue-eyes and looked like a petite model. Her mother's brown hair had begun to gray and her eyes had darkened. I sensed both Bagwells held desperate hope I could fix their wounded beast. "We've had this bike to four different shops; and each time they said that it wouldn't break, but it keeps breaking and every engine rebuild costs us seven hundred-fifty dollars," Rita said. "I think the problem its carburetion; and I'll bet when I take it apart, I'll find a burned piston." Even I was amazed by the dry and lifeless tone of my voice. "The shops keep saying it's a cooling problem," Rita said. "They're in part correct." I was so full of myself. "Running the engine lean causes heat -- so to combat the heat the mixture needs to be richened. Gas acts as a coolant. I'm surprised the shops didn't tell you that. By the way, where did you get this bike?" "E-Bay," Becca replied. "Did you look at it before you bought it?" I sounded very condescending and made no apology. "It came from Florida; and we bought it from pictures and the description." I shook my head and helped them unload the bike and push it into the garage. "Call me tomorrow, and I'll let you know what broke." "Are these your bikes?" Becca asked as she looked around my garage. "Yes." "What does the green number plate mean? I've never seen a green plate." "That bike is set up to race in the Vintage Super Bike class. The sanctioning body won't approve it for racing so there it sits." "What does the yellow plate mean?" Rita asked. "That's a novice plate. When you win a few races, you'll move up to that class; and when you win a few more races you'll move up to expert; white with black numbers. Like that one over there." "You raced?" Becca asked. "Yes, but not any more." I tried to dismiss them by continuing my monotone as my bra straps dug into my shoulders. Rita received the message. "We'll call you tomorrow." The mother and daughter left me standing in the garage next to their decrepit bike. After closing the garage door I removed my overalls and headed for the safety of my wig and caftan. The next day work started on the bike. After removing the body work I noticed that the engine had been changed to a moto-cross motor. Someone must not have realized the difference between a road race and a moto- cross engine. The engine had in fact seized. It needed a new piston and rings and the barrel needed a clean-up hone. With proper jetting the top end would no longer fail. I cleaned up the wiring and went through the remainder of the bike to correct all that had been done in the past. After the engine disassembly, I washed up a bit and headed to the local Honda dealership. "Jonathan Barton? I thought you were dead? Where have you been?" Josh Wilson had been one of the best Honda parts men in the business. He rarely relied on the computer. He could look at a part, close his eyes, duck into the parts room, and then return with the correct replacement part. He also priced parts honestly. "I've been around, Josh," I said. "What have you been up to?" "I own the place now," he said. "Well half of it. Bought it with Paul, when Junior got out. Paul runs the showroom." "Good for you, good luck with it," I said feeling and expressing a bit of joy. One of the old gang had succeeded. "By the way do you have a piston and rings for a Honda CR125R?" "You going moto-cross racing, Jon?" Josh said with a laugh. "No. I'm working on a 125cc GP bike for someone." "Are you sure you're not going racing?" Josh said questioning my response with what seemed like hope. "No. I'm out of it," I said. "Someone asked me to prep a bike for them." I showed Josh the requested parts. He, in robot-like fashion headed into the parts room, and then returned a moment later with a new barrel, piston, rings, cylinder head and gasket set, and a carburetor rebuilding kit and jet kit. "I figured that you'd need these so I tossed them in," he said. "What else do you need today?" "You know what?" I said. "Give me a set of tires, medium compound, 110/90/16 front and a140/90/16 rear, and a set of front and rear brake pads for a 125cc GP bike. I just spent the equivalent of a month's living expense on someone I didn't even know --and had no intention of asking for payment. Did I want to participate in life, or did I just want to go racing again? "I'll have the tires tomorrow afternoon. You okay with that?" "Yes, sure," I said. "It'll give me time to put the engine together and break down the tires. Do you mind mounting and balancing them for me?" "No problem. I'll knock them out in no time." I returned to the safety of my garage and started work on the bike, taking it down to the bare frame. By late afternoon work on the frame had been completed. I then began the tedious task of fitting the rings to the bore then attaching the rings to the new piston. The day ended when the assembled engine sat on my work bench. Back in my cell, I showered, shaved, put on a skirt, a cotton sweater, knee highs, sandals, a shag-styled wig, and make-up. I prepared dinner, ate it, and retired to the den to listen to a recording of an Alan Watts lecture. After the lecture, I called it a day and readied my self for bed by donning a cathedral-length nightgown. In bed I thought back to the teasing that Becca received when her engine quit. I loathed the arrogance of her fellow racers; the camaraderie of days gone by no longer existed. The riders of my era also longed for the lucrative factory ride, but today's riders attempt to buy their way to success. Race schools or track day schools didn't exist years ago. We taught ourselves to race through experimentation. Crashed street bikes became race bikes. Modern street bikes require little to be competitive. A set of tires, an exhaust pipe, some bodywork, and they're ready to race. Becca seemed to be attempting to do it the old-fashioned way. Rise through the ranks and learn along the way. I envied her determination to succeed. Such determination had left me long ago. After my morning coffee, I put the engine back into the frame and turned my attention to the carburetor, which required re-jetting. It would have to be richened to run in the mountain air of New Hampshire. I put the gas tank back on, pushed the bike down the drive, and bump started the engine. It sounded stronger than it had; and it would definitely run a lot better. Further jetting changes would have to be made at the track. Fear of leaving the sanctity of the cell to attend her next race weighed heavily on my mind. Like Pavlov's dogs, I responded to the sound of the telephone. "Mr. Barton," Becca said. "Did you finish my bike?" "Just about. I have to mount and balance the tires." "I can't afford tires" "Yes you can. Got a good deal on them, plus they're my gift to you." "I can't accept it. Mom would make me pay for them." "I'll deal with your mom. You just race the bike." "When can Mom and I pick up the bike?" "Saturday morning." On the way to the dealership with the motorcycle's rims, I thought about what I would say to Rita to justify the gift, and if she would think that it was attempt to seduce her teenage daughter? Josh took the rims and mounted and balanced the two tires while I watched. "Jon, did you know that Eric was building a new race bike?" "No. I lost contact with the old gang. How's he doing?" "He and his wife broke up, but he still has his shop; and he's still racing. After you stopped working on his bikes he hasn't done much. Why don't you give him a call?" "Maybe I will," I said. "He'll be glad to hear from you." Upon returning to my garage, I completed the final assembly of the bike. A good push down the drive to start it, and then a ride around the housing development to scrub the tires completed the work. The bike had good acceleration in first gear; and it felt good to be riding a race bike and working for someone other than myself. Becca and her mom arrived on Saturday morning and saw a freshly painted and detailed race bike. "Mr. Barton, there is no way that we can pay you for the work that you did." Rita said, clearly annoyed. "Listen Rita, I did it for your daughter. I want to see her do well." "We don't want your charity." It was obvious Rita had become hardened by time and the rigors of raising a daughter alone. For a moment I thought about the circumstances surrounding her life but thought better of commenting. "When your daughter wins her first race, let me hold the trophy for awhile. That will be payment enough." She shook her head. "I'll pay you what the other shops would have charged for what you did. It'll be a small amount each week. In the meantime, come over to our house for dinner tonight. We appreciate you kindness, but in the future... ." "What ever," I responded. If she did pay me I'd find a way to return it. The Bagwells' money didn't excite me as much as the offer of a decent meal. She wrote her address on a piece of paper and handed it to me. "Come by at seven this evening." We loaded the bike onto their trailer; and I watched them depart thinking about the evening's meal. Dressed in jeans and a blue oxford cloth shirt I parked my truck in front of the Bagwell residence. They lived in the basement apartment of a three-family house. Becca greeted me at the door dressed in yellow cotton sundress. She looked every bit the teenage girl. Her mother wore a black pencil skirt and white cotton shell. As I descended the three concrete steps I noticed exposed plumbing, concrete floors, and ceiling height windows. Through skillful placement of pictures and doodads they had made it their home. Rita offered me a drink and a seat at their kitchen table. I chose water. The use of alcohol, Prozac, and tobacco ended when life within the confines of my cell began. She sipped wine while Becca had a Dr. Pepper. Becca broke the uncomfortable silence. "Mr. Barton, did you ever race at Daytona?" "Yes, many years ago; battle-of-the-twins one year; and superbike another year." "You rode a superbike?" "The superbikes of my day were a lot different than today. I raced the bike you saw with the green plate" "It looks like an old street bike." "That's what we raced back then." An uncomfortable silence once again fell upon the room. "Mr. Barton," Rita said. "Do you think Becca has a chance of becoming a real motorcycle racer?" Reading between the lines of her anxiety I saw and heard a mother fearful for her daughter's life. "She has the desire and the motivation to race. Only time will tell. If she continues to develop, she'll be competitive." "Could she win on that bike?" She motioned to the bike parked in the corner of their living space. The neighborhood they lived in forced them to keep it indoors. "It still has some life in it, "I said. "It's a good learning tool. Once she can ride it she will be ready for bigger and faster bikes." Rita's body language grew tense with my mention of faster bikes. Silence again returned. "Mom, dinner's ready," Becca said. "I hope you like meat loaf," Rita said. "That will be fine." My meals consisted of canned soup and white bread. We ate in relative silence. As I savored the meal I began to further investigate the apartment: pictures of Becca growing up, a prominently displayed high school graduation photo, a few other pictures of Rita, but no pictures of men. Becca had to come from somewhere. Did Mr. Bagwell exist? After the meal, Becca took a seat next to me and placed a photo album on my lap. "Would you like to look at my racing pictures?" "Yes, thank you. Becca, why motorcycle racing?" I leafed through the pictures waiting for her answer. "I watched the motorcycle races on the Speed Channel and wanted to give it a try." Her mother shifted her body in her chair. "Where did you learn to ride?" I asked. "I took the state rider course." Those few words spoke volumes. I now knew the reason for her poor clutch control and lack of cornering skills. State programs processed riders. Most of the individuals teaching the program couldn't use the clutch or corner. They possessed an arrogance that prohibited questions that fell outside the realm of their coveted curriculum. The instructors must have been intimidated by her road-race oriented questions. "Did you enjoy the course?" I asked. "Not really. Everyone just wanted a license, and kept asking about the test. I tried to ask questions, but the instructors just told us to do things and never commented about our progress. When we finished one exercise they set up another and another. When the course ended everyone got their permit stamped. They thought that I failed the skill test when my permit wasn't stamped." Feeling badly for her, the story re-enforced my decision to leave organized motorcycling. At one time I taught the state course but grew disillusioned by the politics and the in-fighting. Morality took a back seat to the smell of money and left behind a trail of broken training motorcycles and poorly-trained riders. Rita served coffee and cake. At her daughter's age, she must have been a beauty with every randy-eyed boy chasing her. Apparently one caught her and rendered Becca fatherless. I hesitated to ask and fell back on chit-chat. What do you do for a living?" I asked. "I'm a supervisor at the Wal-Mart. How do you make a living?" she asked. "I live alone and pick and choose things to occupy my time." "Why did you leave that card on my van?" She moved right into the meat of the conversation. "I took exception to the racers that entertained themselves at your daughter's expense." I glanced at my watch, noticed the time, and excused myself after complimenting the Bagwells on their satisfying meal. "Thank you for coming; and I'll send you some money later in the week to pay you for the work that you did." Rita said. I knew better than to argue. "Let me know how you do next week," I said Once locked in my cell and dressed in my silk nightgown I crawled into bed. "Hi, it's Becca," the voice at the other end of the telephone said. "Mom wants to know if you want to come to the races?" "Your mom wants me to come, but you don't?" "No," she said, laughing. "I want you to come too, but Mom asked me to call you. She wants you to watch over me. She can be such a mom at times." "I'll let you know. Call me at this time tomorrow." I agreed the next day to again become a participant in the club motorcycle racing life. They arrived at my cell at seven o'clock in the morning. I had packed my seldom-used tool cart with track day necessities. Most importantly: a thermometer, barometer, and humidity gauge to take readings during the day to re-jet the carburetor for maximum performance. The one-hour ride to the Speedway passed in virtual silence with Becca sleeping most of the way. Upon arrival, we unloaded the bike, set it on its stand, unloaded the tools, and checked over the bike one last time. As Becca went to the ladies' room to change I took out the gauges and took readings to satisfy myself that the carburetor contained the correct jetting. Becca returned from the ladies' room dressed in the aging leathers accented with a new helmet, gloves, and boots. Her mom had sacrificed everything she could to protect her daughter. Rita went to the pit wall while I pushed the bike to the pre-start area. Becca walked proudly behind her bike. "Hey 'Bag Lady' what in the hell is pushing your bike?" Mr. Arrogance from the previous event asked. She didn't acknowledge him. "Bag Lady, I'm talking to you." I stopped pushing the bike, placed it on its stand, and stared at him. We made eye contact until he grew uncomfortable and sulked away. When the race official gave the signal to start the 125cc GP bike practice, Becca mounted the bike, put it in gear, and motioned me to start pushing. Old age and too many cigarettes earlier in my life left me winded. The engine sounded crisp as she rode down pit road to make her way onto the track. The engine pulled strongly in each gear. If she could corner, she would own her competition. She had natural ability, good reflexes, and a track sense. When the practice session ended, her fellow racers wandered over to the van. "Bag Lady," a competitor asked. "What happened to that junk of yours? It's going like all get out." She ignored him and began wiping off the collected rubber from the tires. "Becca," another one asked, "is that your old bike, or is it new?" It surprised me to hear someone address her by her name. It further surprised me to hear her answer the question. I sensed that she liked the young man. "Are you bothering my daughter?" Rita asked him as she returned to the van. "No, Mom," Becca said. "Ben asked if I got a new bike. He's not like the others." As they talked, I checked gauges and the bike in anticipation of the next practice session. The second practice session mirrored the first with the bike running strong. Rita prepared sandwiches for lunch. "Can I take Becca for a walk around the track?" I asked Rita. "I'd like to help her with her cornering skills." "May I tag along?" "Mom," Becca said. "No, Becca. Your mom can come. She can help." She reluctantly accepted. Becca, her mom, and I headed toward turn one and the esses. I asked Rita to stand at the start of the short straight heading toward the up hill one hundred-eighty degree turn that connected the old and new sections of the track. With Rita in place, I asked Becca to point to her mother and walk toward her. I followed behind. When she started to look around, I shouted, "Concentrate on where you're going." The eighteen-year old moved faster than my aging legs and lungs could endure. I grew tired and winded but managed to keep up. "Concentrate! Look to where you want to be. As you approach your mom, shift your vision to the next corner. Forget about the short straight." As we approached her mom, her vision jumped to the next corner, her lane position changed for the better. I laughed between coughs and gasps for air. "Did you realize that you straightened out the esses by concentrating and looking two to three turns ahead?" I asked. "That's amazing. How did I do that?" "When you focus on where you want to be and not on how to get there, you shorten the track. When they call your race, go through this section as we walked it and I guarantee you that you will pick up maybe two-three places. I guarantee it." The pit announcer called for the riders in Becca's race. "I'm a bit nervous about trying that stuff." "You'll be fine," I said. "The first time through will be difficult, but you'll get it." Her mom bit the knuckle of her right index finger. We repeated the starting process; and after the warm-up lap Becca took her position on the starting grid. I hoped for the best but knew that her lack of clutch control would cause a poor start. It was no shock to me when she fell to last place getting off the line. I stood up on the pit wall to watch her go through the esses. She seemed reluctant to try the new technique and lost more ground to the other racers. Heading down the short straight she caught up a bit, but lost ground at the turn. On the NASCAR straight she picked up four positions. The motor ran strong and would hold together for the race. She entered turn one and the esses, and tried the technique I had taught her. She managed to pass another rider. With her entry onto the old section smoothed, she passed yet another rider. At the end of lap four of the ten lap race, she had positioned herself in eighth place. The top seven riders had broken away from the others. As the laps wound down, she grew more comfortable with her cornering. She no longer tried to emulate the others. A style developed and it appeared to be a good one. With time she'd become a proficient racer ... IF her mother would allow me to continue to tutor her. The racers took the checkered flag and the way she sat on her bike spoke to her joy in finishing the race. The top three finishers headed toward victory lane while the remaining competitors went back to the pits. When she arrived I steadied the bike so she could dismount. I placed the bike on the stand while Becca leaped with joy. Her mom arrived and hugged her. "Mom," she said, "after two years of trying, we finally finished a race. She looked to me -- shy at first -- but then she grinned and gave me a big hug. She held me tight then suddenly stopped and backed away. She looked at me silently then burst into laughter. She kept shouting between her laugh. "Thank you. Thank you." Her mom smiled at me with her eyes and silently said the same thing. Ben, who finished in seventh place came over and congratulated her. "Becca, what did you do to the bike?" "Mr. Barton fixed it and he helped me with the corners," she said. "He's the greatest." I quietly smiled, and then walked toward the men's room. Becca had felt the bra straps beneath my sweat shirt, but I assumed her laughter came from the joy of finishing the race and not from her discovery. "Bag Lady," the arrogant race winner was saying as I came back, "you actually finished a race. Did you ride the bike, or did that old fool ride it?" "Shut up and go away, Joey," Ben said. "You in love with this kid, or something?" Joey asked. Ben stiffened. "Leave her alone; and let her enjoy her success for a moment." Joey sneered and sauntered away. After packing the van we began the trip back to my cell. Becca had fallen asleep on the rear seat. "Mr. Barton," Rita asked. "Do you think that my daughter will succeed?" "She has talent, but, she's a bit old to be starting out. Most of the riders out there started racing at five or six-years old. She has a lot of catching up to do." "Do you think that she'll ever win a race?" "She'll win, but she has old equipment and she's facing a substantial learning curve. If she doesn't get discouraged, she'll win." "Will you help her?" Her concern ran deep. "Do you want me to?" "Yes," she said. "I can't pay you much, but if you could teach her what she needs to know I will be forever grateful." "I can only do so much. I can take her to a point, and then she'll have to go to a racing school." "She already went to school to get her racing license." "That's not enough. She'll have to be tutored by professionals. "That would be expensive, won't it?" "A bit," I said, wondering if there were ways that I could help reduce the expense through my contacts. When we arrived at my house, Becca remained sleeping. I took my tools from the back of the van and said goodnight to Rita. I entered my cell and headed for the shower to wash away the track and the thought of coaching Becca. The telephone interrupted my shower. "Mr. Barton," Becca's voice exploded through the receiver. "Mom said that you would help me learn to race. Is that true?" "Yes," I said. "I'll help you as much, and as I can. "Can we start tomorrow," she asked, her enthusiasm making my effort all worthwhile. "Don't you go to work or go to school?" "No. I dropped out of Community College to race, and I work part-time sometimes." "Where do you work?" "At the Harley boutique at the mall." "Come over tomorrow; and we'll work on a few things." "What time?" "Noon." I dressed in a nightgown and crawled into bed for a restless sleep. She arrived at my cell filled with energy. She rode an aging mountain bike. "Before we start anything," I said, "we have to talk." "What about?" She eyed me suspiciously. "I will help you, but you have to go back to school." "You sound like Mom." "If you want my help, you'll have to go back to school. Learn anything...something." "I'm not interested in that stuff." "You don't have to be interested in 'that' stuff," I said. "Become interested in 'some' stuff. Other than racing, what excites you?" She thought then answered. "I like to read. Old stuff." "What old stuff." "I like James Joyce and Dorothy Parker." I nearly feel over, and then motioned Becca to go into the den. I followed. "Feel free to read what ever you like," I said. Becca gazed upon the complete works of Joyce, Parker, Pound, Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Russell. She removed a leather bound first edition of Ulysses and caressed it. "You'll let me borrow this?" she asked hesitantly. "Yes." "Thank you," she said, as she once again hugged me as she'd done the day before. She released me after feeling my bra and looked at me without speaking. I wondered if she would ask me about it. "Mr. Barton, are we going to work on riding today?" "We have to work on your starting line technique," I said. "You lose precious track position because you can't get going. Then once you do get going your shifts are so bad you lose even more ground." "What do I do wrong?" "I'll show you. Let's go out to the garage. We can use the trailbike." "Aren't you going to start it?" she asked as she mounted the bike. "No not yet," I said. "Squeeze the clutch, put the bike in first gear, then wait." She did as I asked. "I'm going to pull you and the bike toward me...as I do so I want you to slowly ease out the clutch and feel the bike as it comes to a stop." As I moved the bike forward she let go of the clutch lever and caused the bike to come to an abrupt stop. "That's your problem," I scolded. "You have no clutch feel. We have to develop it so you can get going without stalling or bogging the bike at the start. Let's try again." A better attempt followed with a smoother stop. "Again," I said. We repeated the process over and over, but she didn't understand the concept and was becoming bored by the seemingly pointless effort. "When we start the bike," I said, "you will understand what we've practiced. Hop off the bike; and I'll kick start it. We'll try it with the engine running." "I'll start it," she said with annoyance. The bike came to life after the third tentative kick. When it reached operating temperature, we started the process again. She stalled the bike on the first attempt, and then suddenly realized that by feeling the clutch engagement she could increase the throttle, and then slip the clutch a bit more to get the bike moving without stalling the engine. I had her complete attention. "Let's go out to the street and try a few race starts. You don't have to go too far. I just want you to get the feel of the take-off." We launched the bike about a dozen times; and with each attempt she got better and better. "That's enough for today," I said. "When can we continue? Can I come over tomorrow?" "Come over at noon," I said. "By the way how often do you ride that mountain bike?" "Every day." "Keep riding it. Ride at least ten miles a day; and ride up hills. Build up your wind and your legs. A motorcycle road racer has to be physically fit." "Okay, I'll see you tomorrow." "You can come in and wash up if you like." "Thank you." I directed Becca to the bathroom, and then realized that she would see a bra or two hanging from the shower curtain, my nightgown, and possibly a pair of nylons. She came out of the bath looking at me the same as she had done twice before. I wanted to believe her face registered more wonder than disgust. It didn't matter. Life in the cell would continue with or without the Bagwell girls. After Becca left I dressed in a royal blue, pleated, calf length, high neck, short sleeved, shirred waist dress, black hose and shoes, conservative make-up, and a black pageboy wig. I then reconciled my depleted checkbook. Her bike repair had left me one month short. To silence the telephone I answered it. "Jon, it's Josh. I need a favor. Could you come down to the shop and take a look at a bike for me? It's a shovel head Harley and none of the kids know what to do with it. It belongs to a long-time customer; and he wants it running again." "What's wrong with it?" I asked. "We're not sure. It's not running; and the kids can't figure out a points-activated ignition system." "Tomorrow okay?" I asked as I didn't feel like changing my clothes yet again. "Not really," he said. "We're behind the eight ball. It's been here for a week; and he wants to pick it up tomorrow." "I'll be over in about an hour." I thought of going to the shop dressed as I was, but decided against it. Getting a perfectly good dress dirty with grease and oil didn't make sense to me. I arrived at the dealership and met up with Josh. He took me out to the shop and led me to the 1977 Harley Davidson Low Rider. I looked it over and attempted to start it. Unsuccessful, I turned to Josh. "What's been done to it?" "Not much. The kids tried to set the points but nothing happened." "Which one worked on it?" Josh motioned to a young man I recognized as Becca's friend, Ben. He offered a hand with an uncomfortable grin. "Hello Ben," I said. "How are you?" "Okay, I guess. I thought that I could fix this bike, but I really have no idea what to do." "Do you want to learn?" He shook his head eagerly. "Okay. Help me put it up on the table." Ben, Josh, and I pushed the bike onto a work table and tied it down. "Jon," Josh said, "I'll pay you straight time. Fifty an hour?" "That's fine," I said, "What about Ben?" "If he learns something, it'll be payment enough." Ben blushed as Josh and I conversed. Josh went back out to the parts counter; and Ben and I were left standing next to the bike. I removed the points cover and noticed that the cam that opens and closes the points had become worn. "Take a look. Do you see this? The cam is supposed to have a sharper edge. Do you see how rounded off this one has become? Tell you what, take the spark plugs out and put the battery on charge, and then I'll show you what I mean." Ben obeyed and accomplished the task in what seemed like seconds. He seemed accomplished at what he understood, but had become overwhelmed by technology that pre-dated him by ten years. "When I press the starter, I want you to watch the cam lobe." As the engine spun he realized that the points were not opening or closing. I removed the points and the cam and sent him off to Josh to get replacements. When Ben returned, I showed him how to re-install the parts. "Take a look at these spark plugs and tell me what you see?" I asked. "They're black and sooty." "What does that tell you?" "I'm not sure." He was tentative, but inquisitive. "It should tell you that the air fuel mixture's wrong. How would you fix that? "I'd hook it up to the gas analyzer and change the mixture." "What if you didn't have the analyzer?" I asked. "What would you do?" He looked puzzled and didn't answer. "Tell you what," I said. "Make a list of what you think you need to get this bike running, and then take it to Josh. After that, do the repair and let's see what happens. I'll watch, you work." It appeared that Ben feared me. Perhaps my cold hard stare at his racing buddy was fresh in his mind; and he feared that he would get one of the same if he made a mistake. He returned a short time later with spark plugs, an ignition wire set, a coil, a carburetor rebuilding kit, a fuel filter, and an air filter. He first set the points to the suggested gap then installed the spark plugs, wires, and coil. He had started to remove the fuel line when I stopped him. "The fuel filter is in the tank. It's on the other end of the fuel supply valve. You'll have to remove the fuel tank and take it out. He blushed, and then drained the tank. I stopped him there. "Smell the gas?" I asked. "Does it smell funny?" "Yes it does." "That's the smell of stale gas; and it's part of the reason why the bike won't start. When the gas is drained, let's flush out the tank and inspect it for rust." I sensed urgency in his efforts; he appeared to have a good work ethic. While the tank soaked, Ben removed the air filter and the carburetor. As he examined the air filter he looked puzzled. He saw dried out foam stretched over a wire mesh frame. "That's a sponge-type air filter. Check the new one and let's see what Josh gave us." He opened the box and removed a paper element filter. "Josh gave us an aftermarket replacement. Check the fit." It fit within the confines of the air filter housing. We had spent the better part of four hours on the bike and had yet to attempt to start it -- and we hadn't touched the carburetor. "Have you ever rebuilt this type of carburetor?" I asked. He shook his head "No time like the present." With all of the pieces spread across his work bench, he cleaned and inspected the reusable parts and then began the process of re-assembly. It took him far longer than it should. I chalked it up to inexperience and nerves. I hoped that he would hurry as my girdle, hose, and bra had become annoying and uncomfortable. At about eleven o'clock he had finally completed the carburetor rebuild and the fuel tank wash. He added fresh gas, checked the oil, and the strength of the battery. Satisfied with his work, he turned the key and pressed the start button. The engine spun but didn't start. "What did you forget?" I asked. He checked over his work one more time and once again looked puzzled. "Turn the fuel on, young man." I chuckled. He blushed, and then turned on the fuel and then attempted to start the bike again. The engine settled into an uneasy idle. He turned to me with a look of disgust. "Mr. Barton, it sounds awful." "Let's review a minute. We installed points, correct." He nodded. "Do you think that the points may affect the overall ignition timing?" He shut off the engine and connected an ignition timing light then re- started the engine. Using the light he viewed the timing marks and re- set the engine timing to the correct specifications. With the timing now set, the engine sounded a bit better. He turned to me. The look said it all; he was bewildered as to why the engine did not fully respond. I glanced toward his cherished exhaust gas analyzer. Realizing that he had completed carburetor work he then knew that it needed a final setting. He shut off the engine connected the analyzer and re-started it. He took his readings and adjusted the air-fuel mixture. The engine responded and fell into the typical Harley lope that I had grown to loathe. He smiled. "Thank you. I really learned a lot in these past few hours. "Few hours? It's three thirty in the morning." "Oh my god. My parents will kill me." "No they won't." I laughed. "Josh called them and told them that you were pulling an all-nighter." A tired smile cloaked his face as he shook my hand. "Let's get out of here," I said. I returned to my cell, removed my bra, girdle, and hose and fell onto the bed too tired to shower and put on my nightgown. Awakened by the sound of Becca's knock at the front door, I leapt out of bed. "Becca," I said, standing nearly naked, staring around a partially- opened door. "I forgot all about you. Let me get dressed and we'll start our lesson." I threw on jeans and a t-shirt and raced to the garage where she was waiting. "Let's put the trail bike in the truck and go to the high school parking lot. There's a nice slope to it that will be suitable for what I want to try to accomplish today." We arrived at the parking lot, unloaded the bike, and pushed it to the top of the slope. "Put your helmet and gloves on and wear this jacket. I don't want you to get hurt." She did as I asked. "Watch what I do then you try to do the same." I mounted the bike, gave it a good push off, then coasted halfway down the slope. As the bike moved forward, I removed my left hand from the bar grip and put it behind my back, turned my head to the right then pressed on the right hand grip. That act caused the bike to make a one hundred-eighty degree turn to the right. When the bike lost momentum, I dismounted and pushed it up the slope. "You try it," I gasped, winded from the effort. With a good push, she built up some speed then removed her left hand, turned her head toward me, and pressed on the hand grip. She didn't make the turn. "You have to trust it, Becca. The bike won't turn unless you first look and then press on that right hand grip. Let's try it again. Forget everything; and just look at me; and come toward me." She succeeded. "Okay," I said. "Let's try it with the engine running. Start out, up shift to second gear, make the turn, and ride the bike back to me. We made twenty passes in each direction until it became second nature. We loaded up the bike and called it a day. "What was that all about?" she asked. "I wanted you to understand that visual lead is critical when cornering. You did it with one hand to learn that your left hand did nothing while you went to the right and your right hand held steady throttle when you turned left. "Oh," she said. "I never realized that." "The state program gives the technique lip-service but it doesn't do a very good job re-enforcing it." "What will we do tomorrow?" "More of the same," I said "Mom wants you to come over or dinner tonight. Can you?" "Sure, why not." At seven o'clock, I knocked on the Bagwell's door. I wore a bra, camisole, girdle, and hose under my jeans and dark-blue oxford shirt. Rita answered the door and handed me a glass of lemonade. She and Becca wore identical summer dresses. Mother and daughter - two against the world. We munched cheese and crackers before dinner. "I can't thank you enough for helping my daughter. It means so much to us." "I'm enjoying my time with her. She's a good student." "Will you be able to come with us to Pocono Speedway next week?" Becca asked. We're scheduled to use the Formula USA circuit." I frowned. "What's wrong," Rita asked. "It's a very fast and technical track," I replied. "Do you think that she is ready for it?" Rita asked, her brow wrinkled. "If she remembers what we worked on she'll do fine." "Then you'll come with us?" Becca asked excitedly. "I'll tag along. Will you be camping or did you get a motel." "We plan on sleeping in the van." "I'll bring my tent." We sat down for dinner. I drank another glass of lemonade while Rita sipped wine and Becca drank Diet Coke. "I heard what you did for Ben," Rita said. "I needed the money." Becca sat quietly grinning at what I assumed she saw as the sweet old man in a bra. The chicken, rice, corn, coleslaw, angel food cake, and coffee satisfied my hunger. "Can I ask you a personal question?" Rita asked. "Sure," I said. "Did you ever marry?" "Yes, twice." "What happened?" "Neither one wanted to be tied to a narcissistic workaholic." "Have you ever been married?" I asked. "No," she said. "Becca's a prom night mistake. We got drunk and nine months later I was a mom. I never saw him again." "Do you date at all?" "Sometimes, but most of the time I am too busy working." We continued to make idle chit chat, until the hour grew late and I attempted to leave. "I'll walk you to your truck," Becca said. Rita nodded her approval. "Mr. Barton, do you wear bras?" she asked as we made our way to the truck. "Yes, I'm a cross-dresser. Do you know what a cross-dresser is?" "We learned about cross-dressing and that stuff in high school psychology class." "Does it bother you?" "No. How long have you been wearing bras and stuff?" "All of my life." "Do you have dresses and everything?" Her look told me that she was interested and not judgmental. "Yes, I have it all." "Do you go out dressed up?" "No, not any more." "Why." "It's a long, long story that I don't want to share right now." "Will you share it with Mom and me?" "Probably not." "You're sharing your motorcycle stuff with me, why not that?" "I don't really want to," I said honestly. "I'd better go." I climbed into my truck, started it, and then drove away. Once back in the safety of my cell and nightgown I thought about the week's events. I had helped a young lady learn how to race motorcycles, a young man to work on antique motorcycles, an old friend, and discussed personal issues with a mother and her daughter. Did those actions represent one last attempt at life? My time with Becca, Ben, Josh, and Rita those last few days took me away from my comfort zone. Helping Josh represented repayment. If it hadn't been for Josh I'd be dead. Josh came to my aid when after being severely beaten by two men who mistook me for a woman. I had just attended a group session and was dressed in a navy-blue cocktail dress, nude stockings, matching shoes, an auburn shoulder- length wig, and professionally applied make-up. We met in the atrium of an office building. A group of twenty middle- aged men dressed as women against a back drop of a waterfall and wading pond who conversed, ate, drank, and smoked the night away. There mustn't have been a pack of Virginia Slims to be found in the surrounding towns as they were all in purses and clutch bags that sat upon the tables and chairs. That night I decided to live the hermit's life and stop the endless stream of cigarettes, Prozac, and wine. Happy with my choices I said my goodbyes, and then headed out to the parking lot to get my car and head home never to leave its confines. As I made my way to the car, I heard two voices. "Hey pretty lady," one said. "Let's go have a drink and party," the other added. I didn't stop or turn to look -- quickening my pace. The four-inch heels and the skirt of the cocktail dress hindered my escape. They easily caught me. I tried to get away, but one of them held my arm at the elbow while the other breathed in my face. I tried to turn away, but he used my jaw to snap my head toward him. As he did so, my wig moved on my head. The one who held my arm pulled off my wig and wig cap. Realizing his mistake, he then punched me in the mouth. I fell to the ground, and then tried to rise to my feet to run. The larger one pushed me back to the ground; and kicked me in the ribs. Pain shot through my body. They lifted me from the ground. One held me from behind while the other beat my face, stomach, and groin. They threw me to the ground again, and then kicked me in the ribs and head. I was bleeding quite abundantly from the nose, mouth, and ears. I awoke in a hospital with Josh by my side. He didn't say much. He looked at me, shook his head, and then left. I had two broken ribs, a cracked one, a collapsed lung, and a concussion. I had required twenty-two stitches to sew up the wound over my left eye and right ear. They said I was lucky to be alive, but I wished that I had died. Josh visited each day but never said anything that amounted to much. The questions he needed to ask evaded him, which was good because I had no answers. Because of that evening and ten-day recovery period, I wondered if venturing back into society and motorcycling would lead to another group and another downward spiral. I rolled over fully enveloped in my nightgown and fell asleep. Becca arrived at noon the next day. We spent the day working on shifting and braking. "When you shift gears, be it an upshift or a downshift, I want you to do it quickly and with out squeezing the clutch lever all the way back to the grip. Hop on the back of the bike and watch and listen to what I do and say." We rode around the neighborhood; and I demonstrated the technique. When we returned to my drive I turned her loose. Abrupt upshifts and downshifts eventually became smooth. We worked on braking without significant suspension compression. She absorbed everything and tried anything. She would be a different rider at the Pocono meeting. As I put the bike away, Becca's touched my arm. "Mr. Barton, could I see what you look like wearing a dress?" I had been taken by surprise. "Why?" "Well, I'm curious. What I read in school didn't really tell me all I wanted to know about why men want to dress like women. "If I dress up, will that answer your question?" I asked. "I'm not sure." She answered. "Becca, did you tell your mom about me?" "No," she said. "It's none of her business. She might get mad and forbid me from seeing you. I don't care that you dress up. I care about how much I'm learning." With the bike put away, we went into the cell. "It's hard for me to have you come in the house," I admitted, "because I feel like a child molester" "You're not a child molester because I'm of age." "I know that, but I feel like I'm corrupting you." "You're not forcing me to watch," she said, "I'm asking you to show me." I stood silent. "I don't want to mince words or play with semantics. I don't really want to do this." "Please," she pleaded. Okay, but you're going to have to take part so I feel less foolish knowing that you really want to do this. Go to the room at the end of the hall, look in the closet, and pick out an outfit." She looked at me, winked, and then dashed off. She returned moments later with a red-beaded chiffon gown with a matching shawl. "I want to see you in this one. Wear this wig, these earrings, this necklace, this watch, these stockings, and these shoes. Don't forget this slip." I had become her life-sized Barbie doll. As she waited in my kitchen, I readied myself. I exited my bedroom dressed with full make-up. She looked me over. "Not bad at all Mr. Barton. Can I re-do your make up." "Sure," I said, wondering what I had done wrong. She poked around my bath, located my make-up, and then started to repair my face. It felt like hours, but she'd finished her work in minutes. She leaned back and smiled. "You look nice. Almost pretty." I could feel my face blush. No one had ever said something like that to me. "See you on Saturday," she said, waving as she departed. Evidently she had been satisfied by what she'd seen. I didn't know if I should feel like a fool, or like a cross-dresser comfortably clothed in his favorite dress. I chose the later. I spent the remainder of the day dressed, pleased with what I saw when I looked in the mirror. The Bagwells arrived at seven o'clock. I loaded my tools, tent and sleeping bag in the van. Becca's face bore a devilish smile while Rita busied her self with the first shift at the wheel. I waited for her to say something about my cross-dressing -- that never came out. As we drove into the setting sun on route 84, I decided that after this weekend, I wouldn't go back to my cell - this latest attempt at living could be fun I took over the driving chores at the New York State line after we stopped to stretch, buy gas, and relieve ourselves. Becca dozed while Rita and I deafened ourselves with our silence. "Becca tells me that you look devastating in red chiffon," she finally said. "Red suits your southern Mediterranean coloring." Becca had told her mom about my cross-dressing! She probably wouldn't ask me to stop the van and leave me by the side of the road; however she could leave me stranded at the Speedway. "So you know." "Yes, I know. Becca told me when she returned from her last lesson. I told her she couldn't see you again, but she begged me and I relented. I'm not sure what I think of everything, but I'm convinced you're a good man." We arrived at the gates of Pocono Speedway at four in the morning. I got ready to exit the van and sleep outside along side. "Stay in the van," Rita said. "It's damp outside." "Thank you." I said, wondering what was going on in her mind. The three of us dozed until dawn. Ben rapped on the window to give us a big hello. "Mr. Barton, that old Harley left the shop running as sweet as sweet could be. The customer gave me a one-hundred dollar tip. I tried to refuse, but he forced it upon me. Here's your half." "No, Ben. You keep it. You earned it." Ben smiled. Becca, now awake, smiled warmly. I wasn't sure if she smiled at what I had just done, or if she was just happy to see Ben. Becca changed into her leathers while Rita and I unloaded the bike and readied it to race. "We can't thank you enough," she said. "Your help means so much to us, and Becca can't say enough about you to her motorcycle and non- motorcycle friends. She thinks of you as a father figure." I didn't respond as I faked busyness. Some father figure I would make dressed in red chiffon. Becca returned from the women's room dressed and ready to go. "Hold on a minute, young lady," I said. "We have to talk. "What about?" Becca asked in surprise. "Before practice starts, let's talk about the track. Find Ben and ask him if we can borrow his pit bike." Becca did as I asked "What are you going to do," Rita asked. "I'm going to give her a ride around the track and talk her through the line through the turns, braking points, and shifting points." "How are you going to get onto the track?" she asked. "The track marshals don't allow anyone on the track before official practice." "Do you see that man holding the clipboard?" "Yes." "He and I formed this track club. I think that he'll grant me a favor." She didn't respond in words, allowing her eyes to say it all. When Becca returned with the trail bike, we mounted, and headed off to the entrance to the track. "Your helmet and gloves," Rita yelled running after us to make sure her daughter was safe. I stopped by my old-time friend. "Jonathan Barton?" Jack Rivers said. "Where the hell have you been hiding?" "I've been around." "Josh told me that you did some work for him. Are you back to racing?" "No. Helping my friend here." I motioned with my head to Becca. "Do you mind if we take a lap to check out the track?" "Go right ahead but keep the speed down." He winked. "Make it look like you're inspecting the track for debris." "Sure thing. Thanks again." We headed off toward turn one. The Formula USA track runs the opposite direction of NASCAR. The NASCAR races go from left to right, while Formula USA races go from right to left. Formula USA uses two of the numerous road courses throughout the Pocono complex to connect the two long straight sections. In that form the track is a little over two miles versus the two and one-half mile NASCAR course. We rode midway through turn one. "Look where we are and tell me how we got here," I said. She paused for a moment. "We went from that spot by the wall to here. We kind of straightened out the turn." "Exactly," I said. "The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Try to get as much of the shifting and braking done while the bike is upright and going straight. If you try to trail brake too much you may apply too much braking and cause the front tire to tuck in and then you'll crash." We mounted up and rode to the NASCAR section o the track. "Look back and see how we got here." "We kind of nipped the rumble strips and went straight." "Now you have it. Let's change places. You ride and I'll sit on the back. Keep your speed down so we don't get tossed off the track, okay." We poked our way down the Long Pond straightaway. As we approached the chicane her head popped up a bit and I sensed that she focused well beyond the exit. She achieved a perfect line through it. She did the same through the road course section. We made our way to the grandstand straight, back into the pit area, and back to the van and trailer. I spotted Joey, in the midst of throwing a temper tantrum. He was arguing with my buddy Jack that Becca had gained an unfair advantage by riding the track in advance of the competition. Jack was turning a deaf- ear as I knew he would. The track announcer summoned the racers for a riders' meeting. While Becca and her mom attended I checked the bike and made a last-minute carburetor jetting change. To be safe and to be a bit cautious, I richened the jetting. The adjustment wouldn't damage the motor and, if anything, the change would slow the bike down a bit. Not noticeably, but enough to cause the engine to lose a bit of power. Safe - as her mom would want it. The Bagwells returned carrying coffee and donuts. I hadn't eaten in over forty-eight hours. The donuts and coffee would be welcomed. We ate and drank in silence. Each of us in our own world. I assumed Becca "memory rode" the track while her mother had begun her worry cycle. By the end of the day both would be exhausted. Fleeting thoughts of hitchhiking back home entered my mind as I recalled the cross-dressing conversation of the night before. The sound of the public address system broke in on our daydreaming. The riders responded to the call for the first of two practice sessions. Becca's group would be the second of the four groups. While the first group practiced, we three made our way to the pit wall. I pushed the bike, Becca carried her helmet and gloves, and Rita carried the stand and a small cooler. When Becca's group answered the call, she and I bump-started the bike. Rita watched with white knuckles as Becca rode off. Rita returned to the van to stand on its roof to watch the practice. I remained by the pit wall in the event Becca pulled off the track to make an adjustment. The twenty minute practice session felt endless as I listened to the announcer report lap times. I was not at all surprised to hear Becca's name. Her lap times placed her fifth fastest. I re-thought my choice of jetting. A change or two would have to be made before the next practice. As I looked over the bike I noticed that Joey and four of his friends were headed toward us. I heard Joey and Becca arguing. "Listen Bag Lady," he said. "Cut me off again and I'll file a complaint about aggressive riding." "Grow up, Joey," Becca said. "I didn't cut you off, I stuffed you. Face it. You're not used to being raced hard. Plus you don't like the idea of being beaten through a turn by a girly-girl." Joey grew angrier as his friends humored themselves at his expense. "You'll get yours Bag Lady," Joey said as he departed. I checked over the jetting and as suspected it needed to be leaned out. I wanted to change the gearing and thought about getting my hands on an engine sprocket. Once again I wandered over to my old acquaintance. "Jack... ." "What's up, Jon?" "You wouldn't happen to have a twenty-two toothed engine sprocket for a Honda CR 125R?" "You know, I just might. You'd have to hunt around in my trailer to find it. If there's one in there you're welcome to it." "Thanks, Jack." Jack's trailer, which he never cleaned out, contained a wealth of motorcycle parts from the bikes he'd raced over the years. I poked through the boxes and found what I needed. Becca and Rita watched as I changed the engine sprocket, and then returned to their individual pre- practice thoughts. I finished the