The most focused I’ve ever been in my entire life was on a motorcycle racing on Sears Point Raceway (now called Sonoma Raceway). 

As a mother of two and a woman in her 50s, it’s pretty fun to tell people when it comes up that I used to race motorcycles. Actually, I only raced for one full season, though I rode for a number of years. Still, it’s a point of pride that I did it. And I had a great experience.

My first official AFM (American Federation of Motorcyclists) race, I was near the back of the pack awaiting the green flag, where rookies go, revving the motorcycle along with the riders around me, staring ahead intently. I was the only woman in a sea of some 50 motorcycles in the 600 production class. 

I looked the part in my one-piece black and white custom-made leathers that cost me an entire month’s teaching paycheck. Who needs to eat? Yeah, it was a little irresponsible. But it was also an experience of a lifetime.

I got a good deal on my race bike, buying it from a guy who was getting a divorce. After the purchase, I had two Kawasaki EX500s, one for the street and this one for the track. Friends, who were into motorcycles and racing supervised me (and did most of the work!) as we changed the fork oil, added discs to the exhaust, changed out the tires for some sticky race tires, and generally prepped the bike for the track. I learned just enough about engines that today I can ask my son questions about his cars. I don’t know what I’m talking about half the time, but it opens up great conversations, and I get to see his enthusiasm and hear about the newest modification he’s making to his Miata.

Prior to the race, I had passed New Racer School, paid my fee, and…

It was really happening.

With the wave of the flag, the bikes all took off up the hill into turn one. Sonoma Raceway is mostly right-hand turns, with some memorable features. Looking back, I especially remember turn eight and nine that created a sweet S-curve. Turn ten behind the grand stand was fast as hell, throttle wide open. Following that was turn eleven, a gnarly hairpin that took you into the straightaway that was slowed down by a chicane made of hay bales.

I had always loved motorcycles, probably originating from reading the children’s book The Mouse and the Motorcycle by Beverly Cleary, which I loved. Once, when I was still a kid, an uncle of mine took me for a ride on his Goldwing. It was thrilling. And then when I was seventeen, I had a summer romance in the mountains with a nineteen-year old named Mikey who had a motorcycle. One evening, I rode on the back with him to Tahoe from our cabin at Kit Carson Lodge and didn’t tell my parents. It was terribly romantic with my arms around his waist riding through the pines. 

Before racing, I had recently moved back to the East Bay after college to start a high school teaching job. Some friends from high school had gotten into motorcycles and racing, and hanging out with them, I bought my first bike, a little Honda 450. I soon replaced it with a brand new EX, the first brand new vehicle I ever owned. On both bikes, I joined my friends for Sunday morning rides on Grizzly Peak Road and up Mount Hamilton and riding other curvy roads in the area. I had to “keep up with the big dogs,” so I learned to ride pretty quickly.

But the experience on the track was magical. I’m a dreamer by nature, easily distracted, in my head a lot. But riding on the track, I was absolutely focused on the race, on seeing my break markers before the turns and taking a good line through them, leaning as hard as I could. Physically, mentally, emotionally, I was absolutely present. I’ve never been that focused before or since. 

The race was going well. I was riding okay for a rookie. I wasn’t the slowest bike out there. Then on one of the last laps, I took a slightly off line through the chicane, and a much faster bike clipped my front tire as he passed me. My bike went into a wobble and low-sided, sliding onto the pavement and into the hay. I went flying off the bike, landing near it on the track. Thank goodness for helmets, back protectors and leather!

Stunned, I stood up and looked around for a moment. 

“Get off the track!” yelled a turn worker. That’s when I realized I was ON the track!

I righted my bike, rolled it off and got outside the hay bales. Then I started rolling my bike to the pits. My friend Erik came and met me. My body was so pumped full of adrenaline that I didn’t feel my bruised ribs until nearly four hours later.

I had to prove to AFM officials that the accident wasn’t my fault. Luckily, Erik videotaped it. For years, I showed that crash video to my students at the high school. I thought they’d get a kick out of seeing their teacher flying in the air off of a motorcycle. Especially after I gave them a test or a long project to complete. It’s still on VHS, and I look forward to having it transferred to digital, so I can show it to my kids.

AFM accepted my defense. I was allowed back on the track for the next race. It was better than the first time. I improved my lap time and even passed a couple guys in the corners. Seeing that checkered flag—even though most of the racers crossed the finish line in front of me—was elating as hell. You feel like a hero during a cool-down lap with all the volunteer turn-workers waving at you. 

It was so intoxicating and intense that I started dreaming the track at night, seeing each corner, where to break on the approach, the best line through the curves. I rode the entire circuit in my sleep. It was freakin’ cool!

But back on the street after the track, I became more aware than ever of all the dangers and obstacles while street riding, patches of gravel, slick oil, animals, cars. It was much more fun to be on the track in that controlled situation going super fast.

I gave up riding a few years later when I was dating my husband-to-be, and it was clear that we were headed for a long-term relationship, which included starting a family. My mortality loomed large when thinking about having kids. As the saying goes: “There are only two kinds of riders: those who have gone down, and those that will.”

But I did love riding.

I have more stories about my “motorcycle days.” But for now, I have to say I’m so grateful to have experienced the absolute focus of racing on the track, the feeling of the lean through the turns, the exhilaration of the speed, the satisfaction of the cool-down lap at the end, the thrill and adventure of it all. It reminds me to this day that just about anything is possible, of how much I treasure new experiences and learning, and that at moments when I might be feeling fearful, damn girl, you raced motorcycles! Just remember that!