Driving into Cadwell for my first-ever track day, two voices were having an argument in my head.
One was explaining to me—in excruciating detail—all of the things that were going to go wrong, while the other, in a somewhat quieter tone, was trying to tell my ego just how epic this was going to be.
Every time I listened to one of the voices, the other would chip in and start the arguments all over again.
I kept clinging to the fact that, at some point, a track day had sounded like a good idea. Perhaps it was just bloody-mindedness that kept me going. If anyone pointed out that I was a girl and I was on a slow bike … don’t ever insult my SV650S … I think I would have clocked them.
My SV650 might not be the most devastating track weapon Cadwell had ever seen, but I was determined to give a track day a go at least once. I’d paid good money to be this nervous and wanted my money’s worth.
Everyone Is Equal
Looking back, perhaps one of the things powering the fight in my head was the thought of a paddock full of misogynists with pimped-out track bikes, all of whom could have been world champions if only the opportunity had come their way. The opposite turned out to be true.
Other than when I was offered a hand unloading my bike from the back of my Ford Ranger, no one seemed to notice I was female, although I did think the pink wheel tapes might have been something of a giveaway.
Despite my heart banging like a drum, I was among other bikers, and we were all experiencing the same emotions to a greater or lesser extent.
One group was using bravado to cover up their nerves, while others sat in quiet contemplation. Regardless of how we each dealt with it, we were all at least a little nervous.
She Who Dares
I wandered down to check in, and the ladies there were lovely. Perhaps they could see the uncertainty in my eyes.
Their calm reassurances that it was a quiet evening and that I wasn’t the only lady on their first track day excursion helped ease my nerves. Then, the sadistic voice in my head ruined the moment and reminded me that all this meant was fewer people would see me throw the SV at the scenery. Fabulous. I ****ing hate that voice.
Moment of Truth
Having wrestled into my new leathers … OK, hang on a moment here. If you gentlemen think getting into your leathers is tough, try being a girl.
Very few sets of leathers are cut for the female form. Not only do we have to fight our way into new leathers, but you gentlemen are a bloody odd shape. Finding a set that fits in all the right places is hard enough [see: Female Motorcycle Clothing], and there isn’t always another girl on hand to help us get into them … but I’m wandering off-topic.
Having chatted with Dave and Roger from Flies on the Visor (hence this article) in the paddock, the tannoy finally declared that it was time for me to put up or shut up. Helmet on, down to the assembly area and try not to bin the SV on the first lap.
Roger had done a pretty good job of calming me down in the paddock. Having done numerous track days before, I think he was making sure Dave didn’t get lost. The last time Dave had been on track, on two wheels, was before I was born.
Waiting in line in the holding area I was quite literally shaking like a leaf. Yet, two steady laps behind the instructor, during which overtaking is forbidden, was all it took to dispel my nerves.
Riding on track is different from road riding, but actually riding the bike is exactly the same. The brakes still do what they have always done. Open the throttle, and the world goes past faster. Close it, and the world starts to slow down.
As racetracks go, Cadwell isn’t that wide. Sweeping from one side to the other feels natural when it doesn’t look that different from a wide country lane. I can imagine that the Grand Prix tracks, such as Donington or Silverstone, must look entirely different the first time you ride out of the pit lane.
One Down – Three to Go
The first session, which included the sighting laps, was over before I really had time to think about it.
My nerves had been replaced by an adrenalin-fuelled grin, which I tried in vain to suppress as I took my helmet off. I failed.
I hadn’t wanted to stop, and now I was stuck in the paddock, waiting very impatiently for that bloody tannoy to sing out again.
During the second and subsequent sessions, unless you have asked for an instructor, you are left to do your own thing, and this time I was ready for it.
Slow out of the holding area. Take it easy for the first lap – well I say easy, I did have the throttle pinned to the stops along the Park Straight.
Steady away around Chris Curve, through Mansfield and the chicane. I had this track riding entirely under control, right up to the point where I forgot to roll the throttle over the top of the mountain, resulting in a highly impressive wheelie that even the intermediate group were talking about.
Some might say it was skill, but I’m sticking with dumb luck mixed with excessive enthusiasm as to how I gathered it all together, landed with the wheels all pointing in the right direction, and, still with the throttle open, headed into Hall Bends.
Progressive Improvements
The rest of the evening is something of a blur. I wasn’t the fastest, but I was holding my own and chased Roger through a couple of bends.
Speed comes through technique rather than raw horsepower, and my SV650 and I were heating up the tyres, gaining confidence and getting faster with every lap.
All too soon, my track time came to an end, and it was time for another all-in wrestling match with my leathers. I loaded the SV into the Ranger and thought about heading home.
I was alive, I’d had fun, and with no red flags all evening, it was the perfect introduction to track riding.
I would wholeheartedly encourage anyone, especially women, to try a track day at least once. It isn’t anything like as scary as the voice in my head made out, and you are not as slow as you think you are. Honest!
The only warning I can give you is that if you have as much fun as I did, this could quickly become a very expensive addiction.
Clarity
Grace Haye was talking to the Editor.
