Day 9 – Riding The Corkscrew – Prologue
N36º 34.224' W121º 45.678'
We’ve had our tickets for MotoGP for several weeks now. As soon as they went on sale, we found the best seats that we could and made them ours. This year, we’re in a hospitality suite on Turn 4, and actually have parking nearby. This is a pleasant change from parking in the way back of a distant field and walking two miles into the race track itself. About a month ago, however, there was an email that came in from Laguna Seca offering special OEM packages for the various different brands of motorcycle represented in the race itself. Most of these offered some sort of package that included a ticket, motorcycle parking, a t-shirt or some other promotional merchandise. Now, we already had tickets, and we had parking for the car, and I have a lot of t-shirts. I even have a lot of motorcycle-themed t-shirts. There was one thing in these packages that I did not have, however, and that was the right to ride a motorcycle on Laguna Seca. As in, the right to ride my personal motorcycle on the racetrack itself.
Recognizing the unique and oh-so-attractive nature of this offer, and at the urging of Dianne, I became the owner of a third ticket to the race, and had the right to park not just Fionn but also Alessandro at the track, should the spirit so move us. More importantly, though, Alessandro and I were going to ride Laguna Seca. At least, this was the plan.
By the time that we got into Carmel last night, the ‘Will Call’ office for the race was closed. Because I had ordered the extra ticket after the deadline for posting to ‘foreign’ customers (and I still am quite baffled by the degree to which U.S. companies treat Canada as a foreign country on the ranks of, say, Uzbekistan or Tibet) they wouldn’t mail the tickets to me, so I had to pick them up. This means that I would need to pick them up in the morning. The office was to open at 7am, however, so all seemed well with the world. We arrived at the hotel, and made our way next door to the Highlands Inn and the Pacific Edge restaurant.
Dinner was delightful. The dining room overlooks the Pacific Ocean. From your table, you can watch the waves crash on the rocks, the lights start to glimmer on the Monterey Peninsula, and a whole lot of people with money act in ways that are typically considered unseemly in public. Money does in fact buy you a lot, it would appear. Appetizers were extremely yummy: goat cheese fritters for Dianne and a delicious ahi tuna tartare (that in my world, I twistedly view as comfort food) for me. For dinner, Dianne and I elected to indulge in some red meat, she with the New York steak and me with the bone-in rib eye with gorgonzola. The perils of the day slowly receded to be replaced with the warm glow of… a drink or two beyond what might be considered wise.
Despite a most ill-advised second martini, followed by a lovely bottle of wine (Rudd Meritage 2002, for those who are keeping track of such things), I managed to haul my sorry carcass out of a nice warm bed and into the shower by 6am. Out the door and into the grey light of day, I found a world enveloped in fog and quiet. At least until I started up the Ducati. They’re not the most subtle of beasts, and Alessandro was actually sounding a bit louder and rougher than normal. It was cold and damp, however, so it wasn’t something I considered entirely out of the realm of normal. (For those that are becoming used to the ways of this blog, this last point is what is known in the dramatic arts as ‘foreshadowing’. But more on that later).
On the road to Monterey, I was able to savour the pleasures of a roadway that was almost entirely mine. Even in California, traffic is very, very light at 6:45 in the morning. I was at the Embassy Suites by 7am, and was the third in line to pick up my tickets. According to what I had previously seen, I had at least until 9:30 until the lap of Laguna Seca, which provided more than enough time to head across the road to the Starbuck’s and grab a cup of joe. At least, that was the theory. While the roads may be quiet at this time of the morning, Starbuck’s was not. There were 10 cars in the drive through (not that I was going to try that on a motorcycle, anyway) and the parking lot was full. I wedged the bike into a space occupied by a Honda, and headed inside. Only inside was worse — there was a line-up of about 20 people, all impatiently waiting for their own venti-sized cup of sanity.
Figuring I would wait it out, I sat down at a table outside to go through the ticket package and figure out what was what. I found the tickets, parking pass, coupon for promotional t-shirt, and the coveted ticket for a ride on Laguna Seca. Accompanying this were the instructions for said lap, indicating that all riders were to be parked in the lakebed, with driver’s license, registration and signed waiver form by 8am; helmets mandatory. A quick glance at my watch revealed it was 7:22am. A quick inventory of my possessions indicated I did indeed have my helmet, and my driver’s license was indeed on my person. My registration, however, was not. In my infinite wisdom, I had packed it in the toolkit for the Ducati. Which was in my tank bag. Which was in my hotel room.