Euro Cannonball
EURO CANNONBALL
I READERS OFFENDED BY BLATANT DISPLAYS OF SPEED I AND ACTS OF SHEER RiDING STUPiDITY OR THOSE WITH A PENCHANT FOR WRITING LETTERS TO THE EDITOR AND CANCELING THEIR SUBSCRiPTIONS SHOULD SAVE US ALL THE TROUBLE AND iMMEDIATELY TURN TO THE "R1DECRAFT" STORY ON PAGE 100 - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - _______ --
This isn’t a rally, it’s a race—and it’s coming to the U.S. of A. Lord help us...
DALE LOMAS
EVEN BEFORE WE BOARD the ferry for France, we have our first brush with the Law. “Wee know you are in zee Cannonball,“ intones the severe-looking gendarme before us. “So I weel say zis: You speed and your bikes are mine.“
His accent is ridiculously thick and the effect on a gaggle of fully grown men is predictable. We’re tittering and avoiding each other’s eyes like naughty schoolchildren. Chest puffed, Inspector Clouseau struts up and down the rows of bikes halted before Passport Control. Still firmly on U.K. soil but watching out for Mother France’s honor, he orders, “Search zem. Check all of zerpaperwork. All of eet.“
What is the Cannonball Bike Run? “It’s a rally, not a race, officer.”
That’s a phrase any competitor should know-preferably in a dozen languages. In 2005, the inaugural event saw 50 or so competitors riding from one fivestar champagne party to the next over three days. Only one speeding ticket and one low-side.
The 2006 running is different. Word gets around that there will be an unofficial prize: an all-expenses entry to Cannonball 3. In America. It starts in L.A. on May 13, ends in Vegas seven days later, the route is secret. “Think of it as a mystery tour, but faster,” say the organizers (www.cannonballbiker run.com), who’ll nick you for a $3950 entry fee.
Last year’s champion fancies his chances. But so do the other 74 competitors who’ve crept out of the woodwork. They’re hardcore. Team Bomber from Finland drinks hard and appears to inhabit an alternate reality-one where traffic laws and mortality don’t affect them. Swedish nutjob Patrik “Ghostrider” Furstenhoff (holder of the world wheelie record at 218 mph) has been talking a good ride on many private forums. I can name at least three card-carrying roadracers from the U.K. who could win this, too.
I really don’t want to race them; it could all end in tears and plaster casts. And that’s if we’re all really lucky.
And yet, here I am. About to enter something that every nerve ending in my body is telling me not to. Why? It’s a good story and an even better experience. And I want to go to America with the rest of these nutters and do it all again. But for free. You seriously didn’t expect any reason better than that, did you?
Onboard the ferry, post-lecture, we’re welcomed by the organizers, told where the start will be tomorrow morning and given a map to our hotel 500 miles away from Calais in Würzburg, Germany.
Soon after disembarkment, the rally ends early for one inattentive Brit after he was spotted doing 150 mph through a 100-kph (62-mph) zone. After a 25-mile pursuit, the French cops nab him when he slows down in heavy traffic, and he’s handcuffed while still on the bike. As well as the bike being impounded, he’s fined 500 euros and stuck on a plane home before his feet touch the ground. Later we’re all pulled over and have our photos taken by the police. The local Polizei are now very aware that the Cannonball is in town. And the race-sorry, rally-doesn’t even start until tomorrow morning!
As we turn off the autobahn for Würzburg there are four marked cop cars, two police vans and a few copbikes. The police check my tires, exhaust and luggage. They’re looking for route maps and anything incriminating.
Here’s my diary from the most hardcore, extreme road experience of my life:
DAY ONE
WURZBURG - ST. MORITZ
It’s nearly 9 o’clock, I’m more than 100 miles into the race and in the lead. Yesterday we heard the police were going to be present for the 8 a.m. massed start. So we changed it to 7:30. However we dress it up, the rally’s timed point-to-point format means that the Cannonball is a race—and it begins in rushhourtraffic outside the hotel.
Stuttgart was dispatched with the ease of a seasoned lane-splitting professional. As the German autobahn disappears behind and the deserted roads to Switzerland appear before me, everything’s under control—even if I’m averaging 110 mph.
Then my radar detector flashes. In the middle of open countryside. The route has been compromised. The Polizei are back on the case.
09:I5> Lots of things are happening at once. I’ve dynamited the brakes and cruise through the speed trap at a whopping 30 kph. Some very serious-looking coppers aren’t impressed with my apparently psychic capabilities. Unbeknownst to me, there’s a helicopter hovering 50 feet over the Stuttgart autobahn, rounding up the trailing pack into a massive service station. And there’s a black, unmarked 5-series BMW following my every illicit move.
09:45> All my documents have been scrupulously checked for the third time in 18 hours, when I notice the policeman filling out a ticket.
“Where was I speeding? Exactly? Can you write down where I was speeding and at what speed please?”
The cop looks pissed off. Really pissed off.
“So, you are the leader.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. This looks like trouble.
“It’s not a race. It’s a rally.”
“You have been speeding. We all know. You are charged because we suspect you have been speeding. We will take 70 euros. If you come to court you may prove that you weren’t and we give it back.”
Huh? 70 euros? For averaging over 100 mph in my first hour? Worth every cent, wallet out, fine paid! Then they start rifling through my tankbag, dropping money, notes and earplugs all over the road. They get my maps out.
“Hey, get your f#*&ing hands off!”
Did I really just say that? It costs me another 100 euros.
An expensive lesson in multilingual expletives.
Two other riders breeze into the village-a Brit and a Finn. The Finn, with his blank numberplate and sticker-free bike, is waved on and into first place. The Brit, John Leith on his more blatant GSX-R1000, is waved in.
I0:30> I accelerate down the road on the ZX, wondering whether the entire route is now completely cop-lined or whether my luck’s just out for lunch.
A police car lights up just as John and his Gixxer catch up.
“Documents,” says the officer.
“I’ve already been checked three times,” I protest.
“I don’t care. Are you the first still?”
“It’s not a bloody race!” I say, checking my watch surreptitiously.
“This ticket is for racing on the road, it is 150 euros. You pay now or your bike is impounded.”
Still cheaper than an international race license. Another hour gone, and we’re on our way. Albeit without any maps or route cards (I’d decided GPS would complicate things), all of which are evidence, apparently, and therefore confiscated. The Swiss section to St. Moritz is good fun, with no further run-ins with the Law, and we roll in at 5 p.m., about four hours behind the Finns, who gave up on the rally route and took the motorway. Lightweights.
DAY TWO ST. MORITZ-VENICE
Leaving Moritz, everything is still to play for. Yesterday’s nightmare means the clocks have been reset and we’re all starting on a level playing field.
The Team Bomber Finns are my main competitors. Aboard a ZX-10R, GSX-R1000, CBR1000RR and Due 996, they’re riding as a squad. But while they’re good at cutting through traffic, riding the wrong way around roundabouts and running red lights, they’re not so good on sweeping Swiss corners.
Fellow competitor Dean Edwards (on a Kawi ZX-10R) and I cut through the Finns and spend the next half-hour making a break from the pack. We rule the countryside. The riding is hard and a little loose. As we sweep down a hill toward a right-hander, Dean has a wobble under braking, then suddenly he s upright, corner forgotten, bouncing up a gravel access road at 80 mph. I wave and honk the horn as I round the corner and forge into the lead. Thank God for that. I was starting to make mistakes myself at that pace. Then the bars go momentarily slack as I arc round a curve inside a tunnel. Dark visor, dark tunnel and a wet floor. Dean overtakes up the inside. Christ!
08:I5> We ’re warping up a mountainside, trees thinning as fast as the oxygen. Apparently the scenery is amazing, but I neither notice nor care. Every ounce of concentration is used riding the ZX-14 as hard as possible. Dean’s damn 10R is still setting a hectic pace.
The traffic lights at the construction zone ahead are glaring red, but Dean flashes through anyway. And I follow. Dean thinks the roadwork is finished and re-enters the correct lane through a gap in the barriers-still doing around 45 mph
He rides straight into a barrier at the other end. It’s made from solid wood as thick as your wrist. Dean hits the floor pretty hard.
Sidestand down, engine still running, I leave my bike and run back to Dean to see how he is. The Finns howl past without a thought of stopping. Just like real racers...
Together we pick up his scuffed ZX-10R and I dust him down, plug his visor back in and shout, “Count to 10! Everything still working? No breaks? You’re still in it!”
I’m really angry that the Finns didn’t stop to help a downed rider, so as I catch up with them I flick the 14’s headlight array to high beam to send them a message. Their lines are appalling, corner speed non-existent. To underline my point I hold the horn down as I slip 750 pounds of bike and rider up an almost invisible gap between them. Nice one. Back into the lead.
09:00> At the top of the mountain, inside Italy, I take some photos as the Finns come past. They’re a bit put out, but as far as I’m concerned this is all in the bag. Unless they learn to go around corners, it’s a foregone conclusion.
I catch them on the run down the hill, but as we turn to climb the second mountain, the roads change distinctly. They’re wet and just one car wide. No lean angle here. No clever lines. All that’s between me and hundreds of feet of drop-off either side is a delicate throttle hand.
The big Kawasaki is hard work here: 85 foot-pounds of torque is great in the dry but seriously scary in the wet.
Every hairpin is an opportunity to highside. The Finns aren’t just keeping up, they’re overtaking me.
09:30> Forced to follow, I get a lucky break as the Finns flub it at the next junction. Although they’re heading up the right road, they’ve missed the fuel station at the bottom.
Sure enough, as I head away from the petrol stop, 22 liters sloshing around, what do I see? Four bikes coasting down the hill toward me. That’s at least a five-minute lead. And one I intend to keep.
I3:20> I’m sitting at the checkpoint. The last section of mountains before we drop toward Venice. We’re supposed to have our mileage checked but there’s no one here, it’s empty. The Finns arrive in a hurry, so I phone the organizers and find out what’s happening. They can’t believe we’re already there. The hard-riding Finns smoke cigarettes through their visor ports, helmets still on. And they’re riding off before I’ve put the phone down. It takes forever to pack away my phone, pull on my gloves, put in my earplugs, fasten my Arai, restart the bike...
I4:20> I ’ve caught them. But not in the best of circumstances. Flying down an Italian autostrada, I have an underpowered Polizia car somewhere behind me. It’s downhill, the roads are clear and the ZX-14, bless it, is hitting the 182mph speed limiter. There’s a white car sitting in the outside lane doing about 120 mph. I can smell his engine running lean, his foot pinned to the floor. Rolling off to 150 mph, I squeeze between the car and the tunnel wall.. .just as a red police stop-stick appears out of the window and he starts waving at me to pull in!
Don’t think so. Throttle up. I ease past the Flyin’ Finns at an indicated 182 mph, still in the tunnel. I have less than 30 miles before I need to stop for fuel-or around 10 minutes at this speed. Enough to put a decent gap between the police and the chasing pack, I hope.
I4:30> After carving through traffic, overtaking trucks around blind corners and doing everything they can to give anyone on two wheels a bad name, the Finns are still right on my tail and we’re nearly out of gas. We coast into a fuel station, keys pulled from ignitions and into filler caps. We’re out in less than a minute.
I4:45> Into the Hotel Laguna Palace just outside Venice and I’m level with the Finns. Joint first place for Team Bomber of Finland and Project Cannonball of the U.K. I go straight back out to have a new rear tire fitted. The old was dead at 1000 miles. Using all that horsepower has come at a price. I haven’t got time to think about the sheer insanity of the last seven hours.
DAY THREE VENICE-ZAGREB
We don’t stop drinking until 3 in the morning (sitting on a riverboat sailing through Venice) but we’re ready for the 8 a.m. start, at the bit, watching the start flag through wide, bloodshot eyes. The tremendous thunderstorms that drenched us during last night’s booze-up have mostly subsided. But there’s still a good amount of standing water on the slick Italian roads waiting to catch the unwary.
My rear Bridgestone is brand-new and cold. Amazing how quickly it warms up with a 500foot rolling burnout, though. At the first set of traffic lights, I come to a halt while the Finns simply run the red. You’d think i’d have learned the rules by now.
At the next set of lights, I don’t even hesitate: on the gas, aim for the gap. The trick in leaving cities is not to get lost. The fastest riding in the world won’t help if you head 10 miles up the wrong road, then have to ride the 10 miles back.
As I join the motorway heading east, tires squirming on the slippery 360-degree onramp, Leith on his GSX-R comes around the outside of me. By the time I’m on the motorway, he’s already past a pair of overtaking lorries and accelerating rapidly.
09:00> That was some of the most dangerous, stupid and difficult riding Eve ever done in my life. And what’s worse is that I’m still not in the lead. Just yards ahead is Dean on his crashed ZX-10R. Even though his bike is held together with little more than good wishes and two rolls of gaffer’s tape, he’s back in front and on a mission. Together we’ve split traffic at 180 mph, in the wet. The hard shoulder is now christened the “Cannonball Lane.” We had to stop for fuel just 65 miles into the day, a new record for the ZX-14 and its huge tank.
I0:30> The Finns have caught up again as we enter the empty motorway to Ljubljana. But with one fuel stop in hand and a trick up my sleeve, I’m not worried. I let go of the throttle a little. The Finns sense this slowing down and predictably go for the overtake. Bingo! They’ve taken the bait.
The sign for our junction appears from nowhere as Team Bomber is overtaking a lorry at 150 mph. Dean and I brake like hell and make the turn, knees hovering above the drybut-slippery surface as we head for the next stretch. See you later, Finnies.
11:30> Every single red light has been run. Overtaking a line of traffic, we spot the rally’s camera car, a 360-hp diesel BMW that finished second in the Gumball Europe.
“Hello, lads,” says the cameraman. “Can we do a few photos, get some video? We’ll stop the clock...”
Stop the clock, you say? Hmmm...so we take photos and shoot a bit of footage, and when the Finns overtake we simply follow them with plenty of time still in hand, then drop the bombshell that on time, we’re still winning. What could possibly go wrong...?
I2:00> My Kawasaki is skating down the road on its side.
I come to my feet just in time to see it launch off the edge of the road and into the muddy field four feet below. I’m hopping and jumping and swearing like Dean was yesterday. This wasn’t in the plan.
Just as we’re pulling the ZX out, I hear the cameraman shout, “Watch out!”
The Finnish boys are out of control. Timo on his Ducati 996 is just inches from the gravel on the wrong side of the road. Feet on the floor, front end tucking, he gases it and makes it ’round the corner motocross-style. The bastard, I wish I had done that.
They pull over, laughing, but at least they stop this time, maybe to gloat.
“The bike is broken?”
“No.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
The looks on their faces change instantly. Cigarettes thrown away, visors down, they’re off again while I try to start the beached Kwak. No leaks, no cracks, just scuffed plastic, injured pride and a hole in my jacket.
I can get this back.
I3:00> There’s a little good news on the ground ahead. Four distinct bike tire tracks. I feel like a tracking Indian, watching the asphalt for clues three feet ahead of my front wheel.
I4:00> Just outside Zagreb, I glimpse the distinct shapes of four bikes carving through a junction full of lunchtime traffic. Fess than a minute ahead.
Whether Croatian drivers are always angry or whether Team Bomber made them that way, I’ll never know. By the time I get to the same junction, the Finnish aren’t even in sight. I get through the rest of Zagreb quickly but not stupidly, and arrive at the hotel only 12 minutes behind. No
imate of my stopped-clock advantage from the video shoot means I should have about 20 minutes in hand. At least.
DAY FOUR ZAGREB - SALZBURG - MUNICH
“what, four minutes behind.?!” I shout. i’m so angry I can’t even walk straight. I speak to the Finns. They’re smiling. I speak to the officials. They refuse to go back on their decision to award me only eight minutes of make-up grace.
09:00> Fine. We complete the escape from Zagreb. Now out of the city and scrabbling over the gravelly backroads of Croatia, I’m doing my best to make those Finns crash.
The big Kawasaki is swinging like a pendulum as the rear BT-014 searches for grip. Feaving a village, there’s a car waiting at a junction, and he begins to roll forward as I pass. Everybody makes it past, except one. The black Finnish ZX10R is hit broadside and flies off the road into a ditch.
I look at the three other Finns, they look at me.
“He’s your teammate,” I think. And open the throttle. To my amazement, disgust and grudging admiration, they follow. This is serious.
I slow down again when I realize I simply can’t lose them. At breakfast, I remember talking to “Big Bizz” (no last name, please), a Welsh bike copper, seeking advice. He offered, “What would Burt Reynolds do?”
I0:00> As we sit in the slow-moving queue to the Croatian border, I slip a couple of 50-euro notes inside my passport.
The border guard wanders over to me, automatic rifle in hand. “Here’s my passport.” His eyes light up at the money.
“Now about my friends,” I say. “It would be good if you held them for a while. I think they are holding cocaine. Up their bums.”
He explodes with mirth. “I can hold them for hours. But you have a problem. They’ve gone through the border, look!” More by luck than by judgment, they’ve just skipped the Mickey Mouse Croatian border and are already riding through the Slovenian side.
10:15> I have to lose them. Time for Burt Reynolds plan number two. I slow down as we approach a fuel station. Theatrically, I go through the motions of checking my clocks, knowing I don’t need fuel. As we pull into the station, I remove the pump handle and hold it near the tank, ignition on, ready to ride. As soon as I hear the sound of the Finns starting to pump fuel, I know it’s worked. The ZX14 peels across the concrete as I leave the three remaining members of Team Bomber in the busy service station.
ll:00> I slow down for nothing. A little black Golf flashes blue lights as I pass him at 150 mph on the shoulder against the barrier. Catch me if you can. I’m off the motorway in less than three miles. Long enough to escape at 180 mph, short enough for them to be unable to respond with a roadblock or helicopter.
CANNONBALL RUN BY THE NUMBERS
75 competitors 3230 miles 8 arrests
4 bikes impounded 109 tickets $17,499 in fines 6 crashes 2 broken bones
I3:00> I’m already visualizing the win. I’m sure I have eight minutes over the Finns. And the fact I’ve now lit up two police hatchbacks they’ll have to overtake is even better.
These roads are awesome, real ZX14 territory. Obscenely fast, perfectly surfaced and my knee-sliders are dying an honorable death.
But the mirrors are full of black BMW! I’m doing 135 mph on a twisty road and the rearviews are still full of black BMW. With blue lights in his grille. Acid rises from my stomach to my throat. I let go of the throttle as my brain shuts down.
Stop? Lose the race. Lose my bike. Jail.
Go? Lose the race. Lose my bike. Lose my life or maybe, just maybe, lose the police and win.
Down into fourth and now there are two things in my mirrors, a black line and a rapidly disappearing BMW. Into some bends, below 100 mph, and the Bimmer’s back again.
I need a miracle. He needs a helicopter or a roadblock.
I get my wish first. A convoy of motorhomes. The BMW can’t see around them in the corners. Neither can I. But I can fit through the gap even if a lorry comes the other way. Come on.
I3:I0> The traffic’s too heavy. In fact, it’s a roadblock. The cops put one hand to their sidearms and one hand out in the universal sign language for “Stop or I’ll shoot.”
I slow down, looking for the gap. One cop puts both hands up, then runs forward like a soccer goalkeeper. But I’m through. The cops are on their radios as I accelerate away. This is no good. It’s one road all the way to Salzburg, 50 >ng, no exits. If I don’t want to get trapped on it I have to turn off soon and double back. The next junction has a police car not quite forming a roadblock. Through some woods and a bend, a lane heads into some trees.
I emerge next to a barn and look down at the road. Three police cars shoot by, not even pausing at my escape exit.
I phone the organizers, tell them I quit, I’ve lost. I can’t even get on the road to Salzburg.
I4:45> Having changed my jacket and reversed my numberplate, I finally roll into the checkpoint.
Turning into the airport, a half-mile from the checkpoint I see Timo’s Ducati 996. In pieces. It’s shattered. Broken
frame, broken wheels. He’s gone too fast into the final turn and crashed. When I arrive, the two remaining Finns have been there for less than an hour. But they’ve won. We shake hands. I console Timo on his bust collarbone and ride into Germany with third place rescued from the ashes.
EPILOGUE
I have mixed feelings right now. I sit here, weeks later, in my environmentally controlled office with my economic hatchback outside loaded with work, computer parts and tires for the ZX-14. I’ve slipped back into normality with ease.
Traffic lights are obeyed, 150 mph is feeling quite fast again, not just like a steady cruising speed.
I probably wouldn’t even take off at 182 mph if I were caught doing 35 through a 30-mph zone. The memories of the Cannonball feel like someone else’s.
Reading my account of the race, I wince. I don’t remember many of the events. It’s a blur, though I do recollect the burning bile in my throat as the police did their best. I feel the clang of nerves as a last-second twist of throttle flings me clear of the articulated lorries coming together. The tires moving, the engine howling, the leaden feeling after 300 miles of ten-tenths concentration without so much as a drink of water. It’s all there. But it’s just not quite real any more.
Don’t get me wrong, the Cannonball is five days of whitehot living out of a year of normality. But the danger, the risk is very, very real. Inside is a little voice saying, “Next time, we’ll win it.”
But another equally strong voice is also saying, “Next time, someone might die. Maybe me...” □
