Springfield Novice
Springfield Novice
LEANINGS
PETER EGAN
WELL, I HAVE TO ADMIT THAT I PROBably would have missed the Springfield Mile again for the 63rd year in a row if not for our intrepid Associate Editor, Mark Cernicky. Seems he’s had this classic flat-track race on his bucket list for a long time and, upon turning 40, decided it was now or never. So he signed up for the AMA Pro Singles class, stuck a 450 Honda in the back of the CW Chevy van and drove solo from California to Illinois. It would be only his second-ever Mile flat-track race.
We couldn’t have the poor homeless lad without a Midwestern cheering section, so three of us—my friends Lew and Pat and I—decided to go.
We made the four-hour drive down from Wisconsin in my swanky new (used) Cadillac in a toad-strangler rainstorm, wipers flapping on the Frenetic setting. It didn’t look good for the Saturday race program.
After checking into a Red Roof Inn near the Interstate, we headed into town to find the State Fairgrounds. I’d been through Lincoln’s home town twice before on motorcycle trips but had never seen the Mile.
I’d also never seen an afternoon sky quite as black as the one that hovered over us as we drove into town; it looked like midnight and the streetlights were flickering on. Luckily, it suddenly stopped raining long enough for a severe hailstorm, then started raining again. Nevertheless, we navigated by headlight and found the fairgrounds. All racing had been cancelled for the day, but we got out and explored the beautiful old stadium-like grandstands, which had a massive Indy-like roof overhead.
Covered grandstands: What a noble idea. Shade from the sun, protection from the rain. Every race venue should have them, but not many do.
We looked out at the glistening, rainsoaked 1-mile oval and the grayish hair quite literally stood up on the back of my neck. I turned to Lew and said, “This is a big track, and most of it is curve. These guys are going to be sideways almost all the time. And it’s fast.”
I whipped out my cell phone to give Cernicky a call and found him lounging in his room at the Howard Johnson’s near the track, having given up wrenching on his bike out in the rainy parking lot. He told me, “I’ve been getting all kinds of assistance from a Harley dude who drinks quite a bit of beer but has been incredibly helpful. Everyone’s been really nice here.” I said we’d explore the town and pick him up later for dinner.
It really was Mark’s entry that finally got me to set the date in stone and come here for the first time myself. Seemed some other Memorial Day gathering always got in the way, so, as you might guess, I’d endured a lifetime of hearing, “You’ve never seen the Mile? And you call yourself a motorcyclist?” Etc., etc.
Being more of a roadracer than a steel-shoe guy, I’d attended only one other big flat-track race. That was in 1981, when CW Managing Editor Steve Kimball and I had just gotten our pilot’s licenses, and we blithely flew his twoplace Grumman from Orange County to San Jose. With our fancy photo passes, we stood right on the inside of Turn 1 and got to see Jay Springsteen and friends thunder past at 100-plus mph. Great racing, and I still have the windburn, grin and hearing loss.
But if a person needed incentive to return to flat-track, this was the year. The great Chris Carr had announced his retirement—after seven AMA Grand National Championship titles and 12 Springfield wins. This was the summer of his Farewell Tour.
That evening, we picked up Mark and went to an excellent old downtown restaurant called Maldaner’s, and I asked about his trip from California. Mark told us he’d gotten so addle-brained from ceaseless driving that during the middle of the night he’d seen an exit sign for Springfield and, rejoicing, had pulled off the interstate only to discover he was in Springfield, Missouri. Big disappointment.
The next day, we had breakfast at another fine local institution—a café called Jungle Jim’s—and went to the track. Racing was delayed until midafternoon while the track dried, and the program was shortened. Each group— Pro Singles and Expert Twins—would get just three practice laps before their elimination heat races and main events.
Mark ran well and stayed with his practice group, neither losing nor gaining places. In the heat race, however, he lost the back end accelerating hard through Turn 3 and low-sided at high speed. He virtually bounced off the track and back onto his bike, rejoining the fray, but the session ended before he could get in another fast lap. So, after all that driving, he didn’t qualify for the main. He’d be running the TT on Monday, however. With a very sore knee.
In the Expert Twin main event late that afternoon, the low-number plates surged to the front and Brad Baker led much of the race on a Ducati (yes!), despite its harrowing headshake, mixing it up with Jared Mees, Sammy Halbert, number-one plateholder Jake Johnson, Kenny Coolbeth and Carr. In the end, the Ducati faded to fifth and Mees won on an XR-750. Carr ended up seventh, passed on the last lap by Willie McCoy.
The race was terrific, but on the long drive home, I kept thinking back to one brief moment during the weekend.
I’ve found—in years of viewing all kinds of races—that most of the action fades from memory, but certain sublime moments stand out and imprint themselves permanently onto your mental circuit board. I had one of those moments in the third qualifying heat for the main.
Carr suddenly pulled out all the stops and passed three other riders on his last lap, moving smoothly through traffic and throwing his Harley XR into a huge slide for the final comer, winning by a wheel. The crowd stood up and cheered, and people grinned at each other and shook their heads. We’d just been given a little demonstration of the talent and sheer force of will that produced all those championships.
It’s these small moments that make you forget the rainy drive, the hailstorm, the cost of tickets and the long wait in the grandstands. It’s really what you take home from the races. Everything else fades away.
I might have to go to the Peoria TT later this summer and see if any more of these moments are available. Never been there, and I call myself a motorcyclist. □
