My Eau Rouge

[Doc Austin]

Motorsports are rich with grand challenges. Challenges that test the man's fittness, his courage, the very fibre of his soul. There are so many they are impossible to list, though a select few stand apart from the rest. LeMans' white House curves may have been the sport's most fearsome challenge ever, though The Mulsanne kink was once terriffying, blindingly fast. Drivers no less than Jackie Stewart and Brian Redman still speak of Spa's Masta Kink in hushed tones as though they are still threatened by it, though it is no longer raced on. No less drivers than the Great Zanardi and Jaques Vileneuve have had horrendous crashes at Spa's Eau Rouge, probably the last of the great challenges left in a sport that is ever suffering emasculation.

Sadly, I have never had the opportunity, and probably not the courage, either, to face these challenges myself, but I have had my own personal Eau Rouge, my own personal Masta Kink, so to speak.

I'm not a brave man. I don't like to get hurt, but I like a good thrill and life is meaningless without a challenge or two along the way. I am a fairly avid cyclist, but I'm no racer and I don't pretend to be a bad ***. I'm faster than most recreational riders, and, hey, I've got a bad *** bike, but even a bottom tier racer would smoke me off the trail. I just try to stay fit and trim while I enjoy the Florida outdoors.

There is one spot, however, that captured my imagination. It's the golfcart path at the Bellview Biltmore Gold course. The clubhouse is the world's largest wooden structure and it sits on the plushest, most rolling piece of land in Pinellas county. Only the wealthiest of the wealthiest can play here. It is one snobby place. I imagine they all stand around in the clubhouse after a round, drinking tea, holding their little cups with their pinkie finger sticking out and and calling each other "old chap."

One section of the path plunges downhill to a shallow, rock lined creek. Of course, the golfcarts need to get across the creek, so the path winds down the hill, offcamber, and gently curving across rough old, patched pavement. Rough because of all the times storms had risen the creek and it ravaged the bridge and the asphault that lay low enough.

So, I would ride by the golf course every day on my way to checking out the honeys at Clearwater Beach. I've seen that bridge hundreds and hundreds of times over years and years, but I was never insane enough to think of riding my bike across it.

Some things are just so stupidly dangerous that you never even give a thought to doing them. Some things you never think about because they are too horrible to think about.

But one day....................one day the bridge called to me.

It didn't look so bad, but that was only because from the road you could only see the entry from the north side. Unfortunately, I had taken a different route that day and was approaching the golf course from the south when I turned onto the path.

I rode a ways past the plush greens and fairways, manicured to near perfection. I could see the bridge, but not the road before it because the incline was so sharp. Regardless, it didn't look so bad, and I rode over the crest haplessly unaware I was about to seriously endanger myself.

The road dropped sharply, and my speed rose suddenly as gravity grasped me, faster and faster as the road plunged even more sharply.

At first, you can't see where the road was going because the drop off is so sharp, but once I was past the absolute sharpest part of the initial drop off I could clearly see that I had gotten myself into something I wasn't ready for.

The road dropped hard and curved sharply as it ran parrellel to the creek and as the road's camber fell away, the tires scratched and clawing for grip. I was absolutely on the edge. It was very clear that one mistake and it would be off the bike and onto the awaiting rocks.

Well, now it was just a matter of survival.

Just before the bridge, there is another horrid drop off. And it was only with full application of both brakes and scooting my butt back as far as I could that I didn't land on my front wheel. At the time, the pavement there was terribly rough with patches and the bike shuttered and shook so hard I was afraid my front fork would snap off. As all this was going on, the road took one more final kind to the left just as the road joined the bridge. I slid wide and banged my elbow, hip and knee on the rickety old wooden guardrail, which was solid enough to keep me up, but gave just enough so I didn't fly over it and into the drink.

Of course, the adrelenin was so intense that I humped the bike back up the incline on the other side without looking back.

I didn't look at the bridge again for a month. I took another route because I just didn't want to ever see it again.

I've taken the bridge a few times since, and in both directions too. Going south it is not nearly so bad as the entry isn't as steep or blind, and is nearly straight, but going north, you can't see where you are going until you hit the offcamber, downhill sweeper that leads to the drop off and torridly rough pavement.

Lately they have replaced the guardrails and paved section before the bridge. They have also installed curbing on each side of the cartpath, an unacceptable hazard should one on a bicycle slide a little wide. It is simply too dangerous because if you slide wide, instead of having the bike slide out from under you, the tires will hit the curbing and probably throw you over the top, and right onto the rocks.

Well, it is a cartpath. It seems some "gentlemen" had teatime a little early, only they weren't drinking tea, lost control of their cart and landed upside down in the drink. Hey, the lawyers got involved. I'm surprised they didn't put in a chicane with gravel traps.

I still take the bridge once in awhile, though much more slowly. No sense in being stupid about it.

One time since the initial scare stands out though. As I crossed the bridge and climbed back to the road, a man in a cap ran to the edge of the cartpath, furiously shaking his putter at me, yelling "Faster next time, you miserable wanker!"

It was Nigel Mansell.

You owe me a keyboard.

Mark.

Judging from this and your other posts, I bet you got a 4.0 in EngComp 101.

[Big Dan]

Hey Doc, that picnic table from the 1st pic can hurt someone......

Now I'm getting a sandwich so I can finish reading your post......

[Climb01742]

never let a man named "nigel" wave a putter at you without taking appropriate action.

[TimD]

1. "Villeneuve"

2. 130R. Tarzan. The Boschkurve. Or the 2nd Lesmo, before.

3. Mansell was not as good as he would have you believe.

I did like your post though, and that's a hairy section for sure

TimD

[Tony Prioli]

I am riding that bridge next week. I always ride past that sucker, and after reading this post, I will ride it with one hand, and sipping tea, Chaps!!

[zap]

I was going to ask how much air time.

Spa, the best F1 circuit.

[Doc Austin]

Greetings dudes and dudettes. I finally got too old to risk falling off bicycles, but it was a hell of a ride. I don't have any advice except take pride in being a badass athlete. Help the new guys. Never miss a sunset ride to the beach, especially with your friends.

I miss the fellowship here and wanted to leave you with a parting laugh.

#11, THE BOMB

We were stupid men...........................in a stupid sport.

Some of you will remember my beloved deceased friend Joe Zimmerman was utterly evil with firecrackers, but compared to George Hall, he was a prince.

Previously, I had mentioned the last time I saw George was at the Florida State karting Championship Awards banquet, but I forgot about the real last time because my psyche had blotted the horror out. The other night it came rushing back in a terrible nightmare that had me terrified to go back to sleep..........and I still l haven't.

Yeah, Joe was evil, but I swear, when you put a firecracker in George's hands an demonic grin would sweep over his face as he scoured the paddock for an unsuspecting and innocent victim. His eyes would roll back into his head until all you could see was the whites with flashing triple sixes. George wasn't a mean guy, but there was something about an explosion that apparently would give him a woodie.

OH, lord, he got me enough times. It was the middle of a long, bitterly hard fought championship. It was also the hottest Florida summer in nearly 100 years.........and a good test of a man's meddle.

Every time he would get me, it would always make me furious. He would drop one behind me when I was bent over working on something, or just standing in a group talking. Everyone would see it coming but me, and they played along because it is always fun to see someone else s*** themselves. Finally, in a rage I promised George and anyone within shouting distance that I would get him. Not only would I get him, but I would get him..............and it was going to be a stinking BOMB.

What else could you expect from..........


Stupid men...............in a stupid sport?

Of course, George and I were buddies and nothing ever came between us that a cold beer sitting together on the tailgate of his dilapidated old truck wouldn't make vanish. Well, except my promise, that is.

I came up with many elaborate plans, but I didn't want to kill the guy. I just wanted him to s*** himself, and preferably in front of as many people as possible.

George would show up at 8am for the race, and you could set your watch by it. He would have a cup off coffee from his thermous and without warning, he would jump up and run to the loo. It was as predictable as a Michael Schumacher swerve.

Almost all the tracks had nice facilities until we got to Ft. Lauderdale, which had just been finished, except it needed a few finishing touches, you know, unnecessary things like tire barriers and a fence between the track and the pits. Oh yeah, and grass. The place was nothing but dirt, and you know what happens to dirt when it gets wet, right?

They also hadn't finished the men's room but there was still a good old portalet there for us to use. In Europe, they may call them something else, but they are plastic portable restrooms that you see at construction sites. They are generally very small and so tight that you barely had enough room to wipe yourself, so it was an ideal trap. When I was in there I noticed the door wouldn't shut right, and I knew I was in business.

On Friday night and Saturday I kept making references to THE BOMB, just to set the stage. I took an empty paper towel roll, painted it red so it would look like dynamite, put a regular benign black cat firecracker in the center with the fuse sticking out of the middle, and stuffed the thing with shredded toilet paper. It wasn't a dangerous Bomb, but it was packed so tight that it was going to be ear splitting and splatter toilet paper shards everywhere.

Well, sure enough, it rained like hell on Sunday and the place was flooded. We were probably going to get cancelled, so I knew it was now or never. This was the most golden opportunity I would ever have.

I made a point to hang out with George so I would know when to go for the kill, and about halfway through his first cup of coffee, George dropped it and made a beeline for the portalet.

Showtime

I lit the fuse, gave the portalet door a good tug and when it popped open I dropped my creation right between Georges feet, where it became entangled in his underwear.

"It's THE BOMB, George!" I screamed and slammed the door.

Everyone saw it. They saw me sneaking up with THE BOMB, alerted their buddies and the entire paddock was waiting, standing in the pouring rain getting soaked, just waiting to see George's demise. Hey, he had gotten all of them at least once, so it was payback for everyone.

The door burst open with George wide eyed, screaming and running for his life, except with his pants around his ankles the only place he was going was face first into a soaking south Florida mudpuddle........ker-splaaaaaaaaaaash!

And then THE BOMB went off, with toilet paper shreds and mud flying in all directions, but mostly sticking to George's bare, but mud covered butt.

Amongst thunderous applause, all that was left for George to do was smile, go back into the portalet and finish his business. When someone yelled "Look out, he's got another BOMB," George stormed off into the woods so he could answer mother nature in peace.

We finished out the championship in a snafu that saw no one willing to accept the championship we had all tried to kill each over. Odder things have happened, but not many. What did you expect from stupid men........in a stupid sport?

George was on a budget and would only run the state championship races, while I was living at home, had no life and the blessing of Dad's checkbook (at the time, which was about to end), so if there was a race I was there.

There was a local race at my home track and I would never miss one of those. George stopped by just to see all his buddies and hang out. He also helped me with pit equiment and things, particularily my outboard starter, which maddeningly jammed on the grid.

"Hang on Buddy, it's got a loose contact." George yelled.

I sat there furious as the field got the one lap to go signal.

"Hang on Buddy, I've almost got it fixed." George yelled again.

I was becoming madder and madder as the outboard starter refused to engage until the field took the green and was away. Right then, George hit the buttom, the engine roared to life and I took off after the field. Right as I took off, I felt a bump in my lap, but I didn't even look down because I was so focused.

It was a 500 firecracker brick of blackcat firecrackers, lit, of course.

George knew I would ride it out because nothing was going to stop me once the visor went down, but each miniature explosion sent a sting through my..........errrrrr, manhood.

Pop,bang, pop, bang!

I would try to grab the brick and fling it out, but each explosion would sting my hand so bad that I would drive and drop the brick, drive and drop the brick, right back into my lap where it would smoke, pop, bang pop, bang. They were flying up into my face and exploding just outside of my visor, stinging my hands, legs and errrrrrr, manhood.

With that and the smoke I couldn't see where I was going. The tears in my eyes didn't help anything either. My jeans got hotter and hotter until I just couldn't take it anymore and, race be dammed, I pulled off, leapt out and ran away from popping and smoking heap.

I turned around and watched as the brick danced in the seat of my kart pop, bang, pop, bang, paper flying and smoke pouring.

The red flag was out because not only the paddock, but the entire grid was in on it and they were all standing by their karts, lining the fences and howling with laughter.

Without a word I pushed my kart back, walked over to George's truck and sat on the tailgate. George plopped down next to me and extended a bottle of beer. Without looking over at George, I accepted it, twisted off the cap and held it up, George smiled broadly, and he clinked his bottle against mine.

Stupid men....................in a stupid sport.

[Blown Reek]

"I blinked twice and twenty years went by."