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I have heard whispers of the motorcycle Mecca that is Bonneville for many years. Most of us who ride know it, at least by reputation, as the land of salt and speed. In French — my mother tongue — “bonne ville” simply means “good city.” As nice as that sounds, I had never been, until a friend of mine offered an invitation to watch his team compete at the SCTA World Finals in October.
I planned the route, packed my bags and hit the ever-loving road out of Los Angeles. North up the coast along the gorgeous ocean cliffs of Big Sur, then up and over the stunning mountain highways around Lake Tahoe, and finally down and across the unforgiving Nevada desert until landing in the tiny town of Wendover. It’s a strangely divided town, the Nevada side littered with casinos and gamblers, while the Utah side is lined with cheap motels and racers with dreams of speed and glory.
I joined my friend and his crew of outlaws at the Motel 6. They were an eclectic group of men and women, young and old, who shared a passion for going fast. There was even a mascot dog named Rollie after the great Rollie Free, the man who set the 1948 land speed record wearing only a bathing suit and became the subject of one of the most famous motorcycle photographs of all time. My new group of fast friends were sun-kissed and toasting with champagne, celebrating their land speed record for the Vintage Unstreamlined class which they had set earlier that day with a custom Vincent engine. After much talk of moto travels, they invited me to come see their last run the next day, where they would attempt to certify their new record. I enthusiastically accepted, and they told me wheels-up at 6 a.m. Speed doesn’t sleep.
I remember faintly having strange dreams that night, interrupted by the sounds of roaring engines outside the door. I groggily looked out the window and saw red lights shining through rising fog from exhaust pipes. It was time, D-day had finally arrived. I suited up, slammed some coffee and jumped on the bike.
Perhaps I was just cold, but it felt like the Triumph Bonneville T100 was guiding me on that frozen morning, like it knew it was close to home. As the sun was fighting to wake up the day to my right, the moon was disappearing behind the jagged, rocky mountains on my left. As I approached the entrance of the Bonneville Speedway it felt like I had crossed some kind of time and space barrier.
The sun crept above the horizon and there appeared a never-ending white carpet of salt laid out in front of me. I was breathless, and could only think of Neil Armstrong and the way he must have felt arriving on the moon. The first few moments riding on the bed of salt were unnerving as I tried to find the balance and traction on a foreign surface. Soon enough, the bike found its feet underneath me. Call it Bonneville instinct. I tucked in and throttled towards the circus of engine enthusiasts who were setting up camp in the distance.
Now feeling like I had accomplished my mission, I began to relax and take in all the beauty of the landscape surrounding us. With the cold, crisp breeze hitting my face, I became overwhelmed by the immensity of it all. There was nothing familiar about this place. It was a world without trees, without rivers, without animals, without life. Nothing could survive here. It was a part of the earth that seemed to be discarded, forgotten. It was quickly exceeding any expectations I could have had. “Good City” wasn’t even close to describing what I was experiencing. I knew I was entering a world of greatness, where humble people entered, and legends had been born.
I parked and joined our friends at the starting line, where they began to prep the custom Vincent for its final run. It had been held on an overnight “lockdown” to make sure that they didn’t add any extra juice at the motel. “Protocol,” said James through his gas mask. “What’s the mask for?” I asked. He paused and simply stated, “Nitro,” and walked away. I was in for a serious spectacle.
As I began to tour the tents, my eyes were captivated by all of these wild machines being rolled off their trailers. They were of all shapes, sizes and colors, from a souped-up Mazda Miata to what looked like a 40-foot rocket ship, their pilots dressed in jumpsuits, like astronauts ready to launch. The one thing that was highly palpable among these people was their undying dedication to this passion. Each movement had a deliberate meaning, which carried a grave seriousness. One false turn of a screw could mean death, with little to no room for error. I tried not to impose as we moved through the crowd towards the beginning of the five-mile track, marked only by a blue line that disappeared into the horizon.
I found a place behind the red tape to watch the mad show begin, and as the first motorcycle rider was about to propel himself into the unknown, I found myself curious what was going on inside his head. What had driven him to this point of a possible no return? Was it a type of lunacy? A desire for glory? Admiration? As I watched him take his final breaths before embarking, I started to realize that this particular kind of sport is a solitary race in more ways than one. Once they twist that throttle, they are out there on their own, leaving the earthlings behind. They attempt to defy what it is to be human. The opponent is nature itself, and they are fighting the laws of physics and forces of gravity, just hoping to come out on the other side feeling closer to the gods. As I observed each vehicle, each man and woman shoot off into the seemingly infinite expanse, I became emotional. This is what it is to be human at its greatest. I have and will always admire those groups of rebels who quest to push beyond our mortal boundaries.
This revelation was broken by a sudden feeling of alarm. I had just watched one of the race cars disappear into the distance, and someone to our left was listening on the radio announcing the event. “Something’s wrong.” An ambulance flew down the track blazing its sirens. You can only fear the worst in this scenario, as I had heard a racer had tragically passed away during Speed Week just a few months before. The crowd remained hushed in silence as everyone crossed their fingers, waiting for hopeful words.
“There was a fire,” the man with the radio solemnly said.
The scene of the crash was too far into the distance to see what was going on. The seconds felt like minutes as we finally heard the two reassuring words, “He’s OK.” The engine had blown, but luckily the car was equipped with a fire extinguisher and the racer was able to avoid catastrophe. This battle is no easy feat.
This potential calamity was followed by more misfortune. Alp, the racer of the Vincent team I came to see, failed to certify his speed record because a spark plug fell out of the engine during his final run. All of that hard work, those months of preparation, the tireless hours spent going over every centimeter of that bike, to end in failure because of this simple mishap. As I approached the team to offer condolences, their shoulders were not slouched in defeat; their optimism not faded in their faces. It seemed to only bolster their joy and enthusiasm for their cherished sport. With the war not over, there were other battles to be had, other lands to conquer.
It also struck me that this is one of the last great racing events that hasn’t been corporatized, sponsored, and sterilized. This wasn’t about pleasing the money people, or getting ratings. This was about friends coming together who share a vision of greatness, whose courage and fortitude is amplified by the passion of those surrounding them. This event was about those in the arena who dare to risk their beating heart to go where no other has gone before. To accept the triumph and tragedy that arrives not quietly, but in a roar of a thousand lives lived and lost on that sacred ground called Bonneville.
It reminded me of a line from the great lover of freedom on the road, Jack Kerouac. “The only ones for me are the mad ones,” he wrote, and as I looked at the faces of all of those racers that day I felt I was in the right place.
By midday the races had been run, the fires had been put out, and it was time for everyone to go back to their workshops to build their next motorized masterpieces. After the tents and trailers cleared out, the only sign that was left of it was that infinite blue line that shot across the great white span, disappearing into the horizon. I looked over to that lonely Triumph Bonneville T100, aching to be set free on the land where it had been conceived. There was one last piece of my mission that I hadn’t yet accomplished.
Filled with the inspiration of what I had witnessed that day, I put on my gear, threw a leg over the Bonnie and started it up. I revved the engine as if to say “You ready?” and we took off, the back tire spinning before gripping the primordial canvas of salt, like a child gripping its mother.
I can easily say that I’ve never felt that free in my life. I couldn’t tell how fast or in which direction I was going, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. This place, this moment, was beyond time and space. It was beyond human and machine. And as the sun began its descent, I couldn’t help but think that I could exist in this place, on top of this motorcycle, chasing the gods with the mad ones until it all goes black.
