Bucket List: Run what ya brung!
Sign up to a Run What You Brung for the best value thrills you’ll have all summer ‘The burnout smoke becomes a signal of the Busa’s power’
High noon and the vultures are circling overhead. Heat haze shivers on the horizon as two foes pull up to their mark. This is a duel, a rootin’, tootin’, gunslingin’ grudge match of epic proportions, and the winner will be the one who’s quickest on the draw and fastest to the finish. Only, this ain’t no two-horse town, this is England. Shakespeare County Raceway, to be precise.
Although signing yourself up on a Run What You Brung (RWYB) is probably as close as you and your bike can get to a Wild West shootout, it’s by no means as intimidating. Me and my iron horse (a 2014 Suzuki Hayabusa) rolled leisurely into town at sun-up (8.45am), threw a fist full of dollars (£25) at the doll behind the counter and, after a quick once-over from the county sheriff (err, a scruitineer), took our place in line. Behind us a Buell XB1200 Lightning and BMW K1300R, to the left of us a Volvo T5, while to the right lay the drag strip itself – a sticky liquorice ribbon of grip and speed, 1320ft long.
The springtime sun has lured the speed hungry out of hibernation. There’s everything here from proper drag cars complete with ballooned rear slicks and parachutes, to stretched swingarm turbo bikes, as well as normal road bikes like mine, complete with numberplates and touring tyres, who’ve rocked-up for the day to enjoy unleashing their machine’s full potential and, of course, race their mates.
We all queue together in the pairing lanes beside the strip, which is good because not only are you in the best place to watch the action on the strip but you’re also in prime position to see how the ‘Christmas tree’ works.
Named because of its twin rows of coloured lights, the Christmas tree dictates the start of each and every drag race and, for a couple of seconds prior to your launch, it’s the most captivating thing in the world. Two sets of white lights at the very top invite you to ‘stage’ – take your mark – before triggering the sequence of starting lights, that strobe from yellow to green, prior to your launch.
Snapping back into reality after zoning out on the heady mix of methanol, two-stroke and burning rubber, the startline marshal beckons me forward. As I’m a lone ranger, I’ve been paired up with Nick and his GSX-R750. Pah, not really a match for the mighty Busa… But, what’s this? A pair of thin hoses, one blue the other red, plumbed into his throttle bodies. NOS, you say? This is war. Burnouts aren’t compulsory prior to launch, but where else can you do one without feeling like a hooligan? As well as heating the rear tyre, vital for mechanical grip, the smoke becomes a signal of power. I shoot
a sideways glance over to Nick, my newest acquaintance but now my oldest enemy, whose GSX-R is shrouded white in vaporised Bridgestone, but it’s not a patch on my vulcanised fog. Another marshal beckons us forward onto the startline; this is it, my moment in the spotlight. I feel the burning stares of a thousand imaginary spectators packed into the rickety wooden grandstands. I edge forward into pre-stage, then nibble into stage. Stop. Find the bite point, raise the revs. Nick’s lights flick into stage too. We’re ready. Revs up, lights out – GO!
The Busa bites into the grippy surface and launches forward as I finely balance the clutch lever and throttle until I’m confident to let the clutch engage fully, unleashing the Suzuki’s full power. But in my peripheral vision I can see the flash of blue in the lane next to me. It’s Nick! He’s not going to win… I hunker down and give it everything. We blast over the finish line in unison as huge digital boards flash up our times and terminal speeds.
But it’s all a bit irrelevant, I already know what I need to do to go faster, where I can hone my launch and slick up my gearchanges, stealing tenths and hundredths of a second until I pull off the perfect quarter mile. And thankfully, I can just rejoin the queue and do it all again, and again, and again.
Nick and his GSX-R won’t stand a chance next time…