Driving a car is a sensual experience. That’s the main reason we enthusiasts love it. Driving a car quickly geometrically magnifies that sensation. Riding a motorcycle further increases the environmental intimacy between man and machine. And riding a bike quickly leans the sensual needle all the way into the red zone.
And here I am, sitting on a Yamaha R1M, one of the very insanely fastest, world-beating sportbikes that Toyota Corolla money can buy. I’m decked out in Alpinestars gear that makes me look and feel like a MotoGP knee-and-elbow-and-shoulder-dragger, about to make a lifelong bucket list dream come true—thanks to Zack and Ari and the gang at Throttle Out.
Life is not just good right now. It’s fabulous. As I look through the visor of my full-face helmet, down the main straight at Wild Horse Pass Motorsports Park, my whole body tingles inside the leathers. My conscious mind is pulling back hard on the reins of my subconscious urge to be on pace with the hardcore bike duo.
Easy, Randy, I know you want it bad, but this isn’t your natural track domain. There are only two wheels under you, buddy. Two tippy, slippy wheels.
Although I live and love automobiles, the very first motorized vehicle I owned was a Tecumseh lawnmower-powered steel frame-and-forked minibike (thanks, Dad). But even as a wide-eyed teen, I never desired or pursued racing a motorcycle. Therein lies the clue to the real difference between bikes and cars: Risk. Pain. Mortal peril.
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I looked at the motorcycle situation and realized I was gonna injure my body at some point. There’s a reason the racing saying is “when you crash,” not “if you crash.” And the consequences on a motorcycle are obviously more severe when compared to being inside the confines of a safety cage of a car. It’s pretty much the same reason I only played football for real for just one eighth-grade year: It hurt. Driving a car fast actually alleviates pain. The focus it draws from me makes the whole rest of the world go away. On the bike, on track, I found the specter of pain to be clear and present.
With cars or bikes, track drivers have a less developed survival gene than the normal populace. With bikes, it’s practically nonexistent. So why do we want it, so badly, that we will put our well-being on the line? Because with the risk comes reward. Studies have shown that we humans need risk to survive—some more than others, I’ll grant you. My sensible sister-in-law thinks I’m nuts. In my world, it’s normal.
But the Yamaha isn’t my world. Layered in abrasion-resistant and armored materials, I ease the R1M onto the track. “Don’t crash this thing” is heavy on my mind, yet only self-inflicted. Zack and Ari wave me on with a cheery, “Have a great time!” They are even more cool in person than on video. The Yam has almost 200 hp at 444 pounds. That’s like 1,6,58 hp in your 3,680-pound AMG GT R. Thankfully, loads of electronic controls are a comfort in my mind, like the wheelie control that carries the front wheel just inches off the ground when I grab a fistful of throttle.
The R1M rips so hard that my hands feel weak from just hanging on. I know this is wrong, to strangle the bars tightly while riding, but I have a genuine fear of the thing shooting right out of my grip. Scenery blurs instantly. The pre-warmed tires feel sooo sticky, but the geometry and narrow clip-on-style bars feel awkward in slow hairpins.
The opposite of the AMG, the bike is easy and confidence-inspiring in the high-speed corners and clumsy in the tight ones. Or is it me? Probably. But I much prefer the fast ones, where the bike takes a strong set. At low speeds, it feels kind of tippy, like it wants the ground. The guys warned me to brake early, but the Yam seems to stop well—the greatest challenge being to not overuse the rear brake, which is barely tickling the ground anyway as the front forks dive toward the tarmac.
But the whole, thrilling time, I’m intensely aware of the close proximity of the pavement, and the speed at which it is rushing by. This sensation is nonexistent while coddled safely in the womb of the AMG. The risk changes everything.
In the end, I feel like I have taken the circuit at break-my-neck speed. I tell myself I must have come close to the 57.6-second laps I set in the AMG GT R or within shouting distance of Zack’s time on the Yamaha. But the stopwatch tells no lies. My best time: just a whisper over 1:09.
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