hi there,  wie versprochen, hier mein ring-bericht--leider nur in
meiner muttersprache geschrieben, aber ich hoffe ihr habt trotzdem
spass daran.

keep smiling, alex.
--

[For immediate release] Capt. Vroom burns the asphalt

"It's all Harakiri-Harald's fault." These words go through my mind as
the red bear (VFR 750) screams into the braking zone. Nose dives forward,
tail-section vibrating as the callipers bite, pulling the tach from 180
down to 70, my arms brace themselves against the gee force, all the while
trying to co-ordinate the clutch and throttle to keep up the revs as I
change down to second. Thrusting the  handlebars over to the right, I let
go of the brake, eyes scan the horizon for the corner's exit, feeling
the machine flick over to the left. Just as I get ready to roll on the
throttle - kazoom - a tatterdemalion bike zips past on the inside, leaving
me with the impression I'm crawling along like a snail on morphium.

Thursday afternoon sees Harald (YZF 600), Rolf (TRX 850)and myself all
dressed up in eager anticipation of what is to be my first trip to a
motorcycle track event. We agree on the route, don helmets and hit the
road. The ensuing itinerary evolves to a hard slog, road-works and heavy
traffic hampering our way to Poznan, Poland. Roughly 140km past the border
(where we'd stopped to tank - petrol is dirt cheap there at one DM per
litre) I see Rolf fiddling around with his reserve switch and think
to myself "That's funny, I'd have thought the TRX has a longer range",
so it comes as no great surprise when he pulls over a while later and
explains that his engine stutters and looses power unless he switches
to "PRI". We carryon to the next petrol station, deduce that the petrol
pump's probably a gonner, and after examining the fuses (at which point I
discover that the TRX's insides are held together with tape). Filling her
up again, we continue, leaving Rolf to brood over the cost of anew pump.

We arrive at dusk, check into the hotel, relieved at the fact that our
room reservation has not been lost, and eagerly dump our baggage on
the beds (Harald notices with glee that there's a TV present).Consensus
indicates we use the remaining time to organise our track passes and prep
the bikes. A friendly gatekeeper at the entrance to the track welcomes us,
issuing us entrance passes to the "Tor-Poznan" race track and remarks
to me that Alexander is a Polish name, wishing me luck. I must have been
smiling like a four year old and tell him I'm only hereto have a bit of
fun. We ride the bikes up to the pits eyeing up those that have already
arrived (I can see big speech bubbles over Harald's head exclaiming "I
bet can smoke him!" as he spots another 600). A few yards away from the
stop there is a fast-food trailer from hell where we make instant friends
with the proprietor by being able to say "thank you" in Polish (I'm not
quite positive on how to spell it, but in case you want to impress any
Polish girls, it goes something like 'Djequie'). In any case, we took the
opportunity to still our hunger with hamburgers(I swear they were 99%
fat, with 1% meat steamed off a carcass) and fries('fritky'). So while
we were chewing our poison, Harald, who'd already been here a few times,
let us know about the great food they have in the hotel, and described in
great detail these fantastic dumplings (apparently called 'Biji') which
go really well with a delicious brown sauce. This left me wondering what
his motive could have been to suggest we fill our guts out here at the
track. Anyway, time to prep the bikes. Off come the mirrors, and on goes
the race tape over the all the lights. At this point I'm left to swallow
cheap shots concerning the touristic nature of the VFR apparent due to
the hefty mirrors and the presence of a centre-stand. At least I'm able
to retaliate by commenting on the apparent working order of the petrol
pump...After applying some chain lube, we decide that we're all taped up
and ready go, and trek off back to the hotel. Without an open bar at which
to display xenophilia, we're left to the confines of our room, accompanied
by a few beers scrounged from the receptionist. Harald fails to MacGyver
the TV set, which is only able to receive polish channels. This is a major
tragedy, leaving no option but to join in with the macho conversation we
picked up from other Germans earlier at the track. Tired, and yet still
buzzing with excitement we hit the sack. The alarm is set for 7:00 AM.

Breakfast consists of yoghurt, scrambled eggs (no salt), rolls,
passion-fruit jam (yum, yum) and coffee. The event starts at 9 o'clock
with a run-down of the flag signals:
	Yellow: danger, no overtaking.	Yellow/red: soiled track(oil
	etc.), care!  Black accompanied by number: participant must
	enter the pits.  Red: Abort the race, return slowly to the pits.
	Green: All clear White: Ambulance, or slow vehicle on track.
	Black/White chequered: end of the race(no surprises here, ey?)
We pick up our start numbers (I'd decided on the smallest power-of-two
available, and ended up with 256). I also grabbed a red sticker for the
back of my bike which denotes a beginner to stay well clear of. Rolf
and Harald stick on their helmets and blast away, while I wait for our
instructor to finish his breakfast (I'd signed up for an introductory
course). A short while later saw me and a bunch of other guys on the
go-cart track doing crazy things like riding side-saddle and sitting
on the tank and standing on the seat(although to be honest, I left out
a few of the zanier exercises(standing with your right foot on the left
peg), not seeing the point in them. The next session consisted of braking
exercises where we had to lock up the back and front wheels in a display
of what best not to freely engage in. Then it was off to the track.

Tor Poznan is a little over four kilometers long, ridden clockwise and
is considered a "right-hand course". You  start off blasting down the
start/finish straight into a wide right-hand180 which I managed to take
at a measly115kmh. The next corner leaves you with pinch marks in the
seat. You approach at whatever your bike can do, and have to decelerate
to about 70 for a second-gear left-hand hairpin. Remaining on the outside
the next corner is a left-right combination where you really get to tug
at the bars in quick succession. Next in line is one of the trickiest
parts of the course. Arriving at a fair clip (at least 170) the track
has a slight mound, at the top of which you get to spot aright-hander
that's tighter than a rat's arse. Nothing for it, but to bear your
chest to the wind and hit those brakes hard. If you manage to roll over
a repair patch on the inside of the apex you've made it. (Don't ask me
how fast I take this corner, I was too busy crapping bricks to look at
the speedometer.) When you're through, relax and gun the throttle for
the next left-right combination. These are taken fairly fast and a good
idea is to move over the outside of the track before the right because
it's a little tighter than the left. Now you can pick up a little speed
while staying on the left hand side of the track as you sweep around a
gentle right, but be sure to move across to the right before so you have
enough room to cut the ensuing left. Now comes a tricky bit which I've
only managed to get halfway right a few times. On the map it looks like
a left-right-right, but apparently you can charge straight through the
first left, loosing speed while you do so and then attack the remaining
right-right in one radius (although I have heard differing opinions
on this one). The rest of the course is a cinch. With only one long
right-hander to go(where not much braking is required), all you need
to do is slam on the throttle and make sure you don't red-line it too
long. On the first afternoon I managed a leisurely 2:18 and I'm still
waiting for the other times (I'm hoping for a 2:11). At this stage,
I should say in no uncertain terms, that if you take any of the advise
given above as anything more than the experiences of an absolute beginner
after his first ever trip to a racetrack, you are a complete moron and
don't deserve to be faster than me, ever.

The first six rounds are spent following the instructor (Marco, on a
ZXR 400 that looked like something the cat brought in) as he shows us
the line. Then after a break, we each get to go a little faster and
are urged to watch out not to collide into the guy in front (who would
have thought...).  The next session we all get to blast around at the
front of the group, with the Maro directly behind.  Good in theory,
except that an old fogey on a pc25 doesn't really manage to keep up,
and as we aren't allowed to overtake, there is a huge gap so that I,
being behind him, didn't get round to taking the lead.

After a few more rounds on the track it is time for a much-needed lunch
break after which a 'long-distance' race is on the agenda.  The event is
set for two hours, in which teams of two riders competed to see who can
cover the most distance within the given time frame.  So as to even out
the field a little, the fastest and the slowest riders is paired up, the
second fastest with the second slowest and so on.  Quite fun to watch,
but at the same time depressing to see riders zipping around the track
obviously winning hefty arguments against the laws of physics.

That afternoon Harald spends some more time coaching me through the
intricacies of the track and I have the feeling that I am finally
getting to grips with some of the trickier sections, gaining speed
inversely proportional to the length of my peg feelers.  Rolf seems
to be slightly unsatisfied, experiencing difficulties getting his knee
down---something which wouldn't really worry me as he was still a damn
sight faster than me.  (Although it turned out that my fastest circuit
was 2:08 vis-a-vis his 2:11, so at least I have something to needle him
with if he ever makes any snide comments about my VFR in future :-)

Dinner in the hotel is pretty good, despite the fact that the mention of
the magic word 'Biji', leaves the sweet and very patient waitress with a
bemused look---my guess is that it means crushed sheeps balls, and she is
having a hard time keeping a straight face---so much for Harald's Polish.
Anyway, we get what we want and spend a restful night.

After a few warm-up rounds the next day I'm approached by a bashful guy
I'd exchanged a few words with during the previous day's race, and he
asks me if I'll show a friend of his the line around the track.  I gladly
accept, always willing to help out, but also mention I'm a stinkin'
rookie.  We go ahead all the same, with me out in front we take the track
at a comfortable pace for two rounds, during the second of which I get
barged in the side by an R1 in a right-hander and he zips off into the
gravel.  Serves him right for ignoring the red spot on my number plate.
A short while later hot on Rolf's heels we're shown the yellow flag and
see an ambulance gathered around a few bikes on the side of the track.
Red is signalled on the finish line and we enter the pits were a relieved
Harald awaits our return.  It turns out that nothing serious had happened
to the biker/bike (bruised ribs and scratched plastic).

After the morning break, the three of us decide we've had our share,
rip the tape etc off our bikes, grab one last shot of sausage shaped
fat and head off home.

All in all, it was a blast and I think I've developed a serious
lean-angle/adrenalin deficiency, and can't wait until i've got my own
race-prepped goof.  Maybe it's my fault.