Free Wheelin'

We were watching Moto3 from Czechia on the laptop during lunch one day in June, when the announcers, Matt Birt and Louis Suddaby, started talking about Moto4.

Shira and I looked at each other… Moto4?

What is Moto4? We knew MotoGP, and 2, and 3… for sure. 

But Moto4? How young are these kids? Kindergarten? Riding sponsored Baby-Walkers?

Not really, it is a thing, and the riders are usually in their early teens, and it was easy to understand when we figured out that this was a moniker for the series, held around the world, that cultivates new talent, and works as a feeder for very skilled youngsters looking to become World Class racers to move on up. Very cool.

Still, that did not stop us from adding more and more numbers… ‘cause it was lunch time, the beginning of summer, we were happy, and whimsy, sarcasm, and tomfoolery all live at Backroads Central. 

We began to envision and create in our minds additional Moto Series.  Each number going higher, and the talent getting younger… Zygotes, embryos, and fetuses duking it out around the placenta and to the checkered flag at the bottom of the birth canal hill.

It was all so much fun until we high-sided into Moto13.

For some reason from MotoGP all the way to Moto12 – it all got younger, but… when we got to Moto13 we had a very, very rude awakening.

Here, in this class, it all got older. Sadly older. Slower too.

We first thought that maybe these races were held only in some far-away 5th world nation like Triskaidekaphobiastan – but nope. 

They are here. Right now, and worse than in front of us… they are us. 

We are Moto13. Are you part of Moto13?

We’re the kids (Ha…he said loosely) who have the MotoGP shirts that only seem to come out on race weekends, especially when we think someone will notice. We’re the fans that have different flags and banners from different racers and teams adorning our garage walls. There are little replica Ducati, Honda, and Aprilia machines scattered throughout the home. In the extreme and the elite end of Moto13 – there are shower curtains. Some even have the MotoGP theme sound when Amazon rings their doorbell – delivering more Moto-crap.

This all might sound scary – but not to the riders of Moto13. 

We are the faithful. We are the Chosen Ones who decide to spend a lot of expendable income, and sometimes not-so-expendable income, on something of which we will never possibly be more than a common spectator. Oh, before you get pissy - I’m a hard-core Moto13 guy – so frack off.

After the Saturday Sprint, we will usually venture out for a ride, most times heading out along roads we know like the back of our gauntleted ‘race-style’ gloves. Those twistilicious miles of pavement where we can imagine that we ride like those racers from GP, 2 & 3 – probably four too. We do not.

Imagine is a key and imperative word of note here, and quite important.

What we see in our Moto13 eye, and what is really happening, are rarely identical, nor many times on the same dimensional plane. Think you are going around the curve dragging your knee and shoulder? Right. In truth, the only time most Moto13 riders have their gear touch the ground like that is when they thrown it onto the couch… and miss. Or, they did not get their kickstand down all the way. 

Gravity. It’s the law.

After the race on a Grand Prix Sunday, Moto13 riders all suit up and roll out for a post-GP jaunt, where we totally rule the backroads. 

We are smoked by a kid on a Rebel 250, and get distanced by an Eisenhower-era chopper, yet we roll on knowing we are Moto13, and roll in our own paracsom. We blast through the valleys and over the mountains in a sensuous nefelibatic dance.

So, my friends keep watching the three main classes of MotoGP – but know that for the very few that have the talent, and the luck, to become one of the top echelon of world riders, and competitors, that there are many more coming up through the ranks, and this sport will continue as that pipeline continues, and gets bigger.

But, in truth, if there were not Moto13, it would all disappear. 

Really. Who’d buy all these T-shirts and flags?