Legacy Racing, Part II

I felt like a rock star, flying from Los Angeles to Virginia with just leathers and helmet in hand, the race bike ready and waiting for me at the track. Buff Harsh, the current proprietor of Todd Henning Racing, had brought his own CB350 vintage racer all the way from Atlanta to Alton, Virginia for me to ride during the August AHRMA event at Virginia International Raceway. After my successful AHRMA debut at Willow Springs (which you will read about in the November 2009 issue of Motorcyclist), Harsh was eager to see how I would fare against the larger grids that the East-coast events typically attract. Was I game? You better believe it. I'd gotten a taste of AHRMA action in southern California, and I really enjoyed the atmosphere, old bikes, and the surprisingly fierce racing.

Harsh and I were also honored to have my father, Todd Henning, in our pit. Dad raced with AHRMA for more than two decades, until a serious crash at Sears Point in April 1999 ended his racing career. This would be his first time back at the racetrack and his first time watching me race his bike. I tagged along with dad at the races throughout my childhood; now it was Dad's turn to tag along with me. He's pretty much always cheerful, but the energy surrounding the track had him livelier and brighter than I've seen him in years.

The American Historic Racing Motorcycle Association (www.AHRMA.org) hosts events across the country, but this was the club's first time racing on Virginia International Raceway's South Course. It's a spectacular track, set among rolling green hills in the state's southwest corner. Getting there takes patience and a good sense of direction, as the course is only accessible via a labyrinth of winding country roads. Stepping out of the rental car's air-conditioned cool and into a steamy southern August afternoon, the humidity was stifling. I'm going to wear full leathers in this weather?!?

The AHRMA atmosphere is one of pure amity and friendship; it's far too easy over eat on Friday night, with so many BBQ invites. Dad was a prominent club member, a skillful tuner who helped many, many racers, and also an intense competitor. When he got hurt, the club rallied around him, offering emotional (and financial) support. It was so great to see him back in the pits, meandering among the camps and getting reacquainted with old friends--and making new ones, too.

Practice on Friday started out rocky. Minor mechanical problems and annoying fluid leaks plagued the bike for the first few sessions. Bob "Rabbie" Demetrius, the man to beat in the Sportsman 350 class, was on track and Dad's stopwatch confirmed that he was going fast. We were all frustrated that I was losing valuable track time, but when Harsh finally got the bike straightened out, I rode hard and managed to quickly whittle my lap times down to a competitive number. Needless to say, we were all pretty excited by the prospect of racing up front with the current titleholder--who also happens to ride a Todd Henning Racing Honda.

Saturday was race day, and overnight a flock of butterflies had moved into my stomach. I was entered in races five and six, back to back. The flag dropped in Sportsman 350 and "Rabbie" charged off the line. Pushing through the rest of the class going up the straight, I dropped in behind him before Turn 1 and followed for a few laps. His lines were solid, and his corner speeds were way up there. I could see why he was class champion. It was going to be hard to get around him. On the third lap I pulled a draft going up the hill into the back kink and showed Rabbie a wheel just as he was about to tip the bike in, forcing him to back off for just a moment as I slipped past. Still hard on the gas heading down the hill, I eeked out a lead and built off it with every remaining lap. I kept my head down and rode the wheels off that old Honda, and when the checkered flag dropped, I'd taken the win.

I was floored--so were Dad and Harsh--but we didn't have time to celebrate. It was first call for Race 6, so I rushed to the pits to top off the tank and chug some fluids before heading back to the grid. I forfeited my warm-up lap--the bike and I were both plenty warm! Just like Dad did when he raced, I'd bumped up into the Sportsman 500 class too, which was gridded immediately behind the purebred race machines of the 350 GP class.