That, and more but I don't want to bore you, is enough to get me qualified for the Production 600 race. Thursday evening, we're in the mood to celebrate. "Maybe I'll just have one beer," I say, an idea that's immediately, vehemently vetoed by my whole team. Friday morning, at scrutineering, I'm breathalyzed. You have to blow 0.00, or you're out. Smith gives me a look that says, "See, you were saved a pummeling." That afternoon, on the last lap of the last session, I qualify for the Junior. With nothing to do until the first race next Wednesday, I do crack a beer. Four of my friends from the Heartland of America Motorcycle Enthusiasts club in Kansas City (I'm sort of an honorary member) have ridden up on battered courier bikes they managed to rent in London. I want to hit the legendary Bushy's beer tent with them, I really do. Maybe tour the Manx bars that, for one week a year, bring in lap dancers. But somehow I don't.