After hours of waiting and talking smack on a summer afternoon, we finally found ourselves on the starting line, ready to race. Twin-cylinder engines roared, the flag dropped, and clutches released. All 13 of us shot off. Thing is, hunting for that keyhole-size gap for the inside line into the first turn on a big, heavy street bike, things can go wrong in a hurry. You can’t bang bars like you can with a 200-pound dirt bike. When you try, the results always end the same: bikes careen out of control, usually landing atop someone. So, there we were, sprawled across the ground like Jenga pieces at the end of a party. A light ring of the bell here, some bumps and bruises there—for the most part, we escaped unmangled.