As a child I always eschewed team sports. Not only because I was a clumsy, meek spaz, but because individual achievement seemed a better barometer of a person's worth. Now I know that even the most singular sport, Motorcycle Roadracing, requires a copious amount of teamwork to keep the ham on the racetrack.
After the failed Kawasaki race programme of '96, I swore that if I were to ever race again, I would do so on a BMW. The Kaw was so unfamiliar to me. It ran poorly and I lacked the ability to mend it or ride it properly. Norm Blore bought the "Green Bean" and with a little money and his experience, eventually won with it. As the long months passed, I watched on with envy as Norm, Frank, John, and countless others careened around the track without a care, Volvo, or cop in their world.
Then I saw her.
An Airhead who recently returned to motorcycling decided to ride to Beemers at the Burning Man without knowing anything about the festival. He figured he would have a couple of beers with the guys and maybe catch a tech session or two.
At the welcome to Black Rock City sign he paid the entry "tax" and motored across the flat dry clay lakebed upon which the festival takes place. After a couple of miles he reached the edge of the series of camps that form the city. He thought it a bit odd when a Mardi Gras type float motored by with a dozen costumed people dancing to Rave Music on the float. He was definitely surprised to have to weave his bike through a line of chanting pedestrians wearing only green, blue, and silver body paint. As he passed a small parade of individuals pounding drums wearing Zulu war paint, he thought this must be the wrong event. Finally, as he arrived at Airheads camp and parked his bike with the other beemers, he exclaimed "What the hell is this?"