Posted here by request.
A Fenspace story, which always dances merrily across the line between original and fan fiction.
Context available at the link below.
A Fenspace story, which always dances merrily across the line between original and fan fiction.
Context available at the link below.
The Rocketship from Mars.
Editor: Barry Hunter
Words: Tim Stockton
Photography: Chippy Thompson
=====
The noise is immense. All I can think about is the noise.
The roar of the wind and the pressure of it pulling against my body making me feel like IÆve stuck myself behind a 747 at full throttle. The ripping buzz of the engine beneath my chest tearing through the cool morning air. It feels like IÆm riding a thousand chainsaws at once, stuck at full throttle, cutting their way across the dried bed of lake Gairdner..
Between heartbeats, I glance down at the speedometer. 500kph and still accelerating like a scalded cat with a rocket shoved up itÆs arsehole.
I donÆt have time to think about it. Shift light demands my attention. A prod of a button cuts the ignition for a microsecond, while servos in the gearbox hook up 9th gear of an effective 12. With a gunshot backfire the revs drop and the bike keeps accelerating. A sphincter-puckering shimmy runs through the frame for the briefest of instants before the 2 wheel drive system pulls the bike straight.
IÆm aiming for 620kph.
IÆm aiming for the World Record.
How the hell did I get here?
--------
It started with a simple phonecall to the editor. I was at my desk putting the finishing touches on last monthÆs group test while quietly longing for the good old days of motorcycle journalism when a road-test consisted of a three column story written about a stoned journey through the outback, copious drinking, a note on how great it is to be mates, how stupid cagers are and how big a little Hitler the cops are being, finished by a quick note saying ôOh yea, the bike is good tooÆ, when Barry just ambles up out of his office and leans over my desk.
ôTim,ö he says to me, ôI just got an phonecall from some woman who says sheÆs about make a go of the land speed record on Lake Gairdner.ö
Another one?
ôYup. She says sheÆs come down from Fenspace especially for it,ö
Yeah, another one. They never do seem to understand that the FIM wonÆt ratify records where handwavium has been used. The record still stands at 605kph, set back in 2010 by an American with the brilliant name of Rocky Robinson.
He smirks, ôOh no. She assures me that this machine is one-hundred percent all-natural normal laws of physics.ö
Sure Boss, IÆll take it. Sounded like every other Fen attempt really, but they always failed because the scrutineers found something handwaved. Still it was a week or so out of the office, and travel pay. Get Chippy along to take a few photographs, add a few hundred words of an article liberally laced with juicy technical bits, go home for tea. Hard part was getting there.
The magazineÆs offices are in Sydney. Lake Gardner isnÆt. Still, it gives me time to research. Whoever they are, they asked Barry to keep their name a secret, but I can make assumptions. A Fenspacer with regular Australian connections, versed in technology enough to pull something like this... ItÆs obvious whoÆs behind it. I pull up what info I can and read it on the drive down. I donÆt want to seem like a moron.
Lake Gairdner itself is a dried up lakebed, a salt flat not too different from the legendary Bonneville in the USA. ItÆs also home to the Dry Lakes Racing Association. They meet there? regularly and hold their own racing competitions on the lakebed. A quick call to them confirms that the attempt is being made within the week, and that the team have been testing most mornings. A bloke called Jacob tells me theyÆve been running for a week, building speed slowly up from 400kph. Now I start getting a little more excited.
I begin to think I might be covering a genuine World Record attempt and not one of those Fen hoaxes attempting to play hide-that-wave.
One last thing he tells me, is that IÆll never believe what I see when I get there. ôItÆs insane.ö
Yeah sure mate, I tell him... IÆm looking at a picture of her right now. Turns out I wasnÆt. You know what they say about assume?
I pull into the Big 4 Caravan park in Port Augusta, renting something small for myself and Chippy to get some sleep before tomorrowÆs drive down to Iron Knob and Mt. IveÆs station. I call a number IÆve been given, and get a womanÆs voice.
ItÆs somewhat husky...youthful, but still strangely cheerful. Not what IÆd expected at all.
She tells me to get there as early as possible. They make their runs in the morning and evening.
I press for more information, but sheÆs remarkably tight-lipped. I can almost hear her winking at me over the phone line when she tells me IÆll have to come and see for myself. ItÆs frustrating as hell and IÆm in a good mind to just go home and leave them to it.
But IÆm just too damn curious.
At the very least, most of these Fen attempts do look interesting. But I begin to wonder why theyÆre being so tight-lipped about it. I have the feeling that I wonÆt get the answer until I turn up at the lake bed. I have the feeling that is the answer.
On the journey down, ChippyÆs a lot more pessimistic.
ôAnother bloody hoax mate,ö he says. ôHow many of these have their been? How many arseholes coming along trying to play hide-the wave in their engines, drawing tonnes of publicity and making a big hoopla in the papers for weeks, only to be found out as frauds scamming money from sponsors.ö He scoffs. ôAny moron can handwave a car or bike to go a thousand kilometres and hour.ö
HeÆs right. ItÆs an old game at this stage. By the time anyone usually figures out the truth the chancers behind it have already gone to orbit. But he only convinces me more that this isnÆt just a hoax. Things start to make a little more sense. If they did come in, making noise and drawing attention like all the others, the natural assumption would be that they were just like all the others.
I tell him, maybe theyÆre keeping it quiet because itÆs legit then.
He calls me an idiot.
At Mt IveÆs I ring the number again. I get the same womanÆs voice. She still wonÆt give me her name. She tells us to drive down to the Saltbush camp, and look for a green Ford F-250 truck, Chicago registration BDR-259.
Americans? Her accent wasnÆt American. It was weird but it definitely wasnÆt American.
I also catch the tail end of an argument over a camping permit, and something about contamination. She apologises and cuts the call off, leaving me and Chippy just a little perplexed.
Chippy takes a few photographs of the camp as we pull in in the van. WeÆve brung our own bikes to get a few runs in while we have the chance, in case this is just a waste of our time. I think it isnÆt.
We ask for directions from a passerby. He points us towards the other end of the camp, with a knowing smile and the reassurance that whateverÆs there, is going to ôblow our brains out,ö
ChippyÆs doubtful, but snaps his picture anyway.
We find the truck parked up beside a large white tent. My first inkling that this wasnÆt who I was expecting it to be was the dusky-skinned woman sunning herself on a lawn-chair just in front of the truck. Her arm and leg shone bright and metallic in the sun.
We stop the van opposite her and she raises her dark sunglasses as I lower the window.
Is this the record attempt?
ôYeah!ö she answers, jumping to her feet. ôIÆm Ford Sierra. JetÆs in the tent with the bike.ö
ôTim Stocktonö I introduce myself. ôAnd Chippy Thompson, the photographer.ö
ôOy,ö Chippy waves.
ôJet!ö she calls out. ôThe reporters are here!ö
WhoÆs Jet?
Jet, is a self-described flying cyborg, and claims to be the result of an accident a couple of years earlier. Jet, is big. What I first thought to be an unusual white and blue suit of protective riding gear turns out to be JetÆs body. Solid ceramic armour.
ôSheÆs technically naked,ö Ford smirks.
ôThey both looked down,ö Jet barks a laugh, before assuring us with a friendly smile that itÆs alright.
We get to talking for a while. Team Stingray as they call themselves is made up of two people, Ford Sierra and the Jet Jaguar. Ford Sierra is originally American from Chicago. SheÆs a salvage expert and mechanic by trade, with a sideline in bounty hunting that she gleefully tells us about. Jet, Jet is the strangest thing IÆve seen and IÆve been to Kandor for a holiday. Self-described as a spaceflight capable combat cyborg, JetÆs usual day job is training others like her in martial arts. Both live together as partners on Mars, at Marsbase Sara.
Getting more information on either of them is an exercise in pulling teeth.We share a beer in the shade of the van. Otherwise, itÆs a relaxed and easygoing conversation. It turns out JetÆs a former motorcyclist, but Ford is a different matter.
ôIt just never appealed to me,ö she says. ôI always preferred four wheels,ö
Then why make a go at the land speed record?
She looks at Jet for a moment. ôBecause nobody else was doing it.ö
ItÆs obvious thatÆs not the whole reason.
ôAnd we needed a hobby,ö Jet adds.
Next, we come to the main event. IÆm expecting something weird when IÆm led to the tent. IÆm half expecting something just that little bit ridiculous. Chippy lets me know in his own way that IÆm not alone.
What weÆre introduced to, is exactly what we didnÆt expect.
ItÆs not the usual 2 wheeled sausage-creature streamliner; at first glance it actually looks like an actual motorcycle. Stretched a little, with a weird looking engine, but I can pick out the exhausts, the two big snails of the turbochargers, radiators and intercooler. The rider still goes where youÆd expect the rider to go.
ItÆs still a monster, as long, or if not longer than the van. Two bazooka silencers straddle the rear wheel, fed by exhaust pipes thicker than my arm, blued with heat. Red-painted fairing parts are stored underneath a foldaway desk and a laptop which looks like it was built by Tonka. Beside them, a pair of baffled catalysers obviously intended to fit in the silencers, a burned out engine rotor and, of all things, a South Australia registration plate.
ôIt doesnÆt fit in the truck,ö Jet explained when asked. ôIt was the easiest way to get it down here from the spaceport. It was originally a car engine anyway, so getting it to meet emission regulations wasnÆt hard. Drop the boost, lean it out a little, run unleaded, pipe the turbo wastegates into the silencers there and fit the baffles. It just about passed the single vehicle assessment.ö
How does it ride on the road?
ôEasy enough. It cruised happily at the speed limit. I just had to keep the revÆs down, and take it easy through the corners or it would scrape the bellypan.ö
IÆd say so. Something that long, would probably corner like a supertanker. The front wheel stretches far in front of the fairing, fed by thick metal lines which form part of the two-wheel drive system. ItÆs hydraulic. If the real wheel starts to spin, it transmits power to the front, stabilising the machine. Oil coolers are mounted to the front suspension arms, while the rear swinging arm acts as the oil tank from the engine. Cooling fins are machined into it. Everything is being done to get rid of as much heat as possible.
Getting closer, and itÆs possible to see just how exquisite the craftsmanship is. The whole front swinging arm, the frame and rear swingarm, have been machined from billet metal then welded together. The welds are neat and mechanically precise. Even the controls are machined from metal. It gives off a sense of something thatÆs both astonishingly fast, very dangerous, and built to out-last the cockroaches.
JetÆs wearing a smirk.
ôThatÆs the Highway Star.ö
ItÆs a replica of a motorcycle featured in an episode of an animÚ named Bubblegum Crisis, Jet tells us. An animÚ she based her own armour on.
Seeing it in the metal, naked, it looks like something capable of 600kph. It looks nothing like the usual streamliners. ItÆs brutal and vicious, front heavy. It looks like it batters the air out of itÆs way and tells drag to fuck off rather than slicing easily through it all with the minimum of fuss. It has a certain elegant brutality to it, like a precision machined double-headed battleaxe.
ôHow much does it weigh?ö Chippy asks. HeÆs gobsmacked by it.
ôAbout half a ton,ö Ford answers. ôAnd weÆve tuned it to about 600 kilowatts, with a push button boost up to 750.ö
Chippys response isnÆt printable. WeÆre in the presence of something truly special. The engine is built out of two Mazda rotary engines, taken from an Rx-7, mounted to a common output shaft, and then boosted by two big fat turbochargers driving through a centre-mounted intercooler.? JetÆs babbling fannishly about how the original is supposed to be an all ceramic 1500cc twin-turbo.?
IÆm quietly informed that they believe it might be possible to increase the output above the magic thousand kilowatts with little trouble and possibly get as high as 1200. They run with the bare minimum of boost to keep the engine temperatures down.
ôPiston Engines blow up and seize,ö Ford explains, ôRotaries donÆt seize so much. The housing always expands more than the rotor so if it starts to cook itÆll just blow its seals and loose power. It wonÆt seize solid and send you flying at 600kph.ö
Somehow, looking at Jet, I doubt getting shot off at 600kph would harm her. She claims to be able to fly faster.
Instrumentation is stolen from a Zig fighter. Hand controls are like gun grips, with a pull-brake and a trigger throttle driven by a single finger on the right hand, and a heavy clutch on the left. The Gearbox uses a lockup-clutch like a drag bike, with 6 speeds and a range selector on the output, giving effectively 12 speeds.
ôIt was cheaper than getting a custom 8-speed,ö Jet says. ôAnd itÆs all handled by a microcontroller anyway. Just push a button to go up or down a gear.ö
I wonder why they donÆt just use normal controls, but it all makes sense when I see Jet doesnÆt have proper wrists or even ankles. ThatÆs got to be frustrating. ChippyÆs busy filling up the memory stick on his camera, while I just stand awestruck drinking in the little details. Plastic fixtures that seem to have grown organically, holding things in place. Oil coolers are mounted under the riders seat,vented out on either side.
How long did it take to build?
ô3 months, give or take,ö Ford says, as if it was nothing
Chippy calls bullshit. ThatÆs gotta be waved.
Jet appears almost ashamed. ôWe thought it would take a year but I just.... it just sort of came togetherö It seems to bother her.
The Star might not be waved, but she clearly is. HowÆd you manage that? I ask her.
She forces a smile ôA manÆs got to have his secrets.ö
I get the feeling that that sentence is going to remain one of them.
They fire up the bike. ItÆs loud. ItÆs indescribably loud. ItÆs like being stuck in a tent with the hornetÆs nest from hell. I canÆt hear it. I canÆt hear a thing. But I can feel it thumping inside my chest. The air is filled with the sweet smell of burning leaded petrol. Jet and Ford are carrying on a conversation as if we were standing in a quiet park, unperturbed by the noise.
After a few seconds, it starts to hurt my ears.
Then Jet starts to rev it, blipping the throttle with her metal fingers. For all the world, it sounds like an entire pantheon of Gods farting all at once, ripping and tearing and rasping and ringing in my ears. Close the throttle and the anti-lag kicks in, backfiring like a cannon going off, booming in the 'silencers'. We finally managed to get them to shut it down with a combination of desperate screams, flailing arms, and covering our ears in a futile attempt to keep ourselves from being deafened.
ôYeah, we got an anti-social mecha warning for that,ö Ford brags. not in the least bit ashamed. ôFirst pure hardtech one in SaraÆs history,ö
I felt like IÆd shared a tent with a whole bloody war.
We had a few hours before the evening run, find some shade in the camp. We got to talking again. I start to think that maybe this could really be legit. I hope itÆs legit. 750 kilowatts isnÆt an insane figure for a 4-rotor engine. IÆd heard of similar engines fitted to cars putting out more, without boosting.
There was nothing at all fantastic about it. It wasnÆt like all the fen spectaculars running on lunatic principals, or stupid things like vortex intakes or magnetic fuel lines. There were some odd materials in it, a few things based on that Whole Fenspace Catalogue, but nothing from beyond the realm of science and common sense.
They showed me the import papers to prove it. Signed and sealed by the Transrationality Science Assessment Bureau, cleared for entry into the United States.
But I had to ask the question. If this was a full hard machine, why not the US? Why not Bonneville?
Ford tried to answer. ôWell yÆsee, I have...ö
Jet cut across her. ôMy biomod. The US would just throw a wobbly.ö
The pair share an uneasy glance but I get the feeling itÆs far more complex that that. Weird tales are par for the course among Fen, so I decide to let it drop. Focus on the important things, focus on the bike.
Jet explained where the idea came from.
ôWeÆd been looking for something different to do,ö she says, ôSomething that nobody upstairs was doing. We were both done with our dayÆs work when we decide to watch a film. I pulled down The Worlds Fastest Indian from a nearby totally legitimate download service,ö she smirks, ôThatÆs where we got the idea.ö She turns to Ford.
ôWe knew about all the cheating, so we planned to run at Bonneville first rather than here. Who better to confirm that itÆs wave free than the wave-paranoid TSAB?ö She looks at her partner. ôWe were able to get a wave-clean certificate from them for the bike, but getting a visa for Jet wouldÆve been impossible.ö
Jet laughs. ôWhile to get in here, I just had to apply for a visa at New Adelaide, registered to a name and address at Sara. I did that during a break in training.ö
Ford continues. ôWhen we had to come to Australia, we decided to play it quiet rather than raising a shitstorm like all the others. WeÆre only interested in the record, most of the sponsor stickers are just friends who helped out, or where we bought parts from.ö
I recognise a few of the names. Some are earthbound, some arenÆt.
They set about prepping the bike for the evening run. ItÆs going to be a full practice run, running with the setup they plan to use for the actual attempt. With the fairing finally fitted, the Highway Star looks like what is is.... A Manga refugee made real.
ItÆs low and long, like a sled with the rider on top. The nose of the bike is only a centimetres above the faired in front wheel, with a shallow windscreen reaching back over the tank. A pair of sidepods mount the radiators, emblazoned on one a string of Japanese characters meaning æDevil and AngelÆs KissÆ and on the other æHighway StarÆ.? They use radiators rather than the usual ice bath, reasoning that the lost weight outweighs the effect of the added drag.
I ask if I can sit on it, and theyÆre both happy for me to do so. Be our guest.
You lie right on top of it, head tucked in under the screen, legs stretched out behind to a pair of footpegs that donÆt feel like theyÆll support properly. It wouldnÆt take much for my foot to slip off, I have to hook it with the heel of my boot. Controls are within a fingerÆs reach on both handles...barely... but take quite a bit of effort to operate. Everything thunks into place like itÆs hewn from solid stone. I can see the radiators exhaust right onto the handlebars, and wonder if it wouldnÆt begin bake my hands after a few minutes. Two levers open ducts in the side to redirect the hot air away from the rider, but at the expense of even more drag.
The saddle is a pain, all my weight pressing down on places I doubt Jet herself has. I try to take some of my weight on the oversized fuel-tank/airbox , but itÆs impossible to find anywhere comfortable. I rock it on itÆs suspension a little, and it feels every single one of itÆs 500 kilos. It feels like IÆm straddling a tanker. I can't even paddle it forward it's so heavy. The throttle trigger is stiff, and hurts my finger, the brake handle doesnÆt feel like itÆs connected to more than a switch for more than half itÆs travel before it finally stiffens.
Electromagnetic brakes and hydraulics. TheyÆre probably going to feel a bit wooden, I comment.
They look at me like IÆve got two heads on my shoulder and I start laughing when I finally realise that IÆve been going through my mental review checkbox the same as if I was sitting on the latest offering from Japan. This is no UJM.
Why not a streamliner?
ôThe Highway Star wasnÆt a streamliner,ö Jet explained, as if it should be the obvious answer. ôBesides, we make up for the extra drag with much more power, and much better traction and stability to use that power
Will it work?
ôIt should,ö she says. .öThe current holder was still accelerating hard over the kilometre. We accelerate faster and reach our top speed before entering the kilometre. WeÆre half the weight, with twice the driven wheels.ö
The standing record set by Ack Attack is 605. That run was made with an exit speed of 634. That means that, over the course of about 6 seconds, Ack Attack must have gained about 60kph and was still going hard.
It does seem possible.
Jet lifts the tail up back onto itÆs axle stand, making it look effortless. I hear the ground give way under her feet through the flooring mats. Everything below the knee is solid metal, leading to a high-heeled food, all wrapped up tight with duct tape. ôTo keep the salt out,ö
The StarÆs fuelled up with Avgas, and we both find ear protection while Jet settles herself into the saddle. ItÆs clear the Star has been built to fit her, she locks easily into place. Chippy comments quietly that despite the armour, or perhaps because of it, Jet really does have a nice ass.
At the other end of the tent, Ford laughs, Jet turns around and smirks, quoting Bender from Futurama.
Ford congratulates her. ôNice one Jet, just like I told you how,ö
Pumps start to whine, building pressure for a few seconds. The starter motor chatters for a few seconds before the engine bangs to life, filling the tent with chest-thumping sound. Turbines spool up with a gaseous whistle.
Chippy takes a few more snaps before we retreat into the peaceful heat of the late afternoon air. Most of the other runners have already finished for the day and are rumbling back to their overnight camps.
Everyone is looking at the Team Stingray tent as the Highway Star crawls forward out of it.? ? ? The engine stutters and chatters a little as Jet controls it on the clutch, creeping forward. FordÆs walking behind her, carrying the laptop
The noise reverberates off of every stone and tree and seems to fill me up. It assaults from all sides. A few of the other racers do their best to get under cover or just cover their ears.
Duct flaps are opened on both side pods, venting hot hair. Jet tweaks the throttle, the bike pushing forward a few meters, bouncing over bumps in the track leading down to the salt. It huffs and grumbles, while Chippy fetches his æBusa from the van. He wants to get some pictures of the Highway Star out on the lake at full chat.
Nobody would ever call a Hayabusa a pretty motorcycle, what with a front headlight that reminds one of a botched sex-change, but it looks like someone melted it with a hairdryer for a good reason. Drag.
The faster you try to go, the harder the air tries to push you back. ItÆs a complicated formula, related to frontal area, a drag coefficient, air pressure and temperature and possibly the phase of the moon but effectively, if you double your speed, the drag force quadruples.
The æbusa has a very slippery body, incising through the air. It lets it get just shy 320kph, with æonlyÆ around 120kW. Assuming that the Highway Star has a similar drag coefficient, a quick scratch calculation says 750kW should put it right in the butter-zone for a record attempt.
The Star is a little wider, but also much longer and not as tall.
I meet up with Jacob, a greying old grandfather of the salt whoÆs been coming here longer than IÆve been breathing, who tells me a little more about the salt riding.
ôAny idiot can make a bike go fast on hard concrete,ö he says. ôBut salt offers itÆs own unique challenges. ItÆs rough, itÆs loose... you just canÆt put the power down that you can on a hard surface, you just start fishtailing and running out of control. Once you start getting squirrelly, itÆs just a moment before bang!ö he claps his hands. ôGame over mateö
ôMost teams use less power, and instead try to reduce their drag as much as possible, to do more with less yÆsee. ItÆs not about power, itÆs about controlling that power, itÆs about having power you can actually control.ö
He goes on.
ôAt first when they contacted us about running on the lake, we told æem where they could stick their run,ö he laughs. ôThought they were just another set of con artists at first. It wasnÆt until we got the design specÆ of the bike, along with a reference willing to say that this was on the level that we decided to at least let æem try. They were earnest about making the attempt.ö
ôTheyÆre running as a special-construction partial streamliner. ThereÆs a bit of confusion about classing the wankel engine properly mind, thereÆre rules for Wankel cars but not bikes.ö
I ask him if he thinks they can do it?
His eyes narrow, and I get the same feeling I do when I ask a mechanic for an estimate on the repairs. ôYeah I reckon if they get everything to hook up itÆs possible.ö he says, stroking his chin to give himself an air of authority ôThat 2-wheel drive is a big thing in their favour, gives æem more grip on the salt and more stability.ö
He thinks for a little bit.
ôTheyÆre a bit lighter than most streamliners and theyÆve got a more power, and the potential to put down even more than they do. TheyÆve also got more drag, and at big speeds itÆs the drag that really starts hurting. I think they can do it, but IÆd say itÆs fifty-fifty whether they actually do. The others arenÆt so sure, a few of us think itÆs just not capable of going that fast.ö
He shrugs.
ôBut itÆs a genuine attempt, and thatÆs worth a lot. ItÆs why weÆre happy to help them. I figure they just built the thing just for the sake of going fast rather than going for a specific class. ItÆs got 2 wheels driven by an engine, and if it goes faster than the current absolute record, weÆll put it to the FIM.ö
Chippy runs out onto the salt first, while Ford and Jet make their final preparations in the pit area at the start of the track. HeÆs not even trying to launch his Hayabusa hard, and it still spins up its rear tyre spitting salt. The level of grip out there lies somewhere between very little and none at all.
The Star rumbles up, ready to make itÆs first full-power run. It sits for a few moments while Jet places her helmet over her head. I notice sheÆs wearing some form of eyeblack on her cheeks the second before she locks down an opaque faceplate. A cable runs up from the instruments towards her ear.
They wait for a few moments, Ford and Jet sharing a few final words. The bikeÆs engine is getting hotter and hotter as it idles. ThereÆre a few final countdowns. Jet closes the radiator duct bypasses. The bike crunches into gear, creeping forward to the line.
Peoples words are lost in the noise. A steward signals Jet to be ready. Head down, under the screen. A few last checks. She nods to the steward and he drops his hand. The Star roars off onto the lake, anti-lag backfiring as Jet tweaks the throttle to keep the thing stable. Black smoke blows from the exhausts as it runs rich. The smell of petrol lingers in the air.
We can still hear it long after itÆs gone out of sight, howling and moaning in the distance. A thin cloud of salt dust hangs in the air, drifting on the breeze.
The bikes been gone more than a minute and we can still hear gunshot gearchanges ringing across the salt like a distant battle. ItÆs already well over 8 kilometres away and still accelerating.? At top speed, itÆll be covering a kilometre every 6 seconds. ItÆs an unimaginable speed.
Ford is rooted to the ground behind the timing desk, staring at the timekeeperÆs laptop... and her own beside it.
Just over twenty seconds later, the timekeeper announces that the Highway Star has entered the measured kilometre. There is silence except for the murmurs and coughs of distant engines. The Highway Star is little more than a distant hum, almost beyond hearing.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi. Five Mississippi. Six M...
ôItÆs left the kilometre,ö The timekeeper announces exactly on schedule. ôExit speed, 603.67kph. Average over the flying kilometre, 602.12ö
He reads it out with all the passion of the Sunday football scores on the news. ItÆs just short of the record. Even though itÆs just a test run, something about that feels like a letdown. ItÆs still the fastest thatÆs ever been measured on DLRA clocks.
ôBoo Yah!ö Ford punches the air. ôAnd we can still go to a thousand just by tweaking the boost controllers and the timing.ö
She stops, quirks her head while weÆre all discussing the result among ourselves. Ripples of excitement are rolling through the spectators.
ôJetÆs on her way back,ö she says.
ôHowÆd you know?ö the timekeeper asks.
ôI can hear the engine,ö she taps on her ear with her metal hand.
No wonder the pair didnÆt mind the sound of that engine, they must have some strange cyborg shielding or something. IÆm jealous. A few minutes later I pick up the sound for myself, Jet coming into view shortly afterwards, alongside Chippy on his Hayabusa.
ItÆs an easy cruise back, giving brakes and engine time to cool off. Night is starting to come in and both machines have their headlights on.
The plan is for the Highway Star to be refuelled, then ridden out once more to the other end track for the return run. They have an hour to make the return.
ItÆs only Ford and Jet to do the work, but there isnÆt a lot to be done. Refuel, check telemetry, check fluids, blow the radiators through with some compressed air to clear out the dust. Jet takes a drink of Kool-Aid mixed in with a little æwavium.
ThereÆs a hubbub around the camp as the numbers start to get out. I can hear a few veterans start revising their estimates higher and higher. ChippyÆs giddy to the point that he looks like heÆs going to burst out of his leathers.
ôYou shouldÆve seen it! It actually ran. It sounded like... it sounded like the devils own swarm of hornets. God it looks good running,ö
Nice to see youÆve changed your mind.
ôNah.... thereÆs got to be a catch. Three months, itÆs got to be handwaved. ItÆs a damn cool job, but that fast, to go that fast, nobody could do it. And that noise has got to be one of them quirks.ö
It might be.
I head back to the pit area. The sunÆs low over the mountains casting long shadows. ItÆs beautiful in a way only the outback can ever manage to be. The evening air has gotten cold enough to make my skin tingle. The usual traffic is streaking overhead. I can see Jet looking up at them, kicking her heels in the dirt.
ôYeah, sucks doesnÆt it?ö Ford comments to her, laptop cradled in her arm. SheÆs trying to show the screen to Jet. ôIt never got the signal.ö
The water injection system failed. Dumping a mist of cold water into the turbocharger outlet drops the charge temperature, the same as an intercooler. Cooler air is more dense, giving a boost in power.
Lifting the saddle shows the five litre water tank, still full. The ice was still sloshing around inside. Jet gingerly reconnects a single cable to a small black box wired into a big silver pump.
ôAlways the little things,ö.
ThereÆs an air of frustration to the following conversation, Jet confirming readouts on the telemetry. Even after over a week of testing thereÆre still glitches being ironed out. Nothing major by the sound of it. They have one more set of runs planned tomorrow morning, followed by the big record grab in the evening.
Just a few glitches to iron out on the morning run, and it looks like itÆll be all systems go in the evening. This time tomorrow, IÆll be ringing up up the office to inform them of a brand new record holder. And IÆll be told I have to write a big long profile on Jet, Ford, and a technical feature of the Star rather than a couple of hundred words of a note for the news pages.
Joy. More work.
Jet holds her hand up, cutting off the conversation. ôPhone call,ö she says. ôItÆs the fella from the FIM,ö
A hush falls over the crowd, while I wonder where her phone is. I can only hear her side of the conversation, but I can see her demeanour darken in a flash.
ôAre you for bloody real?!ö
Everyone looks at her.
ôWeÆve got yer poxy documentation. ItÆs all hardtech.ö
Have they finally lost the game of æhide-the-waveÆ?
ôWhat... ItÆs not a suit, itÆs a part of me.ö
FordÆs starting to look worried.
ôItÆs my body. I canÆt take it off. I canÆt ædo without it.Æö
She palms her face, ôLook, thereÆs no regulation against biomodded riders, I checked.ö
ôBut....what?.... thatÆs a load of bollocks.ö
The call ends, and she spends a few long moments staring down at the tank. I can hear metal creak as she grabs the grips.
ôWhat happened?ö Ford asks her.
ôPoxy Dursleys,ö Jet spits, ôTheyÆve killed us. Whatever we run, it wonÆt count.ö I swear to God she was about to cry. SomeoneÆs laughing. Another hoax finally found out. IÆm actually disappointed, but not really surprised.
ôWhy not?ö
ôItÆs not the bike, itÆs me,ö Jet says. ôThe no handwavium rule applies to the rider as well.ö
Jet swears, it sounds like ôChig-shoö,? and kicks a plastic container filled with water. It explodes like a bomb, showering everyone with a mist of water and shards of flimsy plastic shrapnel.
ôSteady on,ö someone warns.
I feel bad for her. It feels more like a screw-job than some cheat being discovered. It probably is.
The frustration is palpable. Jet looks like she wants to rip someone apart. Jet looks like she can rip someone apart.
ôWell screw æemö Ford drawls in a thick American accent. ôWeÆll run tomorrow anyway just to flip æem the bird. WeÆll know we did it.ö
Jet relaxes. She takes a deep breath. ôSure,ö
I can hear them putting the Highway Star away for the night over in the tent. The whole of Australia can hear that thing. I start to thinking about how IÆm going to write this story up as I make my way back.
ôSo I heard they got DQÆd,ö Chippy greets me.
News travels fast. Yeah. The bikeÆs fine, but itÆs because the riderÆs a biomod or something from what I overheard. The no handwavium rule applies to the whole outfit, not just the bike.
ôPoor buggers,ö he says, cringing. ôBut better it happened now rather than after they made their run.ö
I does feel like a bit of a screw job, I tell him.
ôWas always gonna happen,ö he shrugs, offering me a beer.
I crack it. Yeah, youÆre probably right.
ôI mean, even if theyÆre a hundred percent on the level, it could still have been contaminated by accident while they were building it. That stuffÆs like garlic. It gets everwhere. ö
A whoosh-crack overhead draws our attention. Some idiotÆs trying to start a bushfire with fireworks. The plucky Fen team shot down by a heartless ruling seems pretty darn compelling in my mind, especially since they were only told about it the night before what seemed like an almost guaranteed record.
Like all Fen things, it sounds like a cheesy T.V. show.
And a good article. IÆll have to speak to Jet and Ford, get a little more information on who they are, build a full profile in the article. That thought is interrupted by someone outside tapping on out tent.
Ford Sierra stuck her head in. Just the person I wanted to see, I smile. I need to talk with you and Jet.
ôJetÆs gone in to Sydney,ö she tells me, ôShe wonÆt be back for a couple of hours,ö
Oh. Flying cyborg. Crazy Fen shit.
ôIÆll cut to the chase,ö she continues, ôThe bike is in the clear. ItÆs just the rider. Since I donÆt know how to ride, and my arm and leg are wave-based.ö
And?
ôWe think itÆll be okay if one of you ride it. The record will stand if one of you set it.ö She looked at both of us, ôAny you two boys interested in a ride?ö
Chippy sniggered into his own sleeping bag. ôIÆd rather not smear myself across the salt at 600 kilometres and hour thank you very much. Your girlfriend might have armour but IÆve only got my soft meaty arse.ö
ôNo problemo,ö she shrugs. ôTimmy,ö she called me in her yankee accent, ôYou interested in signing the book of history?ö
I think she might be the brains of the outfit. When you put it like that, how could a bloke refuse?
ôGreat, drop by the tent when you wake up in the morning,ö she winks at me. ôYou have to get a few practice runs in, to get you used to the bike.ö
I donÆt realise what IÆve let myself in for until long after sheÆs gone. The tinÆs almost empty, and ChippyÆs been oddly silent for an oddly long amount of time. I look at him, and imagine myself screaming across the salt, while the bike cartwheels in flames behind me.
ôGoing, going, Gonzo!ö he laughs, clapping his hands together in the universal gesture for a fatal crash.
IÆm bloody terrified.
Writers are a funny sort. We love stories of all kinds, except the kinds weÆre in.
Eventually I get to sleep, but IÆm woken late at night by the same whoosh and thunderclap. Idiots setting off fireworks. TheyÆll be banned.
ItÆs still dark out.
I donÆt get back to sleep.
IÆm laying there staring at the liner of the tent. ChippyÆs snoring This time tomorrow IÆm either going to be mincemeat or IÆm going to be a record holder. In the distance outside, somebodyÆs working on something.
I donÆt want to die. Not so far out I canÆt even call my family. I donÆt have a space-phone in my brain. I donÆt have armour. I donÆt have all that funky bio stuff. IÆm disturbed by someone outside the tent.
ôAwake, sleepy head?ö
FordÆs way too cheerful for dark OÆclock in the morning.
ôOur first practice runÆs in two hours. Try and get yourself to our tent so we can get you ready,ö
I agree. ItÆs too late to back out. ChippyÆd make sure I never heard the end of it. Ford disappears once more, and I get myself dressed for what might be my last day on Earth.
The first few rays of sunlight lit a distant orange fire on the horizon. The Moon had set, while the Death Star was rising, a brilliant spark spat from the solar flames. God this place is beautiful in the mornings. A dry salty breeze blew in from the lake. A generator was chattering somewhere in the campsite. Everyone else was asleep, except for one single tent bustling with activity.
What have I let myself in for?
JetÆs out back, running through something that reminds me of Tai-chi. Whatever it is, it has a certain brutal elegance about it. She kicks of little whirls of dust, fighting against the air. IÆm determined to drink every detail of today in.
It might be my last, and I donÆt want to miss a thing.
I step inside and Ford greets me with a smile. The first thing I notice is that thereÆs a new saddle mounted to the bike. A new pair of footpegs have been welded on.
ôItÆs ready for you... just about,ö Ford says, brushing oil from her brow.
Oh. Crap.
The next hour is a blur of instructions, warnings, suggestions and Turtle Wax jokes. Instruments look like they were stolen from the Starship Enterprise. The tachometer is nothing more than a bar chart, above two other bar charts, a whole christmas tree of idiot-lights and an analogue boost gauge. The speedometer might once have been an altimeter in an aircraft.
Primary controls are simple. On the right grip, a trigger throttle and a hand-pulled? brake which activates front and rear brakes at the same time. On the left grip, the clutch, push-button gearshift and the boost controller and water-injection controls.
ôThatÆs all you need to worry about.ö Jet tells me, ôJust pull the trigger and shift up when this red light comes on.ö
I nod.
ôIf it starts to wobble or spin the back wheel, donÆt back off, thatÆll just make it worse. Keep the shoe in, and itÆll pull itself straight again, thatÆs what the two-wheel drive is for,ö
I nod.
ôYou donÆt really need to know what any of the warning lights mean. You wonÆt have time to think about them on a run, all you need to know is if one of these lights comes on red, abort it and bring the bike to a stop. ThereÆs a lot of information there, but itÆs designed to only show up what you need to know if thereÆs a developing problem. ItÆll bring important things to your attention itself.ö
I prefer proper gauges.
ôYou just donÆt have the mindspace to handle them, not at 600kph. I donÆt.ö She told me. ôItÆll filter all the information down to what you need to know so you can concentrate on just riding the bike and keeping it straight. ItÆll keep you from getting a helmet fire.ö
IÆm not so sure.
ôAnd myself and FordÆll be on the radio, watching the telemetry. IÆll be flying right with you about thirty meters above.ö
When starting, donÆt just nail the throttle, ease it gently short-shifting up to about 200, then build the power and the revÆs up to maximum. Hit the boost somewhere between 450 and 500, hold on tight... keep it straight for another few seconds. Ease gently back on the gas and let drag take over, donÆt hit the brakes until itÆs below 500. Build pressure slowly, get it down to about a hundred, and coast along in the highest gear the engine can take. If it starts sliding about when braking, just gas it to pull it straight. Bring it around in a slow arc and ride back to the pits at cruising speed to let everything cool off in the breeze. DonÆt stop unless itÆs an absolute emergency, or the brakes will get so hot theyÆll seize up.
It all makes sense sitting in a tent having it explained, but when it comes to actually doing it in practice, roaring across the desert at 600kph. Yeah... I donÆt think IÆll remember shit except for æBrake!!Æ and æCrickey, St. Peter, whatÆs he doing here?Æ
I think IÆm getting a huge bonus from the editor for this.
ôDonÆt worry,ö Jet says, ôWe designed it so that an idiot could ride it,ö
ôYeah, we designed it around you Jet,ö Ford laughs.
EverythingÆs forgotten as soon as that engine bangs into life beneath me. For something so brutal, itÆs deceptively smooth. Squeeze the throttle and it responds like a Playstation game. No sense of anything moving, no mechanical connection, just a potentiometer and a signal to the computer telling it how much noise I want.
Heat starts to soak up through my body. After a few minutes it feels like IÆm laying on top of an oven. Jet signals me to ride forward, to ease it out of the tent.
It stalls.
Start again. Stall again. Start again, stall again.
ôGive it a little revÆsö Ford suggests. ôItÆs pretty heavy.ö
Eventually itÆs moving. ThereÆs no feel in the clutch. ThereÆs no feel in any of the controls. It feels like a game. ItÆs got so much mass that once itÆs going, itÆs just going to keep rolling. Sheer mass flattens bumps in the dirt track leading down to the salt.
The sun is up, and the campÆs waking up. If they were still asleep, a quick pull on the trigger woke them up.
ôYou can still step out,ö Jet reassures me. ThereÆs something earnest and assuring in her eyes. She smells of car wax and steel. She runs a few last checks on the hardware, running a cable from that plastic covering over her ear to the binnacle. ôGood to go,ö she says, disconnecting herself.
ThereÆs something unnerving about how she does it, a reminder that for all the softness in her face, she really is something other than human. IÆm staring out at the salt, thinking that IÆm no Donald Campbell, or Richard Noble. IÆm no space cyborg thing like Jet.
What if I crash it?
I donÆt have armour. I donÆt have biomod mutations. All I have is a thin layer of kangaroo skin, an old Shoei, my arse and a quiet prayer to the Gods of speed. Out on the course, it would take minutes for the medical car to reach me, and hours to be evacuated to the nearest hospital. She reassures me sheÆs got an OGJ medkit with her.
WhatÆll it do to me?
ôSomething better than being dead,ö
Anything more specific?
ôNothing dangerous. ItÆs Senshi stuff. Anyone one can use it and get a safe result ö
She canÆt say for sure. All IÆm thinking about are those photographs from that damned shock site. IÆm not even an arachnophobe and spider-man still scares me. ThatÆs one Pet Sematary I donÆt want to be buried in. Sometimes dead is better.
I try remember Duke. DukeÆs always saying anythingÆs better than being dead - he should know.
I can smell the sweet petrol smell wafting up through the tank vents. I can smell the hot engine oil and metal, thick and heavy. I can smell the salt blowing in off the lake, dry and parching. The trackÆs marked out in front of me with the bikeÆs heads-up-display. Just keep it between the two green lines. Little electric trees mark out ever hundred meters.
ThereÆs no clock, no timer. Just me, the bike and the salt.
ôIn your own time Timmy,ö Ford says.
It starts slow, rumbling forward at just over tickover, crunching over the salt. Short-shift into second. It slams home hard. Everything feels surprisingly normal. It feels like a motorcycle. Third gear, then Fourth. I donÆt even feel like IÆm pushing it much over tickover. ItÆs docile. It feels like a boxer winding up for a big punch.
Fifth gear. 160kph feels more like 60.
ôAlright Tim,ö Jets voice tickles in my ear. ôNail it. DonÆt downshift, just nail the throttle.ö
Twin turbochargers inhale deep whistling breaths and planet earth starts to spin backwards in a cacophony of noise and light and sound and a speedometer whipping through numbers faster than I can keep up while IÆm screaming to the Gods and all whoÆll listen in terrified joy. I canÆt hold on! I canÆt hold on! Oh my God this is fast. My God itÆs fast. A screaming, ripping, tearing speed. An angry, vicious, violent change in velocity. IÆm clinging on to both grips, fingers tingling and burning. Machineguns stutter behind me, popping and banging, lights flicker on the dashboard. Why am I starting to slow down? Gearshift!?
A cannon bangs and I know what the shell feels like after itÆs been fired.
I canÆt breath. I canÆt breath. I canÆt let go. I canÆt stop screaming. I canÆt see anything but a wall of white, a ceiling of blue and two wavering green lines streaking into the distance with little electronic trees counting out every hundred meters every second. Keep it straight, keep it straight! Gearshift!
A drag bike pull is over in 7 seconds. This thing just keeps going. Machinegun gearshifts keep the engine spinning harder and harder. ItÆs infinite acceleration. The instruments are a blur. Suspension is rattling and the whole machine feels like itÆs floating over the salt surface, like itÆs trying to take off. IÆm riding a rocketship. IÆm riding a missile.
ôIÆm right above you,ö JetÆs voice intrudes. ôKeep it lit,ö
I glance back over my shoulder and see her hanging in the sky, engines burning. Back to the run. Veering right. Pull it left, pull it left. I lean hard into it, putting all my strength into straightening the bike out. Come back, come back!. My hands are burning. IÆm laid across a grill. IÆm being cooked. IÆm being boiled in my jacket.
ôSteady, steady,ö Jet says. ôLooking good,ö
Everything seems to slow down. IÆve got time to look at the speedometer. Three needles. One at Zero, one at Four, one at Six. 460kph and still accelerating. The needles are still sweeping clockwise. IÆm not thinking faster, the bikes accelerating slower. The wind is pushing back hard, a brick wall made of thin air. I can feel myself breathing again.
It doesnÆt feel fast anymore.
No marker, no reference, just a sheet of white split by the occasional dark flash of a course marker and the silly flickering electric trees.
I can feel raw naked heat slipping up my arms, like IÆm holding them in front of a blowtorch. It prickles and bites. It sears and cooks. I can smell hot plastic.
My hands are burning. ItÆs too hot!
ôEase off,ö Jet commands. ôOpen the radiator flaps and let it coast down.ö
I release the trigger. Things suddenly accelerate once more as IÆm pinned to the fuel tank. The speedometer needle is whirling backwards as the engine gutters and moans in protest. I managed to reach down and open both flaps, a cool blast of air suddenly feeling impossible hot.
Downshift, Bang!. Downshift, Bang!. Downshift, Bang!.
The speedometerÆs below 200 and the world seems to have gone dead still. My mindÆs still going a kilometer every six seconds. Jet shoots passed with a whoosh, banking overhead, while my hands are shaking on the grips. I can feel them throbbing inside the gloves. IÆve burned my hands. How did I burn my hands?
The StarÆs in fourth gear, idling along at 100. I drag my hands in the breeze trying to cool them off. It hurts to grip, it hurts to squeeze, it hurts to release. It just hurts.
ôEase it back. Turn it around. Bring it back to the pits.ö
ItÆs a long circle back. A long cruise towards whatÆs become a very distant pit. Dust still hangs in the air. I canÆt stop shaking. I canÆt stop shaking
IÆve burned my hands.IÆve burned my bloody hands. ItÆs still biting across my knuckles.
FordÆs waiting with a bucket of water. I plunge my hands in, gloves and all. It feels almost like a relief. The gloves had gotten so hot, the plastic knuckleguards had started to melt. My hands are red, tender across the knuckles and anywhere else there was armour. ThereÆs some burn cream put on them and itÆs like liquid ice.
It was JetÆs mistake, she admits. ôI forgot about the radiator exhaust. My hands are metal.ö SheÆs apologetic. I tell her not to worry about it. IÆve had worse.
Chippy takes a few snaps, and weÆre all about ready to agree that carrying on would be just plain a bad idea. I ask Jet when we could make the second run.
ôWhen I find two beer cans and some snips,ö she answers me with a grin.
As scared as I was, this was my chance. This was my only chance IÆd ever have to do anything like this. As much as my gut instinct screamed ædonÆtÆ, I just had to do it. IÆd never forgive myself for not grabbing at it. The other halfÆll never forgive me for doing it without consulting her first. Hi Honey... I just broke a world speed record today. ThatÆs going to go down well.
A half hour later, most of the tank and saddle of the Star have been draped with silver insulation stolen from someones cooler box, held on with duct tape. The cut up remains of two tinnies have been bolted to the grips, forming a kind of crude heat shield to keep the worst of the hot air away from my hands.
With a bit of luck, I wasnÆt going to get dry roasted.
Second run. Jet offers me the chance to back out. I say no. Ford asks me if IÆm sure I want to keep going. I say no. But IÆm going to go anyway.
Having done it once, itÆs not so daunting. Having done it once, it isnÆt any way slower or less violent. ItÆs a riot of noise, acceleration and heat. ItÆs brutal. ItÆs painful. IÆm cooked. IÆm sweating. IÆm shaking. IÆm aching all over. My ears are ringing, and IÆm laughing like a madman.
480kph. æOnlyÆ 480kph.
ôWhatÆs it like?ö Chippy asks me.
Fast.
ôI know itÆs bloody fast mate. But whatÆs it like?ö
Like what that North Korean ujunaut mustÆve felt when they lit the blue touch paper and retired.
Run three. TheyÆre filling the water tank with iced water. First run with the water injection. The Star explodes away from the line in a cacophony of sound and flame. Jet skims along behind. Everything begins to slow down again as the StarÆs deep lungs finally begin to run out of puff.
ôSwitch the boost over to maximum, then push the little blue button,ö
The machined lever snicks into place. The blue button clicks down. The Star lunges forward on itÆs second wind, bucking and shaking and skidding, back wheel scrabbling for grip. Grit the teeth, keep the throttle in, trust the machine to straighten itself out. I feel it pulling hard. I feel it pushing from behind.
All I can see are the two green lines and the trees. Just keep the little arrow pointing straight between the two green lines. DonÆt hit the trees.
ôThatÆs it. Pull it back.ö
Only a few seconds. It feels like a blink of an eye. I glance at the speedometer. It reads 560 and still climbing.
I donÆt stop shaking from the adrenaline until an hour later. IÆve drunk litres. IÆve had a proper breakfast. IÆm still shaking. On the lake the DLRAÆs own runners are going for their own personal records. My hands are still red. My hands are still coolly numb with liquid ice. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to whoop for joy.
ôYou want to get working on the story,ö Chippy says to me from behind his camera lens. The shutter clicks a few times.
Why you photographing me?
ôBecause youÆre the record breaker mate,ö
Still got to write. I donÆt get paid to ride bikes fast, I get paid ride bikes fast, take little notes on what itÆs like to ride those bikes fast on a notepad and then put together a few hundred words based on that beer stained pad coupled with a number of purple adjectives so readers on their toilets at home can feel like theyÆre blasting across a salt lake when theyÆre blasting at the bowl..
That line goes into the pad.
ItÆs getting passed midday and the sun is splitting the rocks. It may technically be winter, but itÆs also a dry lake in the middle of South Australia, it isnÆt going to be anything but scalding hot outside. A hot breeze is blowing out over the lake, whipping up puffs of red dust between tufts of grass.
I hurry between the shade offered by the few tents, awnings and camper vans. IÆm telling myself I want to gather some opinions from the usual racers, but IÆm really just making work to keep myself from thinking too hard. I gather opinions on team Stingray and their chances. That bikeÆll definitely go like hell, they all seem to agree on that. It definitely does. Whether itÆll beat the record splits the crowd halfway down the middle. If itÆs going to fail, itÆs going to fail because it just doesnÆt have the proper aerodynamics. In the battle between horsepower and drag, drag always wins.
I ask, if a record does get set, do they think itÆll stand.
A single mechanic working on some turbocharged Harley gives his opinion.
ôBuckleys chance,ö he says. ôItÆs probably waved, probably without them even realising it. At worst theyÆll be derided as cheats. At best, theyÆll be bitterly disappointed. Even if it isnÆt waved, the FIMÆll find some somehow,ö
Editor: Barry Hunter
Words: Tim Stockton
Photography: Chippy Thompson
=====
The noise is immense. All I can think about is the noise.
The roar of the wind and the pressure of it pulling against my body making me feel like IÆve stuck myself behind a 747 at full throttle. The ripping buzz of the engine beneath my chest tearing through the cool morning air. It feels like IÆm riding a thousand chainsaws at once, stuck at full throttle, cutting their way across the dried bed of lake Gairdner..
Between heartbeats, I glance down at the speedometer. 500kph and still accelerating like a scalded cat with a rocket shoved up itÆs arsehole.
I donÆt have time to think about it. Shift light demands my attention. A prod of a button cuts the ignition for a microsecond, while servos in the gearbox hook up 9th gear of an effective 12. With a gunshot backfire the revs drop and the bike keeps accelerating. A sphincter-puckering shimmy runs through the frame for the briefest of instants before the 2 wheel drive system pulls the bike straight.
IÆm aiming for 620kph.
IÆm aiming for the World Record.
How the hell did I get here?
--------
It started with a simple phonecall to the editor. I was at my desk putting the finishing touches on last monthÆs group test while quietly longing for the good old days of motorcycle journalism when a road-test consisted of a three column story written about a stoned journey through the outback, copious drinking, a note on how great it is to be mates, how stupid cagers are and how big a little Hitler the cops are being, finished by a quick note saying ôOh yea, the bike is good tooÆ, when Barry just ambles up out of his office and leans over my desk.
ôTim,ö he says to me, ôI just got an phonecall from some woman who says sheÆs about make a go of the land speed record on Lake Gairdner.ö
Another one?
ôYup. She says sheÆs come down from Fenspace especially for it,ö
Yeah, another one. They never do seem to understand that the FIM wonÆt ratify records where handwavium has been used. The record still stands at 605kph, set back in 2010 by an American with the brilliant name of Rocky Robinson.
He smirks, ôOh no. She assures me that this machine is one-hundred percent all-natural normal laws of physics.ö
Sure Boss, IÆll take it. Sounded like every other Fen attempt really, but they always failed because the scrutineers found something handwaved. Still it was a week or so out of the office, and travel pay. Get Chippy along to take a few photographs, add a few hundred words of an article liberally laced with juicy technical bits, go home for tea. Hard part was getting there.
The magazineÆs offices are in Sydney. Lake Gardner isnÆt. Still, it gives me time to research. Whoever they are, they asked Barry to keep their name a secret, but I can make assumptions. A Fenspacer with regular Australian connections, versed in technology enough to pull something like this... ItÆs obvious whoÆs behind it. I pull up what info I can and read it on the drive down. I donÆt want to seem like a moron.
Lake Gairdner itself is a dried up lakebed, a salt flat not too different from the legendary Bonneville in the USA. ItÆs also home to the Dry Lakes Racing Association. They meet there? regularly and hold their own racing competitions on the lakebed. A quick call to them confirms that the attempt is being made within the week, and that the team have been testing most mornings. A bloke called Jacob tells me theyÆve been running for a week, building speed slowly up from 400kph. Now I start getting a little more excited.
I begin to think I might be covering a genuine World Record attempt and not one of those Fen hoaxes attempting to play hide-that-wave.
One last thing he tells me, is that IÆll never believe what I see when I get there. ôItÆs insane.ö
Yeah sure mate, I tell him... IÆm looking at a picture of her right now. Turns out I wasnÆt. You know what they say about assume?
I pull into the Big 4 Caravan park in Port Augusta, renting something small for myself and Chippy to get some sleep before tomorrowÆs drive down to Iron Knob and Mt. IveÆs station. I call a number IÆve been given, and get a womanÆs voice.
ItÆs somewhat husky...youthful, but still strangely cheerful. Not what IÆd expected at all.
She tells me to get there as early as possible. They make their runs in the morning and evening.
I press for more information, but sheÆs remarkably tight-lipped. I can almost hear her winking at me over the phone line when she tells me IÆll have to come and see for myself. ItÆs frustrating as hell and IÆm in a good mind to just go home and leave them to it.
But IÆm just too damn curious.
At the very least, most of these Fen attempts do look interesting. But I begin to wonder why theyÆre being so tight-lipped about it. I have the feeling that I wonÆt get the answer until I turn up at the lake bed. I have the feeling that is the answer.
On the journey down, ChippyÆs a lot more pessimistic.
ôAnother bloody hoax mate,ö he says. ôHow many of these have their been? How many arseholes coming along trying to play hide-the wave in their engines, drawing tonnes of publicity and making a big hoopla in the papers for weeks, only to be found out as frauds scamming money from sponsors.ö He scoffs. ôAny moron can handwave a car or bike to go a thousand kilometres and hour.ö
HeÆs right. ItÆs an old game at this stage. By the time anyone usually figures out the truth the chancers behind it have already gone to orbit. But he only convinces me more that this isnÆt just a hoax. Things start to make a little more sense. If they did come in, making noise and drawing attention like all the others, the natural assumption would be that they were just like all the others.
I tell him, maybe theyÆre keeping it quiet because itÆs legit then.
He calls me an idiot.
At Mt IveÆs I ring the number again. I get the same womanÆs voice. She still wonÆt give me her name. She tells us to drive down to the Saltbush camp, and look for a green Ford F-250 truck, Chicago registration BDR-259.
Americans? Her accent wasnÆt American. It was weird but it definitely wasnÆt American.
I also catch the tail end of an argument over a camping permit, and something about contamination. She apologises and cuts the call off, leaving me and Chippy just a little perplexed.
Chippy takes a few photographs of the camp as we pull in in the van. WeÆve brung our own bikes to get a few runs in while we have the chance, in case this is just a waste of our time. I think it isnÆt.
We ask for directions from a passerby. He points us towards the other end of the camp, with a knowing smile and the reassurance that whateverÆs there, is going to ôblow our brains out,ö
ChippyÆs doubtful, but snaps his picture anyway.
We find the truck parked up beside a large white tent. My first inkling that this wasnÆt who I was expecting it to be was the dusky-skinned woman sunning herself on a lawn-chair just in front of the truck. Her arm and leg shone bright and metallic in the sun.
We stop the van opposite her and she raises her dark sunglasses as I lower the window.
Is this the record attempt?
ôYeah!ö she answers, jumping to her feet. ôIÆm Ford Sierra. JetÆs in the tent with the bike.ö
ôTim Stocktonö I introduce myself. ôAnd Chippy Thompson, the photographer.ö
ôOy,ö Chippy waves.
ôJet!ö she calls out. ôThe reporters are here!ö
WhoÆs Jet?
Jet, is a self-described flying cyborg, and claims to be the result of an accident a couple of years earlier. Jet, is big. What I first thought to be an unusual white and blue suit of protective riding gear turns out to be JetÆs body. Solid ceramic armour.
ôSheÆs technically naked,ö Ford smirks.
ôThey both looked down,ö Jet barks a laugh, before assuring us with a friendly smile that itÆs alright.
We get to talking for a while. Team Stingray as they call themselves is made up of two people, Ford Sierra and the Jet Jaguar. Ford Sierra is originally American from Chicago. SheÆs a salvage expert and mechanic by trade, with a sideline in bounty hunting that she gleefully tells us about. Jet, Jet is the strangest thing IÆve seen and IÆve been to Kandor for a holiday. Self-described as a spaceflight capable combat cyborg, JetÆs usual day job is training others like her in martial arts. Both live together as partners on Mars, at Marsbase Sara.
Getting more information on either of them is an exercise in pulling teeth.We share a beer in the shade of the van. Otherwise, itÆs a relaxed and easygoing conversation. It turns out JetÆs a former motorcyclist, but Ford is a different matter.
ôIt just never appealed to me,ö she says. ôI always preferred four wheels,ö
Then why make a go at the land speed record?
She looks at Jet for a moment. ôBecause nobody else was doing it.ö
ItÆs obvious thatÆs not the whole reason.
ôAnd we needed a hobby,ö Jet adds.
Next, we come to the main event. IÆm expecting something weird when IÆm led to the tent. IÆm half expecting something just that little bit ridiculous. Chippy lets me know in his own way that IÆm not alone.
What weÆre introduced to, is exactly what we didnÆt expect.
ItÆs not the usual 2 wheeled sausage-creature streamliner; at first glance it actually looks like an actual motorcycle. Stretched a little, with a weird looking engine, but I can pick out the exhausts, the two big snails of the turbochargers, radiators and intercooler. The rider still goes where youÆd expect the rider to go.
ItÆs still a monster, as long, or if not longer than the van. Two bazooka silencers straddle the rear wheel, fed by exhaust pipes thicker than my arm, blued with heat. Red-painted fairing parts are stored underneath a foldaway desk and a laptop which looks like it was built by Tonka. Beside them, a pair of baffled catalysers obviously intended to fit in the silencers, a burned out engine rotor and, of all things, a South Australia registration plate.
ôIt doesnÆt fit in the truck,ö Jet explained when asked. ôIt was the easiest way to get it down here from the spaceport. It was originally a car engine anyway, so getting it to meet emission regulations wasnÆt hard. Drop the boost, lean it out a little, run unleaded, pipe the turbo wastegates into the silencers there and fit the baffles. It just about passed the single vehicle assessment.ö
How does it ride on the road?
ôEasy enough. It cruised happily at the speed limit. I just had to keep the revÆs down, and take it easy through the corners or it would scrape the bellypan.ö
IÆd say so. Something that long, would probably corner like a supertanker. The front wheel stretches far in front of the fairing, fed by thick metal lines which form part of the two-wheel drive system. ItÆs hydraulic. If the real wheel starts to spin, it transmits power to the front, stabilising the machine. Oil coolers are mounted to the front suspension arms, while the rear swinging arm acts as the oil tank from the engine. Cooling fins are machined into it. Everything is being done to get rid of as much heat as possible.
Getting closer, and itÆs possible to see just how exquisite the craftsmanship is. The whole front swinging arm, the frame and rear swingarm, have been machined from billet metal then welded together. The welds are neat and mechanically precise. Even the controls are machined from metal. It gives off a sense of something thatÆs both astonishingly fast, very dangerous, and built to out-last the cockroaches.
JetÆs wearing a smirk.
ôThatÆs the Highway Star.ö
ItÆs a replica of a motorcycle featured in an episode of an animÚ named Bubblegum Crisis, Jet tells us. An animÚ she based her own armour on.
Seeing it in the metal, naked, it looks like something capable of 600kph. It looks nothing like the usual streamliners. ItÆs brutal and vicious, front heavy. It looks like it batters the air out of itÆs way and tells drag to fuck off rather than slicing easily through it all with the minimum of fuss. It has a certain elegant brutality to it, like a precision machined double-headed battleaxe.
ôHow much does it weigh?ö Chippy asks. HeÆs gobsmacked by it.
ôAbout half a ton,ö Ford answers. ôAnd weÆve tuned it to about 600 kilowatts, with a push button boost up to 750.ö
Chippys response isnÆt printable. WeÆre in the presence of something truly special. The engine is built out of two Mazda rotary engines, taken from an Rx-7, mounted to a common output shaft, and then boosted by two big fat turbochargers driving through a centre-mounted intercooler.? JetÆs babbling fannishly about how the original is supposed to be an all ceramic 1500cc twin-turbo.?
IÆm quietly informed that they believe it might be possible to increase the output above the magic thousand kilowatts with little trouble and possibly get as high as 1200. They run with the bare minimum of boost to keep the engine temperatures down.
ôPiston Engines blow up and seize,ö Ford explains, ôRotaries donÆt seize so much. The housing always expands more than the rotor so if it starts to cook itÆll just blow its seals and loose power. It wonÆt seize solid and send you flying at 600kph.ö
Somehow, looking at Jet, I doubt getting shot off at 600kph would harm her. She claims to be able to fly faster.
Instrumentation is stolen from a Zig fighter. Hand controls are like gun grips, with a pull-brake and a trigger throttle driven by a single finger on the right hand, and a heavy clutch on the left. The Gearbox uses a lockup-clutch like a drag bike, with 6 speeds and a range selector on the output, giving effectively 12 speeds.
ôIt was cheaper than getting a custom 8-speed,ö Jet says. ôAnd itÆs all handled by a microcontroller anyway. Just push a button to go up or down a gear.ö
I wonder why they donÆt just use normal controls, but it all makes sense when I see Jet doesnÆt have proper wrists or even ankles. ThatÆs got to be frustrating. ChippyÆs busy filling up the memory stick on his camera, while I just stand awestruck drinking in the little details. Plastic fixtures that seem to have grown organically, holding things in place. Oil coolers are mounted under the riders seat,vented out on either side.
How long did it take to build?
ô3 months, give or take,ö Ford says, as if it was nothing
Chippy calls bullshit. ThatÆs gotta be waved.
Jet appears almost ashamed. ôWe thought it would take a year but I just.... it just sort of came togetherö It seems to bother her.
The Star might not be waved, but she clearly is. HowÆd you manage that? I ask her.
She forces a smile ôA manÆs got to have his secrets.ö
I get the feeling that that sentence is going to remain one of them.
They fire up the bike. ItÆs loud. ItÆs indescribably loud. ItÆs like being stuck in a tent with the hornetÆs nest from hell. I canÆt hear it. I canÆt hear a thing. But I can feel it thumping inside my chest. The air is filled with the sweet smell of burning leaded petrol. Jet and Ford are carrying on a conversation as if we were standing in a quiet park, unperturbed by the noise.
After a few seconds, it starts to hurt my ears.
Then Jet starts to rev it, blipping the throttle with her metal fingers. For all the world, it sounds like an entire pantheon of Gods farting all at once, ripping and tearing and rasping and ringing in my ears. Close the throttle and the anti-lag kicks in, backfiring like a cannon going off, booming in the 'silencers'. We finally managed to get them to shut it down with a combination of desperate screams, flailing arms, and covering our ears in a futile attempt to keep ourselves from being deafened.
ôYeah, we got an anti-social mecha warning for that,ö Ford brags. not in the least bit ashamed. ôFirst pure hardtech one in SaraÆs history,ö
I felt like IÆd shared a tent with a whole bloody war.
We had a few hours before the evening run, find some shade in the camp. We got to talking again. I start to think that maybe this could really be legit. I hope itÆs legit. 750 kilowatts isnÆt an insane figure for a 4-rotor engine. IÆd heard of similar engines fitted to cars putting out more, without boosting.
There was nothing at all fantastic about it. It wasnÆt like all the fen spectaculars running on lunatic principals, or stupid things like vortex intakes or magnetic fuel lines. There were some odd materials in it, a few things based on that Whole Fenspace Catalogue, but nothing from beyond the realm of science and common sense.
They showed me the import papers to prove it. Signed and sealed by the Transrationality Science Assessment Bureau, cleared for entry into the United States.
But I had to ask the question. If this was a full hard machine, why not the US? Why not Bonneville?
Ford tried to answer. ôWell yÆsee, I have...ö
Jet cut across her. ôMy biomod. The US would just throw a wobbly.ö
The pair share an uneasy glance but I get the feeling itÆs far more complex that that. Weird tales are par for the course among Fen, so I decide to let it drop. Focus on the important things, focus on the bike.
Jet explained where the idea came from.
ôWeÆd been looking for something different to do,ö she says, ôSomething that nobody upstairs was doing. We were both done with our dayÆs work when we decide to watch a film. I pulled down The Worlds Fastest Indian from a nearby totally legitimate download service,ö she smirks, ôThatÆs where we got the idea.ö She turns to Ford.
ôWe knew about all the cheating, so we planned to run at Bonneville first rather than here. Who better to confirm that itÆs wave free than the wave-paranoid TSAB?ö She looks at her partner. ôWe were able to get a wave-clean certificate from them for the bike, but getting a visa for Jet wouldÆve been impossible.ö
Jet laughs. ôWhile to get in here, I just had to apply for a visa at New Adelaide, registered to a name and address at Sara. I did that during a break in training.ö
Ford continues. ôWhen we had to come to Australia, we decided to play it quiet rather than raising a shitstorm like all the others. WeÆre only interested in the record, most of the sponsor stickers are just friends who helped out, or where we bought parts from.ö
I recognise a few of the names. Some are earthbound, some arenÆt.
They set about prepping the bike for the evening run. ItÆs going to be a full practice run, running with the setup they plan to use for the actual attempt. With the fairing finally fitted, the Highway Star looks like what is is.... A Manga refugee made real.
ItÆs low and long, like a sled with the rider on top. The nose of the bike is only a centimetres above the faired in front wheel, with a shallow windscreen reaching back over the tank. A pair of sidepods mount the radiators, emblazoned on one a string of Japanese characters meaning æDevil and AngelÆs KissÆ and on the other æHighway StarÆ.? They use radiators rather than the usual ice bath, reasoning that the lost weight outweighs the effect of the added drag.
I ask if I can sit on it, and theyÆre both happy for me to do so. Be our guest.
You lie right on top of it, head tucked in under the screen, legs stretched out behind to a pair of footpegs that donÆt feel like theyÆll support properly. It wouldnÆt take much for my foot to slip off, I have to hook it with the heel of my boot. Controls are within a fingerÆs reach on both handles...barely... but take quite a bit of effort to operate. Everything thunks into place like itÆs hewn from solid stone. I can see the radiators exhaust right onto the handlebars, and wonder if it wouldnÆt begin bake my hands after a few minutes. Two levers open ducts in the side to redirect the hot air away from the rider, but at the expense of even more drag.
The saddle is a pain, all my weight pressing down on places I doubt Jet herself has. I try to take some of my weight on the oversized fuel-tank/airbox , but itÆs impossible to find anywhere comfortable. I rock it on itÆs suspension a little, and it feels every single one of itÆs 500 kilos. It feels like IÆm straddling a tanker. I can't even paddle it forward it's so heavy. The throttle trigger is stiff, and hurts my finger, the brake handle doesnÆt feel like itÆs connected to more than a switch for more than half itÆs travel before it finally stiffens.
Electromagnetic brakes and hydraulics. TheyÆre probably going to feel a bit wooden, I comment.
They look at me like IÆve got two heads on my shoulder and I start laughing when I finally realise that IÆve been going through my mental review checkbox the same as if I was sitting on the latest offering from Japan. This is no UJM.
Why not a streamliner?
ôThe Highway Star wasnÆt a streamliner,ö Jet explained, as if it should be the obvious answer. ôBesides, we make up for the extra drag with much more power, and much better traction and stability to use that power
Will it work?
ôIt should,ö she says. .öThe current holder was still accelerating hard over the kilometre. We accelerate faster and reach our top speed before entering the kilometre. WeÆre half the weight, with twice the driven wheels.ö
The standing record set by Ack Attack is 605. That run was made with an exit speed of 634. That means that, over the course of about 6 seconds, Ack Attack must have gained about 60kph and was still going hard.
It does seem possible.
Jet lifts the tail up back onto itÆs axle stand, making it look effortless. I hear the ground give way under her feet through the flooring mats. Everything below the knee is solid metal, leading to a high-heeled food, all wrapped up tight with duct tape. ôTo keep the salt out,ö
The StarÆs fuelled up with Avgas, and we both find ear protection while Jet settles herself into the saddle. ItÆs clear the Star has been built to fit her, she locks easily into place. Chippy comments quietly that despite the armour, or perhaps because of it, Jet really does have a nice ass.
At the other end of the tent, Ford laughs, Jet turns around and smirks, quoting Bender from Futurama.
Ford congratulates her. ôNice one Jet, just like I told you how,ö
Pumps start to whine, building pressure for a few seconds. The starter motor chatters for a few seconds before the engine bangs to life, filling the tent with chest-thumping sound. Turbines spool up with a gaseous whistle.
Chippy takes a few more snaps before we retreat into the peaceful heat of the late afternoon air. Most of the other runners have already finished for the day and are rumbling back to their overnight camps.
Everyone is looking at the Team Stingray tent as the Highway Star crawls forward out of it.? ? ? The engine stutters and chatters a little as Jet controls it on the clutch, creeping forward. FordÆs walking behind her, carrying the laptop
The noise reverberates off of every stone and tree and seems to fill me up. It assaults from all sides. A few of the other racers do their best to get under cover or just cover their ears.
Duct flaps are opened on both side pods, venting hot hair. Jet tweaks the throttle, the bike pushing forward a few meters, bouncing over bumps in the track leading down to the salt. It huffs and grumbles, while Chippy fetches his æBusa from the van. He wants to get some pictures of the Highway Star out on the lake at full chat.
Nobody would ever call a Hayabusa a pretty motorcycle, what with a front headlight that reminds one of a botched sex-change, but it looks like someone melted it with a hairdryer for a good reason. Drag.
The faster you try to go, the harder the air tries to push you back. ItÆs a complicated formula, related to frontal area, a drag coefficient, air pressure and temperature and possibly the phase of the moon but effectively, if you double your speed, the drag force quadruples.
The æbusa has a very slippery body, incising through the air. It lets it get just shy 320kph, with æonlyÆ around 120kW. Assuming that the Highway Star has a similar drag coefficient, a quick scratch calculation says 750kW should put it right in the butter-zone for a record attempt.
The Star is a little wider, but also much longer and not as tall.
I meet up with Jacob, a greying old grandfather of the salt whoÆs been coming here longer than IÆve been breathing, who tells me a little more about the salt riding.
ôAny idiot can make a bike go fast on hard concrete,ö he says. ôBut salt offers itÆs own unique challenges. ItÆs rough, itÆs loose... you just canÆt put the power down that you can on a hard surface, you just start fishtailing and running out of control. Once you start getting squirrelly, itÆs just a moment before bang!ö he claps his hands. ôGame over mateö
ôMost teams use less power, and instead try to reduce their drag as much as possible, to do more with less yÆsee. ItÆs not about power, itÆs about controlling that power, itÆs about having power you can actually control.ö
He goes on.
ôAt first when they contacted us about running on the lake, we told æem where they could stick their run,ö he laughs. ôThought they were just another set of con artists at first. It wasnÆt until we got the design specÆ of the bike, along with a reference willing to say that this was on the level that we decided to at least let æem try. They were earnest about making the attempt.ö
ôTheyÆre running as a special-construction partial streamliner. ThereÆs a bit of confusion about classing the wankel engine properly mind, thereÆre rules for Wankel cars but not bikes.ö
I ask him if he thinks they can do it?
His eyes narrow, and I get the same feeling I do when I ask a mechanic for an estimate on the repairs. ôYeah I reckon if they get everything to hook up itÆs possible.ö he says, stroking his chin to give himself an air of authority ôThat 2-wheel drive is a big thing in their favour, gives æem more grip on the salt and more stability.ö
He thinks for a little bit.
ôTheyÆre a bit lighter than most streamliners and theyÆve got a more power, and the potential to put down even more than they do. TheyÆve also got more drag, and at big speeds itÆs the drag that really starts hurting. I think they can do it, but IÆd say itÆs fifty-fifty whether they actually do. The others arenÆt so sure, a few of us think itÆs just not capable of going that fast.ö
He shrugs.
ôBut itÆs a genuine attempt, and thatÆs worth a lot. ItÆs why weÆre happy to help them. I figure they just built the thing just for the sake of going fast rather than going for a specific class. ItÆs got 2 wheels driven by an engine, and if it goes faster than the current absolute record, weÆll put it to the FIM.ö
Chippy runs out onto the salt first, while Ford and Jet make their final preparations in the pit area at the start of the track. HeÆs not even trying to launch his Hayabusa hard, and it still spins up its rear tyre spitting salt. The level of grip out there lies somewhere between very little and none at all.
The Star rumbles up, ready to make itÆs first full-power run. It sits for a few moments while Jet places her helmet over her head. I notice sheÆs wearing some form of eyeblack on her cheeks the second before she locks down an opaque faceplate. A cable runs up from the instruments towards her ear.
They wait for a few moments, Ford and Jet sharing a few final words. The bikeÆs engine is getting hotter and hotter as it idles. ThereÆre a few final countdowns. Jet closes the radiator duct bypasses. The bike crunches into gear, creeping forward to the line.
Peoples words are lost in the noise. A steward signals Jet to be ready. Head down, under the screen. A few last checks. She nods to the steward and he drops his hand. The Star roars off onto the lake, anti-lag backfiring as Jet tweaks the throttle to keep the thing stable. Black smoke blows from the exhausts as it runs rich. The smell of petrol lingers in the air.
We can still hear it long after itÆs gone out of sight, howling and moaning in the distance. A thin cloud of salt dust hangs in the air, drifting on the breeze.
The bikes been gone more than a minute and we can still hear gunshot gearchanges ringing across the salt like a distant battle. ItÆs already well over 8 kilometres away and still accelerating.? At top speed, itÆll be covering a kilometre every 6 seconds. ItÆs an unimaginable speed.
Ford is rooted to the ground behind the timing desk, staring at the timekeeperÆs laptop... and her own beside it.
Just over twenty seconds later, the timekeeper announces that the Highway Star has entered the measured kilometre. There is silence except for the murmurs and coughs of distant engines. The Highway Star is little more than a distant hum, almost beyond hearing.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi. Five Mississippi. Six M...
ôItÆs left the kilometre,ö The timekeeper announces exactly on schedule. ôExit speed, 603.67kph. Average over the flying kilometre, 602.12ö
He reads it out with all the passion of the Sunday football scores on the news. ItÆs just short of the record. Even though itÆs just a test run, something about that feels like a letdown. ItÆs still the fastest thatÆs ever been measured on DLRA clocks.
ôBoo Yah!ö Ford punches the air. ôAnd we can still go to a thousand just by tweaking the boost controllers and the timing.ö
She stops, quirks her head while weÆre all discussing the result among ourselves. Ripples of excitement are rolling through the spectators.
ôJetÆs on her way back,ö she says.
ôHowÆd you know?ö the timekeeper asks.
ôI can hear the engine,ö she taps on her ear with her metal hand.
No wonder the pair didnÆt mind the sound of that engine, they must have some strange cyborg shielding or something. IÆm jealous. A few minutes later I pick up the sound for myself, Jet coming into view shortly afterwards, alongside Chippy on his Hayabusa.
ItÆs an easy cruise back, giving brakes and engine time to cool off. Night is starting to come in and both machines have their headlights on.
The plan is for the Highway Star to be refuelled, then ridden out once more to the other end track for the return run. They have an hour to make the return.
ItÆs only Ford and Jet to do the work, but there isnÆt a lot to be done. Refuel, check telemetry, check fluids, blow the radiators through with some compressed air to clear out the dust. Jet takes a drink of Kool-Aid mixed in with a little æwavium.
ThereÆs a hubbub around the camp as the numbers start to get out. I can hear a few veterans start revising their estimates higher and higher. ChippyÆs giddy to the point that he looks like heÆs going to burst out of his leathers.
ôYou shouldÆve seen it! It actually ran. It sounded like... it sounded like the devils own swarm of hornets. God it looks good running,ö
Nice to see youÆve changed your mind.
ôNah.... thereÆs got to be a catch. Three months, itÆs got to be handwaved. ItÆs a damn cool job, but that fast, to go that fast, nobody could do it. And that noise has got to be one of them quirks.ö
It might be.
I head back to the pit area. The sunÆs low over the mountains casting long shadows. ItÆs beautiful in a way only the outback can ever manage to be. The evening air has gotten cold enough to make my skin tingle. The usual traffic is streaking overhead. I can see Jet looking up at them, kicking her heels in the dirt.
ôYeah, sucks doesnÆt it?ö Ford comments to her, laptop cradled in her arm. SheÆs trying to show the screen to Jet. ôIt never got the signal.ö
The water injection system failed. Dumping a mist of cold water into the turbocharger outlet drops the charge temperature, the same as an intercooler. Cooler air is more dense, giving a boost in power.
Lifting the saddle shows the five litre water tank, still full. The ice was still sloshing around inside. Jet gingerly reconnects a single cable to a small black box wired into a big silver pump.
ôAlways the little things,ö.
ThereÆs an air of frustration to the following conversation, Jet confirming readouts on the telemetry. Even after over a week of testing thereÆre still glitches being ironed out. Nothing major by the sound of it. They have one more set of runs planned tomorrow morning, followed by the big record grab in the evening.
Just a few glitches to iron out on the morning run, and it looks like itÆll be all systems go in the evening. This time tomorrow, IÆll be ringing up up the office to inform them of a brand new record holder. And IÆll be told I have to write a big long profile on Jet, Ford, and a technical feature of the Star rather than a couple of hundred words of a note for the news pages.
Joy. More work.
Jet holds her hand up, cutting off the conversation. ôPhone call,ö she says. ôItÆs the fella from the FIM,ö
A hush falls over the crowd, while I wonder where her phone is. I can only hear her side of the conversation, but I can see her demeanour darken in a flash.
ôAre you for bloody real?!ö
Everyone looks at her.
ôWeÆve got yer poxy documentation. ItÆs all hardtech.ö
Have they finally lost the game of æhide-the-waveÆ?
ôWhat... ItÆs not a suit, itÆs a part of me.ö
FordÆs starting to look worried.
ôItÆs my body. I canÆt take it off. I canÆt ædo without it.Æö
She palms her face, ôLook, thereÆs no regulation against biomodded riders, I checked.ö
ôBut....what?.... thatÆs a load of bollocks.ö
The call ends, and she spends a few long moments staring down at the tank. I can hear metal creak as she grabs the grips.
ôWhat happened?ö Ford asks her.
ôPoxy Dursleys,ö Jet spits, ôTheyÆve killed us. Whatever we run, it wonÆt count.ö I swear to God she was about to cry. SomeoneÆs laughing. Another hoax finally found out. IÆm actually disappointed, but not really surprised.
ôWhy not?ö
ôItÆs not the bike, itÆs me,ö Jet says. ôThe no handwavium rule applies to the rider as well.ö
Jet swears, it sounds like ôChig-shoö,? and kicks a plastic container filled with water. It explodes like a bomb, showering everyone with a mist of water and shards of flimsy plastic shrapnel.
ôSteady on,ö someone warns.
I feel bad for her. It feels more like a screw-job than some cheat being discovered. It probably is.
The frustration is palpable. Jet looks like she wants to rip someone apart. Jet looks like she can rip someone apart.
ôWell screw æemö Ford drawls in a thick American accent. ôWeÆll run tomorrow anyway just to flip æem the bird. WeÆll know we did it.ö
Jet relaxes. She takes a deep breath. ôSure,ö
I can hear them putting the Highway Star away for the night over in the tent. The whole of Australia can hear that thing. I start to thinking about how IÆm going to write this story up as I make my way back.
ôSo I heard they got DQÆd,ö Chippy greets me.
News travels fast. Yeah. The bikeÆs fine, but itÆs because the riderÆs a biomod or something from what I overheard. The no handwavium rule applies to the whole outfit, not just the bike.
ôPoor buggers,ö he says, cringing. ôBut better it happened now rather than after they made their run.ö
I does feel like a bit of a screw job, I tell him.
ôWas always gonna happen,ö he shrugs, offering me a beer.
I crack it. Yeah, youÆre probably right.
ôI mean, even if theyÆre a hundred percent on the level, it could still have been contaminated by accident while they were building it. That stuffÆs like garlic. It gets everwhere. ö
A whoosh-crack overhead draws our attention. Some idiotÆs trying to start a bushfire with fireworks. The plucky Fen team shot down by a heartless ruling seems pretty darn compelling in my mind, especially since they were only told about it the night before what seemed like an almost guaranteed record.
Like all Fen things, it sounds like a cheesy T.V. show.
And a good article. IÆll have to speak to Jet and Ford, get a little more information on who they are, build a full profile in the article. That thought is interrupted by someone outside tapping on out tent.
Ford Sierra stuck her head in. Just the person I wanted to see, I smile. I need to talk with you and Jet.
ôJetÆs gone in to Sydney,ö she tells me, ôShe wonÆt be back for a couple of hours,ö
Oh. Flying cyborg. Crazy Fen shit.
ôIÆll cut to the chase,ö she continues, ôThe bike is in the clear. ItÆs just the rider. Since I donÆt know how to ride, and my arm and leg are wave-based.ö
And?
ôWe think itÆll be okay if one of you ride it. The record will stand if one of you set it.ö She looked at both of us, ôAny you two boys interested in a ride?ö
Chippy sniggered into his own sleeping bag. ôIÆd rather not smear myself across the salt at 600 kilometres and hour thank you very much. Your girlfriend might have armour but IÆve only got my soft meaty arse.ö
ôNo problemo,ö she shrugs. ôTimmy,ö she called me in her yankee accent, ôYou interested in signing the book of history?ö
I think she might be the brains of the outfit. When you put it like that, how could a bloke refuse?
ôGreat, drop by the tent when you wake up in the morning,ö she winks at me. ôYou have to get a few practice runs in, to get you used to the bike.ö
I donÆt realise what IÆve let myself in for until long after sheÆs gone. The tinÆs almost empty, and ChippyÆs been oddly silent for an oddly long amount of time. I look at him, and imagine myself screaming across the salt, while the bike cartwheels in flames behind me.
ôGoing, going, Gonzo!ö he laughs, clapping his hands together in the universal gesture for a fatal crash.
IÆm bloody terrified.
Writers are a funny sort. We love stories of all kinds, except the kinds weÆre in.
Eventually I get to sleep, but IÆm woken late at night by the same whoosh and thunderclap. Idiots setting off fireworks. TheyÆll be banned.
ItÆs still dark out.
I donÆt get back to sleep.
IÆm laying there staring at the liner of the tent. ChippyÆs snoring This time tomorrow IÆm either going to be mincemeat or IÆm going to be a record holder. In the distance outside, somebodyÆs working on something.
I donÆt want to die. Not so far out I canÆt even call my family. I donÆt have a space-phone in my brain. I donÆt have armour. I donÆt have all that funky bio stuff. IÆm disturbed by someone outside the tent.
ôAwake, sleepy head?ö
FordÆs way too cheerful for dark OÆclock in the morning.
ôOur first practice runÆs in two hours. Try and get yourself to our tent so we can get you ready,ö
I agree. ItÆs too late to back out. ChippyÆd make sure I never heard the end of it. Ford disappears once more, and I get myself dressed for what might be my last day on Earth.
The first few rays of sunlight lit a distant orange fire on the horizon. The Moon had set, while the Death Star was rising, a brilliant spark spat from the solar flames. God this place is beautiful in the mornings. A dry salty breeze blew in from the lake. A generator was chattering somewhere in the campsite. Everyone else was asleep, except for one single tent bustling with activity.
What have I let myself in for?
JetÆs out back, running through something that reminds me of Tai-chi. Whatever it is, it has a certain brutal elegance about it. She kicks of little whirls of dust, fighting against the air. IÆm determined to drink every detail of today in.
It might be my last, and I donÆt want to miss a thing.
I step inside and Ford greets me with a smile. The first thing I notice is that thereÆs a new saddle mounted to the bike. A new pair of footpegs have been welded on.
ôItÆs ready for you... just about,ö Ford says, brushing oil from her brow.
Oh. Crap.
The next hour is a blur of instructions, warnings, suggestions and Turtle Wax jokes. Instruments look like they were stolen from the Starship Enterprise. The tachometer is nothing more than a bar chart, above two other bar charts, a whole christmas tree of idiot-lights and an analogue boost gauge. The speedometer might once have been an altimeter in an aircraft.
Primary controls are simple. On the right grip, a trigger throttle and a hand-pulled? brake which activates front and rear brakes at the same time. On the left grip, the clutch, push-button gearshift and the boost controller and water-injection controls.
ôThatÆs all you need to worry about.ö Jet tells me, ôJust pull the trigger and shift up when this red light comes on.ö
I nod.
ôIf it starts to wobble or spin the back wheel, donÆt back off, thatÆll just make it worse. Keep the shoe in, and itÆll pull itself straight again, thatÆs what the two-wheel drive is for,ö
I nod.
ôYou donÆt really need to know what any of the warning lights mean. You wonÆt have time to think about them on a run, all you need to know is if one of these lights comes on red, abort it and bring the bike to a stop. ThereÆs a lot of information there, but itÆs designed to only show up what you need to know if thereÆs a developing problem. ItÆll bring important things to your attention itself.ö
I prefer proper gauges.
ôYou just donÆt have the mindspace to handle them, not at 600kph. I donÆt.ö She told me. ôItÆll filter all the information down to what you need to know so you can concentrate on just riding the bike and keeping it straight. ItÆll keep you from getting a helmet fire.ö
IÆm not so sure.
ôAnd myself and FordÆll be on the radio, watching the telemetry. IÆll be flying right with you about thirty meters above.ö
When starting, donÆt just nail the throttle, ease it gently short-shifting up to about 200, then build the power and the revÆs up to maximum. Hit the boost somewhere between 450 and 500, hold on tight... keep it straight for another few seconds. Ease gently back on the gas and let drag take over, donÆt hit the brakes until itÆs below 500. Build pressure slowly, get it down to about a hundred, and coast along in the highest gear the engine can take. If it starts sliding about when braking, just gas it to pull it straight. Bring it around in a slow arc and ride back to the pits at cruising speed to let everything cool off in the breeze. DonÆt stop unless itÆs an absolute emergency, or the brakes will get so hot theyÆll seize up.
It all makes sense sitting in a tent having it explained, but when it comes to actually doing it in practice, roaring across the desert at 600kph. Yeah... I donÆt think IÆll remember shit except for æBrake!!Æ and æCrickey, St. Peter, whatÆs he doing here?Æ
I think IÆm getting a huge bonus from the editor for this.
ôDonÆt worry,ö Jet says, ôWe designed it so that an idiot could ride it,ö
ôYeah, we designed it around you Jet,ö Ford laughs.
EverythingÆs forgotten as soon as that engine bangs into life beneath me. For something so brutal, itÆs deceptively smooth. Squeeze the throttle and it responds like a Playstation game. No sense of anything moving, no mechanical connection, just a potentiometer and a signal to the computer telling it how much noise I want.
Heat starts to soak up through my body. After a few minutes it feels like IÆm laying on top of an oven. Jet signals me to ride forward, to ease it out of the tent.
It stalls.
Start again. Stall again. Start again, stall again.
ôGive it a little revÆsö Ford suggests. ôItÆs pretty heavy.ö
Eventually itÆs moving. ThereÆs no feel in the clutch. ThereÆs no feel in any of the controls. It feels like a game. ItÆs got so much mass that once itÆs going, itÆs just going to keep rolling. Sheer mass flattens bumps in the dirt track leading down to the salt.
The sun is up, and the campÆs waking up. If they were still asleep, a quick pull on the trigger woke them up.
ôYou can still step out,ö Jet reassures me. ThereÆs something earnest and assuring in her eyes. She smells of car wax and steel. She runs a few last checks on the hardware, running a cable from that plastic covering over her ear to the binnacle. ôGood to go,ö she says, disconnecting herself.
ThereÆs something unnerving about how she does it, a reminder that for all the softness in her face, she really is something other than human. IÆm staring out at the salt, thinking that IÆm no Donald Campbell, or Richard Noble. IÆm no space cyborg thing like Jet.
What if I crash it?
I donÆt have armour. I donÆt have biomod mutations. All I have is a thin layer of kangaroo skin, an old Shoei, my arse and a quiet prayer to the Gods of speed. Out on the course, it would take minutes for the medical car to reach me, and hours to be evacuated to the nearest hospital. She reassures me sheÆs got an OGJ medkit with her.
WhatÆll it do to me?
ôSomething better than being dead,ö
Anything more specific?
ôNothing dangerous. ItÆs Senshi stuff. Anyone one can use it and get a safe result ö
She canÆt say for sure. All IÆm thinking about are those photographs from that damned shock site. IÆm not even an arachnophobe and spider-man still scares me. ThatÆs one Pet Sematary I donÆt want to be buried in. Sometimes dead is better.
I try remember Duke. DukeÆs always saying anythingÆs better than being dead - he should know.
I can smell the sweet petrol smell wafting up through the tank vents. I can smell the hot engine oil and metal, thick and heavy. I can smell the salt blowing in off the lake, dry and parching. The trackÆs marked out in front of me with the bikeÆs heads-up-display. Just keep it between the two green lines. Little electric trees mark out ever hundred meters.
ThereÆs no clock, no timer. Just me, the bike and the salt.
ôIn your own time Timmy,ö Ford says.
It starts slow, rumbling forward at just over tickover, crunching over the salt. Short-shift into second. It slams home hard. Everything feels surprisingly normal. It feels like a motorcycle. Third gear, then Fourth. I donÆt even feel like IÆm pushing it much over tickover. ItÆs docile. It feels like a boxer winding up for a big punch.
Fifth gear. 160kph feels more like 60.
ôAlright Tim,ö Jets voice tickles in my ear. ôNail it. DonÆt downshift, just nail the throttle.ö
Twin turbochargers inhale deep whistling breaths and planet earth starts to spin backwards in a cacophony of noise and light and sound and a speedometer whipping through numbers faster than I can keep up while IÆm screaming to the Gods and all whoÆll listen in terrified joy. I canÆt hold on! I canÆt hold on! Oh my God this is fast. My God itÆs fast. A screaming, ripping, tearing speed. An angry, vicious, violent change in velocity. IÆm clinging on to both grips, fingers tingling and burning. Machineguns stutter behind me, popping and banging, lights flicker on the dashboard. Why am I starting to slow down? Gearshift!?
A cannon bangs and I know what the shell feels like after itÆs been fired.
I canÆt breath. I canÆt breath. I canÆt let go. I canÆt stop screaming. I canÆt see anything but a wall of white, a ceiling of blue and two wavering green lines streaking into the distance with little electronic trees counting out every hundred meters every second. Keep it straight, keep it straight! Gearshift!
A drag bike pull is over in 7 seconds. This thing just keeps going. Machinegun gearshifts keep the engine spinning harder and harder. ItÆs infinite acceleration. The instruments are a blur. Suspension is rattling and the whole machine feels like itÆs floating over the salt surface, like itÆs trying to take off. IÆm riding a rocketship. IÆm riding a missile.
ôIÆm right above you,ö JetÆs voice intrudes. ôKeep it lit,ö
I glance back over my shoulder and see her hanging in the sky, engines burning. Back to the run. Veering right. Pull it left, pull it left. I lean hard into it, putting all my strength into straightening the bike out. Come back, come back!. My hands are burning. IÆm laid across a grill. IÆm being cooked. IÆm being boiled in my jacket.
ôSteady, steady,ö Jet says. ôLooking good,ö
Everything seems to slow down. IÆve got time to look at the speedometer. Three needles. One at Zero, one at Four, one at Six. 460kph and still accelerating. The needles are still sweeping clockwise. IÆm not thinking faster, the bikes accelerating slower. The wind is pushing back hard, a brick wall made of thin air. I can feel myself breathing again.
It doesnÆt feel fast anymore.
No marker, no reference, just a sheet of white split by the occasional dark flash of a course marker and the silly flickering electric trees.
I can feel raw naked heat slipping up my arms, like IÆm holding them in front of a blowtorch. It prickles and bites. It sears and cooks. I can smell hot plastic.
My hands are burning. ItÆs too hot!
ôEase off,ö Jet commands. ôOpen the radiator flaps and let it coast down.ö
I release the trigger. Things suddenly accelerate once more as IÆm pinned to the fuel tank. The speedometer needle is whirling backwards as the engine gutters and moans in protest. I managed to reach down and open both flaps, a cool blast of air suddenly feeling impossible hot.
Downshift, Bang!. Downshift, Bang!. Downshift, Bang!.
The speedometerÆs below 200 and the world seems to have gone dead still. My mindÆs still going a kilometer every six seconds. Jet shoots passed with a whoosh, banking overhead, while my hands are shaking on the grips. I can feel them throbbing inside the gloves. IÆve burned my hands. How did I burn my hands?
The StarÆs in fourth gear, idling along at 100. I drag my hands in the breeze trying to cool them off. It hurts to grip, it hurts to squeeze, it hurts to release. It just hurts.
ôEase it back. Turn it around. Bring it back to the pits.ö
ItÆs a long circle back. A long cruise towards whatÆs become a very distant pit. Dust still hangs in the air. I canÆt stop shaking. I canÆt stop shaking
IÆve burned my hands.IÆve burned my bloody hands. ItÆs still biting across my knuckles.
FordÆs waiting with a bucket of water. I plunge my hands in, gloves and all. It feels almost like a relief. The gloves had gotten so hot, the plastic knuckleguards had started to melt. My hands are red, tender across the knuckles and anywhere else there was armour. ThereÆs some burn cream put on them and itÆs like liquid ice.
It was JetÆs mistake, she admits. ôI forgot about the radiator exhaust. My hands are metal.ö SheÆs apologetic. I tell her not to worry about it. IÆve had worse.
Chippy takes a few snaps, and weÆre all about ready to agree that carrying on would be just plain a bad idea. I ask Jet when we could make the second run.
ôWhen I find two beer cans and some snips,ö she answers me with a grin.
As scared as I was, this was my chance. This was my only chance IÆd ever have to do anything like this. As much as my gut instinct screamed ædonÆtÆ, I just had to do it. IÆd never forgive myself for not grabbing at it. The other halfÆll never forgive me for doing it without consulting her first. Hi Honey... I just broke a world speed record today. ThatÆs going to go down well.
A half hour later, most of the tank and saddle of the Star have been draped with silver insulation stolen from someones cooler box, held on with duct tape. The cut up remains of two tinnies have been bolted to the grips, forming a kind of crude heat shield to keep the worst of the hot air away from my hands.
With a bit of luck, I wasnÆt going to get dry roasted.
Second run. Jet offers me the chance to back out. I say no. Ford asks me if IÆm sure I want to keep going. I say no. But IÆm going to go anyway.
Having done it once, itÆs not so daunting. Having done it once, it isnÆt any way slower or less violent. ItÆs a riot of noise, acceleration and heat. ItÆs brutal. ItÆs painful. IÆm cooked. IÆm sweating. IÆm shaking. IÆm aching all over. My ears are ringing, and IÆm laughing like a madman.
480kph. æOnlyÆ 480kph.
ôWhatÆs it like?ö Chippy asks me.
Fast.
ôI know itÆs bloody fast mate. But whatÆs it like?ö
Like what that North Korean ujunaut mustÆve felt when they lit the blue touch paper and retired.
Run three. TheyÆre filling the water tank with iced water. First run with the water injection. The Star explodes away from the line in a cacophony of sound and flame. Jet skims along behind. Everything begins to slow down again as the StarÆs deep lungs finally begin to run out of puff.
ôSwitch the boost over to maximum, then push the little blue button,ö
The machined lever snicks into place. The blue button clicks down. The Star lunges forward on itÆs second wind, bucking and shaking and skidding, back wheel scrabbling for grip. Grit the teeth, keep the throttle in, trust the machine to straighten itself out. I feel it pulling hard. I feel it pushing from behind.
All I can see are the two green lines and the trees. Just keep the little arrow pointing straight between the two green lines. DonÆt hit the trees.
ôThatÆs it. Pull it back.ö
Only a few seconds. It feels like a blink of an eye. I glance at the speedometer. It reads 560 and still climbing.
I donÆt stop shaking from the adrenaline until an hour later. IÆve drunk litres. IÆve had a proper breakfast. IÆm still shaking. On the lake the DLRAÆs own runners are going for their own personal records. My hands are still red. My hands are still coolly numb with liquid ice. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to whoop for joy.
ôYou want to get working on the story,ö Chippy says to me from behind his camera lens. The shutter clicks a few times.
Why you photographing me?
ôBecause youÆre the record breaker mate,ö
Still got to write. I donÆt get paid to ride bikes fast, I get paid ride bikes fast, take little notes on what itÆs like to ride those bikes fast on a notepad and then put together a few hundred words based on that beer stained pad coupled with a number of purple adjectives so readers on their toilets at home can feel like theyÆre blasting across a salt lake when theyÆre blasting at the bowl..
That line goes into the pad.
ItÆs getting passed midday and the sun is splitting the rocks. It may technically be winter, but itÆs also a dry lake in the middle of South Australia, it isnÆt going to be anything but scalding hot outside. A hot breeze is blowing out over the lake, whipping up puffs of red dust between tufts of grass.
I hurry between the shade offered by the few tents, awnings and camper vans. IÆm telling myself I want to gather some opinions from the usual racers, but IÆm really just making work to keep myself from thinking too hard. I gather opinions on team Stingray and their chances. That bikeÆll definitely go like hell, they all seem to agree on that. It definitely does. Whether itÆll beat the record splits the crowd halfway down the middle. If itÆs going to fail, itÆs going to fail because it just doesnÆt have the proper aerodynamics. In the battle between horsepower and drag, drag always wins.
I ask, if a record does get set, do they think itÆll stand.
A single mechanic working on some turbocharged Harley gives his opinion.
ôBuckleys chance,ö he says. ôItÆs probably waved, probably without them even realising it. At worst theyÆll be derided as cheats. At best, theyÆll be bitterly disappointed. Even if it isnÆt waved, the FIMÆll find some somehow,ö