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Some people knit. Some collect stamps or comic books. There are even people who proudly call themselves Duct Tape Artists--goofy folks who like to make things out of that ubiquitous roll of gray Duct Tape. And everyone knows at least one rabid fan of the online video game, World of Warcraft (yes, you do...you just don't know it yet).
“Windoworks has been keeping our Then there are those of us who like to ride Motorcycles. windows sparkling for eighteen Okay, maybe like is too weak of a word. I've been told by years. They are always on time, more than one friend that owning four motorcycles and courteous, fun to be around and avidly eyeing a fifth has crossed the line into a certifiable meticulous to detail.” addiction. —Peggy S.
Of course, I only hear that from my non-riding friends. And I don't have many of those left, so it's becoming less of a problem every day!
On this page is a little sampling of my hobby. Enjoy!
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A dry lakebed outside Pahrump, NV was a
great playground.
This is Brett's new street bike, a 2007 Triumph Tiger 1050. Click here to see a six minute video of Brett testing it out on the racetrack!
Windoworks October 2004 Newsletter Dear Friends & Clients, I’m excited to announce that the Seattle 100 Fundraiser was a blow-out success! On September 8th, sixty-five motorcycle riders gathered for a day of high speed play at Pacific Raceways in Kent. Between us we managed to raise nearly $73,000 dollars, smashing the organizer’s lofty goal of $50,000!
I first discovered I had a shot at being the top fundraiser just five days before the event. I was, ironically, at the Spokane Racetrack when Brian Orton, the primary force behind the Seattle 100 and whose son, Christian, has Nephrotic Syndrome, called my cell phone.
“Hey Brett. We haven’t heard from you lately. Are you still coming?” “Of course,” I told him. “I’ll be there rain or shine.” “Oh great,” he replied, sounding relieved. Later I would learn twenty riders had backed out at the last minute. “So how are you doing on donations?” I had to cup the phone close to my ear, the roar of racing motorcycles making it hard to hear. “I’m at $2,800,” I said. There was a long silence on the other end. Just as I began to wonder if I had lost the connection, I heard him laugh delightedly.
“Wow! That makes you the top fundraiser, Brett! The next closest guy has $2,500. He’s been calling every couple days. He really wants to win the two-day Pridmore racing school." I had known prizes were to be awarded for various levels of donations, I just wasn’t trying to be the top fundraiser. With a minimum of $500 required to participate, I knew I could easy raise $1,000—good enough, I thought. So when donations passed $1,000 in the first week, I was pleasantly surprised. When they reached $2,000, I was astonished. As the total reached for three grand, I was feeling strangely humble.
While perfectly content at my achievement, I found myself making calls in spare moments over the next few days. Friends and clients continued to astonish and delight me with their cheerful generosity. It was puzzling and yet wonderful.
On race day I presented the organizers with a thick envelope of checks totaling $3,800. At end of the day, I was publicly acknowledged as the number one fundraiser. That’s when I learned that the guy who had been gunning for top prize had increased his total to $3,200 after hearing about me from Brian.
I felt a little guilty for winning first prize instead of the hard-working guy. It was easy for me to raise the donations—so many people had been shockingly generous.
A total of eighty-three people donated, for an average of over $46 per person. The highest donor was Mary Fernandez of Kirkland, at $300! For some reason, though, she declined my invitation for a ride on the racetrack. Oh well, maybe next year.
I am astonished, stunned, grateful and humbled by the generosity I experienced from all of you, especially when we’re all overwhelmed by the flood of worthy causes we’d like to support.
Myself, Brian, his son, and the Nephcure Foundation would like to extend our heartfelt thanks for your support!
Sincerely, Brett Hutton
PS. Big thanks also go to Jared and Stephanie (nephew & niece) for being my official Pit Crew and photographer. Next time I’ll bring more Oreos. Promise.
Here's the story I promised you about the day!
2004 Seattle 100 Fundraiser "Skipping School"
I wish I could have skipped school to race motorcycles, I thought wistfully, watching carefully as my fifteen year old nephew, Jared, cinched on my spare helmet.
“Don’t
forget,” I remind him, “tap my left leg to slow down, my right to go
faster.”
He nods, mumbling something I take for agreement, and I study his face through the helmet visor—the last thing I need at race speed is a panicked passenger. He looks fairly composed, however, and I’m not truly concerned. He’s ridden behind me a number of times before on spirited jaunts though the countryside.
I grin as he looks back at me expectantly. He’s in for a bit more “spirit” this time!
“I’ll take it slow for the first two laps to let the tires warm up,” I continue as I tug heavy gloves over my leather racing suit. “Then I’ll gradually increase the speed lap by lap until our half hour session is over. If you get nervous, remember that no matter how fast we’re going, how far we lean over or how hard we brake, it will be nothing compared to what I do on the race bike.”
Since my race-prepped, non-street-legal, Suzuki GSXR-750 is a single-seater, I was taking Jared out on my Triumph Sprint ST, a couch on wheels next to the dragonfly-cornering and hundred mph wheelies of the Suzuki.
With one last visual check of Jared’s gear, I swing a leg over the ST and motion for him to mount.
“Remember to look where we’re going,” I yell over my shoulder as he settles on behind me. “Look through the turns and always over my inside shoulder.”
We’d covered everything earlier, but I wanted this last foremost in his mind. A passenger looking in the wrong direction could significantly affect the direction of a motorcycle. And while I could compensate for it, Jared outweighed me and could give us quite an adventure if he did anything unexpected mid-turn.
I could almost hear his eyes roll in his helmet. “I know, Uncle Bert.”
“Okay then.” I laugh, easing out the clutch. “Time to rock and roll.”
I wind through the pits, past the RV’s, trailers, motorcycles and canopies of the mini camp that springs up at every track day. Riders from the session that just ended pass in the opposite direction, heading like horses back to their stalls.
At the edge of turn nine, the official entrance and exit for the track, I pause, waiting for a pair of riders just completing their first lap to pass. Then we’re on the track, dialing the throttle back and snicking up through the gears as we shoot past the grandstands and down the long front straight.
Within seconds the speedometer sweeps past a hundred mph. As we slingshot past the turn one dogleg, I spare a moment to wonder how the kid is feeling; we’ve gone this fast before, but not right off the bat. It’s a shocking way to begin, like diving headfirst into an alpine lake, but it can’t be helped. Go too slow and we risk being a hazard to other riders.
It also helps warm the tires for the hundred and eighty degree turn rapidly approaching.
Easing gently around turn two, I shoot down the hill to brake hard for the right/left chicane of turns three and four. Then it’s back up to a hundred for the short back straight, dodging left through turn five—whoops, gotta watch that mid apex hump—to flick quickly back and forth through six and seven. I pin the throttle up the hill to go wide around the wobble-inducing dip in turn eight, brake slightly for nine, then shift all the way down to first gear for the infamous Bus Stop turn.
And lap one is done.
Halfway down the front straight four racers whip past, my poor, stubby-legged ST unable to keep up with the sleek greyhounds. I growl under my breath as I curb the impulse to late brake into turn two and catch the impudent rascals. Being passed on the racetrack tends to provoke in me the same response a dog has to a darting rabbit, a bull to a red flag, a shark to a fat salmon, a boy to a pretty…well, you get the drift.
I sooth my wounded inner beast with the reminder that we’re still on our warm up laps and burdened with a VIP.
Another couple of laps, I grin to myself, then we’ll take’em on!
Halfway through lap two the tires are beginning to feel more planted. The tension in Jared’s body has eased and I can feel him looking through the turns. I’m impressed—he’s a model passenger. And since he hasn’t given the signal to slow down, it’s time to pick up the pace.
Each successive lap I go a little faster, brake a little later, gas it a little harder out of corners. By lap eight I’m pretty much flogging the ST about as hard as it can go.
At this pace the portly Triumph clearly reveals its limitations. The foot pegs, already half missing from past racetrack hijinks, grind in nearly every turn. And even with the suspension dialed up to max, the bike wallows like a pig on skates in some of the bumpier corners. But we’re now passing more riders than are passing us. And Jared hasn’t flinched once.
Down the front straight the horsepower-challenged ST tops off at 130 mph. I snicker wickedly as I reel in riders who just passed us when they brake early for turn two. Down the hill into turn three, they brake too early again and I sneak around the outside to show them a rear wheel.
Yep, uh
huh, that’s a Barcalounger with a passenger that just passed you, racer
boy. Ha! Now close your mouth and pay attention, turn four is here.
Man, I love this sport!
All too soon the checkered flag is waving and our play session is over. As we exit the track, a sport bike rider pulls alongside and flashes us a thumb’s up. Apparently we impressed someone.
Coming to a stop at our pit canopy, I give Jared the signal to dismount. He jumps off the bike and immediately exclaims happily, “That scared the s*** out of me!”
My grin is nearly as big as his. It was just what an Uncle wanted to hear.
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Fun
Stuff from the Windoworks Crew
