Brian, Josh and I were just setting up our pit area at the legendary Bonneville Speedway on the Salt Flats in Utah. Some may have never even heard of the salt flats before, but to folks who liked to go fast, this was hallowed ground. The place where the boldest riders on some of the fastest machines came to set (and even break) land speed records on everything from sixty year old Harley Davidson's with side cars that looked more like old bathtubs, to streamlined motorcycles resembling horizontally traveling rocket ships.

As my eyes adjusted to the blazingly bright sun reflecting off of the miles of salt, Santa barked out orders like a well intentioned drill instructor "get out of those hot clothes right now and grab yourself a beer. Congratulations, boys. You're parked next to the famous Buell Brother's racing team!"

Bonneville Salt Flats is a 159 square mile salt bed about ninety miles west of Salt Lake City Utah. The salt itself is approximately six feet deep and is a remnant of glacial times.

Santa was only one of many interesting characters among race participants and spectators. From tattooed and sweaty mamas arm in arm with their burly, leather faced beer drinking papas, to preening, pretty boy Californians with the newest, fastest race machines. Bonneville had it all.

After grabbing myself a cold beer and slathering on the sun block, I took a walk around to familiarize myself with the area. There was so much to see.

Immediately heading in my direction was a conspicuous, beefy man with bleached blond hair and a white sleeveless T-shirt with "Hell's Angles British Columbia" emblazoned on the front. His arms were fully tattooed and his gang affiliation was repeated on his left arm in bold black ink. Tagging along by his side were two grown men who looked like eager-to-please puppy dogs begging for a pat on the head of approval from their new master.

As I got into line to register for racing, I struck up a casual conversation with a young woman named Valerie Thompson. She was a petite, pleasant looking brunette with no visible tattoos, which I found refreshing.

A friend of mine once said that a tattoo on a woman is like spray paint on the Mona Lisa. For the most part, I'd have to agree with that sentiment.

But Valerie was much more than a pretty face. She was a serious racer and had the records and trophies to prove it. She is an experienced motorcycle drag racer and attended the Bonneville event last year in the "Run Whatcha Brung" class, reaching a top speed of over 153 miles per hour on a Harley Davidson V-Rod. Her image is even featured on the race shirts given to participants. She's like a hired gun. People pay her to race their bikes in the hopes that a light, skilled racer will give their bikes a chance to set a record. I'd planned to get as many tips from her as possible prior to my chance on the salt.

(click to see a larger image)

Sunday morning and the three of us were in the pits, prepping our bikes for our first day of racing.

Brian was in a "production" record class (P-P 1350), which allowed him to race throughout the week, while me and Josh were entered in the "Run Whatcha Brung" class, giving us only two chances to give it all we had and reach top speed.

I quickly came to realize that, for the most part, the people at Bonneville were the best kind of folks to be around. If you needed a socket, washer or bold, just about anyone that you asked would stop what they were doing in order to help you out. And even though we were, in essence, competing against one another, you got the feeling that everyone wanted to see their fellow racers do well. These were real folks. From the beginning, a fellowship among racers and spectators was plain to see.

For safety purposes, all glass and plastic areas of our bikes had to be taped up to prevent shattering in the event of a crash. We were also required to wear a full-face helmet, leather gloves, boots, jacket and pants.

All of this expensive gear did provide us with as much protection as can reasonably be expected, but lets face it; If you fall off of a motorcycle while traveling at speeds in excess of 120 miles per hour, all of that nice new leather gear will be little more than an obscenely over priced body bag at the end of the day.

Our bikes inspected and ready, we lined up at the "pre stage" area trying to move far enough up in line to benefit from some of the shade provided by four canopy tents.

About half a mile away from where we were queued up, we could see riders almost flying by us at incredible speeds.

As luck would have it, I saw Valerie in line as well. I asked her for any last minute tips. Eager to pass on her knowledge, she told me to "get up to and maintain your top speed as quickly as possible and keep your body tucked and your head low. Keep your elbows close to you ribs and point your toes straight ahead. You want to merge with the bike in order to provide as little wind resistance as possible. When you complete the measured mile, roll off of the throttle gradually and for God's sake, don't raise your head up fast. The wind can knock you off of your bike at high speed."

We were then ordered down to the "staging area" which is the final stop before racing. As I waited there minutes before my run, I was trying to remember if I had everything ready and quickly went through my mental checklist; did I have my sunglasses? How about my earplugs? Gloves?

Safety requirements also required us to secure our kickstands to the frame of our bikes. Most racers did so with plastic zip ties. Was mine secured?

It was my turn and I was ordered to ride out to the starting line that was about 100 yards from the final staging tent.

Excitedly fumbling with my gear, I made my way out, adrenaline pumping. Damn. I forgot to put my earplugs in! Oh well. Too late now.

The starting line was marked by two large, vertically hung yellow flags. From where I was, the track looked like a gargantuan white bowling lane and I was the ball, preparing to hurl myself down the center as fast as I possible could.

Except for the wind softly whipping the starting line flags, there was no sound around me. And within my helmet, only my uneven breath could be heard.

I revved the motor of my blue 2005 BMW R1150R and it responded with typical enthusiasm. My bike had brought me 2,300 miles from Maryland to Utah for this moment. She was certainly ready... was I?

Looking over my left shoulder, I saw the starter wave his green flag. I clicked my gearshift into first, opened up the throttle and let out the clutch. I was on the move. This was now real.

(click to see a larger image)

The course that I was racing on measured five miles. The first two miles were to give you time to get your bike up to top speed. The start of the third mile was indicated by dark green flags hung on either side of the track. At the end of the third mile was another set of dark green flags marking the end of the measured mile. The last two miles were to give racers time to slow down.

The distances prior to and after the actual measured mile may seem excessive, but that's because the entire eleven miles of this track was used to race the streamline vehicles traveling at speeds in excess of 300 miles per hour. Many of these "motorcycles" (which they technically are) require parachutes in order to slow them down.

In 1896 the idea of racing on the Salt Flats began with a man named W.D. Rishez who attempted to organize horse and buggy races. Ferg Johnson tested his Packard in 1911 and in 1914 Teddy Tetzlaff reached 141 miles per hour in his Blitzen Benz. 1940 saw Ab Jenkins set 81 speed records in his Mormon Meteor III including a 24 hour endurance record of 161 mph. Beginning in the 1960's jet rocket cars exceeded the 500 and 600 mph mark. And of course there was Burt Monroe, made internationally famous by the 2005 movie The World's Fastest Indian.

Out of sheer luck, we happened to be at the Speedway on what will be remembered as the biggest day in the history of motorcycle land-speed racing. AMA Grand National Champion Chris Carr shattered the two-day-old FIM world record by piloting Denis Manning's BUB Enterprises streamliner to 350.884 mph. Carr broke the record of 342.797 mph set by Ack Attack, the first motorcycle to break the long-standing 16-year-old mark of 322 mph.

After Chris Carr's record run, his pit crew were jumping up and down and hugging one another in celebration.

And now I was rapidly building speed on the very same track used by those legends and more.

As I clicked through the gears as quickly as I could without losing rear wheel traction, I couldn't shake the nagging fear caused by an incident that had happened to me in the middle of Nebraska on our trip out.

While accelerating ahead of Brian and Josh my bike experienced violent wobbling once I reached speeds over 100 miles per hour. It was so bad that I had to quickly veer off onto the shoulder of the road because I had fully expected to crash and I didn't want the truck behind to run me over. I was, however, able to regain control of my bike by slowing down and extending my legs out to help with balance... but it was close.

More than likely it was all of the extra weight of my luggage that caused the near loss of control and not a problem with my bike... But I couldn't be certain until I once again hit high speed.

Quickly, I reached 80, 90, 100 miles per hour. At this speed, the salt looked like the tops of clouds as I strafed them. All that I could see at eye level was the bright white horizon.

The speedometer was now reading 125 and my RPM gauge was at about 7,300. The start of redline was 7,500. Minus the burdensome luggage, she was as steady as a rock. The passing of my bike through the laser sensors crossing the track at the first set of dark green flags meant that my official timing had begun.

Unaccustomed to having my throttle fully opened in sixth gear, my right wrist was hyper extended awkwardly and I had to force myself to hold position until I had reached the end of the mile. Any adjustment now would cause me to lose speed and valuable seconds.

Without my earplugs inserted, the wind both whistled and howled within my helmet, but my breath was now steady and relaxed. God damn this was fun!

Although the barren mountains in the distance seemed to be getting no closer to me, I could now see the pit area to my left filled with spectators, fellow racers and their community of cars, trucks and trailers fast approaching.

(click to see a larger image)

My throttle pinned, I stayed tucked as low as possible. My BMW was giving me all that she had. The speedometer held steady at 125.

There are two inherent factors working against all racers at Bonneville. The first is elevation. The Salt Flats is approximately 4,200 feet above sea level. This results in less densely packed oxygen molecules in the air, which reduces the horsepower output of the motor. Carbureted engines in particular have a difficult time compensating for the change in air and altitude.

The second is the salt itself. It's as hard as concrete, but a granular dusting on the surface causes a slight but consistent tire slippage. Santa told me that combined, these factors result in a power loss of approximately 20%.

Add to these impediments my 6' 1" 215lb frame, and you've got a bike that, under the circumstances, is simply incapable of delivering optimum speed. But nevertheless, it sure felt fast to me!

I could now see the second set of dark green flags coming at me quickly. My run would soon end. I tried everything that I could in order to eek out an extra mile per hour from my bike. I tried to bring my knees in closer to the tank. Tried to bury my face just a little bit lower beneath the instrument panel.

Overtop of the wind whining in my ears I could hear the steady, powerful hum of the German motor, inspiring nothing but confidence.

WOOSH! I screamed past the flags and shouted WOOOH HOOOH!!!

Back to the pits, I parked my bike and jogged to the trailer in order to pick up my official timing slip.

Aware that nearly all car and motorcycle speedometers are inaccurate by up to ten percent, I was thrilled to read my actual time as 120.714 miles per hour! I was told that I had the fastest street legal BMW on the salt.

After the excitement of my final run began to subside, I went into town with Santa in order to help him load and off load his broken down Buell so that we could at least clean off the salt and some of the oil that routinely blows out of his exhaust and onto the rear of his bike at the local car wash.

When we came back it was time to start getting our things together and say our goodbyes in preparation for our three-day-ride back to the east coast.

Josh wisely thought to bring a few small glass vials and I used mine to collect some of the salt caked onto the front of my engine as a memento.

The entire journey was a thrill for all three of us, and a once in a lifetime experience for me.

And it seemed completely appropriate that the "salt of the earth" not only applied to the surface of the speedway at Bonneville, but also to the people that we met throughout our time in Utah.

(click to see a larger image)