72 · T H E U N D E R DOG A DVA N TAG E
So I got my tools, and I got a little file, and some extra clutch weights and I went out in the apple orchard by my house. I marked off 500 feet, handed my Dad or a friend a stop- watch and said, “Time me.” I’d go full speed for the 500 ft and have them time it and mark it down. Then I would make a tweak or two and go again seeing if I could beat the prior time. Again and again. Adjustment after adjustment. I’d change the gear ratio. I’d adjust the clutches. I’d file the weights. I’d put a different belt on. I’d hook up a cooling system on it. All with the desire to cut time on that 500- foot race. The whole time, I was just fueled by “the power of you can’t” and I was thinking “just because they’re sponsored by Team Yamaha or Team Arctic Cat or Team Ski-Doo or Team Polaris, they aren’t better than me.” I specifically remember when I got tomy first race, driving past and then parking next to all the other racers with my older pickup truck, lugging my snowmobile off the back of the truck, grabbing my tools that were in an old milk crate, and feeling like they were looking at me and laughing.
Whether they were or they weren’t didn’t matter. It was my
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