The 2001 Intrepid Racing Endurance Team started out as an idea swimming around somewhere in the murky depths of a pitcher of Rogue Brewery's, "Dead Guy Ale". I should know as it was me and Robby Card that were responsible for draining that pitcher (and a subsequent one just to make sure that we had discovered all the good ideas to be had in beer that day), forcing it to disclose it's powerful message. And that message was, "Go forth and vanquish your rivals in the WERA National Endurance Series". And the message was good. And who were we to argue with good beer? So, it was decided then and there that Robby would be our Team Captain and that we would rummage through the ranks of the ICR membership and come up with a Race Team. Only, it turns out that Robby and I had different ideas on the timetable of events that would need to occur in order to put said team together...............

I had just returned home from Chattanooga's Taco Mac (the place where the beer tells you what to do) when the phone rang. It was a breathless Robby Card on the other end telling me he had already checked the WERA Endurance schedule and that we should plan on making the trip to Texas World Speedway in three weeks for the opening round! Now folks, I gotta tell you that I had no idea that Robby would react with such unbridled enthusiasm when we left the bar together and I shook his hand to solidify our plans to race together. He honestly seemed calm and cool and very business like when we parted company. And here we were, one hour later and Card was acting like we had just got invited to be in the latest "Boy Band"! He was going to have me play the part of the "tough kid that is misunderstood" and he would be the "cute one". Now all we needed was "the dominant, mature, big brother figure" that appears to hold the group together. Lee Fields was about to be summoned into duty to complete our trio. Oh happy day.

Carol Fields was a "shoe in" because, as Lee's much better half, she realized that Lee would not be able to navigate his Mini Winnie (small Winnebago) to a single track on his own and she did not want him to tarnish the family name by hanging out in some smoky bar with the likes of me and Card. She would sign on as part time "Lee Police" and full time teammate. Excellent. I assumed any other potential members would prove more difficult to sway as they would not be afforded the opportunity to thrash Robby's bike, but I was completely stoked and wasted no time in pondering the plethora of possible personnel.

After careful consideration, I had formed an "A" list of individuals that I would like to have as team mates. I called Robby at his Cleveland estate and asked him for his stamp of approval on the list. He agreed that we would have a potential WWF traveling circus if we signed up the "chosen ones" on my list but that they were indeed bike savvy and could propel us to victory. Then he started making V-Twin noises and telling me how was "jones'n" to get his race face on and drag a knee and, and, and......I had to hang up on him. At the top of the list was Bill Campbell. He was my team mate in my Y2K WERA sprint racing effort that yielded a Formula 2 Championship and a 2nd overall regional finish in D-Superbike. He is a wonderful guy and he doesn't drink granny's elixir, so he could take me to the podium and then take my celebratory drunk ass home! Well, as luck would have it, his "real life" job duties changed markedly from the end of last year to this one so he had to decline. That sucked. On to Scott Symington.

I had met Scott Symington only a year earlier at Hooter's. A group of us had ridden our street bikes to the home of chicken and silicone and Scott was sitting by himself with his riding gear resting on a stool beside him. I decided to approach him and ask if he wanted to join our little soiree of sport bike riders. However, as I was making my way towards him, his vittles were arriving via a jiggling waitress with a name tag that read, "Vanessa". I stopped in my tracks to watch Symington's reaction to being served by the woman who is universally regarded as the "captain" of the Chattanooga Hooter's squad. Scott initially appeared nonplused by the hard bodied Vanessa. They chatted momentarily and she turned to leave him with his wings. And that's when he did that oingo-boingo cartoon thing with his eyes! His face contorted, his jaw dropped, and his vision settled onto those two hemispheres of heaven that are the head waitresses most impressive buttocks. He mumbled incoherently something about copious breasts and a shelf like ass that wouldn't quit and didn't even realize that I was standing next to him enjoying the same view as Vanessa disappeared behind the bar. He was startled into reality when he heard me say, "Nice. Very nice. Hey dude, wanna come join us for a beer and bench racing, we've got the pregnant girl waiting on us!". He politely declined my offer but said that he would join us when he finished his wings. Anyway, that was a year ago and Scott and I have since become friends and when I asked him to be my team mate, he readily agreed. That was an incredibly fortuitous day.

Two down, one to go. I had considered David Ludwig to be a kindred spirit after our first encounter at our local watering hole. There were several ICR's in attendance that night, and to the man, they ordered Miller Lite or Bud Lite or Nestea Lite. When it came time for Dave to order, he said, "Make mine a Gentleman Jack straight up please". Well I'll be damned! A fellow bourbon drinker, even if he did choose his spirits from the wrong State (Everyone knows that Kentucky is where bourbon is made and Tennessee is where football is played). I ordered the usual, Jim Beam on the rocks with a Killians chaser. When the waitress returned with everyone's libations, the usual bikey banter resumed amongst the other members but Dave and I just sized each other up by espousing the virtues of our corn liquor selections. Of course his opening salvo was the obligatory, "Sid, you must realize that this batch of Lynchburg sour mash was residing in 100 year old oak barrels only a few months ago". That's always a tough one to counter so I just said, "Yeah……well…….so……dummy! You're stupid." Dave was obviously impressed with my skill as a master wordsmith , not to mention my rapier wit, so he bought the next round. Anyway, that's how we met and learned to respect each other. Now, fast forward to a couple of weeks ago at the ICR Bike Nite venue.

With our history being steeped in the art of debate, I decided to approach Dave in a logical, almost Spock-like fashion, attempting to appeal to his sense of reason, such that he would decide for himself that he simply must join the ICR Endurance Team or forever suffer the inner torment of being illogical. So I said, "Hey Dave, let me buy you a drink and then if you won't join my race team, well I'll just……you'll just wish…..dummy! You're stupid". And for reasons unbeknownst to me, he replied with just two words. No, not THOSE two words, this story has a happy ending. He simply said, "I'm in".

And that my friends is how to put together an Endurance Team. Will we be successful? Time will tell. Will Lee and Card and I make our team mates wish that they had never taken an interest in motorcycling? Probably. But one thing is for certain. One month ago there was no ICR Endurance Team and today there is. We listened to the message from the beer. And the message was good.

- Sid Man