Meditations on Fernley
by Robert Beaupre
Photo courtesy of Mike Torres at www.tagnmx.com

Fernley International Raceway--perhaps better known by its unfortunate nickname, Ferntucky--is not my favorite track. Yet if I had to estimate the number of laps I’ve taken there over the years, I would guess it’s been at least a few thousand. And it’s felt like many more than that. Maybe 50 grand?

As tracks go, I’ve always favored intermediate-to-hard ground, lots of jumps, and intricate, technical lines that hold their shape through the course of a day. Fernley, of course, has none of these things. Yet I’ve continued to race there several times a year for the past 12 years. The odd thing is that I only began to realize that I don’t like Fernley, relatively speaking, until the last race there.

Maybe you’ve had a similar moment: you’re out at Fernley waiting for your second moto, already feeling a little sunstroke from your first outing, watching as the track becomes increasingly choppy and treacherous. You’re wondering why it always seems either hotter or colder at Fernley than anywhere else (do trees help moderate temperature?) A glance at the board reveals--that can’t be right--14 more motos ’til your next race?

You begin wondering if you wouldn’t be happier at home at that very moment.

I’ve had these moments for years, but the last race was the first time I really paused to think about it. I thought of all the friends I know who skip Fernley entirely but hit the races at Stead and elsewhere, claiming that Fernley just doesn’t do it for them after all these years. I wondered if they are on to something, and if I too should save my fresh tires for all the (literally) greener pastures out there.

After considering this, I went out in my second moto and did what I often do at Fernley: I got a bad start, consumed an unhealthy amount of silt in my efforts to pass, and ended the moto frustrated, blistered, and carrying an extra four pounds on my frame as a result of sand accumulation. On the way home I coughed and coughed and coughed from the fine grains in my respiratory system.

That was it, I said. Next Fernley race, I’ll either hang out with family, do the laundry or wash my truck. I don’t need the sunburn, heartache and measly purse that exist out here.

I felt better already.

But a funny thing has happened this week. As the next Fernley race has approached, I have found myself thinking about it. A lot. My mind keeps jumping back to the handful of Fernley races where I actually felt good about my riding at the end of the day, and the fact that this is, after all, the last Fernley race of the year. And it would be good practice for those other, better races to come. Right?

I am now wondering if I’ve had this negative realization about Fernley before--and forgotten or repressed it. I’m not sure about that, but I am certain that I’m willing to forget it again--at least for a couple more motos. With any luck, I’ll struggle again this weekend and reinforce my commitment to avoid Fernley.

But if I do well, who knows what it’ll mean for me? I might never escape the place. And someday, when my doctor tells me that I’m dying of skin cancer from the Fernley sun or toxic mineral levels from a lifetime of excessive sand ingestion, I will have nothing to say to him except, “I tried to quit once, cold turkey. But it didn’t work out.”

I guess I’ll have to be OK with that. But when it comes time to scatter my ashes, I hope my loved ones consider Stead, or maybe the cul-de-sac that will soon cover the old starting line at Carson.

I imagine I’ll have had enough of the sand by then.


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