"After spectacularly looping my bike during super-street I’m quite sure many people assumed they’d never see me around the track again. Not on account of bodily injuries, but rather on account of severely bruised pride".
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After spectacularly looping my bike during super-street I’m quite sure many people assumed they’d never see me around the track again. Not on account of bodily injuries, but rather on account of severely bruised pride. Luckily, I have always been quite stubborn and have very little shame. I immediately began repairing the bike (which had a surprising amount of damage for being crashed from a standstill) in order to make the very next super-street class just a month later. In true “me” fashion I finished the bike the night before and packed up for Pikes Peak International Raceway. This attempt went much more smoothly and ended with me staying upright, finishing the class/race, and getting approved for a license from Jeff Brown. Unfortunately, I had work the following day and was forced to leave, putting my racing dreams on hold for yet another off-season.
During the off-season I threw my 2003 R6 in the trash and started over with a 2005 model after a nasty highside crash at IMI Motorsports Park. I showed up to the very first round of the 2016 season bright eyed, bushy tailed, and ready to get my shit pushed in. Within the first couple rounds I was consistently riding in the Top 10 in both novice and amateur classes as well as Top 5 in some of the vintage classes. With a newfound confidence, I started wrenching on my own bikes more extensively, and decided I was comfortable enough to tackle a brake job to eliminate increasing brake fade during round 4. Turns out, I wasn’t ready, or didn’t pay enough attention to detail.
Less than an hour after my attempted maintenance, I was careening off into the grass outside of turn one at High Plains Raceway. After noticing that brake fade had begun to set in mid race, I completely ignored the warning signs and plugged on. Somewhere around lap four, I noticed them start to get really bad, yet ignored them still. At the end of the front straight I reached for my brake lever, found it, and felt it immediately find the bar and the end of its travel. The bike did absolutely nothing. I will always remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach while hurtling towards the edge of the track with no brakes. Suddenly I remembered that motorcycles have two brakes (Duh...had still only been riding for just under a year at the time). I got on the rear brake hard; turns out a little bit too hard. I hit the dirt at the end of the track sideways at full bar lock and was instantly ejected from the motorcycle. After sailing through the air, bouncing, and tumbling to a stop I looked up to see my motorcycle completely destroyed, lying in a heap in the dirt. More inconvenient, yet less upsetting, than the destroyed motorcycle was the fact that I could immediately feel a break in the fourth metacarpal bone in my hand. Defeated, I scrambled to find help packing up, and got a ride to the hospital from my good friend Rob McNeil. Racers truly are family and this example is no different. Rob took time and effort out of his own weekend to bring me to the hospital, sat with me while I was there, dealt with me while I was high as a kite on pain meds, and waited through the entire ER experience to take me back to the track that night.
Due to a combination of Morphine and Percocet, I felt phenomenal by the time I got back to the racetrack that night. I ran around with my friends, partied a little bit, and decided I would be totally fine to spectate and run around the next day. After all, it was just a broken hand, how bad could it be? (I had conveniently forgotten about the hard highside that went along with the hand earlier that day) I woke up in the bed of my pickup the next morning in some of the worst pain I had ever been in up until that point in my life. It felt like every movement, every breath, even turning my head the wrong way shot pain through my body. Then, I tried to use my hand to push myself out of bed and was immediately reminded that it was no longer functional. I spent most of the day sitting in the shade with water and pain meds, contemplating my next move. I had no bike, no money, couldn’t work, and had no plan other than being blindly determined to figure it out.
The plan I chose was stupid, irresponsible, completely ridiculous, and somehow worked flawlessly. I decided that the best course of action was to buy a bike, with money I didn’t have, supplied by a close friend I was living with, while I was not working, and about to go back to school as a full time student. Because racing? My friend Andrew will forever be responsible for making the end of the 2016 season possible for me. Against both of our better judgments’, he lent me enough money to pick up a fully prepped 2007 R6 race bike that I found on the Internet in a barn in South Dakota. This bike was much more capable than my previously destroyed race weapon, and I was more than excited to finally get it on the race track to see what it could do.
After sitting out two full rounds of the 2016 season, I came back for the final two rounds to swing a leg over again. The first round on the new bike at Pueblo Motorsports Park, I was immediately hooked on a more capable machine. My first day out I went nearly 4 seconds faster than my personal best and finished entirely in the Top 10 and Top 5. I approached the final round of 2016 with a newfound confidence in my racing and had the most successful round I had ever had. I smashed my personal best times by upwards of 4 seconds again, finished mostly in the Top 5, and nearly managed to pick up a podium. That was it; the stage was set. I wanted to race motorcycles and I wanted to win. For better or for worse, I was committed, there had to be a way.
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For as long as I can remember, I have been enthralled with everything “motorcycles.” Many of my earliest memories revolve around a love for all motors, but especially those bound to two wheels and a set of handlebars. Unfortunately, my family did not share in my enthusiasm. Understatement does not even begin to describe that last sentence. As long as I can remember loving motorcycles, I remember my family hating them more than anything. Can you blame them? We’ve all heard the worries, horror stories, and stereotypes. To many people, motorcycles are nothing more than unnecessary death machines. From the perspective of a parent, motorcycles are often seen to have no positive purpose or value; nothing could be further from the truth.
For those who have the bug, motorcycles can be the key to fulfillment, success, and general life happiness. If you love motorcycles, you understand that the ride is an addiction, a necessity. Racing, track days, any closed course competition, getting faster, and feeling the progression in my riding, took this addiction to a whole new level. Racing motorcycles effectively runs my whole life; it gives me drive, direction, purpose, and genuine happiness. Racing is my “why,” and this is my story.
I bought my first motorcycle on October 30th of 2014. While I had been dreaming about bikes forever and had already bought all my safety gear more than a year prior, it was a complete impulse buy. Scrolling through Craigslist at the climbing gym, I tossed a lowball offer at an already cheap 2001 CBR 600 F4i. The seller immediately agreed and waves of giddiness and fear rushed through me. I had never started a bike, much less ridden one, when the bike was dropped off at my college house in Boulder, Colorado. Like a kid on Christmas morning I sprinted inside, put on all of my gear and swung a leg over for the first time. I turned the key, kicked the bike down into gear, focused on the clutch lever, and immediately stalled in the driveway.
Within the first few weeks of attempting to teach myself to ride I dropped the bike no less than three times. In preparation for my MSF basic rider course, I spent three weeks puttering around my neighborhood at less than 35 mph, making a fool of myself, scaring myself, and trying to drill the basic muscle memory of riding a motorcycle into my head. Finally, in late November I had the opportunity to attend the Motorcycle Safety Foundation’s beginner’s course. Two days later I passed and was awarded my motorcycle endorsement. To this day, I remember this as one of the happier moments of my life. I rushed home from the DMV and immediately swung a leg over to venture outside of my neighborhood onto actual streets for the first time. If there was still any doubt in my mind, it disappeared the moment I touched third gear. There was something about this machine; it was not only a means of transportation but also a means of happiness production. I was completely and hopelessly hooked.
I began riding every chance I got. The motorcycle consumed any and all free time. All of my other hobbies fell by the wayside; I instantly fell head over heels in love with everything “motorcycles.” I immediately discovered that my favorite part about riding was cornering the bike. Something about how bikes fall into corners; like a dance between asphalt, rubber, and rider. Leaned over, exposed to the outdoors, seemingly hovering and gliding across the ground. I spent about 15 hours a week ripping up and down the canyons for the first few months. I was learning to ride with as much seat time as I could fit in to my life, hours per day, every day; I was insatiable.
Four months later, I learned the hard way that the street is not the place to develop fast cornering skills. On my 20th birthday I woke up ready to have a bike day. All of my friends were gone for break so I decided to spend some quality time with Caroline (the F4i). I threw on a new mirror, cleaned and adjusted my chain, thoroughly washed the bike, and headed for the hills. Thirty minutes later I was upside down in a ditch, in a snow bank, on the side of Flagstaff road. I overcooked a hair-pin corner way up the road, went wide, and immediately lost the rear in the gravel and sent myself spinning into the snowy ditch. Luckily I hurt nothing but my pride and some bodywork. I waited on the side of the road for someone to help me pull the poor bike out and went home defeated. Little did I know, that crash would change the course of my life.
Not long after, I ventured out to IMI Motorsports Complex in Dacono, CO for the first time. I will always remember my first day there. After riding motorcycles for about five months, I went out on track on my old beater. My knee went down immediately first session on track and there was no going back. The feeling of touching the ground while still riding the bike will stay with me forever. However, it did not take long for me to learn that dragging knee means nothing; it has absolutely no bearing on how fast you can go. Nonetheless, in my head it was still a momentous day. I started hitting the track at IMI weekly, and began pushing myself to be faster at the expense of my body and my bike. After taking a tow truck home from the track, I decided it was time to replace the street bike with a dedicated track bike.
My first track bike was a 2003 Yamaha R6 that I found on craigslist not far from the track for under $1500. She was certainly not fast, but was a great starting platform, and one that forced me to really learn how to ride a bike, rather than the bike help me learn to ride. A few months later I signed up for my first day at a full size track and the introductory Superstreet class with the MRA at High Plains Raceway. The Friday track day went great; finally getting to open the bike up and feel the speed of the 600cc platform was incredible. However, the superstreet introductory class/school was not quite as successful. After practice and before the mock race, there are launch drills (learning how to get off the line for a race). Never having launched a bike before, I was a little nervous, but laughed it off and joked with my instructor about “Bouncing it off the rev limiter and just dropping the clutch. What could possibly go wrong?” No more than 45 seconds later I spectacularly looped my motorcycle. Fully airborne, stretched out behind the bike like superman, before smashing down onto my face and damaging both the motorcycle and my right foot beyond repair for the weekend. Along with my foot, my pride took another square hit to the jaw, but nothing could keep me away from the sport. Most importantly, I did end up with a nickname that I now love. Jeff Brown, the new rider director started calling me Loopy (a name which he had earned himself much earlier in his career while racing speedway) and the name stuck. Since that day I have always been known as Loopy and wouldn’t have it any other way. Over the next few installations of this blog, we’ll explore how I went from a novice rider, looping bikes on the starting line, to a travelling expert racer with multiple class championships in just a couple years’ time. Stay tuned!
This is a video of my loop!
https://www.facebook.com/matt.neuberger.1/videos/vb.1417549432/10207761489221357/?type=3
This is the first day I ever got on a bike
This is a video of the track day right before my loop
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Q53yIb5wHU&t=100s
This is a video of one of my days at IMI on the 03
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