The 80% Myth

The 80% Myth

Jeff Hughes

The climb up the hill coming out of the area famously referred to as “The Shoe”, rising up along what would be the ankle, is semi-blind. Visual cues are obscure, the horizon falling away towards bland nothingness. And because the climbing elevation itself serves to feel like a brake, you tend to ride up that climb pretty hard, throttle pinned to the stop. That perfectly describes my ascent.

Only thing, it’s a mistake.

At the top, where the topography begins to flatten, turn nine comes in with a sudden, rushing abruptness. Having already run numerous laps this morning, I certainly know that. Not to mention that George McNabb, one of Reg Pridmore’s CLASS instructors and a friend of mine, had warned me of that very thing two nights ago, pointing to the corner on the crudely drawn map on the back of the restaurant napkin. But in the exultation of the moment, reluctant to let go of my pace, I hold into the throttle for one more heartbeat, and then another, before I begin rolling out. By then I’m over the top and as my two fingers cover the brake lever, feeding load into the front tire, the whole corner suddenly snaps into focus.

The equation has changed.

With a jarring awareness I realize I’m in too hot, already way too deep into the corner. And although the rain stopped twenty minutes ago, the track is still very damp. I need to be off the brakes and turning hard left, right now. But what really has my attention is the splash of red in the center of my vision. As soon as I see it, even before the synapses in my brain can make all the connections, I know instantly what it is.

The Ducati rider.

The hairball erupts with a mushrooming flood of adrenalin, the metallic tang sharp in my mouth. Even though I know I’m not supposed to – that I can’t afford to – my eyes are nevertheless drawn inexorably to the obscene sight, just off the apex of the turn and a mere handful of feet off the track, of the motorcycle on its side and, right next to it, the rider in red leathers lying motionless up against the Armco.

I know all about target fixation - something, thankfully, that I’m not especially prone to.

And I’m also aware that our vision is normally drawn to motion, to the movement of would-be prey, or danger. But in this case, perversely, it’s the very stillness itself of the rider which strikes in me a fascinating dread, fixing my attention. That momentary freeze is the very last thing I need.

Floating in a sea of possibility – most of it bad - the calculus of traction flashes through my head as I try and come up with a new equation, some new combination of turning movement, body position, lean angle, and throttle setting that will get me out of this fix.

In the midst of all that my mind flashes back, for just an instant, to my arrival yesterday evening.

Watkins Glen. A mystical name, conjuring images of countless motorsports legends: Formula One, Alfa Romeo, Lotus, McLaren, Ferrari, Lauda, Steward, Fittipaldi, Williams. All coming together in the crucible of this place called by the cognoscenti, simply, “The Glen”.

Having ridden the 500 miles from my home in Virginia, it’s no wonder that I can’t wait to see the place. And so instead of heading straight for the cabin that I’ve rented for the next two days, to the lodge where a cold beer and a hot meal await, I head first for that storied ground.

I can’t get in, of course. The place is locked. But dismounting on the hard-packed grassy field of the spectator parking and walking over to the fence to peer inside gets me my first glimpse. Black tarmac snaking across the landscape. The big red Winston sign. Bleachers, devoid of fans, but I can imagine them full.

The sun setting softly behind me casts a warm glow along the fence, the last such light I’ll see for several days. And, in my stomach, that edginess that always seems to accompany my arrival at a racetrack, the first fluttering butterflies, begin to take hold.

Scanning back and forth, my eyes take in the grandeur of the place. I see it alive in my imagination, the rolling landscape and the seductive sweep of the asphalt and the lovely light and the swift movement of wheeled vehicles in full song. But there’s something else, something which adds a disquieting edge to the otherwise wonderful sights. No matter where I look my eyes are drawn to it: Armco. It’s everywhere, just a few feet off the edge of the asphalt. Girding the place like a steel necklace.

The realization slowly dawns on me. Maybe tomorrow morning, with the benefit of some sighting laps, I’ll find it’s not too bad. Maybe this is just a bad section and the rest of the track has plenty of runoff space. Maybe. But I’ve always wondered why the AMA boys never run here. And as I turn away from the fence I have a sneaking suspicion I now know why.

As I walk back to my bike, thinking about tomorrow, a low breath escapes my pursed lips. “Eighty-percent, Hughes. Eighty-percent.”

It’s one of the most oft-repeated canards in all of motorcycling: The eighty-percent rule. The notion that a rider will ride at no more than 80% effort, leaving the other 20% as a reserve, a cushion to fall back on for when – not if - the inevitable aw-shit arises. It’s the expectation that even when we’re riding at a crisp, sporting pace, one that’s fun and challenging, we’ve still got that piece-of-mind stash in our back pocket, ready to pull our ass out of trouble. It’s our last line of defense against the litany of risks that otherwise imbue our sport. And if you talk to riders out in the hinterlands, to those sport riders carving through the canyons and dicing across the mountain passes, you’ll almost always get a knowing nod. “Sure, I always keep it to 80%”. And most of them believe it.

Only thing is, it’s a myth.

Despite all those well-meaning assertions, in spite of the very real belief that they’ve left lots in reserve, most riders riding at pace in the hills couldn’t ride 20% faster if their mother’s life depended upon it. Not even close.

The fact is, those of us who push a sporting pace – even the most measured and controlled one – are a lot closer to the edge than we’ve generally been aware.

How can that be? How is it possible that so many riders can truly, honestly believe that they’re only doing eight-tenths, if in fact it’s more than that? How can so many riders be wrong?

Because backing off just a few clicks from our pace is enough to make us feel totally at ease. It’s enough to eliminate almost all of those butt-clinching “moments” that we all occasionally experience when really pushing things. It puts us in a place that’s calm and relaxed and where we could ride forever. It seems like we’re cruising.

It feels like 80%.

Think of any of the top racers, guys like Valentino Rossi or Colin Edwards. One of the things that separate them from us lesser mortals is their ability to consistently run close to maximum effort for long periods of time. Lap after lap they’re able to, within the constraints of that particular race day’s engine-suspension-tire package, put together lap times that are mere tenths of a second apart. They do that while routinely spinning their rear tires on throttle-up, aggressively braking right up to the point of washing out their front ends, and carrying what seem to be impossible lean angles, all while remaining constantly attuned to the declining amounts of traction left in their swiftly deteriorating tires. They ride, in other words, on the very edge of what is humanly possible.

To those same racers, a single, whole second is an enormous chunk of time. If they back off their pace that one second – around one percent at most major racetracks – they’re instantly transported to a far less arduous place, one that’s far easier to maintain without making a mistake. Back off three or four seconds – we’re still only talking two or three percent - and they are positively in cruise mode. For someone like Valentino, the difference between a 1:44 and a 1:48 lap time at Mugello is like night and day.

It’s pretty obvious that those of us who ride on the street, and maybe do the occasional track day, aren’t anywhere close to being in the same league as Valentino or Colin. Certainly the maximum effort that we can bring to bear is worlds apart from theirs, as is our consistency – we’re not anywhere close to being as attuned to what a motorcycle can do as they are.

But the principle of pace and effort still holds. Just as a top racer can go from full-bore to cruise mode by just backing off 2-3%, a street rider will see a similar drop in perceived effort by doing the same. Drop a few more clicks to account for the extra few challenges to be found on the street and we’re right in the range of what most sport riders actually do.

So how much does that end up being?

I’m guessing that for the majority of experienced sport riders the total is no more than 6-8%. Maybe a little less for those with lots of saddle time. But it would rarely be any more except among true neophytes.

Which means that that 80% effort that we always talk about is, really, more like 92-94%.

Don’t believe it? Then try it yourself. On your next track day have a buddy time a couple of your laps – one at what you think is 80% and one at 100%. My bet is that those two times will be a lot closer than you expect.

Ok, so why is any of this important? Whether it’s 80% or 94% or whatever the figure ends up being, we still need to keep something in reserve, don’t we? So big deal - as long as we do that, what’s the difference?

The reason it’s important – I’m not suggesting that riders change the pace at which they ride – is because that reserve we congratulate ourselves for carrying in our back pocket is a hell of a lot slimmer than we may have believed. It’s important because a relatively small bump in our pace can quickly put us back at the edge, back to that place where things can go to hell in a hand basket in a great big hurry.

We just need to realize that, that’s all. Having done so, we’re then better prepared to make all those choices that we’re inevitably called upon to make during a day’s ride – and maybe we’ll end up with a few less surprises.

As with most things, wisdom begins with understanding.

Back at Watkins’ Glen, still trying to sort out the mess I’ve made of turn nine, it’s ultimately one of the other tenets of our sport – that you go where you look – that ends up being my saving grace. The 80% rule may be a myth, but that one surely isn’t.

At the very last moment I finally manage to dredge my eyes away from the sight of the Ducati rider and twist my eyes around hard to port, fixing them on a point far down the track. Holding fast to that spot like a beacon of hope, feeding in throttle as smoothly as I can, and leaning over on the damp pavement as far as I possibly dare, I manage to make it through the turn. Barely.

Back in the pits, I have plenty of time to think about what happened. That was way too close, a result of riding too hard on a track which inordinately punishes such indiscretions. Going back out after the red flag I once again remind myself to take it easy, to hold it to no more than 80%

I mean… 94.