That race, I tiptoed for two laps, heart in my throat, while rain speckled my visor. By lap four, Marco was right: a dry ribbon appeared. By lap six, I was passing people who’d pitted for wets, their tires squirming like frightened animals. I won by eleven seconds.
“We stay on slicks,” he said. Not a question. The Soft Science of Road Racing Motorcycles
That’s the whole science, right there. That race, I tiptoed for two laps, heart