Steve was mechanically gifted, the consumate research and development guy. Didn't get it from school, either. Did it the hard way - reducing parts to scrap metal. Design, build, break, re-design, re-build, break again. And again. And again. Confident that persistance would eventually pay off. He employed this trial and error method with optimism. When you've broken as much stuff as I have" he would say, "You learn a thing or three." He was doing what he loved. And doing it on his own terms. The different drummer thing.
No matter how busy he was preparing for the next round of racing, he always had time for the "little guy". The race fan, the passer-by, the street rider, the bracket racer, the novice. The ones the "stars" of the sport don't often have time for. You could always get an answer to a question, make a comment, share a moment with Steve. And if a fellow competitor broke down, and Steve had something to get him going again, he would gladly loan it, even if it meant he might lose a race to the guy. Gracious in victory, pleasant in defeat, seeing the humor in everything. And if a fellow racer was discouraged, he always had just the right words of encouragement to help "keep it all in perspective."
Such was the nature of this remarkable man. Not merely content to embrace his inner child, he WAS his inner child. A child with a really big heart. A child who was my inspiration to continue racing when things were going poorly. A child I will really miss. I'll miss seeing his ratty old bus and his friendly little ball-fetchin' dog, Gee. I'll miss seeing this naturally gifted, instinctively brilliant racer on the track. I'll miss seeing him with his big mug of Captain Morgan rum after the racing's done. I'll miss "talkin' tech" with him and partaking of his unique view of things. The races just won't be the same without him. And I know there's a lot of us who feel this way.
Thank you, Bro."Got nitro?"
- Mailman