Page 22 - Issue_63

WESTON PEICK
450 SX / 6TH
IMAGE / LANNAN WORDS / MATTINGLY DESIGN / MOTOPLAYGROUND
>> How hard are you willing to push yourself? What are you willing to risk, in order to ob- tain your goals? The aforementioned questions, summarize the dialogue that’s conducted within ever racers head who crosses the starting gate. It’s an art of mental warfare; one in which, can win you the battle, or push you to defeat, prior to even seeing the opposition. Weston Peick is as solid as they come, building the foundation of his career on a cement- ed block of confidence. And although he may be flustered from time to time, he comes back unscathed. He’s willing to push adversity to the wayside, walking the balance beam of longevity with immense focus and persistence. Phoenix, 2018, was no different. From the moment qualifying commenced, his pace flourished amongst many who floundered. The track, a bit greasy from the amount of water the crew had put down, seemed to be
to the dismay of many. He would capitalize, putting in solid lap after lap. Rolling back into the tunnel, he was ready to discuss with surrounding crew, what to improve on for the main event. The holeshot device was engaged and prepared to launch, once the Monster Energy cardholder left the raceway. He would push into the opening flag, launching over this rather large finish line double. Navigating through the improvised roller section shortly thereafter, he would nod his head at the mechanics area realizing the position he was
in. Side by side with Dean Wilson, his focus was relayed to the track, instead of on the competition. It would pay off, as he would qualify third and look ahead to the big show. As he sat on the line for the main event, he would ponder on what was in store for a brief mo- ment. Visualizing the lines ahead, he would quickly bring the engine to life, and look to set sail into the wind. And he was off, bombarding over the first triple, the attention of thou- sands beaming down upon him. He relished in this atmosphere, swapping paint in the first 180 the track would allow. Merely dragging the inside heel in the first flat right-hander, the exhaust echoing up the face of the triple. Ricocheting through these monstrous whoops, his 450 appeared as a chopper, edging the front of the field, until he tired; the rear end sagging, and the front never staying as rigid and stiff as could be. With the number ten just behind, he would fight until the bitter end, looking at the scorer’s tower as if it were a golden relic. He’d done it, and as the buzzer of the score clock would scream, he would end up with 6th overall.
22 GRITMOTO • JANUARY 28, 2018