Five wives have come and gone, but John Fike’s BSA 500 motorcycle remains by his side.

On a recent Saturday night, Fike and two of his beloved BSAs were at Lakeside Speedway, a 3/8-mile dirt track in Kansas City, Kan.

Fike, a 61-year-old Lecompton man, has been a flat track racer for more than 30 years. He is one of those thrill-seeking, hell-raising, aging-but-never-slowing motorcycle diehards who are not as uncommon as one might think in the world of flat track motorcycle racing.

“My mother told me not to do it, but that was a long time ago, and she finally gave up,” he said.

At the track

Fike sat in a lawn chair, an unfiltered Camel cigarette in his hand. His bikes – the 500 and a 750 Twin – beside him.

Behind him was his cherry-red van, which sleeps as many as six people. Fike and Pat Lawson, Fike’s girlfriend of 19 years, often sleep in it. It’s the latest in a long line of bike-hauling vans he’s owned.

Before him stood a line of vans and tents, side by side like merchants in a summer craft show. Instead of knick-knacks, the display was motorcycles. All styles. All sizes. It’s a sport that often hooks entire families, and some riders are as young as 4 years old.

Racers, dressed in leathers, passed by, their steel shoes clanging on the pavement. They wear steel shoes over their left boots so they can slide through the turns at high speeds.

This is Fike’s world. He owns John’s ATV & Cycle, 790 N. Second St. He fixes bikes during the off-season and when he’s not racing. And in summer, he races in two events every other weekend.

“It’s the love of his life – over and above anything,” Lawson said.

At the races, Fike knows everyone.

“You’re either born a racer or you weren’t,” he said.

In the parking spot to his left was Mason Day, a Lawrence teen with shaggy blond hair, a budding racer.

Day said he’s learned from Fike just by watching him.

Nearby was Bart Otti of Wichita. Otti has watched Fike race for decades. He’s a fan.

“You can’t go nowhere in the country, and they won’t know who he is,” Otti said.

In the caravan to Fike’s right was David Barkley, a silver-haired man in leathers. Barkley, who lives in Topeka, is about the same age as Fike. He broke his neck in a race not too long ago. But he’s back. Racing is like a disease, he said.

Fike smoked Camels, his blue eyes calm beneath glasses. He would race four times that evening. He races for cash rewards. And he wants to win.

“It’s as competitive as hell,” he said, “but we’ll all help each other.”

When his time came to race, Fike started the bike, threw a leg over and rolled over to the track with the calm of someone who has done the same thing hundreds of times before.

Preacher’s son

Some racers get started because their relatives are racers. But that wasn’t the case for Fike. His father was a Protestant preacher.

When he was in his 20s, Fike road street bikes. He was a bit of a daredevil.

There’s one story he likes to tell. In 1969, on a three-cylinder BSA, he outran the cops. They were trying to stop him for a tail light. He’d been drinking. He didn’t stop. The chase went down Sixth and Iowa and 15th. He hit speeds of 125 miles per hour, he said.

They set up a road block on E. 15th. He went around it.

“They thought we were having a tornado with all the sirens going off,” he said.

Ultimately, the cops came and got him at his house. He paid his dues for it.

“That’s the rottenest thing I ever did,” he said.

But there isn’t any guilt.

“I got a brand-new conscience that’s never been used,” he said.

So it was probably a good thing that months later, Fike took to flat track racing. There, his penchant for high speeds would be more appreciated.

Patriotic blur

Fike wears blue leathers with red and white stripes. It makes him easy to spot on the track. He zoomed around, hitting speeds in the 90s, a blur of patriotic colors.

Two years ago on a track in Stockton, Fike had a bad crash.

A bike went down in front of him. He flipped and landed on his head. His glasses crumbled and cut his face. Blood flowed.

But he fought getting into an ambulance. When he lost that battle, he was taken by air to Wichita. The damage: broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and a severe concussion.

“They weren’t sure if he was going to live or die for the first 72 hours,” Lawson said.

Then his family worried that he would have brain damage.

Fike was in intensive care for nearly a month. Fellow racers gave him $3,500 to help pay his medical bills. Dozens visited him in the hospital.

Fike lost 30 pounds.

“He was weak as a kitten,” Lawson said.

He took off the following season to the surprise of some who know his devotion. But Fike went to every race anyway. He inspected the bikes before races.

Some racers have a bad fall and they quit. Some don’t.

“I’ll never slow down,” Fike said. “I go faster after I fall off than I did before.”

Between races

After his first race Saturday, Fike rode back to the van in the parking area to smoke a few cigarettes before the next event.

The racers milled around, talking about motorcycles.

On the track, Fike’s known as “the mean old bastard who is hard to get around,” said Lori Kampfer, Lawson’s daughter. Off the track, Fike is known for his generosity.

One time, Fike fixed a clutch for a guy he was racing against and then the guy beat him, Kampfer said.

“I asked him, `Would you do that again?’ and he said, ‘sure,'” Kampfer said. “Deep down he’s got a heart of gold.”

Ask him what the future holds and Fike shrugs.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get old,” he said with a sly grin.