Grew up on the track. My Dad flat tracked a Triumph on Saturdays, changed the back tire and hill climbed Sundays then we would pack up the tent, Mom loaded us in the car and we followed Dad back home.
One day I came home from school and the bike was gone. My Mom had convinced him to sell it and settle down. A couple of years later I bought a beat to crap AJS and we rode that thing all over the farm until I was old enough to get my license.
Mom screamed bloody murder when that AJS came home, but after she watched us for a few weeks I think she resigned herself to the fact it was an area of common ground for me and the old man.
There is no better training than an old racer and a cow pasture.