Ghosts of Speed: The Finger He Left at Laguna
by Dean F. Adams
Friday, October 10, 2025
What drives men to race motorcycles professionally? An unhealthy obsession with winning? A regular opportunity to touch the hand of the devil (risk death)? The search for one perfect, mistake-free lap? The clarity that comes from being alone in a helmet, pushing a motorcycle to its very earth-bound limits? Who knows?
Dale Quarterley was and is a racer from the East Coast who competed in numerous classes—from the old AMA F-1 class to Superbike and various endurance events. For a decade Quarterley was the perennial hard-charging privateer; he raced every round of the championship for more than a decade and finally struck gold when he won the Superbike race at Mid-Ohio in 1993 on a bike he bought/rented from Kawasaki boss Rob Muzzy. That win, which saw hard-man Quarterley break down and cry in victory circle, will never be forgotten by anyone who witnessed it. Before the race, on the grid at Ohio, Quarterley looked exhausted and broken from the caustic racing life of driving a truck from his shop to tracks all over the USA, sleeping in cheap hotels (on good nights), and trying to compete against factory Superbikes every weekend. Somehow, Quarterley pulled something from inside and beat the factory bikes. He will always be remembered for that performance on that day.
If you want to know why men like Dale Quarterley do it, forget his win at Mid-Ohio. Go back to Laguna Seca in ’84, when he traded a finger for a grid spot. That’s where you start to get it.
At Laguna Seca in 1984, Quarterley was riding a Sandy Kosman-owned Kawasaki KZ1000 in the old AMA Formula-1 class. He was racing against guys like Kenny Roberts, Eddie Lawson, Freddie Spencer, and Randy Mamola on their factory two-stroke 500s. Quarterley had never ridden a bike with clip-on-style handlebars before, and he struggled to acclimate to the strange bike in just a few practice sessions; but incredibly, he qualified ninth.
In a post-qualifying practice session, while Quarterley was giving as good as he got with the fast AMA F-1 riders like Wes Cooley and Fred Merkel, he crashed the Kawasaki. His Cinderella weekend was over because Quarterley's left hand was trapped under the clip-on, and his little finger was turned into something looking a lot like hamburger as it was ground into the asphalt. He was rushed to a Monterey emergency room in an ambulance, where doctors cleaned the damaged finger up and told him to start looking for a surgeon who could perform both orthopedic and plastic surgery. Go home, your race is over, they told him.
Again, men who race motorcycles professionally are a rare breed of human, motivated by forces that sometimes even they don't understand.
Quarterley told the doctors he needed to race tomorrow and that he didn't really feel trying to save something as inconsequential to a rider as the little finger on his left hand was very important by comparison to being on the grid in less than 24 hours. Cut it off.
Emergency-room doctors typically either hate motorcycle racers or at least hold them in great ambivalence. So they prepped him for surgery and amputated Quarterley's little finger just above the knuckle, then sent him on his way with a sarcastic shake of their heads. He was back at the track prepping for his race, with what remained of his now even littler finger taped to his ring finger. As time passed and the painkillers wore off, Quarterley experienced waves of pain as his body reacted to no longer being as whole as it was a few hours ago.
Quarterley was on grid for the race the next day. The bandages were soaked through before the warm-up lap, and every bump in the pavement sent a bolt of pain through his arm, but he pushed on as long as he could. His entire hand went on medical leave after the warm-up lap, and Quarterley had to pull the clutch in by cocking his wrist downward.
He wasn’t there for sympathy. He was there because racers race—it’s what they do, and sometimes it costs them a piece of themselves to prove it. “I went out there because I didn't want anybody to think I wasn't a real racer and an enthusiast,” Quarterley said later. “I wanted to show that losing part of my finger wouldn't keep me from racing. I'm a racer...”
Dale Quarterley was and is a racer from the East Coast who competed in numerous classes—from the old AMA F-1 class to Superbike and various endurance events. For a decade Quarterley was the perennial hard-charging privateer; he raced every round of the championship for more than a decade and finally struck gold when he won the Superbike race at Mid-Ohio in 1993 on a bike he bought/rented from Kawasaki boss Rob Muzzy. That win, which saw hard-man Quarterley break down and cry in victory circle, will never be forgotten by anyone who witnessed it. Before the race, on the grid at Ohio, Quarterley looked exhausted and broken from the caustic racing life of driving a truck from his shop to tracks all over the USA, sleeping in cheap hotels (on good nights), and trying to compete against factory Superbikes every weekend. Somehow, Quarterley pulled something from inside and beat the factory bikes. He will always be remembered for that performance on that day.
If you want to know why men like Dale Quarterley do it, forget his win at Mid-Ohio. Go back to Laguna Seca in ’84, when he traded a finger for a grid spot. That’s where you start to get it.
At Laguna Seca in 1984, Quarterley was riding a Sandy Kosman-owned Kawasaki KZ1000 in the old AMA Formula-1 class. He was racing against guys like Kenny Roberts, Eddie Lawson, Freddie Spencer, and Randy Mamola on their factory two-stroke 500s. Quarterley had never ridden a bike with clip-on-style handlebars before, and he struggled to acclimate to the strange bike in just a few practice sessions; but incredibly, he qualified ninth.
In a post-qualifying practice session, while Quarterley was giving as good as he got with the fast AMA F-1 riders like Wes Cooley and Fred Merkel, he crashed the Kawasaki. His Cinderella weekend was over because Quarterley's left hand was trapped under the clip-on, and his little finger was turned into something looking a lot like hamburger as it was ground into the asphalt. He was rushed to a Monterey emergency room in an ambulance, where doctors cleaned the damaged finger up and told him to start looking for a surgeon who could perform both orthopedic and plastic surgery. Go home, your race is over, they told him.
Again, men who race motorcycles professionally are a rare breed of human, motivated by forces that sometimes even they don't understand.
Quarterley told the doctors he needed to race tomorrow and that he didn't really feel trying to save something as inconsequential to a rider as the little finger on his left hand was very important by comparison to being on the grid in less than 24 hours. Cut it off.
Emergency-room doctors typically either hate motorcycle racers or at least hold them in great ambivalence. So they prepped him for surgery and amputated Quarterley's little finger just above the knuckle, then sent him on his way with a sarcastic shake of their heads. He was back at the track prepping for his race, with what remained of his now even littler finger taped to his ring finger. As time passed and the painkillers wore off, Quarterley experienced waves of pain as his body reacted to no longer being as whole as it was a few hours ago.
Quarterley was on grid for the race the next day. The bandages were soaked through before the warm-up lap, and every bump in the pavement sent a bolt of pain through his arm, but he pushed on as long as he could. His entire hand went on medical leave after the warm-up lap, and Quarterley had to pull the clutch in by cocking his wrist downward.
He wasn’t there for sympathy. He was there because racers race—it’s what they do, and sometimes it costs them a piece of themselves to prove it. “I went out there because I didn't want anybody to think I wasn't a real racer and an enthusiast,” Quarterley said later. “I wanted to show that losing part of my finger wouldn't keep me from racing. I'm a racer...”
Thanks, Tim Beaumont (The) .
Quarterley still races today, although he does it in cars, now.
Quarterley still races today, although he does it in cars, now.
— ends —
