Tho I was only an OK club racer, I remember how alive I felt from the time I was rolling the bikes and gear into the truck in front of my house, right up until that dying of the light time late Sunday afternoon after the last trophy was accepted, when you looked around the paddock and everybody was picking up the trash, folding up their canopies, hanging up the leathers and putting the helmet back in the box, looking in your pocket to make sure after buying that extra set of slicks that you still have enough money for gas and putting away all the tools and seeing all your friends driving away and taking a fistful of pain killers for that broken collar bone or those bruised ribs, knowing there was that ......, long boring drive home from Road Atlanta or Mid-Ohio eating at crap highway rest stops along the way. That fried to the bone feeling after driving 36 hours without sleep crossing the Verrazano Bridge as the sun was coming up, knowing I'd have to go back to work the next day. Life when not racing sucked. Especially the winters.
I won't lie, I miss racing. But not the time in-between races. So I totally understand why guys with millions in the bank stick around long after they've stopped being competitive. If that's all you've done since you were a little kid - it's hard to imagine being happy in any other way.