The Fast Money

"We don't come this far naked," O'L Skool says. "You come down here, you got to bring some cheese." They brought about $3,000.

The races keep going, one after another, bets flying. Little Richie is adding to his legend, going 3-0.

Gary Purnell, black baseball cap flipped around backward, sits on a barrier at the starting line. He's up from Raleigh, N.C., wad of cash in hand. How to bet: "It's 25 percent bike, 25 percent rider, 25 percent setup and 25 percent luck."

Now the track announcer is shouting, "LAST CALL!" above the engines. It's 1 a.m. Little Richie and Keith Thompson, a biker from Upper Marlboro, are talking, the owners talking, guys standing around them, looking on.

"TEN SECONDS! TEN SECONDS AND WE ARE CLOSING!" says the announcer.

Richie smiles, moves away from Thompson, runs over to a copper-colored Suzuki.

"FIVE SECONDS!"

Both riders get their bikes under the tent a second later, the tape is pulled behind them. Last race of the night. The chatter goes up along the starting line.

"Go ahead, Keith; tear his [expletive expletive] up!"

"Give me $20 on Richie."

"Man, a whole row of naked women could walk through here right now and nobody would know."

That's June Jones talking. He's a car painter from Triangle, Va. He's up $60 for the night and he bets it all on Thompson. Since Thompson is riding his own bike, and Little Richie a loaner, he figures Thompson will pull off the upset.

The riders hold the bikes in neutral, tach up the engines, burn rubber off the back tires. Guys put fingers in their ears, squint against the noise, yell for bets.

Green.

The bikes rocket forward. Fifty feet into the race, it's all over.

"NNNOOOOOO!!!" screams Jones.

Far away, disappearing into the darkness, flies the legend of Little Richie, 4-0 on the night, a cult figure at 150 mph and still gaining.