- brought hands to mouth with a toy
- babbles
- took his first bath without crying
- stands with only our assistance to keep him righted
- didn't need the breast-sheild during the day
11.29.2006
Mini milestones
My world is much smaller now. I live on caffiene and my child's monumental developments. For posterity, his lastest acheivements @ 10 weeks:
11.27.2006
Getting back up to speed
In the last ten weeks everything and nothing has happened. I don't want to turn this post into a Doogie Howser ending, but you could write a book on the experiences and emotions I've gone through. One would think that having a baby would be the most joyous experience of one's life. That apple cart got upset about three weeks into it and hasn't righted itself yet (or ever I'm assuming). The novelty of my crying, sleeping, eating and fecal machine of a being has worn off. Granted the intermittent smiles Ryan grants to me after a healthy shit provides enough stamina to continue through the next inexorably uncomfortable crying fit. As I'm finding out, I was not built to withstand the humbling effects an infant can deliver to a proud father. My son can go from content and peaceful to extremely pissed off and demanding within seconds. Fucking colic. (I use colic because it's a general term for 'I don't know what the hell is wrong with him') On 2 occasions, Laurie left me in charge of our son's welfare while she did a little something for herself. Both times resulted in a screaming rage that I was ill equipped to handle. It literally sucked the life out of me and challenged my ability to cope beyond the comfort of the confines I had erected prior to his arrival. I experienced a range of emotions compacted into a brief amount of time. Anger, rage, pity, along with a sense of failure flashed through me. Since no one talks of the challenges that beset parents, it appears on the surface that every couple happily endures this process, making me feel as though I'm an oddity who cannot come to grips with child rearing. Run-ons, run-ons! Since that time, I have received sage advice from a good friend who was the only one who could offer true understanding and hope. Jeff, sincerely, I thank you. Though I haven't developed the ability to enjoy this process any more, I am comforted to know that I'm not alone. Still as I thumb through the copious amount of digital images, nostalgic thoughts feed my ultimate fear that I will miss something monumental and historic in my son's life. Damn, that little bastard has me coming back for more. Oh cool, Ryan's first bath....
10.03.2006
Ryan Maxim begins
09-19-06, 7:20am - a moment in time that forever changes me. My emotions have reached its zenith. Nine months of preparation, wrestling with the gamut of emotions that churn the soul. No class, no experience, no word of advice has prepared me for this. Nothing can truly describe this feeling, this an explosion of emotion... that beams forth excitement, jubilation, terror, timidity, and an amazing sense of calm. It is a feeling I will never be able to convey to another. It's too big for me. My son is born. He enters this world and instantly transforms my being, my sense of purpose. He will define a portion a me as I promise to recipricate with equal measure. My son is born this day. 09-19-06
9.01.2006
Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 11)
continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 10)
Closing thoughts:
As my consummate teammate, Laurie has lived the same goal and felt the same highs and disappointments that racing has dished out. This trophy is an accomplishment for all of those that invested their time and concern for my dreams. Yet, this combination of plastic and marble is also very personal. It's the culmination of endless nights in the shop, at the racetrack and carwash. It's the countless sacrifices to live a life less traveled but more diverse. It's the memories of my father and uncle's racing accolades and the addition of mine to the family's tradition. I have a sense of closure to an elusive goal that had haunted me ever since I can remember. My maturation largely occurred in several small race garages throughout my adolescence. All the while it fostered a burning desire to complete and to win. However, winning is addictive. The balance to closure. As I write this I wonder why it takes a superficial trophy to bring this to light. Why should I even need a trophy to honor the memories. Do the finishing positions really mean anything? Had I not achieved a victory, would it have tainted my experiences? In hindsight I think not, yet it took a win to expose that truth.
This weekend brought perspective to my life. Sitting on the trailer Saturday night, spooked from a head injury, there was only one thing I desired, a soft kiss from my wife. I rethought the sanity in placing my well being on the line for the seductive fix of adrenaline. My contention must be focused on other, less damaging hobbies. Until I get that next phone call offering an open seat.
Closing thoughts:
As my consummate teammate, Laurie has lived the same goal and felt the same highs and disappointments that racing has dished out. This trophy is an accomplishment for all of those that invested their time and concern for my dreams. Yet, this combination of plastic and marble is also very personal. It's the culmination of endless nights in the shop, at the racetrack and carwash. It's the countless sacrifices to live a life less traveled but more diverse. It's the memories of my father and uncle's racing accolades and the addition of mine to the family's tradition. I have a sense of closure to an elusive goal that had haunted me ever since I can remember. My maturation largely occurred in several small race garages throughout my adolescence. All the while it fostered a burning desire to complete and to win. However, winning is addictive. The balance to closure. As I write this I wonder why it takes a superficial trophy to bring this to light. Why should I even need a trophy to honor the memories. Do the finishing positions really mean anything? Had I not achieved a victory, would it have tainted my experiences? In hindsight I think not, yet it took a win to expose that truth.
This weekend brought perspective to my life. Sitting on the trailer Saturday night, spooked from a head injury, there was only one thing I desired, a soft kiss from my wife. I rethought the sanity in placing my well being on the line for the seductive fix of adrenaline. My contention must be focused on other, less damaging hobbies. Until I get that next phone call offering an open seat.
Packing up the beat-up truck and roughing it in the pickup cab connected me with a person that has been pampered from a support network, central air, an expansive wardrobe, queen size mattress, and a plethora of creature comforts. I have been conditioned to seek out comfort whether it lies in the familiar face or the items that surround our modern living. This weekend was a great escape from the familiar. Typically, I have no problem adjusting to less than desirable conditions. This adventure reaffirmed my ability to be independent, yet all the while reminding me of my self imposed dependence on that which I love.
Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 10)
continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 9)
7:31 pm - The springs in my bench seat were getting worn. My right buttcheek was telling me it had enough. Turning off Route 534 we pulled into Xcel Chassis's driveway. Dropping the ramps, the weary band of diehards unloaded the car that carried me to my first feature win. No one meandered. Truly appreciative, I thanked Doug for giving me the opportunity to race. Win, or lose it’s always a magical time. Pleasantries dispensed, everyone was heading for their final destination: home. Everyone that is except for me. I was dragging an empty trailer to Mechanicsburg that needed to be parked at the shop. Fatigue was setting in hard, but the days success spirited me on. After 28 hours of very limited cell phone coverage, a few bars spiked on my LG. Anxious to hear Laurie's voice I dialed. Interrupting her closing stages of shopping, we hung up planning to reconnect when I had reached Interstate 78. Hustling through small towns, I literally drove off into the sunset. The weekend ushered in an unprecedented high pressure system that make the setting sun dazzle the clouds on the horizon.
8:26 pm - Tractor trailers have chewed up the right lane of Interstate 78. Bouncing up and down I find a break in the traffic and occupy the left lane until signs for Interstate 81 sign in my headlights. Reconnecting with Laurie we rehash the weekend events on a high level. There will be time for details later. Strangely, I don't mention the win nor the severity of my crash.
10:05 pm - Passing Hempt Brother's quarry entrance I turn right into the gravel parking lot that leads to my race shop. Unlocking the garage door, I back the trailer into the 22' by 26' space using caution to avoid my 600 microsprint sitting idle on jack stands. With the trailer hitch unlatched, I empty the trash contents including the piss bottle. I wash my hands and make the 20 minute trek for home.
7:31 pm - The springs in my bench seat were getting worn. My right buttcheek was telling me it had enough. Turning off Route 534 we pulled into Xcel Chassis's driveway. Dropping the ramps, the weary band of diehards unloaded the car that carried me to my first feature win. No one meandered. Truly appreciative, I thanked Doug for giving me the opportunity to race. Win, or lose it’s always a magical time. Pleasantries dispensed, everyone was heading for their final destination: home. Everyone that is except for me. I was dragging an empty trailer to Mechanicsburg that needed to be parked at the shop. Fatigue was setting in hard, but the days success spirited me on. After 28 hours of very limited cell phone coverage, a few bars spiked on my LG. Anxious to hear Laurie's voice I dialed. Interrupting her closing stages of shopping, we hung up planning to reconnect when I had reached Interstate 78. Hustling through small towns, I literally drove off into the sunset. The weekend ushered in an unprecedented high pressure system that make the setting sun dazzle the clouds on the horizon.
8:26 pm - Tractor trailers have chewed up the right lane of Interstate 78. Bouncing up and down I find a break in the traffic and occupy the left lane until signs for Interstate 81 sign in my headlights. Reconnecting with Laurie we rehash the weekend events on a high level. There will be time for details later. Strangely, I don't mention the win nor the severity of my crash.
10:05 pm - Passing Hempt Brother's quarry entrance I turn right into the gravel parking lot that leads to my race shop. Unlocking the garage door, I back the trailer into the 22' by 26' space using caution to avoid my 600 microsprint sitting idle on jack stands. With the trailer hitch unlatched, I empty the trash contents including the piss bottle. I wash my hands and make the 20 minute trek for home.
10:42 pm - The garage door nears the end of its travel and I angle the pickup truck into the bay. Laurie is coming through the basement door. Exhausted I step down onto the concrete and into the waiting arms of my glowing and pregnant wife. Her belly gets in the way of a massive embrace. She peers over my shoulder and sees the trophy sitting in the truck cab and immediately her excitement elevates. Feeling the strain of 40 hours of adventure, I down play the moment. But her reaction is heartfelt and lasting.
Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 9)
continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 8)
5:19 pm - As I'm on a cool down lap, the photographer is waving me into victory lane. Pulling to a stop I hit the kill switch and start to unbuckle when I notice a slight tremble in my hands. Uncoordinated, this time not from a hard hit, but from the fear of celebrating this accomplishment. Six years trying to get to this very place is playing on my emotions. Realizing the time for reflection is best suited for later, I climb out with all my gear on. Removing the gloves, horse collar, helmet strap, sunglasses, helmet and nomex headsock is cumbersome. The announcer hands me a trophy and a timely bottle of water. I'm winded, probably from holding my breath the last four laps. He notions that this track is tricky to get around, he sticks the microphone near my chin. Que to speak. Wanting to run and hide, I spoke like every other racer in victory lane, "It's a tight joint, I had to left off at the flag stand and coast it in and then right back in the throttle. Holding that bottom line was the key today." He continued about how great it was for the 600 Modifieds to put on a show today. He again queued the mic. " We really had a good time here today, it’s a real family oriented track and we hope to be able to come back soon." Wow. Six years produced a victory lane speech that would have made Ricky Bobby proud. Holding the checkered flag in my right hand and my hard fought trophy in the other the photographer snapped away. A guy could get really used to this. No wonder the taste of victory lane always leaves you wanting it again. My fifteen minutes of fame were winding down. I drove my victorious steed back to the trailer. The modified teams were already loading up in an attempt to high tail it out of the remote valley of Wyalusing.
5:19 pm - As I'm on a cool down lap, the photographer is waving me into victory lane. Pulling to a stop I hit the kill switch and start to unbuckle when I notice a slight tremble in my hands. Uncoordinated, this time not from a hard hit, but from the fear of celebrating this accomplishment. Six years trying to get to this very place is playing on my emotions. Realizing the time for reflection is best suited for later, I climb out with all my gear on. Removing the gloves, horse collar, helmet strap, sunglasses, helmet and nomex headsock is cumbersome. The announcer hands me a trophy and a timely bottle of water. I'm winded, probably from holding my breath the last four laps. He notions that this track is tricky to get around, he sticks the microphone near my chin. Que to speak. Wanting to run and hide, I spoke like every other racer in victory lane, "It's a tight joint, I had to left off at the flag stand and coast it in and then right back in the throttle. Holding that bottom line was the key today." He continued about how great it was for the 600 Modifieds to put on a show today. He again queued the mic. " We really had a good time here today, it’s a real family oriented track and we hope to be able to come back soon." Wow. Six years produced a victory lane speech that would have made Ricky Bobby proud. Holding the checkered flag in my right hand and my hard fought trophy in the other the photographer snapped away. A guy could get really used to this. No wonder the taste of victory lane always leaves you wanting it again. My fifteen minutes of fame were winding down. I drove my victorious steed back to the trailer. The modified teams were already loading up in an attempt to high tail it out of the remote valley of Wyalusing.
5:41 pm - The #31 was strapped once again to the open trailer. I had changed from my drivers suit and swigged an entire bottle of water. The entire day seemed to drag on, but now everyone was in a frenzied activity. Hopping back into the cab I was careful to place the trophy just to my right, in plain view. The caravan reassembled, and departed for the road. Conscious of the brake problems in the truck I assumed the rear most position and played the slinky game. Turning onto Route 6, I lagged behind the group when approaching downhill slopes. I reversed that tactic when the base of the hill was visible, closing up on the rear of the trailer in front of me. This continued for at least an hour until finally Interstate 80 was our new course. The hills didn’t diminish, but a two sometimes three lane highway offers much more room for maneuvering. Replenishing my liquids just prior to leaving the track was inflating my bladder. Time began to slow down. More and more I focused on finding a rest stop or even stopping along the side of the road. Meanwhile, with three lanes to work with, the traveling posse was hauling as fast as they could for home. Despite putting my foot through the floor board, I couldn't catch up to signal them to pull over. Eventually the uneasiness turned to pain. With only one option available, I removed the plastic cap to the empty water bottle and unbelted. Placing careful aim, an intense wave of relief come over me. The water bottle full, I replaced the cap and set a coarse for the last trailer in sight. Twenty minutes later Doug pulled off at a gas station. Ironically, five portapotties lined the side of the station. After topping both gas tanks off for the second time in two days, we departed.
Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 8)
continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 7)
4:51 pm - I assumed the first spot on the track access road which faces the track entrance just outside of turn two. Finding the most inner peace I've ever felt in a race car, I relaxed and visually played out each lap. Remember the best laps from warm-ups, I pictured the optimum time get out of the gas, turning the wheel and entering the corner. My whole focus was getting to turn one first with the inside position, hugging that inside yuke tire sitting off turn two. The previous race winner was wrapping up his interview. Time to turn this 105 hp four stroke motor over and get the engine temp up to 195 degrees. Ahh, the sweet sound of an exhaust fifteen inches from your ear. Muffled in my helmet is still vibrated my ear drum.
5:07 pm - The field was in line and rolling around the tight 1/8th mile in close formation. The flagger held the folded green flag straight up and down indicating a start attempt the next time by. KJ Gardner was on my outside trying to squeeze me down. We both wanted the middle lane for the start. Rounding turn three I listened for any early start from Gardner, then slam I'm in the throttle! Both rear tires dug into the dirt for traction until the motor stumbled for a second and then burped to life. Just that little bit of hesitation allowed Gardner to gain a half a car length advantage. Undeterred I slung it into turn one low waiting for Gardner to turn the car down from his higher lane. With no grip in the upper groove he sat spinning his tires. I had maintained my speed on the bottom and let the car drift to the outside jersey barrier on the back stretch. In the lead, I gradually released the throttle getting into turn three blasting back into the gas right in the apex while hugging that bottom groove. As I eased into turn one the caution lights came out. Rick McGeady has spun in turn three before the entire field completed a full lap. This necessitated a complete restart. Two pace laps later, I was ready for redemption from my previous start. My right hand slightly engaged the clutch keeping the rpms in the 7,000 range. Turning the corner, I dumped the clutch and rocketing in front of Gardner this time cleanly beating him to the turn first. I was in a rhythm and ran each lap nearly identical. I was getting great bite in the apex and pulling straight off the corners. Ten laps had ticked off with ease. The flagger waved five fingers in the air signaling only five more circuits left. I was noticing the car starting to tighten up. It wasn't entering as free and easy as before and I had run the car deeper to get the car to turn while still staying on that bottom groove. More difficult was the balancing act becoming. In my peripheral up ahead, Gardner was looping his black mount in turn two right in my lane. Steering to the outside I stepped back in the throttle knowing full well that the caution was coming out. Three laps to go and the modifieds are single file, all lined up behind me for a restart. Repeating the clutch trick I waited until I was pointed straight and my persuers were still turning before I stood on the gas. Passing the flagger I felt a presence just to my outside. A distinct sound and the appearance of his shadow on the front stretch guardrail gave him away. It must be Doug, sniffing around. Knowing the only traction is on the bottom I steer for the inside yuke tire and place my left front inches from it. Again I have command of the field but tension is building. This is where races are lost, the errant mental mistake from negative thoughts creep in. Somehow I removed those apparitions from my mind and walked myself through the next corner, then the next corner, etc… I still feel someone there, every corner, just waiting. Only a crash is going to move me from that bottom groove. White flag is unfurled. Just four corners to go. Hitting my marks I achieve the perfect balance between speed and corning. Checkered flag is in his hands, powering off turn four the black and white squares are jumping! I stay in the gas for an insurance lap.
4:51 pm - I assumed the first spot on the track access road which faces the track entrance just outside of turn two. Finding the most inner peace I've ever felt in a race car, I relaxed and visually played out each lap. Remember the best laps from warm-ups, I pictured the optimum time get out of the gas, turning the wheel and entering the corner. My whole focus was getting to turn one first with the inside position, hugging that inside yuke tire sitting off turn two. The previous race winner was wrapping up his interview. Time to turn this 105 hp four stroke motor over and get the engine temp up to 195 degrees. Ahh, the sweet sound of an exhaust fifteen inches from your ear. Muffled in my helmet is still vibrated my ear drum.
5:07 pm - The field was in line and rolling around the tight 1/8th mile in close formation. The flagger held the folded green flag straight up and down indicating a start attempt the next time by. KJ Gardner was on my outside trying to squeeze me down. We both wanted the middle lane for the start. Rounding turn three I listened for any early start from Gardner, then slam I'm in the throttle! Both rear tires dug into the dirt for traction until the motor stumbled for a second and then burped to life. Just that little bit of hesitation allowed Gardner to gain a half a car length advantage. Undeterred I slung it into turn one low waiting for Gardner to turn the car down from his higher lane. With no grip in the upper groove he sat spinning his tires. I had maintained my speed on the bottom and let the car drift to the outside jersey barrier on the back stretch. In the lead, I gradually released the throttle getting into turn three blasting back into the gas right in the apex while hugging that bottom groove. As I eased into turn one the caution lights came out. Rick McGeady has spun in turn three before the entire field completed a full lap. This necessitated a complete restart. Two pace laps later, I was ready for redemption from my previous start. My right hand slightly engaged the clutch keeping the rpms in the 7,000 range. Turning the corner, I dumped the clutch and rocketing in front of Gardner this time cleanly beating him to the turn first. I was in a rhythm and ran each lap nearly identical. I was getting great bite in the apex and pulling straight off the corners. Ten laps had ticked off with ease. The flagger waved five fingers in the air signaling only five more circuits left. I was noticing the car starting to tighten up. It wasn't entering as free and easy as before and I had run the car deeper to get the car to turn while still staying on that bottom groove. More difficult was the balancing act becoming. In my peripheral up ahead, Gardner was looping his black mount in turn two right in my lane. Steering to the outside I stepped back in the throttle knowing full well that the caution was coming out. Three laps to go and the modifieds are single file, all lined up behind me for a restart. Repeating the clutch trick I waited until I was pointed straight and my persuers were still turning before I stood on the gas. Passing the flagger I felt a presence just to my outside. A distinct sound and the appearance of his shadow on the front stretch guardrail gave him away. It must be Doug, sniffing around. Knowing the only traction is on the bottom I steer for the inside yuke tire and place my left front inches from it. Again I have command of the field but tension is building. This is where races are lost, the errant mental mistake from negative thoughts creep in. Somehow I removed those apparitions from my mind and walked myself through the next corner, then the next corner, etc… I still feel someone there, every corner, just waiting. Only a crash is going to move me from that bottom groove. White flag is unfurled. Just four corners to go. Hitting my marks I achieve the perfect balance between speed and corning. Checkered flag is in his hands, powering off turn four the black and white squares are jumping! I stay in the gas for an insurance lap.
Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 7)
continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 6)
2:34 pm - Aroused from another slumberous rest, a practice session awaited. I pushed the modified back away from the trailer, facing the direction of the staging area. The most convenient fix to the broken roof tab was a taut bungy cord that circumferenced the aluminum sheet roof and the chromoly roll cage. Getting into the seat required climbing in the side, ala Dukes of Hazzard style (fitting since the car owner's last name is Hazard). I gave out a rebel yell to make light of my entrance. Back in the office, the bruises on the inside of my arm sent shooting reminders. My scrawny frame didn't fill out the oversized seat making it impossible to avoid contact with the tender inner biceps. Waiting on the grid, I unfocused myself until we started rolling onto the speedway. Pacing around I left a few cars length separation behind Doug and Tim's race cars. What little moisture that existed ten minutes ago was now almost gone and in one lap would be completely blown to the outside fence. The flagger started his circling motion with a folded green flag signifying 'go time'. Easing into turn one I hammered the trottle as soon as it got sideways. Getting instant traction the car rolled slightly on the right rear. Three seconds later I released the gas halfway down the back stretch and applied slight brake pressure to set the car entering turn three. I repeated this process twice a lap for five laps, each time changing the entry lane, while adjusting the application of throttle and braking. It was as if I was always sideways. Running closely behind Mineri, I noticed that running just a half a lane off the bottom was proving pointless as he spun tires through the entire corner allowing me to close and pass him with ease. With the checkered flag out, I wheeled my entry pitside being ever mindful of the young kids running about the area.
2:57 pm - I stared at the bucket. Damn golf balls. Reaching in I dug my hand to the bottom in the futile attempt to pull out the number one pill. Much to my surprise I pulled a dimpled Top Flight XL bearing the number four. Having lucked into the pole position for the feature event, I knew I had only myself to blame for not pulling off a win. Go-kart features were slated next which allotted another extended down-time. Congregating at Doug's trailer I reacquainted myself with the lawn chair. Typical gossip about this driver and that owner circled about, much like it does at every racetrack on any given night. To turn a phase, every now and again I added my two cents worth. The monotony of waiting was getting to me. Usually, the nervous anticipation of the next race would play havoc on my psyche, but today a calm, unassuming attitude presided.
2:34 pm - Aroused from another slumberous rest, a practice session awaited. I pushed the modified back away from the trailer, facing the direction of the staging area. The most convenient fix to the broken roof tab was a taut bungy cord that circumferenced the aluminum sheet roof and the chromoly roll cage. Getting into the seat required climbing in the side, ala Dukes of Hazzard style (fitting since the car owner's last name is Hazard). I gave out a rebel yell to make light of my entrance. Back in the office, the bruises on the inside of my arm sent shooting reminders. My scrawny frame didn't fill out the oversized seat making it impossible to avoid contact with the tender inner biceps. Waiting on the grid, I unfocused myself until we started rolling onto the speedway. Pacing around I left a few cars length separation behind Doug and Tim's race cars. What little moisture that existed ten minutes ago was now almost gone and in one lap would be completely blown to the outside fence. The flagger started his circling motion with a folded green flag signifying 'go time'. Easing into turn one I hammered the trottle as soon as it got sideways. Getting instant traction the car rolled slightly on the right rear. Three seconds later I released the gas halfway down the back stretch and applied slight brake pressure to set the car entering turn three. I repeated this process twice a lap for five laps, each time changing the entry lane, while adjusting the application of throttle and braking. It was as if I was always sideways. Running closely behind Mineri, I noticed that running just a half a lane off the bottom was proving pointless as he spun tires through the entire corner allowing me to close and pass him with ease. With the checkered flag out, I wheeled my entry pitside being ever mindful of the young kids running about the area.
2:57 pm - I stared at the bucket. Damn golf balls. Reaching in I dug my hand to the bottom in the futile attempt to pull out the number one pill. Much to my surprise I pulled a dimpled Top Flight XL bearing the number four. Having lucked into the pole position for the feature event, I knew I had only myself to blame for not pulling off a win. Go-kart features were slated next which allotted another extended down-time. Congregating at Doug's trailer I reacquainted myself with the lawn chair. Typical gossip about this driver and that owner circled about, much like it does at every racetrack on any given night. To turn a phase, every now and again I added my two cents worth. The monotony of waiting was getting to me. Usually, the nervous anticipation of the next race would play havoc on my psyche, but today a calm, unassuming attitude presided.
4:32 pm - As the go-kart features were winding down, the slingshot drivers were buckling in. This was our clue to get prepared. Amish Larry performed an impeccable job of preparing all three cars for racing each time we hit the track. I thought he might have been a little overzealous with the air in the tires, so I went to each valve stem and released what looked like the desired amount. Usually I'm very precise so in lieu of an air pressure gauge, I kicked each tire satisfied with it's sponginess. With the advent of beadlock rims, running two to three pounds of air in the left side tires is not uncommon. Climbing in the side once again I was pulling shoulder belts, connecting my arm restraints, and latching the lap belts making sure I included the submarine (crotch) belt in the process.
Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 6)
continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 5)
9:19 am - Salvation. A local restaurant on the outskirts of a tiny nondescript town has just enough parking for our three towing rigs. Striping off the fleece pullover I joined the gang as we commandeered a table. I passed the buffet coming in stacked with crispy, curly bacon. Sold, just hand me a plate! Stuffed from one of the best down home breakfasts ever, we departed for Wyalusing Valley. While on Route 6 southbound just past Towanda, orange detour signs sprang up. Turning left onto an oil and chips back country road, the comfort of a smooth highway was erased. Bouncing through bumps and potholes the two lane road stressed the truck's brakes, struts and springs. What the ride lacked in comfort, it compensated in visual beauty. Stunning rolling hills, meadows and wild flowers in the foreground of a crystal clear blue sky populated my view. Nearing the end of the detour we traversed a steep grade ending at a stop sign. Applying brake pressure, the pedal grew softer. An acrid, burning smell permeated my nostrils. Luckily Doug didn't meander at the stop sign and rolled onto the highway. I followed suit knowing full well that I was out of brakes. Maintaining a safe distance a few minutes later we turned right onto the access road to Wyalusing Valley Race Park. Much to my dismay, another downward slope awaited. Pumping the brakes, I creeped down to the track's entrance road. I was mentally exhausted and I hadn’t turned a lap yet.
10:42 am - Gates would open in 15 minutes but the friendly track staff accommodated our early arrival and signed the 600 Modified crews in. Parking towards the back of the pits I climbed from the cab and headed for a peek at the track. Annoying knats swarmed from each patch of grass. Moving to stay ahead of them seemed to be the best course of action. Jersey barriers lined the outside of the dirt surface and doubled as a guardrail. Yuke (tractor) tires laid flat served notice to drivers of how low they could go. The dirt was just that, dirt. Very little clay existed on this bullring which would make finding grip difficult. Walking the surface Doug made the observation that running the second groove could work. I entertained this notion but then dismissed that as implausible. Shippensburg Speedway, another stop in the Central PA circuit, was very similar in configuration and dirt composition offering only one lane of grip: the bottom.
11:19 am - The pits were coming alive with the presence of a wide range of tow vehicles and trailers. The haves and have nots co-existed in the grassy pit parking randomly. Go-karts, cage carts, slingshots, and 270cc micro sprints shared the card in today's racing activities. As the sun drew higher, my fatigue grew more noticeable. Retiring to a lawn chair I tried to catch some quite time. Given a choice, I would have opted to blow by this mom-and-pop racetrack to arrive at the confines of my abode much, much earlier in the day. Stuck, I drifted off to thoughts of my pregnant wife and a life soon to be altered.
9:19 am - Salvation. A local restaurant on the outskirts of a tiny nondescript town has just enough parking for our three towing rigs. Striping off the fleece pullover I joined the gang as we commandeered a table. I passed the buffet coming in stacked with crispy, curly bacon. Sold, just hand me a plate! Stuffed from one of the best down home breakfasts ever, we departed for Wyalusing Valley. While on Route 6 southbound just past Towanda, orange detour signs sprang up. Turning left onto an oil and chips back country road, the comfort of a smooth highway was erased. Bouncing through bumps and potholes the two lane road stressed the truck's brakes, struts and springs. What the ride lacked in comfort, it compensated in visual beauty. Stunning rolling hills, meadows and wild flowers in the foreground of a crystal clear blue sky populated my view. Nearing the end of the detour we traversed a steep grade ending at a stop sign. Applying brake pressure, the pedal grew softer. An acrid, burning smell permeated my nostrils. Luckily Doug didn't meander at the stop sign and rolled onto the highway. I followed suit knowing full well that I was out of brakes. Maintaining a safe distance a few minutes later we turned right onto the access road to Wyalusing Valley Race Park. Much to my dismay, another downward slope awaited. Pumping the brakes, I creeped down to the track's entrance road. I was mentally exhausted and I hadn’t turned a lap yet.
10:42 am - Gates would open in 15 minutes but the friendly track staff accommodated our early arrival and signed the 600 Modified crews in. Parking towards the back of the pits I climbed from the cab and headed for a peek at the track. Annoying knats swarmed from each patch of grass. Moving to stay ahead of them seemed to be the best course of action. Jersey barriers lined the outside of the dirt surface and doubled as a guardrail. Yuke (tractor) tires laid flat served notice to drivers of how low they could go. The dirt was just that, dirt. Very little clay existed on this bullring which would make finding grip difficult. Walking the surface Doug made the observation that running the second groove could work. I entertained this notion but then dismissed that as implausible. Shippensburg Speedway, another stop in the Central PA circuit, was very similar in configuration and dirt composition offering only one lane of grip: the bottom.
11:19 am - The pits were coming alive with the presence of a wide range of tow vehicles and trailers. The haves and have nots co-existed in the grassy pit parking randomly. Go-karts, cage carts, slingshots, and 270cc micro sprints shared the card in today's racing activities. As the sun drew higher, my fatigue grew more noticeable. Retiring to a lawn chair I tried to catch some quite time. Given a choice, I would have opted to blow by this mom-and-pop racetrack to arrive at the confines of my abode much, much earlier in the day. Stuck, I drifted off to thoughts of my pregnant wife and a life soon to be altered.
1:04 pm - Hurry up and wait seemed to be the modus operandi. Apparently, Wyalusing Valley ran all of the go-cart practices and qualifying rounds prior to the 'big' cars seeing the track. Bored, I walked the pits observing the time honored tradition of families interacting at the race track. This grass roots level involvement is the cornerstone of our sport. During a break in the on-track activity, an elderly farmer carried a white bucket and proceeded to circle the track, picking up loose stones and depositing them into the plastic container. Never at any track (and I've visited many) have I witnessed such a commitment to the racer. I became an instant fan of the facility.
Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 5)
continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 4)
10:28 pm - Hoping that a hamburger and fries would restart my energy, I grabbed a Lincoln and walked across the pits destined for the food stand. When I returned there was busy activity trailer side. Doug was frantically performing tech inspections of the top three finishers. Drivers rehashed the laps offering the extent of suspension tweaking needed to master the track. A sense of loneliness enveloped me. 500 miles from my support network and things were not making sense. My head started throbbing especially in the frontal lobe. I made a mental note to check my helmet to see if I stretched enough to strike my head against the role cage. Eventually, my eyes started to sense a dull pain. I had enough wherewithal to determine that I was experiencing what racers term "knocking the cob webs loose". As the evening was winding down, radiation cooling was dropping air temperatures. This was working in my favor as it served to combat the grogginess. One by one the band of 600 Modified teams pulled out of the pits as I prepared for a night huddled in a sleeping bag draped across the bench in my truck at the race track.
Sunday
12:32 am - With only four teams left, we band of racing misfits hunkered down for a fitful night of sleep hopefully staving off the caffeine of the cold. Most elected the protection of a truck cab but one brave sole tossed a sleeping back outside and weathered the elements. Had it not been for the intense amount of dew dripping off every surface, I may have also tested my mettle. I shifted throughout most of the night landing on the seat belt buckle a few times. The steering wheel proved to be quite inconvenient. Dull pains emanated from both ribs and the outside of my right leg where bruises were beginning to form. An early morning release of urine forced me into the cold.
6:53 am - Three loud raps on the driver's side window startled me from the beginning stages of REM sleep. An erratic night of tossing and turning abruptly ended as I stared at Amish Larry's connected side-burns. Still wearing my racing underwear from the night before, I donned a pair of jeans and a fleece pullover. A small congregation of the gypsy racing clan was gathering outside my truck. I stumbled to the meeting place as they rehashed the struggle to find heat and comfort. Uninterested in the topic of discussion, I retrieved my slim digital camera and trudged to the track. Bright beams of light were just beginning to streak through the bordering trees. With adequate light I snapped varying digital images that captured the enormity of the track. Satisfied, I returned to the vagabonds who drained the travel coffee pot dry.
7:33 am - A mild headache began to brew and the fatigue that haunted me prior was creeping in. Tylenol would have been a Godsend. The traveling band was anxious to start the second half of this racing adventure and find a breakfast worthy of a king. Cranking over the old Ford, I navigated in line behind Doug's trailer as we pulled out of the track entrance and onto asphalt once again. Backtracking through Watkins Glen and Route 17 towards Binghamton, we exited onto 229 South angling towards Towanda.
10:28 pm - Hoping that a hamburger and fries would restart my energy, I grabbed a Lincoln and walked across the pits destined for the food stand. When I returned there was busy activity trailer side. Doug was frantically performing tech inspections of the top three finishers. Drivers rehashed the laps offering the extent of suspension tweaking needed to master the track. A sense of loneliness enveloped me. 500 miles from my support network and things were not making sense. My head started throbbing especially in the frontal lobe. I made a mental note to check my helmet to see if I stretched enough to strike my head against the role cage. Eventually, my eyes started to sense a dull pain. I had enough wherewithal to determine that I was experiencing what racers term "knocking the cob webs loose". As the evening was winding down, radiation cooling was dropping air temperatures. This was working in my favor as it served to combat the grogginess. One by one the band of 600 Modified teams pulled out of the pits as I prepared for a night huddled in a sleeping bag draped across the bench in my truck at the race track.
Sunday
12:32 am - With only four teams left, we band of racing misfits hunkered down for a fitful night of sleep hopefully staving off the caffeine of the cold. Most elected the protection of a truck cab but one brave sole tossed a sleeping back outside and weathered the elements. Had it not been for the intense amount of dew dripping off every surface, I may have also tested my mettle. I shifted throughout most of the night landing on the seat belt buckle a few times. The steering wheel proved to be quite inconvenient. Dull pains emanated from both ribs and the outside of my right leg where bruises were beginning to form. An early morning release of urine forced me into the cold.
6:53 am - Three loud raps on the driver's side window startled me from the beginning stages of REM sleep. An erratic night of tossing and turning abruptly ended as I stared at Amish Larry's connected side-burns. Still wearing my racing underwear from the night before, I donned a pair of jeans and a fleece pullover. A small congregation of the gypsy racing clan was gathering outside my truck. I stumbled to the meeting place as they rehashed the struggle to find heat and comfort. Uninterested in the topic of discussion, I retrieved my slim digital camera and trudged to the track. Bright beams of light were just beginning to streak through the bordering trees. With adequate light I snapped varying digital images that captured the enormity of the track. Satisfied, I returned to the vagabonds who drained the travel coffee pot dry.
7:33 am - A mild headache began to brew and the fatigue that haunted me prior was creeping in. Tylenol would have been a Godsend. The traveling band was anxious to start the second half of this racing adventure and find a breakfast worthy of a king. Cranking over the old Ford, I navigated in line behind Doug's trailer as we pulled out of the track entrance and onto asphalt once again. Backtracking through Watkins Glen and Route 17 towards Binghamton, we exited onto 229 South angling towards Towanda.
8.31.2006
Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 4)
continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 3)
9:43 pm - NYMM is wrapping up their feature. Their 600cc four stroke engines are setting a blistering pace averaging 88 mph. Dust is rolling off the rear tires but I know that it's tackier than ever. I have a resurgence of confidence after my conference with Doug. I decided not to touch the suspension even though the voices in my head were conflicting with my inactivity. Zipping up my drivers suit I started my ritualistic pacing around the car. Last minute checks of important fasteners calms the apprehension. The loudspeaker announces "600 Modifieds to the starting grid" several times. Strapping in once again, it's starting to feel as commonplace as putting on a pair of underwear. I just hope I don't soil it.
9:51 pm - Rolling on the track, fourteen modifieds get into tight formation. The pace car pulls off and all eyes focus on turn four. Rick McGeady waits for the flagger to wave the green and instantly fourteen cars come to life. Clay is spraying my helmet and I grab a tear off with my right hand as my left is trying guide the front tires. Turning into turn one I hug the bottom. It offers the best escape route in the not so infrequent occurrence of contact from competitors in front of me. Moisture is puddling on the bottom of turn two and it slides me up a lane as I pass through it. Angling for the top of the backstretch I blast into turn three a little high. There's no guardrail here and I can see the edge of no return. Slide off this corner and you'll end up at the bottom of a 25 foot hill staring up a steep embankment. I'm shadowing Tyler Wilkens just inches off his rear bumper at speeds in the low 80s. Over the next few laps we are jockeying for space. At one point I positioned myself on the outside of him charging out of turn four only to have to back way out of the throttle when he swung his 900lb gorilla up to the fence almost stuffing me into the front stretch catch-fence. I'm stalking him again. By lap nine, momentum had dictated a rhythm. The track was so grippy that there was one preferred lane and everyone was running it. Ten of us had formed a freight train and each mimicked the runner directly in front. I was really starting to feel the g-forces trying to suck my helmet off my cranium. Meanwhile my hands were cramping. For a brief second I could relax them on the straights. Up ahead in my peripheral Kyle Gardner was making an inside bid for the second position. He failed to clear Craig Beringer as they touched in the apex between turns three and four beginning an orchestrated spin facing in my direction. All this was happening as I was entering the third turn low with every intention of sliding up the track. Their formation spin left a hole open between the two as I was careening for them. Wilkens running two car lengths in front panicked and slammed on the brakes blocking my escape. With no choice I turned the car and applied heavy pressure to the pedal bolted to the master cylinder. I was in a 'slide for life' at almost top speed when I clipped the left front of Wilkens. The impact immediately and violently jerked the car 70 degrees clockwise in milliseconds. My borrowed ride launched 5 car lengths away from my impact point and came to rest facing the outside of the track. It happened so fast I only remember frames of footage that I haven't fully pieced together yet. A few moments later safety workers peered in. The impact had broken the roof tab folding back my lid to reveal inside the cockpit. I yelled through the helmet to check the right rear. To my surprise two officials remarked that it appeared that I suffered no damage. Now to get the roof repaired. The attending track personnel gave up fairly quickly and I was forced to exit the speedway, retired from the main event. As I pulled near the trailer I began to notice the fog that was settling into my brain. Automatic decisions became laborsome. I instinctively unlatched the five point harness and exited. Breathing heavy, I tried to collect myself. I plopped onto the trailer as my thoughts were disjointed and awkward. Standing seemed to force my synapses to focus collectively. I walked to the backstretch grandstands and witnessed an excellent race to the finish as McGeady fended off repeated low side challenges from Mike Keppler and Bryan Mady. At the checkered flag I shuffled back to the trailer. Once there, I never truly stopped moving. Fatigue was increasing exponentially, but I resisted the urge to stop.
9:43 pm - NYMM is wrapping up their feature. Their 600cc four stroke engines are setting a blistering pace averaging 88 mph. Dust is rolling off the rear tires but I know that it's tackier than ever. I have a resurgence of confidence after my conference with Doug. I decided not to touch the suspension even though the voices in my head were conflicting with my inactivity. Zipping up my drivers suit I started my ritualistic pacing around the car. Last minute checks of important fasteners calms the apprehension. The loudspeaker announces "600 Modifieds to the starting grid" several times. Strapping in once again, it's starting to feel as commonplace as putting on a pair of underwear. I just hope I don't soil it.
9:51 pm - Rolling on the track, fourteen modifieds get into tight formation. The pace car pulls off and all eyes focus on turn four. Rick McGeady waits for the flagger to wave the green and instantly fourteen cars come to life. Clay is spraying my helmet and I grab a tear off with my right hand as my left is trying guide the front tires. Turning into turn one I hug the bottom. It offers the best escape route in the not so infrequent occurrence of contact from competitors in front of me. Moisture is puddling on the bottom of turn two and it slides me up a lane as I pass through it. Angling for the top of the backstretch I blast into turn three a little high. There's no guardrail here and I can see the edge of no return. Slide off this corner and you'll end up at the bottom of a 25 foot hill staring up a steep embankment. I'm shadowing Tyler Wilkens just inches off his rear bumper at speeds in the low 80s. Over the next few laps we are jockeying for space. At one point I positioned myself on the outside of him charging out of turn four only to have to back way out of the throttle when he swung his 900lb gorilla up to the fence almost stuffing me into the front stretch catch-fence. I'm stalking him again. By lap nine, momentum had dictated a rhythm. The track was so grippy that there was one preferred lane and everyone was running it. Ten of us had formed a freight train and each mimicked the runner directly in front. I was really starting to feel the g-forces trying to suck my helmet off my cranium. Meanwhile my hands were cramping. For a brief second I could relax them on the straights. Up ahead in my peripheral Kyle Gardner was making an inside bid for the second position. He failed to clear Craig Beringer as they touched in the apex between turns three and four beginning an orchestrated spin facing in my direction. All this was happening as I was entering the third turn low with every intention of sliding up the track. Their formation spin left a hole open between the two as I was careening for them. Wilkens running two car lengths in front panicked and slammed on the brakes blocking my escape. With no choice I turned the car and applied heavy pressure to the pedal bolted to the master cylinder. I was in a 'slide for life' at almost top speed when I clipped the left front of Wilkens. The impact immediately and violently jerked the car 70 degrees clockwise in milliseconds. My borrowed ride launched 5 car lengths away from my impact point and came to rest facing the outside of the track. It happened so fast I only remember frames of footage that I haven't fully pieced together yet. A few moments later safety workers peered in. The impact had broken the roof tab folding back my lid to reveal inside the cockpit. I yelled through the helmet to check the right rear. To my surprise two officials remarked that it appeared that I suffered no damage. Now to get the roof repaired. The attending track personnel gave up fairly quickly and I was forced to exit the speedway, retired from the main event. As I pulled near the trailer I began to notice the fog that was settling into my brain. Automatic decisions became laborsome. I instinctively unlatched the five point harness and exited. Breathing heavy, I tried to collect myself. I plopped onto the trailer as my thoughts were disjointed and awkward. Standing seemed to force my synapses to focus collectively. I walked to the backstretch grandstands and witnessed an excellent race to the finish as McGeady fended off repeated low side challenges from Mike Keppler and Bryan Mady. At the checkered flag I shuffled back to the trailer. Once there, I never truly stopped moving. Fatigue was increasing exponentially, but I resisted the urge to stop.
8.30.2006
Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 3)
continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 2)
7:16 pm - Flip open the roof and slide into the oversized seat. Sporadic padding in the back and sides of the seat doesn't make it a snug fit. I have to fully extend my legs to reach the pedals. Take a deep breath in, and pull down on the shoulder belts as hard as I can. Nomex hood sock on, I grab the helmet straps and suck down my stone chipped Bell. Its all so familiar, the knot in the stomach permeated by an uneasiness. The 600 Modifieds are prestaged and eventually get onto the track. Shifting comes back with ease as I flip down the visor and we get it on. Rolling into three it sticks and pushes me back into the seat. I raise my hand to block the setting sun down the front stretch. The silhouette of the flagger is barely visible. Blinded by brilliant beams of light makes hitting my turning mark in the first corner a challenge. Each lap I try a different line burping the throttle or dragging the brake to set the car in the apex. Each corner, as it rolls onto the right rear, my mount wants to turn too early pulling down the horsepower on corner exit. With the session over, I pull off the track and crawl through the pits to my trailer and climb out. Time to analyze and second guess my next move.
8:00 pm - 700 hp fire breathing sprint cars have blasted the surface in their heat races creating a soft cushion in turn one. I'm waiting for our turn again as the track safety crew clean up a four car pile-up. The track is littered with debris from flipping sprinters who cling to crumbled aluminum wings, bent wheels and suspensions, chassis contorted from the impacts.
8:22 pm - Heat race time and in typical fashion I've pulled a high pill (a golf ball adorned with a green Sharpie number) from the barrel placing me sixth in my heat race. Witnessing the winged destruction and feeling the g-forces in the turn creates a strange desire for self preservation. This place is haunting me. Once I strap in and fill my position on the starting grid the adrenaline kicks in and I focus on the task at hand. Tight up against the fourth place starter the pole sitter is pacing the field waiting to clear turn four. I over-anticipate the start and bump Tim Mineri directly ahead of me. As I brake the field hammers the gas and I'm already at a disadvantage. I slowly reel in Mineri as he's running my exact line. Somehow the track is tackier. As the air temperature drops moisture is coming up from the below the surface. I went the wrong way with the setup and my modified sticks hard pulling on my forearms as I try and slide in the turns. Still, even though I'm not gaining any ground on the field, I'm euphoric. Alone in my pursuit of blasting above the cushion, I'm making clumps of dirt fly as I'm hurtling high into turn one and driving down the apex and low through turn two. My 'diamonding' of the corners is not producing any forward progress and I cross the stripe sixth.
7:16 pm - Flip open the roof and slide into the oversized seat. Sporadic padding in the back and sides of the seat doesn't make it a snug fit. I have to fully extend my legs to reach the pedals. Take a deep breath in, and pull down on the shoulder belts as hard as I can. Nomex hood sock on, I grab the helmet straps and suck down my stone chipped Bell. Its all so familiar, the knot in the stomach permeated by an uneasiness. The 600 Modifieds are prestaged and eventually get onto the track. Shifting comes back with ease as I flip down the visor and we get it on. Rolling into three it sticks and pushes me back into the seat. I raise my hand to block the setting sun down the front stretch. The silhouette of the flagger is barely visible. Blinded by brilliant beams of light makes hitting my turning mark in the first corner a challenge. Each lap I try a different line burping the throttle or dragging the brake to set the car in the apex. Each corner, as it rolls onto the right rear, my mount wants to turn too early pulling down the horsepower on corner exit. With the session over, I pull off the track and crawl through the pits to my trailer and climb out. Time to analyze and second guess my next move.
8:00 pm - 700 hp fire breathing sprint cars have blasted the surface in their heat races creating a soft cushion in turn one. I'm waiting for our turn again as the track safety crew clean up a four car pile-up. The track is littered with debris from flipping sprinters who cling to crumbled aluminum wings, bent wheels and suspensions, chassis contorted from the impacts.
8:22 pm - Heat race time and in typical fashion I've pulled a high pill (a golf ball adorned with a green Sharpie number) from the barrel placing me sixth in my heat race. Witnessing the winged destruction and feeling the g-forces in the turn creates a strange desire for self preservation. This place is haunting me. Once I strap in and fill my position on the starting grid the adrenaline kicks in and I focus on the task at hand. Tight up against the fourth place starter the pole sitter is pacing the field waiting to clear turn four. I over-anticipate the start and bump Tim Mineri directly ahead of me. As I brake the field hammers the gas and I'm already at a disadvantage. I slowly reel in Mineri as he's running my exact line. Somehow the track is tackier. As the air temperature drops moisture is coming up from the below the surface. I went the wrong way with the setup and my modified sticks hard pulling on my forearms as I try and slide in the turns. Still, even though I'm not gaining any ground on the field, I'm euphoric. Alone in my pursuit of blasting above the cushion, I'm making clumps of dirt fly as I'm hurtling high into turn one and driving down the apex and low through turn two. My 'diamonding' of the corners is not producing any forward progress and I cross the stripe sixth.
8:56 pm - Feature line-ups are posted at Doug's trailer and I start 12th in the money show. In an effort to correct my previous exhibition of driving ineptitude, I consult Doug for some sage advice. For if there's anyone who can instantly diagnose a driving flaw or set-up deficiency, it’s the natural. "How do I get Trailways out of my head?" For those unfamiliar with one of Central PA's micro hotspots, Trailways is a semi-bank 1/3rd mile with tight corners that force every entrant to enter high and suck the bottom of the turn like a gilled crappy. His retort was zenlike, "do the opposite, enter low and let it drift up to the top." It's simplicity has me awestruck.
8.29.2006
Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 2)
continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (the beginning)...
Saturday
3:41 pm - Interstate 80 is behind me as well as the impressively vertical foothills of the Appalachians through Scranton and Binghamton. A wide range of music has passed through my CD player. The rear aftermarket speakers are vibrating my back. Chevelle is keeping my attention, a good transition from Run DMC. We are now exiting onto Route 17, the Southern Tier soon to be renamed Interstate 86.
4:22 pm - Finally off the four lanes, Route 14 to Watkins Glen is taking the pounding of my 16" wheels. Traffic is compressing like a slinky and has come to a standstill. An accident is entering the cleaning stages as police, fire and tow truck personnel finish their work. A 1992 silver Pontiac grand prix has lost its battle with a telephone pole. We pass the scene only to be slowed again by fire fighters in the next town. NASCAR's Nextel Cup has invaded the Glen this weekend swelling the area by at least 60,000 fans. What an opportune time to solicit unsuspecting tourists. Flame chasers with boots in hand line the main route through town hoping that the memories of the fallen towers will prey on our wallets.
5:11 pm - Swinging down a gradual right hand sweeping turn I spot the silhouette of a grandstand. The front stretch opens up to view as the rest of the speed palace is unveiled. Turning onto the access road we fall into line with a mix of other tow vehicles and trailers transporting various types of race cars prepped for another night battle. I'm bouncing with a slight bit of nervous energy standing in a line of dirt track brethren that snakes up to the pit shack. 15 minutes of baby steps and I'm scribbling my name promising not to hold the track liable for my death. 25 dollars later and I'm proudly sporting a green armband, only there's no drinking privileges. A short walk back to the truck and it's cooled down sufficiently to re-fire. I take a spot next to Doug's monstrous glowing trailer. Ramps down and I unload my temporary adrenaline fix. It nears.
6:42 pm - Four divisions share the card for this evenings racing at Black Rock Speedway nestled smack in the middle of Lake Seneca's Wine Trail. By now the speedway is prepped and ready for the first round of warm-ups. I surveyed the surface, impressed with the shear size of this place. Dark charcoal and brown dirt gradually banks through a tight turn one that sweeps into turn two that opens up to a D-shaped backstretch. Turn three banks perfectly into a tight apex that naturally completes at the flagstand. The blood pressure is rising as the pits come alive with the hurried walk of pit crews, engines firing, and officials barking lineups over the surprisingly clear PA system.
4:22 pm - Finally off the four lanes, Route 14 to Watkins Glen is taking the pounding of my 16" wheels. Traffic is compressing like a slinky and has come to a standstill. An accident is entering the cleaning stages as police, fire and tow truck personnel finish their work. A 1992 silver Pontiac grand prix has lost its battle with a telephone pole. We pass the scene only to be slowed again by fire fighters in the next town. NASCAR's Nextel Cup has invaded the Glen this weekend swelling the area by at least 60,000 fans. What an opportune time to solicit unsuspecting tourists. Flame chasers with boots in hand line the main route through town hoping that the memories of the fallen towers will prey on our wallets.
5:11 pm - Swinging down a gradual right hand sweeping turn I spot the silhouette of a grandstand. The front stretch opens up to view as the rest of the speed palace is unveiled. Turning onto the access road we fall into line with a mix of other tow vehicles and trailers transporting various types of race cars prepped for another night battle. I'm bouncing with a slight bit of nervous energy standing in a line of dirt track brethren that snakes up to the pit shack. 15 minutes of baby steps and I'm scribbling my name promising not to hold the track liable for my death. 25 dollars later and I'm proudly sporting a green armband, only there's no drinking privileges. A short walk back to the truck and it's cooled down sufficiently to re-fire. I take a spot next to Doug's monstrous glowing trailer. Ramps down and I unload my temporary adrenaline fix. It nears.
6:42 pm - Four divisions share the card for this evenings racing at Black Rock Speedway nestled smack in the middle of Lake Seneca's Wine Trail. By now the speedway is prepped and ready for the first round of warm-ups. I surveyed the surface, impressed with the shear size of this place. Dark charcoal and brown dirt gradually banks through a tight turn one that sweeps into turn two that opens up to a D-shaped backstretch. Turn three banks perfectly into a tight apex that naturally completes at the flagstand. The blood pressure is rising as the pits come alive with the hurried walk of pit crews, engines firing, and officials barking lineups over the surprisingly clear PA system.
7:04 pm - I'm in my driver's suit standing along the fence watching the first round of warm-ups. The New York Modified Midget group, a traveling circuit for 600 micros, has first crack. I'm envious, I've left my 600 micro in Mechanicsburg since it's up for sale and I'm not interested in making pieces that I would have to otherwise replace. The flagger is circling his green flag signaling the drivers to step on the loud pedal. They zing into turn three with an amazing amount of speed. This is a momentum place, the banking and sweeps in the design allows for flat out racing.
8.28.2006
Chronicles: the death of a goal (the beginning)
The following journal captures a weekend spent recapturing youth, defining independence and seeking success among peers is encapsulated herein.
Saturday
9:47 am - The gas guzzler is topped off with Turkey Hill's finest 87 octane. Both tanks are brimming. Hitched to the pick-up is an empty open trailer. The Suchy Racing sticker adorning both sides appear out-of-place. A barren space exists where a race car should be. Out of the station I pull north on Interstate 83, bound for the Poconos.
11:38 am - Once off three separate interstates and after 45 minutes of navigating back roads through remote towns, I arrived at my first destination: Xcel Chassis. Backing into the driveway is tricky. The short wheelbase on the trailer makes it very sensitive to small turns on the steering wheel. Three attempts later and the truck and trailer combo is sitting with the trailer ramps down facing the open garage door. Doug and his crew (father Gene and Amish Larry) are sitting inside. A relaxed yet somber air pervades the atmosphere. I can only guess that the mood is indicating an apprehension to spending the next four hours in a truck cab.
12:03 pm - I'm assigned Jeff Hazard's #31. Jeff is jet setting all over the Catskills for Hewlett Packard leaving his mount idle for the weekend. I can race it so long as I serve as the carrier to and from the track. We grunt the car up the ramps and strap down the two rear tires catching the mesh metal floor with the "S" hooks on the ratchet straps. Finally the last of the Kunkletownites arrives and the caravan departs for the Finger Lakes.
1:15 pm - While in route on that famous expanse of asphalt connecting both oceans, Doug's construction yellow enclosed trailer exits searching for diesel. So far my Ford has consumed 12 gallons, I might as well gas up. Shutting off the truck I insert my magnetic striped plastic. Again both tanks are topped off. Hop back into the cab, release the parking brake, depress the clutch and brake, I turn the key and my old faithful is struggling to spin the starter. Damn, there's too much heat and vapor in the engine for my aged battery to start. I pop the hood in preparation for a jump when Doug signals to try a pop the clutch start. I'm on a decline, so it seems plausible. Two guys put a little ass into it and twenty yards later I turn the key and dump the clutch. On command it fires and the caravan continues. Twenty minutes down the road I notice my hood is rattling, I never slammed it closed from the station! As it's vibrating left and right I envision the latch failing, releasing the hood causing it to snap backwards covering my windshield at 75 mph. I can barely keep up the group as my inline six banger is pumping out as much torque as it will muster. So for now I must endure this visual distraction.
Saturday
9:47 am - The gas guzzler is topped off with Turkey Hill's finest 87 octane. Both tanks are brimming. Hitched to the pick-up is an empty open trailer. The Suchy Racing sticker adorning both sides appear out-of-place. A barren space exists where a race car should be. Out of the station I pull north on Interstate 83, bound for the Poconos.
11:38 am - Once off three separate interstates and after 45 minutes of navigating back roads through remote towns, I arrived at my first destination: Xcel Chassis. Backing into the driveway is tricky. The short wheelbase on the trailer makes it very sensitive to small turns on the steering wheel. Three attempts later and the truck and trailer combo is sitting with the trailer ramps down facing the open garage door. Doug and his crew (father Gene and Amish Larry) are sitting inside. A relaxed yet somber air pervades the atmosphere. I can only guess that the mood is indicating an apprehension to spending the next four hours in a truck cab.
12:03 pm - I'm assigned Jeff Hazard's #31. Jeff is jet setting all over the Catskills for Hewlett Packard leaving his mount idle for the weekend. I can race it so long as I serve as the carrier to and from the track. We grunt the car up the ramps and strap down the two rear tires catching the mesh metal floor with the "S" hooks on the ratchet straps. Finally the last of the Kunkletownites arrives and the caravan departs for the Finger Lakes.
1:15 pm - While in route on that famous expanse of asphalt connecting both oceans, Doug's construction yellow enclosed trailer exits searching for diesel. So far my Ford has consumed 12 gallons, I might as well gas up. Shutting off the truck I insert my magnetic striped plastic. Again both tanks are topped off. Hop back into the cab, release the parking brake, depress the clutch and brake, I turn the key and my old faithful is struggling to spin the starter. Damn, there's too much heat and vapor in the engine for my aged battery to start. I pop the hood in preparation for a jump when Doug signals to try a pop the clutch start. I'm on a decline, so it seems plausible. Two guys put a little ass into it and twenty yards later I turn the key and dump the clutch. On command it fires and the caravan continues. Twenty minutes down the road I notice my hood is rattling, I never slammed it closed from the station! As it's vibrating left and right I envision the latch failing, releasing the hood causing it to snap backwards covering my windshield at 75 mph. I can barely keep up the group as my inline six banger is pumping out as much torque as it will muster. So for now I must endure this visual distraction.
7.20.2006
depression - the counterweight
I turned 33 in late June and I had a whirlwind of fun. I thoroughly enjoyed my time in the seat of my ego wagon. I was soaking in as much treasuring as I could handle. At the same time, there was a long overdue success on the pitch, all the while my wife provided endless support and understanding. Last week I visited the race shop for the first time since I parked my ride. After accomplishing as much as I could to prep it for sale, I rolled the garage door down, turn the key to lock it and grimaced. Working on a car that you don't get to race anymore is no fun. It's finally becoming more noticeable. The depression. I've always had an uneasiness to me when it's racing season and I'm not towing to the track. I'd like to think that racing doesn't define me, but it definitely modifies my personality, attention span, humour and overall temperament. Unfortunately, other aspects of my existence always suffered as I was engaged in the sport, namely being an attentive husband, responsible homeowner and wise investor (to name a few). This new found freedom has only made me keenly aware that other aspects of my life that have taken a backseat are now prominent and pertinent. I no longer have a central mental focus to prioritize above that which I can put off for another day. Add to the cauldron the impending birth of my first borne. This is creating a definitive timeline for the experiences and tasks that I must accomplish. Experts say that this is common among expecting fathers. What I can't put my finger on is whether the finality of the racing is driving the depression or if it's the weight of the impending lifestyle change. Possibly its a combination. Either way, I'm not lighthearted even though I know that I have an amazing life. I feel almost guilty that I'm that sophomoric to let that which I can define, control my actions via my emotional state. My mantra has consistently been one of balance. Perhaps the feelings and reactions from depression are stabilizing. An expected result from the euphoria of a the month past. A preparation for the coming joy of my child and a redirection of my focus beyond my selfish desires.
6.26.2006
treating 7 weeks as a moment in time
Wow, 7 weeks has passed since my last brain dump. Alot has happened. So much so that I don't know where to begin. The preparations for the baby have encroached my serious play time. 3 trips to Babies'R'Us leaves me wondering how the hell my folks were able to raise me without registries, nook brushes, breast pump liners, and jogging strollers. It is just another example of the effort we will expend in the hopes of some long term convenience. (Microsoft has been manipulating modern society for over 10 years with the same veiled approach.) My soccer exploits have been pheripheral to my racing. Yet, I can't help but feel some satisfaction in my play and that of the team. Despite being mentally and sometimes physically exhausted for the sunday matches, I've been able to summon energy from god knows where. A glimpse of what's to come, a preparation of sorts for parenthood. Transistioning my brain waves out of the cockpit an onto the pitch has been challenging, but a skill I'm just beginning to hone. No longer am I driving to the match thinking about the previous evenings typical happenstance. I am beginning to see to some real smart play from my teammates, a direct result of patience, movement, communication and wise decision making. Attributes in some way I hope is a result of my efforts on the Thursday kick-arounds. I am in no means taking credit for that, because I feed on it more than anybody else. It's starting to wake up processes that have been dead since college. Despite the influx of recreational activities (organized play), my work landscape is beginning to change. There are opportunities afoot, but I haven't been able to fully grasp the levity of my pending choices, something I must do soon. The resounding theme, atleast those that have inhabited my brain, has been the impending retirement of my racing activities. I would love to encapsulate my thoughts/emotions in this blog, but I believe that it's much too large an animal to bring down with a pellet gun. For posterity sake, let's just say that my last 3 outings were enjoyable which allowed me to really take in the inputs, the interactions, seat-of-the-pants feeling. What racers do is really amazing, and I am glad (lucky) to count myself as one of the brethren. In some small way I can see through their eyes, because I've been there. Words can never really describe it, but someday, I want to attempt it, even if feebly.
5.02.2006
rebound
I know what he's thinking, 'That does not make sense, if Chewbacca is a wookie, you must acquit.' Puzzled almost dumbfounded, he's searching. 'I've been using these shocks on sprint cars, running 30-40 lbs. of nitrogen, now you want me to take it completely out?! What about the rebound percentages? Damn, it's been 20 races and we can't dial it in, what the hell, this is a last resort.' I spent 10 minutes talking to my trusted and seasoned crew chief. Despite his great successes providing ace set-ups for sprint car jockeys, he's utterly failed trying to get even a base line set-up to work in my rocket. He conceded. The car stuck in warm-ups, it didn't matter high-low, we were fast and for the first time in a long time, my confidence started to rebound. I drew a pole start for the heat race, I needed to finish 5th or better to transfer into the main. We communicated like we always do, I'm moving my hands gesturing the attitude of the car, where I'm burping the throttle, how much left v. right side transfer. He's taking it all in, nodding, pondering and puts a set-up in the car. On the start, the outside pole sitter jumps the start leaving me in tow, blocking my entry point getting into turn 1. Damn. I've gotta ease it, the tracks much drier than I anticipated and I don't wanna loop it infront of the pack trying to pinch the car down. Trailways master, Shawn Seifert gets inside me and moves me up, Steve Buckwalter and Heath Henley blast by. I get into 3 and man this things loose, but still drivable, I gotta take it to the edge. Kendall and Holtgraver get by. Shit, now I gotta get up on the wheel and man-handle this thing. Caution is out for a spinning Kendall. Time to regroup, get the wing back, lower the panhard bar and untie that left rear shock. All cockpit adjustments I can make while racing. Green flag, 3 laps to go, great restart, I can get Scott Geasey for a transfer, just gotta time it just right. I've finally got a rhythm, Geasey's in my sights, and Holtgraver blows turn 3 and pushes like a plow, Geasey has to pull his car low but I'm coming like a freight train. At the starters stand on the front stretch I just edge him for 4th place. The scorers didn't see it that way. I earned a 5th place and a transfer into that recently elusive main event. 14 guys will go home tonight not making the show, thankfully I'm not one of them. It's strategy time, I'm starting 18th, and the tracks' the question mark. Radiation cooling is sucking moisture up from below the track surface, but 24 hungry machines will blast that off in 5 laps of racing. I need to drop 2 inches of stagger to get to where I want, I've got 1 or 3" available at the trailer. No; starting that deep in the field doesn't warrant a new tire. We decide to drop 1" of stagger and tighten up the chassis by adding RR weight by increasing the tilt. Adding rake will increase the front to rear weight transfer. But not too much or I won't be able to steer. Finally, we're prestaging. The pace truck is leading the field around, I'm a few feet behind Dwayne Gutshall, Trailways newest dry-slick artist. Guys up front are getting anxious, Chad Hough leads em into turn three and dust starts flying, rocks are getting kicked up and bouncing off my helmet, its go time and I mash the loud pedal. After the pathetic spring I've had, I'm just looking to survive and get 20 laps under my belt. Upshift into 3rd by the flagstand and drive it into turn 1, she's tight, but the front end stays pointed down, it won't be long and this beast will be close to balanced. On the backstretch Cody Darrah is slicing thru traffic, down off the bottom of 2 straight to the outside to get a sweeping entry into 3. Cars are bouncing off each other, there's just no room. I'm only at 3/4 throttle. Its so dusty if someone gets squirrelly, I'll be in his lap before I know it. I reach to slap my visor down all the way. The drastic increase in humidity over the last hour had fogged my visor and spectacles, I'm tired of eating dust. Guys are settling down and getting strung out. 5 laps into the event I'm back on a mission to pass Geasey. The car is very drivable now and I start clipping off smooth laps. Lap 7 is a golden one as I reel in Geasey closing a 30 car gap, I'm on his tail when somebody goes for a loop right in front of me, a jink of the wheel right while on the hammer gets me to the outside of the spinner and in the clear. Whew, its restart time and I know it's going to loosen up, I already know that the right rear tire is on its downward trend of traction. More wing, panhard and shock to get it to transfer even harder to that corner. The restart gets strung out and we are green again, single file past the restart cone and into turn 1. In 1 lap I'm all over Geasey but he's got the preferred line. I can run him over or settle in and wait for a mistake. He didn't mess up, he would drive it in hard and scrub speed in the middle while I would walk it in and be turned and on the gas at the apex. Since there's only one groove with traction and he's in it, I'm screwed. Lap after lap tick by. White flag is displayed, one more chance, I tightened right up on his bumper, but no bobble would come. A 21st place finish and my arms are trembling. Not bad for taking a $1,200 set of shocks and reducing them to normal oil filled shocks. So much for rebound.
4.21.2006
cross-roads
Simmering below the conscious, choices, options and an unsettling feeling of dread. Nothing life altering, yet a weight, a feeling of sand being poured into a burlap bag, placed evenly across my shoulders. I have no idea how big or full the bag is. I haven't employed a dual mirror system to check. For that takes reflection, a pleasure I do not have the luxury to devote time to. Tick, tick, you hear it? A deadline approaches, or is it two? I can store large complex decisions, placating them until the proper moment of action, deflecting ripples of inputs that would cause an early maturation of the process. Yet, every so often, a choice is required that can threaten the very existence of the decision, sending it cascading into any number of different directions.
Trailways announced a Sunday rain-date this weekend. Most assuredly, they will use it and I will be forced to chose between that which is fleeting and steadfast. Due to spiraling costs, I'm in the twilight of racing career, I want to race every moment of my being. The reality is that TWs will be the only game in town and will welcome 50+ entrants for 24 positions. I will start upfront in my heat race. A tacky surface should tip the balance in my favor to qualify. Yet without a different set of shocks, my gas Penske's will probably fail me again. Testing my confidence. Failure to just appear places me last the next time I return to the speed palace. A heavy penalty, one which makes the challenge (and lure) that much greater. In the past to avoid a confrontation of desires, I typically and automatically favored a dust filled event capped off by the ever loathsome 2 AM car wash. Yet, this time I'm perplexed. A 3pm soccer game, unimpeded by the weather, awaits. My commitment to the pitch is renewed. Not for the love of the game, but for the camaraderie that exists. Over the last 4 months, a growing compassion, not felt since my days leading my BU hockey mates, is clouding my typical emotions and actions. After college, soccer was never same to me. The game became merely a vehicle for exercise. Soccer can always be there, a sport that I can play regularity with success. It just doesn't feel right to abandon the people that I've grown to respect and care for.
Blasting into a corner with your hair on fire, feeling that car strain under the g-forces, within inches of your competitors... the feeling will never escape me, but then neither will the satisfaction of giving your talents and companionship to others all for the pursuit of common goals. Turn left or right. I guess we'll see.
Trailways announced a Sunday rain-date this weekend. Most assuredly, they will use it and I will be forced to chose between that which is fleeting and steadfast. Due to spiraling costs, I'm in the twilight of racing career, I want to race every moment of my being. The reality is that TWs will be the only game in town and will welcome 50+ entrants for 24 positions. I will start upfront in my heat race. A tacky surface should tip the balance in my favor to qualify. Yet without a different set of shocks, my gas Penske's will probably fail me again. Testing my confidence. Failure to just appear places me last the next time I return to the speed palace. A heavy penalty, one which makes the challenge (and lure) that much greater. In the past to avoid a confrontation of desires, I typically and automatically favored a dust filled event capped off by the ever loathsome 2 AM car wash. Yet, this time I'm perplexed. A 3pm soccer game, unimpeded by the weather, awaits. My commitment to the pitch is renewed. Not for the love of the game, but for the camaraderie that exists. Over the last 4 months, a growing compassion, not felt since my days leading my BU hockey mates, is clouding my typical emotions and actions. After college, soccer was never same to me. The game became merely a vehicle for exercise. Soccer can always be there, a sport that I can play regularity with success. It just doesn't feel right to abandon the people that I've grown to respect and care for.
Blasting into a corner with your hair on fire, feeling that car strain under the g-forces, within inches of your competitors... the feeling will never escape me, but then neither will the satisfaction of giving your talents and companionship to others all for the pursuit of common goals. Turn left or right. I guess we'll see.
4.10.2006
surprise, surprise
This weekend will always be defined as the emergence of "uncle dougy". I've known Doug personally since 1995. From 1998 though 2000, I spent many an eve twisting wrenches on his ARDC midgets. He's one of the most instinctive and talented race car drivers I've ever met. His social skills are endearing at best. A self proclaimed hillbilly, he's always had a single focus: racing, until Friday. I picked up a set of slightly used digital scales for his expanding traveling race series (the 600 Modifieds) and made plans to deliver them. I was reluctant to foot the gas bill to haul my fume guzzling beast of a pick-up truck to the remote and sleepy area of Kunkletown (nestled in the Poconos) Despite the inconvenience, I gained some quite time during the ride to reflect, and organize the mix of data and emotions that pile up over time. What was waiting for me was a surprise I was somewhat unprepared. Doug had purchased a crib, crib mattress, bed-in-a-bag set and vibrating toddler rocker. I was equally shocked when he did it himself, not charging his mother for that task as I would have guessed. I know he appreciates my work, my guidance and my friendship, this just happened to be the first time he really expressed it. Shim now has an Uncle Dougy.
3.29.2006
payback
Finally, the retribution for my Leafs loss to the Flyers on that ill-fated trip to Air Canada Centre(January 19th, 2003 to be exact). Not that I really wanted a Leafs win, I did hope for Flyers success to complete the X-mas gift to Laurie. We had seats suitable for royalty. The Wachovia Center was electric. I have a new profound appreciation for the fans from the city of brotherly love, there was a spell when they abused the priviledge to be a fan by seeming disinterested in the game.... that has evaporated. I honestly felt a chill when the Flyers fans showed resounding support during a time-out called by Hitch with 30 seconds to go, their team within 1 goal. A solid 3-2 win in regulation, it renews my spirit as a Maple Leaf fan despite their paultry season.
3.27.2006
roller coaster emotions
Zen Garden. A quite place of respite that Laurie and I enjoy. We were not disappointed friday eve. This weekend was a team no-show at Trailways, several factors such as my head wrench (bro) convinced me that no-one was going to enjoy freezing their ass off at the races (though he was conveniently slamming to Korn-Mudvayne in Baltimore), Mr. Les Still predicted a cold overcast and raw day, and my funked up back wasn't going to withstand the grunt work that comes with an adventure with my rocket. Lo and behold sun dominated the day in Hanover. Photos form the day's event seemed to exude a warmth almost inviting glow. Damn. My solace was an enjoyable shopping gaunt with Laurie. Then a sunday excursion to Erdenheim and Landsdale. First with friends, then family. Everytime I watch Monsters, Inc., I always get a new perspective, this time from a 5 year old. The day was a wide breadth of generations, the 5 year being the youngest and the 84 year old grandmas we visited later that evening. Both Laurie's grandmas were in attendance at Outback Steakhouse. What a hoot. Virginia is a pistol, I can tell she doesn't take herself too seriously (although the wine is a great assistant). Isabella is quite the opposite, proud and stoic, which is impressive since she still maintains her tall stature of 6'. Just once I wish should tell me what's really going on inside... Typical of my relationship with racing, I rode the roller coaster once again.
3.22.2006
the gain of pain
There are times when I wonder, it this all worth it? ...playing soccer late at night. Getting beat on by hacks that lost a step 5 years ago, loses it's appeal after a few games. I've got 3 indoor sessions under my belt and the body is fighting it. My most recent set-back is a few ribs that jumped out of place, an injury exacerbated last night by a hip check some guy thru on me 3 weeks ago. I've always, no matter what sport, have come back to a resounding yes - it is worth it. ES went undefeated this session. A testament to Jeff Cothren and his ability to manage a team, and to each of our core players' mentality to play a team game and maintain composure throughout. The satisfaction of this accomplishment will drive me to continue... so goes my impetus.
Introduction
Oftentimes I've ponder on random thoughts that pervade my conscious. Now, through the beauty of the internet, should the moment strike me, I have an outlet. Prepare for the inner workings of a man who struggles to achieve everything and nothing, the balance of life, the experience of it.
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