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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.