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.
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