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.
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