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.

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.

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.

5:41 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.

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.

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.

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.