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.
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