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.
5:19 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.
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