Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 4)

continued from Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 3)

9:43 pm - NYMM is wrapping up their feature. Their 600cc four stroke engines are setting a blistering pace averaging 88 mph. Dust is rolling off the rear tires but I know that it's tackier than ever. I have a resurgence of confidence after my conference with Doug. I decided not to touch the suspension even though the voices in my head were conflicting with my inactivity. Zipping up my drivers suit I started my ritualistic pacing around the car. Last minute checks of important fasteners calms the apprehension. The loudspeaker announces "600 Modifieds to the starting grid" several times. Strapping in once again, it's starting to feel as commonplace as putting on a pair of underwear. I just hope I don't soil it.

9:51 pm - Rolling on the track, fourteen modifieds get into tight formation. The pace car pulls off and all eyes focus on turn four. Rick McGeady waits for the flagger to wave the green and instantly fourteen cars come to life. Clay is spraying my helmet and I grab a tear off with my right hand as my left is trying guide the front tires. Turning into turn one I hug the bottom. It offers the best escape route in the not so infrequent occurrence of contact from competitors in front of me. Moisture is puddling on the bottom of turn two and it slides me up a lane as I pass through it. Angling for the top of the backstretch I blast into turn three a little high. There's no guardrail here and I can see the edge of no return. Slide off this corner and you'll end up at the bottom of a 25 foot hill staring up a steep embankment. I'm shadowing Tyler Wilkens just inches off his rear bumper at speeds in the low 80s. Over the next few laps we are jockeying for space. At one point I positioned myself on the outside of him charging out of turn four only to have to back way out of the throttle when he swung his 900lb gorilla up to the fence almost stuffing me into the front stretch catch-fence. I'm stalking him again. By lap nine, momentum had dictated a rhythm. The track was so grippy that there was one preferred lane and everyone was running it. Ten of us had formed a freight train and each mimicked the runner directly in front. I was really starting to feel the g-forces trying to suck my helmet off my cranium. Meanwhile my hands were cramping. For a brief second I could relax them on the straights. Up ahead in my peripheral Kyle Gardner was making an inside bid for the second position. He failed to clear Craig Beringer as they touched in the apex between turns three and four beginning an orchestrated spin facing in my direction. All this was happening as I was entering the third turn low with every intention of sliding up the track. Their formation spin left a hole open between the two as I was careening for them. Wilkens running two car lengths in front panicked and slammed on the brakes blocking my escape. With no choice I turned the car and applied heavy pressure to the pedal bolted to the master cylinder. I was in a 'slide for life' at almost top speed when I clipped the left front of Wilkens. The impact immediately and violently jerked the car 70 degrees clockwise in milliseconds. My borrowed ride launched 5 car lengths away from my impact point and came to rest facing the outside of the track. It happened so fast I only remember frames of footage that I haven't fully pieced together yet. A few moments later safety workers peered in. The impact had broken the roof tab folding back my lid to reveal inside the cockpit. I yelled through the helmet to check the right rear. To my surprise two officials remarked that it appeared that I suffered no damage. Now to get the roof repaired. The attending track personnel gave up fairly quickly and I was forced to exit the speedway, retired from the main event. As I pulled near the trailer I began to notice the fog that was settling into my brain. Automatic decisions became laborsome. I instinctively unlatched the five point harness and exited. Breathing heavy, I tried to collect myself. I plopped onto the trailer as my thoughts were disjointed and awkward. Standing seemed to force my synapses to focus collectively. I walked to the backstretch grandstands and witnessed an excellent race to the finish as McGeady fended off repeated low side challenges from Mike Keppler and Bryan Mady. At the checkered flag I shuffled back to the trailer. Once there, I never truly stopped moving. Fatigue was increasing exponentially, but I resisted the urge to stop.

Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 3)

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.

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.

Chronicles: the death of a goal (Part 2)

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.

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.

Chronicles: the death of a goal (the beginning)

The following journal captures a weekend spent recapturing youth, defining independence and seeking success among peers is encapsulated herein.

Saturday
9:47 am - The gas guzzler is topped off with Turkey Hill's finest 87 octane. Both tanks are brimming. Hitched to the pick-up is an empty open trailer. The Suchy Racing sticker adorning both sides appear out-of-place. A barren space exists where a race car should be. Out of the station I pull north on Interstate 83, bound for the Poconos.

11:38 am - Once off three separate interstates and after 45 minutes of navigating back roads through remote towns, I arrived at my first destination: Xcel Chassis. Backing into the driveway is tricky. The short wheelbase on the trailer makes it very sensitive to small turns on the steering wheel. Three attempts later and the truck and trailer combo is sitting with the trailer ramps down facing the open garage door. Doug and his crew (father Gene and Amish Larry) are sitting inside. A relaxed yet somber air pervades the atmosphere. I can only guess that the mood is indicating an apprehension to spending the next four hours in a truck cab.

12:03 pm - I'm assigned Jeff Hazard's #31. Jeff is jet setting all over the Catskills for Hewlett Packard leaving his mount idle for the weekend. I can race it so long as I serve as the carrier to and from the track. We grunt the car up the ramps and strap down the two rear tires catching the mesh metal floor with the "S" hooks on the ratchet straps. Finally the last of the Kunkletownites arrives and the caravan departs for the Finger Lakes.

1:15 pm - While in route on that famous expanse of asphalt connecting both oceans, Doug's construction yellow enclosed trailer exits searching for diesel. So far my Ford has consumed 12 gallons, I might as well gas up. Shutting off the truck I insert my magnetic striped plastic. Again both tanks are topped off. Hop back into the cab, release the parking brake, depress the clutch and brake, I turn the key and my old faithful is struggling to spin the starter. Damn, there's too much heat and vapor in the engine for my aged battery to start. I pop the hood in preparation for a jump when Doug signals to try a pop the clutch start. I'm on a decline, so it seems plausible. Two guys put a little ass into it and twenty yards later I turn the key and dump the clutch. On command it fires and the caravan continues. Twenty minutes down the road I notice my hood is rattling, I never slammed it closed from the station! As it's vibrating left and right I envision the latch failing, releasing the hood causing it to snap backwards covering my windshield at 75 mph. I can barely keep up the group as my inline six banger is pumping out as much torque as it will muster. So for now I must endure this visual distraction.

depression - the counterweight

I turned 33 in late June and I had a whirlwind of fun. I thoroughly enjoyed my time in the seat of my ego wagon. I was soaking in as much treasuring as I could handle. At the same time, there was a long overdue success on the pitch, all the while my wife provided endless support and understanding. Last week I visited the race shop for the first time since I parked my ride. After accomplishing as much as I could to prep it for sale, I rolled the garage door down, turn the key to lock it and grimaced. Working on a car that you don't get to race anymore is no fun. It's finally becoming more noticeable. The depression. I've always had an uneasiness to me when it's racing season and I'm not towing to the track. I'd like to think that racing doesn't define me, but it definitely modifies my personality, attention span, humour and overall temperament. Unfortunately, other aspects of my existence always suffered as I was engaged in the sport, namely being an attentive husband, responsible homeowner and wise investor (to name a few). This new found freedom has only made me keenly aware that other aspects of my life that have taken a backseat are now prominent and pertinent. I no longer have a central mental focus to prioritize above that which I can put off for another day. Add to the cauldron the impending birth of my first borne. This is creating a definitive timeline for the experiences and tasks that I must accomplish. Experts say that this is common among expecting fathers. What I can't put my finger on is whether the finality of the racing is driving the depression or if it's the weight of the impending lifestyle change. Possibly its a combination. Either way, I'm not lighthearted even though I know that I have an amazing life. I feel almost guilty that I'm that sophomoric to let that which I can define, control my actions via my emotional state. My mantra has consistently been one of balance. Perhaps the feelings and reactions from depression are stabilizing. An expected result from the euphoria of a the month past. A preparation for the coming joy of my child and a redirection of my focus beyond my selfish desires.

treating 7 weeks as a moment in time

Wow, 7 weeks has passed since my last brain dump. Alot has happened. So much so that I don't know where to begin. The preparations for the baby have encroached my serious play time. 3 trips to Babies'R'Us leaves me wondering how the hell my folks were able to raise me without registries, nook brushes, breast pump liners, and jogging strollers. It is just another example of the effort we will expend in the hopes of some long term convenience. (Microsoft has been manipulating modern society for over 10 years with the same veiled approach.) My soccer exploits have been pheripheral to my racing. Yet, I can't help but feel some satisfaction in my play and that of the team. Despite being mentally and sometimes physically exhausted for the sunday matches, I've been able to summon energy from god knows where. A glimpse of what's to come, a preparation of sorts for parenthood. Transistioning my brain waves out of the cockpit an onto the pitch has been challenging, but a skill I'm just beginning to hone. No longer am I driving to the match thinking about the previous evenings typical happenstance. I am beginning to see to some real smart play from my teammates, a direct result of patience, movement, communication and wise decision making. Attributes in some way I hope is a result of my efforts on the Thursday kick-arounds. I am in no means taking credit for that, because I feed on it more than anybody else. It's starting to wake up processes that have been dead since college. Despite the influx of recreational activities (organized play), my work landscape is beginning to change. There are opportunities afoot, but I haven't been able to fully grasp the levity of my pending choices, something I must do soon. The resounding theme, atleast those that have inhabited my brain, has been the impending retirement of my racing activities. I would love to encapsulate my thoughts/emotions in this blog, but I believe that it's much too large an animal to bring down with a pellet gun. For posterity sake, let's just say that my last 3 outings were enjoyable which allowed me to really take in the inputs, the interactions, seat-of-the-pants feeling. What racers do is really amazing, and I am glad (lucky) to count myself as one of the brethren. In some small way I can see through their eyes, because I've been there. Words can never really describe it, but someday, I want to attempt it, even if feebly.

rebound

I know what he's thinking, 'That does not make sense, if Chewbacca is a wookie, you must acquit.' Puzzled almost dumbfounded, he's searching. 'I've been using these shocks on sprint cars, running 30-40 lbs. of nitrogen, now you want me to take it completely out?! What about the rebound percentages? Damn, it's been 20 races and we can't dial it in, what the hell, this is a last resort.' I spent 10 minutes talking to my trusted and seasoned crew chief. Despite his great successes providing ace set-ups for sprint car jockeys, he's utterly failed trying to get even a base line set-up to work in my rocket. He conceded. The car stuck in warm-ups, it didn't matter high-low, we were fast and for the first time in a long time, my confidence started to rebound. I drew a pole start for the heat race, I needed to finish 5th or better to transfer into the main. We communicated like we always do, I'm moving my hands gesturing the attitude of the car, where I'm burping the throttle, how much left v. right side transfer. He's taking it all in, nodding, pondering and puts a set-up in the car. On the start, the outside pole sitter jumps the start leaving me in tow, blocking my entry point getting into turn 1. Damn. I've gotta ease it, the tracks much drier than I anticipated and I don't wanna loop it infront of the pack trying to pinch the car down. Trailways master, Shawn Seifert gets inside me and moves me up, Steve Buckwalter and Heath Henley blast by. I get into 3 and man this things loose, but still drivable, I gotta take it to the edge. Kendall and Holtgraver get by. Shit, now I gotta get up on the wheel and man-handle this thing. Caution is out for a spinning Kendall. Time to regroup, get the wing back, lower the panhard bar and untie that left rear shock. All cockpit adjustments I can make while racing. Green flag, 3 laps to go, great restart, I can get Scott Geasey for a transfer, just gotta time it just right. I've finally got a rhythm, Geasey's in my sights, and Holtgraver blows turn 3 and pushes like a plow, Geasey has to pull his car low but I'm coming like a freight train. At the starters stand on the front stretch I just edge him for 4th place. The scorers didn't see it that way. I earned a 5th place and a transfer into that recently elusive main event. 14 guys will go home tonight not making the show, thankfully I'm not one of them. It's strategy time, I'm starting 18th, and the tracks' the question mark. Radiation cooling is sucking moisture up from below the track surface, but 24 hungry machines will blast that off in 5 laps of racing. I need to drop 2 inches of stagger to get to where I want, I've got 1 or 3" available at the trailer. No; starting that deep in the field doesn't warrant a new tire. We decide to drop 1" of stagger and tighten up the chassis by adding RR weight by increasing the tilt. Adding rake will increase the front to rear weight transfer. But not too much or I won't be able to steer. Finally, we're prestaging. The pace truck is leading the field around, I'm a few feet behind Dwayne Gutshall, Trailways newest dry-slick artist. Guys up front are getting anxious, Chad Hough leads em into turn three and dust starts flying, rocks are getting kicked up and bouncing off my helmet, its go time and I mash the loud pedal. After the pathetic spring I've had, I'm just looking to survive and get 20 laps under my belt. Upshift into 3rd by the flagstand and drive it into turn 1, she's tight, but the front end stays pointed down, it won't be long and this beast will be close to balanced. On the backstretch Cody Darrah is slicing thru traffic, down off the bottom of 2 straight to the outside to get a sweeping entry into 3. Cars are bouncing off each other, there's just no room. I'm only at 3/4 throttle. Its so dusty if someone gets squirrelly, I'll be in his lap before I know it. I reach to slap my visor down all the way. The drastic increase in humidity over the last hour had fogged my visor and spectacles, I'm tired of eating dust. Guys are settling down and getting strung out. 5 laps into the event I'm back on a mission to pass Geasey. The car is very drivable now and I start clipping off smooth laps. Lap 7 is a golden one as I reel in Geasey closing a 30 car gap, I'm on his tail when somebody goes for a loop right in front of me, a jink of the wheel right while on the hammer gets me to the outside of the spinner and in the clear. Whew, its restart time and I know it's going to loosen up, I already know that the right rear tire is on its downward trend of traction. More wing, panhard and shock to get it to transfer even harder to that corner. The restart gets strung out and we are green again, single file past the restart cone and into turn 1. In 1 lap I'm all over Geasey but he's got the preferred line. I can run him over or settle in and wait for a mistake. He didn't mess up, he would drive it in hard and scrub speed in the middle while I would walk it in and be turned and on the gas at the apex. Since there's only one groove with traction and he's in it, I'm screwed. Lap after lap tick by. White flag is displayed, one more chance, I tightened right up on his bumper, but no bobble would come. A 21st place finish and my arms are trembling. Not bad for taking a $1,200 set of shocks and reducing them to normal oil filled shocks. So much for rebound.

cross-roads

Simmering below the conscious, choices, options and an unsettling feeling of dread. Nothing life altering, yet a weight, a feeling of sand being poured into a burlap bag, placed evenly across my shoulders. I have no idea how big or full the bag is. I haven't employed a dual mirror system to check. For that takes reflection, a pleasure I do not have the luxury to devote time to. Tick, tick, you hear it? A deadline approaches, or is it two? I can store large complex decisions, placating them until the proper moment of action, deflecting ripples of inputs that would cause an early maturation of the process. Yet, every so often, a choice is required that can threaten the very existence of the decision, sending it cascading into any number of different directions.

Trailways announced a Sunday rain-date this weekend. Most assuredly, they will use it and I will be forced to chose between that which is fleeting and steadfast. Due to spiraling costs, I'm in the twilight of racing career, I want to race every moment of my being. The reality is that TWs will be the only game in town and will welcome 50+ entrants for 24 positions. I will start upfront in my heat race. A tacky surface should tip the balance in my favor to qualify. Yet without a different set of shocks, my gas Penske's will probably fail me again. Testing my confidence. Failure to just appear places me last the next time I return to the speed palace. A heavy penalty, one which makes the challenge (and lure) that much greater. In the past to avoid a confrontation of desires, I typically and automatically favored a dust filled event capped off by the ever loathsome 2 AM car wash. Yet, this time I'm perplexed. A 3pm soccer game, unimpeded by the weather, awaits. My commitment to the pitch is renewed. Not for the love of the game, but for the camaraderie that exists. Over the last 4 months, a growing compassion, not felt since my days leading my BU hockey mates, is clouding my typical emotions and actions. After college, soccer was never same to me. The game became merely a vehicle for exercise. Soccer can always be there, a sport that I can play regularity with success. It just doesn't feel right to abandon the people that I've grown to respect and care for.

Blasting into a corner with your hair on fire, feeling that car strain under the g-forces, within inches of your competitors... the feeling will never escape me, but then neither will the satisfaction of giving your talents and companionship to others all for the pursuit of common goals. Turn left or right. I guess we'll see.

surprise, surprise

This weekend will always be defined as the emergence of "uncle dougy". I've known Doug personally since 1995. From 1998 though 2000, I spent many an eve twisting wrenches on his ARDC midgets. He's one of the most instinctive and talented race car drivers I've ever met. His social skills are endearing at best. A self proclaimed hillbilly, he's always had a single focus: racing, until Friday. I picked up a set of slightly used digital scales for his expanding traveling race series (the 600 Modifieds) and made plans to deliver them. I was reluctant to foot the gas bill to haul my fume guzzling beast of a pick-up truck to the remote and sleepy area of Kunkletown (nestled in the Poconos) Despite the inconvenience, I gained some quite time during the ride to reflect, and organize the mix of data and emotions that pile up over time. What was waiting for me was a surprise I was somewhat unprepared. Doug had purchased a crib, crib mattress, bed-in-a-bag set and vibrating toddler rocker. I was equally shocked when he did it himself, not charging his mother for that task as I would have guessed. I know he appreciates my work, my guidance and my friendship, this just happened to be the first time he really expressed it. Shim now has an Uncle Dougy.

payback

Finally, the retribution for my Leafs loss to the Flyers on that ill-fated trip to Air Canada Centre(January 19th, 2003 to be exact). Not that I really wanted a Leafs win, I did hope for Flyers success to complete the X-mas gift to Laurie. We had seats suitable for royalty. The Wachovia Center was electric. I have a new profound appreciation for the fans from the city of brotherly love, there was a spell when they abused the priviledge to be a fan by seeming disinterested in the game.... that has evaporated. I honestly felt a chill when the Flyers fans showed resounding support during a time-out called by Hitch with 30 seconds to go, their team within 1 goal. A solid 3-2 win in regulation, it renews my spirit as a Maple Leaf fan despite their paultry season.

roller coaster emotions

Zen Garden. A quite place of respite that Laurie and I enjoy. We were not disappointed friday eve. This weekend was a team no-show at Trailways, several factors such as my head wrench (bro) convinced me that no-one was going to enjoy freezing their ass off at the races (though he was conveniently slamming to Korn-Mudvayne in Baltimore), Mr. Les Still predicted a cold overcast and raw day, and my funked up back wasn't going to withstand the grunt work that comes with an adventure with my rocket. Lo and behold sun dominated the day in Hanover. Photos form the day's event seemed to exude a warmth almost inviting glow. Damn. My solace was an enjoyable shopping gaunt with Laurie. Then a sunday excursion to Erdenheim and Landsdale. First with friends, then family. Everytime I watch Monsters, Inc., I always get a new perspective, this time from a 5 year old. The day was a wide breadth of generations, the 5 year being the youngest and the 84 year old grandmas we visited later that evening. Both Laurie's grandmas were in attendance at Outback Steakhouse. What a hoot. Virginia is a pistol, I can tell she doesn't take herself too seriously (although the wine is a great assistant). Isabella is quite the opposite, proud and stoic, which is impressive since she still maintains her tall stature of 6'. Just once I wish should tell me what's really going on inside... Typical of my relationship with racing, I rode the roller coaster once again.

the gain of pain

There are times when I wonder, it this all worth it? ...playing soccer late at night. Getting beat on by hacks that lost a step 5 years ago, loses it's appeal after a few games. I've got 3 indoor sessions under my belt and the body is fighting it. My most recent set-back is a few ribs that jumped out of place, an injury exacerbated last night by a hip check some guy thru on me 3 weeks ago. I've always, no matter what sport, have come back to a resounding yes - it is worth it. ES went undefeated this session. A testament to Jeff Cothren and his ability to manage a team, and to each of our core players' mentality to play a team game and maintain composure throughout. The satisfaction of this accomplishment will drive me to continue... so goes my impetus.

Introduction

Oftentimes I've ponder on random thoughts that pervade my conscious. Now, through the beauty of the internet, should the moment strike me, I have an outlet. Prepare for the inner workings of a man who struggles to achieve everything and nothing, the balance of life, the experience of it.