The other week, my honey, told me that he had rented out a racetrack, exclusively, for his best customers.
What exactly does this mean, I thought?
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve rented out a Nascar racetrack, outside of Chicago, to take all of my best customers too”.
“What do you mean ‘too’?”
“We’re all going to drive!”.
“On THE track?”
“They’ll need lessons. Will they get lessons, or do you intend for them to just get strapped down and drive?”
“Lessons, of course”.
“Really? Do you know what this encompasses? You’ll need certified drivers, with no stand-bys, full gear and classroom instruction, a clear field and waivers?”
“Fireproof, choke bottom suits, with twin seats, and ghost controls”.
“All taken care off”.
“Though these cars can reach speeds of over 150mph, no one will reach that far- without a slingshot move. You know that right?”.
“And do you intend to have these people taught how to ‘slingshot?”.
“Don’t worry. No one will have the guts”.
“You don’t even know what a ‘slingshot’ is, do you?”
“You’re not the boss of me, Cheryl!” (or something along this line).
“You’re an idiot. I’m in”.
One of the many incarnations my dad had when I was young was Race Car Driver.
It is as much of the make-up of my bones as the calcium that is waning in those same bones every day.
I can remember my father taking me to Nelson Ledges track, to test his Indy car, the Black Widow, and suiting me up, helmet on, and placing me on his lap to test drive the speed and validity of his machine.
We reached 165mph. I could read. My mother was working.
Did I like it?
Even at twelve, it seemed reckless and vain.
Did I go twice?
Yes, I did.
And… such are the conflicts of life: the gritty edges have more feeling, but you don’t sleep as well, while you’re bleeding.
Even though, I suited up, and ran the track– at 155 mph.
My father done me right- this time.