sludgo’s Mile Markers

This is Part Three of a multi-part series. Click the links to read Part One and Part Two.
I threw my hands up in the air. Instinct. Tried to speak but my voice caught somewhere in the back of my throat and I choked on whatever it was I was going to say. Found out it’s true that you see your life pass before your eyes when you’re facing death but since I was only twelve my retrospective went by pretty quickly and just like that I was back in the here and now, August of 1973, standing in Old Man Granger’s dark and dank and dingy garage, staring straight up the barrel of his shotgun.

This is Part Four of a multi-part series. Click the links to read Part One, Part Two, and Part Three.
The next Saturday in sludgoville was absolutely splendid. The crisp scent of October was in the morning air and most of the leaves had already fallen, but Indian Summer was in full swing, skies clear and blue and a harvest-orange sun lazily edging daytime temps into the seventies. It was just after noon and I was high up in Big Olie—the big oak in my Grandma’s back yard. The Beehive hated me climbing trees but I loved it and Olie was such a terrific tree to climb, bent this way and that with lumps and bumps growing here and there that fell perfectly under my twelve year-old feet and hands. I’d scampered up his trunk like a jungle cat and took a right turn onto the first big branch. It was as fat around as a pony and I’d straddled and skittered out to its very end to my favorite crook and was finally settling in when I heard it—twin rattly rumbles of diesel-fired horsepower and torque getting closer and closer and louder and louder. I leaned forward from my perch to get a better look at what was going on just in time to see two shiny-black extra-large tow-trucks chug into Old Man Granger’s driveway and hiss to a stop. Time to pick up the Cadillacs.

The ramp wasn’t that high. Only about up to my knees when I stood next to it. And it seemed sturdy. I’d walked up and down it and bounced on it a couple times and it had passed my boy-daredevil’s inspection with flying colors. So I hopped onto my trusty battle-worn lemon-yellow Sting-Ray and rode slowly up to the other end of the long sidewalk where I turned around and stopped. Took a moment to ask the Big Kahuna to provide his oversight on my upcoming flight then clenched my teeth as I stood up off that silver-sparkly banana-seat and began pedaling down the walk hard as I could.

It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and we’d gotten early release from school and I was walking home trying to catch snowflakes on my tongue. The day was cold and grey and still and the flakes were big and floaty and fluffy and filled my mouth with a cold splash of wet each time I caught one, making me smile bigger than I already was. It was going to be a great holiday break—four full days far removed from the drudgery of sixth grade at St. Marten’s Elementary. And as I shuffled through the ankle-high snow I gave myself a smug little chuckle. I was captain of the Nerd Patrol back then so I’d gotten all my homework done beforehand and had nothing to do over the break except whatever I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it. And mostly what I wanted to do was spend time with Charlie, my girlfriend.

I inched the TT up to the starting line, stopping when the steward waved his hand. I squinted through the windshield at the course laid out in front of me—hundreds of orange traffic cones dutifully showing the way I should go and the way I shouldn’t. The goal was to complete all the twists and turns and short straights as fast as I could without hitting any of the cones or spinning out or worse. It would be a race against the clock, the most ruthless opponent of any racer, and my heart was pounding. I shook my head clear, reminding myself it was my first autocross ever and that I had to lowball my expectations. Temper my approach. Drive within my limits. Not be too eager or aggressive. Rely on my half-century of driving fast in all sorts of cars and conditions and let the seat of my pants be my guide. Easy peasy, right? Right. So I looked over at the steward. Gave him a thumbs-up and he gave me a nod back then signaled the starter to switch on the Christmas tree. Gulp.

It was just before midnight, New Year’s Eve 1976, and a light snow had begun to fall as me and the rest of the crew walked wearily out of the service bay door of Mark & Randy’s Red Owl. We were beat-down, dead-dog tired but were all in a great mood. The supply semi had pulled in a couple hours ahead of schedule that evening, having left home base in Fargo early because another blizzard was on its way, so we’d gotten a head start on Stock Night, unloading the giant trailer and unpacking all the boxes, then filling the freezers and refreshing the coolers and stacking the dry-goods shelves to their very brim, making sure the product was orderly and neatly placed right-side-up with all labels dutifully facing front. I was anxious to get over to Anne’s and welcome in the New Year with a big wet smooch, but decided to stop for a minute to have a cigarette with the guys. And that’s when it happened. I had a great idea. One of the best I thought I’d ever had. The Red Owl Gran Prix.

Scout hopped up into the Audi like she’s done ever since I first brought her home eleven years ago as pup, just a bit slower. Those damned hips of hers. I scratched behind her ears and heard her sigh as she settled in shotgun and looked at me lovingly through cloudy brown eyes. I’d left her not-much-younger cousin Tess behind in the house and could hear her howling. Had tried to act normal all morning long but somehow they know when we’re going to the vet instead of the dog park. This visit was no big deal, though, just Scout’s annual checkup and shots. So I gave her a reassuring smile and scritched and scratched her here and there some more then whispered the two words she always wants to hear from me: “Good Girl.”