sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 208 You Should Know
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.
I’ve always wanted to go fast, just like Ricky Bobby. Felt the need for speed long before Maverick ever thought about hitting an afterburner. Have forever loved the delicious rush of motion I first remember experiencing when I was a kid and turned my pedal-car down our long and steep driveway and let gravity do its thing. But there wasn’t much of a local racing scene around my cozy little NoDak hometown, so I had to feed my need vicariously by poring over the Oldsmobile Man’s copies of Road & Track and Hot Rod and Car Craft and drinking in the weekly racing roundups on shows like ABC’s Wide World of Sports. At the time I recall watching Formula 1 closely. In my view, those were the golden years of the series with drivers named Clark and Hill and Stewart and Brabham and McLaren and Gurney and Moss. They were all heroes to me. Men amongst men. And I wanted to be one of them. Vowed to be one of them. Told everyone that one day I’d pilot an automobile in anger and with intent and win some checkered flags of my own. But as is often the case, Life had different plans for me. This thing happened and then that thing happened and the thing after that came up and before I knew it decades of good intentions had passed me by and all that chasing-checkered-flags nonsense had faded unceremoniously into the background without so much as a whimper. Until recently, that is.
As many of you know, a week before Halloween this year the Beehive moved in with me here at the McBungalow while Big Sis and I manage her transition into an assisted care living center. After ninety-plus years of living on her own she’s not happy about the situation but has at last and at least accepted it, if only begrudgingly and in the most melancholy of fashions. One of those fashions has been to pour herself a generous splash of Bailey’s Irish Creme over ice after dinner then sip on it slowly as the evening turns into night. After a few sips she frequently begins talking to me about her life and one night not long ago she got on to the topic of her regrets—the things she’d always intended to do, dreamt about doing, but for whatever reason never did and now it was too late for her to even try to do them. She warned me with weary but wise eyes not to make the same mistake that she had. Told me that while I still had the chance I needed to make sure I was emptying out as much of my bucket as I could before I ended up kicking it.
Yes, Mom, Will do. I promise.
A day or two after that conversation my phone buzzed. I saw that it was Barry, a new friend I’d met at a show ’n shine a couple-three weeks before, so I picked up. He wished me the top of the day and said he’d called to ask if I’d be interested in entering the Polar Bear Autocross being run in the old MegaMart parking lot the second weekend before Christmas. Forty-five bucks entry fee with no cash prizes but trophies and bragging rights would be there for the taking. Told me he thought the TT would be a good runner. Small. Decent power. Good handling.
I laughed. Said that I’d never done anything like that before even though I‘d always wanted to. Told him I was worried I’d embarrass myself. He laughed back at me. Said that I might surprise myself. That I’d never know until I knew.
Hm. Good point, Barry.
I said I’d think about it. Get back to him. Hung up then went online and found the website for the event. Looked like it could be fun. Glanced at the rules then clicked to the registration page. Thought of what the Beehive had said about the things I still had in my bucket then gave a little chuckle. Pulled out my credit card and bought myself an early Christmas present.
When I putted the TT into the giant parking lot that Sunday morning I felt a little out of place amidst all the VWs and Subarus and Mustangs and Challengers and Hondas, but it didn’t take long for me to feel welcome. Car people are like that. Everyone was in a good mood, filled with the Holiday Spirit, smiling and laughing and enjoying pastries and donuts and breakfast burritos and black coffee served cheerily by the hard-working crew at the food truck. I found a good spot to park next to a guy my age driving a first-gen Camaro and a younger-looking gal in a later-gen BMW. Hopped out then wandered around until I tracked down Barry and we began lazily milling about, chatting amiably about a little of everything and a lot of nothing.until sooner than later it was time for my first run.
I saw the Christmas tree on the starter’s table stir to life, and it shone bright red at me for a long moment. I pushed the brake pedal down hard with my left foot and leaned into the accelerator with my right. Heard the turbo winding up as the revs mounted and the Audi strained impatiently against itself, pulling at the reins. Then the tree flashed a quick yellow and went green. I leapt off the brake and punched the go-pedal and immediately felt my bucket get lighter.
Ho, Ho, Ho!!!
Peaceful travels…
sludgo
