You know that moment when you realize your dream is coming true? You're there and it is just unfolding before you, even more wonderful than you had imagined. It feels as if your heart is rising out of your chest and floating over your head, like a bright balloon. And you're standing there and thinking, how could I possibly communicate this moment of wonderfulness to anyone? This is a dream that I have held in the cells of my body for so long, and probably longer than I even remember because I kind of think that dreams lay dormant in you until you are ready to understand them, accept them and take the path to realizing them.
That's what I felt on Thursday night as I stood on the platform of my dad's friend's racing car hauler, looking at the mound of black dirt that was turn one of the track, the golden wheat fields beyond it and the prairie blue sky above. I'd gone to a lot of car races before, but this time I was on the other side of the show. I was part of the pit crew; it was my dream come true.
When I was a little kid my dad would go help his friend, Len, with his late model stock racing car. My mom wouldn't let me go watch. "You wouldn't like it. It would be too loud for you," she always said. I apparently had sensitive ears and always covered them during fireworks shows, so she might have been on to something there. But I also remember going with my dad to Len's house for some reason or another and seeing The Car, loaded on the back of a hauler and being in complete awe of it. It was blue like my Barbie's Corvette and had the number 72P (P was his last initial) in a bright decal on the door panels. I remember the special tires--wide with shallow treads, the dirt and grease and the engine he had in his basement. We had a program from the Grand Forks Speedway that had a photo of Len's car in it, taken during a race. It was the only clue I had to help me imagine what it would be like to see it in action.
Len gave up racing his car before I ever went to my first race. He bought a boat instead. We went out in it a lot. It was a lot fancier and faster than my dad's. My sister and I would sit on the red carpeted floor where the ride was bumpier. For some reason bumpy was fun. He sold the boat eventually too, and later, he and his wife moved down to Florida.
I didn't even go to my first race with my dad. I went with my junior high best friend and his family. They were into sprints. I don't even think they raced the late model class at that track at that time. I was just getting into NASCAR racing at that time, which is the professional version of the late model class. The sprints are fast but they hardly look like a car, more like a dune buggy with a funny hat. I eventually grew an appreciation for watching them, but they weren't what I wanted to watch.
My friend's family knew a sprint car driver so we went into the pits after the race to see him. My friend's dad was on the driver's crew. Later, when my friend got old enough, he too helped out on the crew. I envied him for his connections.
I wanted so very much a team of my own to be a part of. Dad knew a few guys when we'd go to a race, guys that Len used to race with or the sons of guys he raced with, but those were mostly acquaintances, not enough to earn us a spot on the crew. Dad would talk with them about the old days when he was helping Len out and the good times they had. I heard all the tales numerous times. They were good stories, but when I'd hear them I'd think, Dad needs new stories to tell. He needs a new crew. I started to carry a hope that one day I'd marry into a racing family and satisfy the both of us.
I guess it's been about six or seven years since I started going to the races in Grand Forks with my mom and dad on Friday nights. It used to be the nearest track where you could see the late models race. The Winnipeg track stopped running them for a while because they couldn't afford the payouts. I'd quietly cheer on the Winnipeg guys who ran down there but secretly turned my nose up them too. They had these massive, custom motor homes to pull their custom-made haulers. Big money. If Len was still racing he'd be the scrappy under dog trying to out-run these guys with their latest and greatest equipment. I had no desire to check these guys out with my dad and the other fans in the pits after the race, so I would go back to the motor home with my mom instead, divorcing myself of any dream of ever belonging on the back side of the track. Silly girl.
"Imagination is more important than knowledge. For while knowledge defines all we currently know and understand, imagination points to all we might yet discover and create."
--Albert Einstein
People often ask me when they find out I'm into racing if I want to be a driver. No. That was never the dream. That space the driver sits in is a tiny pod. The steering wheel is at your knees and close to your chest. The driver has to remove it in order to get in and out of the car, and the only way in and out is through the driver's side window. There's no glass to these windows, just a thick, black net. I couldn't imagine feeling comfortable in that space at all. The car looks small when you stand beside it, but when you're sitting in it, it actually feels big, a lot bigger than I am, and of course incredibly powerful. Half the battle of racing is figuring out the set up so that the car responds and handles the way you want it to. And, out on the track, at any moment, some other guy can plow into, or stop dead in front of you. I couldn't handle not feeling in complete control of things like that. Driving a race car doesn't appeal to me at all.
My dream was about being a part of a team of people, who worked together for fun, to put a car out on a track and watch what our driver could do. I didn't care what my role would be on the team. I would have been content with scraping mud off of the tires or handing over wrenches to the mechanics. There is no small role on a race team. Everything is important because any one small detail can cost you speed. On professional NASCAR teams the crew is made up of engineers. The guy who holds the can that catches the gas that overflows when the gas guy is filling the fuel cell has studied quantum mechanics. The team works together all week--even on their fitness regime--in preparation for race weekend. Sometimes they crash on the first lap. Sometimes the fastest car runs out of gas on the last lap. That's racing.
Len emailed my dad a few months ago to let him know that he was coming up to Winnipeg for the summer. He had a car he'd been racing in Florida and he was bringing it with him. "Is there anyone up there willing to help me out?" he asked. The dormant dream stirred.
It was starting to look like it wasn't going to happen though. Before my uncle had his stroke I had booked a week of vacation for the last week of June/first week of July. We were supposed to meet Len in Grand Forks on the Friday night. Then emergency struck and plans had to be dropped. Weeks went on where schedules didn't match up. Len himself had to take off last week to see his dad in Calgary who had taken ill. Summer was half over. My parents had plans to leave town for the month of September once my dad was finished work. I was worried that it just wasn't going to come together.
Finally, this week it happened. Len was back and ready to go, my dad was available and I even told Lisa, who leaves for Africa on Monday, and who I haven't seen in what seems like a month, that I couldn't get together with her because my dream was coming true and I was going to be pit crew for a night.
I rode with my dad and Len in Len's truck into the pit area of the Winnipeg track. For the first time I saw the track from the other side of the stands. It felt like standing on a stage for the first time. We stopped at a booth to pay and get our pit passes. I signed the waiver and stuck out my arm for the girl to strap on my wristband. It was one of those coated paper ones with the sticky backing. It had pink and white checkers on it and in big black letters it said PIT CREW. It was the most precious bracelet I'd ever worn. I reluctantly cut it off the next morning before heading to work.
I had a few jobs that night. I was the team gofer so I went to the booth and pulled the random number that would assign Len his position in the heat race. I thought 99 sounded like a lucky number, Gretzky's number, but it put Len in the last row. It's more exciting to watch a driver move up from the back though, I think.
I carried a jack. It was super heavy. I helped my dad fill the fuel cell with gas--racing fuel smells sweet but awful. It's the high octane. My favourite and proudest job though was hood pins. These four little clips keep the hood fastened down at high speeds. You have to put them in a certain direction and make sure you DO NOT put them in your pockets or lose them. Before Len went out I ensured the pins were all properly in place--small detail, but a very big deal.
While we waited for the time when the cars were supposed to start lining up, Len sat in his car and Dad leaned into the window. I don't know what they talked about. Frankly, I am amazed Dad even could hear Len's voice, since he seems to be approaching deaf. But that was Dad's job--talk to the driver. I was so proud of him.
Just before Len headed out we gathered around the car--me, Dad, and Len's son, Danny. The team.
"We need a motivational speech," I said.
"Go out there, have fun, finish the race," Dad said.
The modified cars had just come back from their heat races. One of the guys from a team that Len knew came over, banged on the hood and said, "Rod just won his race. Your turn now, Len."
"Let's just try not to wreck so we can make it to the feature race," I said.
"Yeah," Len laughed. "Good idea."
We did not win the heat race. In fact, Len spun out and went off the track before the race finished. It was still better than wrecking though, and we did go into the feature. He didn't win there, or even place in the top ten, but he didn't wreck, and he did a really good job of fighting for positions. His hood did not fly off.
Not really part of the dream was the fact that the night went pretty long. It was a modified class special that night. There was something like 42 cars on the track. Ugh. I hate specials. It takes forever to get through the race because as soon as one car makes an error and slows down, somebody crashes into him and the caution flag comes out. Then they spend the next ten minutes or so lining the cars up only to have another caution, sometimes without even getting another lap in. This goes on until a sufficient number of cars have been eliminated from the field and there is actually enough room for racing. As this is all going on though, night settles in and the temperature drops. I get cold so easily. I thought wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a wool sweater and a windbreaker would be enough on an August night, but no. My body ached from shivering and being clenched into a ball, trying to keep the cold from getting in. It was midnight when we left the track, 12:30 when I got home and had a hot shower before crashing into bed.
I had my camera with me on Thursday night, but the stupid thing died after I'd only taken a couple of pictures, one being of my beautiful, pink Pit Crew wrist band. Last night when I went to download them off my camera though they, along with all the other pictures I'd taken this summer, were gone. It's the weirdest thing--there are six pictures on there that are years old. Dad, Tracy and I were fooling around in the living room at my parents' place. Maybe it was on my Dad's birthday one year or something, I'm not sure. I'm really crushed though that I don't have any pics from Thursday night. Blogging about it at least helps to permanently etch the memories into my mind. There are a few things I want to try to see if those pictures are somewhere on the memory card and it's just the camera that's failing to bring them up. Seriously though, all in favour of Jill getting a new camera so she can again capture these precious moments, say aye, all opposed say, RRSP.
That was my dream realized. I don't know if we'll get back out there before the season is done. I'd love to, but I'm happy I at least got to experience it once, finally. And I know it will never again feel like the first time, although a first victory sure would feel good.
A dream is a wish your heart makes
When you're fast asleep
In dreams you lose your heartaches
Whatever you wish for, you keep
Have faith in your dreams and someday
Your rainbow will come smiling thru
No matter how your heart is grieving
If you keep on believing
the dream that you wish will come true
--From Disney's Cinderella
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