What is more fun than sitting on backless metal bleachers drinking cold
beer soda, eating walking tacos, popcorn, and watching your youngest son race his modified class car on a dirt track at the end of summer?
Doing it with the fear of god in you because he has just gone out on the track for hot laps, made it a very slow 1/8th of the way around said track, and coasted back to the pits. WTF? Sitting in the stands texting his fiance' in the pits trying to figure out what happened, we get the response… "drive shaft broke". Noooo! We also find out because it is the last race of the season, the one that determines the final track championships based on points, that he must start the heat race. He doesn't have to finish the race, but he must have a car running to start. We see him running to the parts truck in the pit area, drive shaft in hand. We get back message. The part he needs isn't there. Crap. We quickly move to the parking lot, grab the car, and meet son at the pit gate. Pick him up and try to get into town quickly to a (hopefully open) auto parts store. Of course, we got behind the mini-van being driven by Stevie Wonder. At least that was the impression we got as he 'felt' his way down the road. Then to the intersection with the light. The red light. The red light from hell that doesn't change. Ever. Especially when your mini-van isn't far enough into the intersection to trigger the light to change. Much swearing was going on in our vehicle. I think son almost got out and started running to the nearest auto parts store. Seriously. You think I'm kidding?
Finally, Stevie pulls up enough to trigger the light. Thank you Jesus. Now we quickly move up the block to the first auto parts store. They closed. At 5 o'clock. It's 6. Damn. There are two others in town. Closed. Both of them. Damn. Son gets on the phone to his friend who helps in the pits. Another racer has come up with something he may be able to use. Back to the track at a high rate of speed. Drop off son at the gate. We go back to the stands and start praying.
Amazingly enough… we see him suiting up. (They must wear a fire suit.) He's getting in the car! He's pulling out! He's racing! He only went about four laps, but that was all he needed to do to qualify for the main race. He said it did well and didn't seem to act like it was going to fall apart. Whew! Still and all, he was going to end up third in track points pretty much no matter what happened, so he didn't push it too hard in the main race… Was nice to see him get out there, though, otherwise he wouldn't have gotten a paycheck for the night.
The second thing that made it such an interesting night? After the adreneline of not knowing if son was even going to race wore off the rest of the evening began sinking in. The part where we had to pick up brother-in-law at a very full campground on the way to the race and although he supposedly told mother-in-law (yes, she was with us) where they were camping we couldn't find him and when we did… he just sat in his lawn chair and waved at us. Dumbass. Why couldn't he get off his ass and walk the equivalent of a city block to the gate, since we were doing him the favor of picking him up? Arrrggh. My irritation has no limits when it comes to those people.
Also, some frat boy types were sitting next to us in the stands. That's all well and good until you mix frat boy types with way too much beer. If I have to hear you scream "so and so cheats" one more time (no, not son) to the point where you drown out the announcer I'm going to figure this has gone from fun to truly annoying. Can I please say it one more time? Shut the fuck up. Thanks. I feel much better now. Hubs leans over and reminds me… blog fodder.