VROOM-VROOM

My son took me to the races last night. I used to take him, his brothers and sister when they were little. We would sit up high, at the end of the 4th turn where you can see the whole field and you’re right there, at the dash to the finish line. In the 70’s, down by the Indiana border, corn was everybody’s business but come Saturday night, everybody went to the races. I had a friend who built and drove his own race car, an old coupe with open wheels that ran in the “Modified” class. You didn’t have to pay extra to go into the pits before the race so we did that. Paul would let my kids sit in his car and turn the steering wheel, make the vroom-vroom sound, making believe it was them sliding high into the corners and coming out like a sling shot. By night’s end, the air was full of dust and the smell of fuel alcohol, my kids were caked with grit and mustard stains where mustard aught not go. Nobody was in a hurry to get home. The pits would open up again and we could go down to see racers and mechanics checking for broken parts and making little fixes. My boys would pull little chunks of mud off a roll bar or a tire and slip them in their pockets: treasures. 

The ride home was about 45 minutes and they would be asleep long before we pulled in the drive. Too late for a bath, we peeled the boy’s clothes off and hosed them down in the driveway, a bath could wait until morning. Sarah was her mother’s baby and she got to clean up inside before bed. It was my job to empty pockets and shake dirt off clothes before they went in the hamper. They were all asleep before their heads hit the pillow but not before their favorite, match box race cars were in hand or stowed within reach. Kids grow up fast, or maybe they just get big. 

Last night our roles were reversed. I went and did what I was told. It’s more business and less an event now. You can’t take any food or drink inside the track. Whatever you eat or drink, you have to buy there and a pit pass is expensive. So we sat in the cheap seats, but they were up high up, at the end of the 4th turn. I kept the mustard off my face but couldn’t keep the grit out of my hair. Twenty six monsters, all belching over 700 horse power make noise we couldn't imagine in the 70’s. Last time I went to the races, my ears hurt for days after. I said, “When I go again, I’ll have ear protection.” I now have a high tech set of shooter's, ear protectors; look like gorilla ear muffs, got ‘em just for going to the races. You can still hear the vroom-vroom but the pain of a bazillion decibles going straight into your brain is just a memory. You have to read lips during the race but then, not much talking. It’s all body language, wide eyes and big grins. Maybe I was right when I was just trying to sound clever, maybe we just get bigger.