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said “YES, YES,” while the terrified look
clothes. No fancy patches and sponsor logos, no
personalization on the helmets as they belonged
to the association. And loads of hay bales.
This track was a figure eight with the farthest
loop having the car entry point, stands in the
central portion of the eight, and the two-story
announcer booth with the snack bar on the
bottom floor. I sat there, watching, seeing what
techniques the various drivers used during the
practice races until the man walked up to me
and asked—fateful words to an eleven-year-
old—“You ready for the briefing?”
Briefing? I had not even sat in a car yet—but I
guess the super smile and wide grin on my face
on my father’s shouted out “NO, NO!” I,
of course did the right thing and asked
my dad. Okay—that was not true—I
was up and out of the stands with the
man heading for “my” race car for
the thrill of my life.
I sat in the driver’s seat, my
heart thumping, barely hearing
the instructions he gave except “belt
in, these aren’t toys but real race cars.” I, or
my father, was assured later that the safety
rules were given in detail, the “what if” worst
case scenario happened and where was the
fire extinguisher. You understand it was like
listening to the teacher on a Charlie Brown
special: "whah, whah, whah." Ten minutes
of excitement, anticipation, and glory and I
was finally strapped in, gloves on and helmet
secured in place. He pointed out one last time
where the motor switch was, I turned over the
engine and tested the brakes and gas pedals.
Alone on the track, under the watchful eyes of
the officials and the near-comatose, white-faced
VOICES! | FEBRUARY 2023 33