"How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. December is here before it's June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?" -Dr. Seuss
The logical thing, at least in the tortile logic of the racer, would be to begin mounting a defense of hard won championships. Who vacates the castle after sacking it and driving forth the infidels? Now is the time to fortify the defenses, increase military spending and rout out any remaining resistance before they have time to regroup. Scorched Earth baby!
I almost went this route, and I still may, should the fancy strike me. But there are realities. Keeping two racebikes shod in slick tires over a season is monetarily daunting, even with Bridgestone contingency money (thank you Bridgestone!!). The WERA Mid-Atlantic region is dead for my classes, which means a minimum 7 hour drive to Roebling Road Raceway near Savannah to defend #1 plates. I drove so many miles chasing this thing that it took something out of me. My body loathes sitting in one position for that many hours, cramping and aching, and the van isn't getting any younger either. I went for broke this season, and I very nearly got there.
Crazy ideas of famous/infamous races I want to run are rolling around in my adolescent brain (Classic TT, Dakar, etc.), but until I become independently wealthy those will remain in fantasyland. I suppose one shouldn't get too greedy when it comes to competition, I've been lucky enough to line up on the grid at some of the best racetracks in the United States. But that's the problem with racing, it's never enough, there is always something to chase, some loftier goal with an even deeper chasm on the other side should you lose your toehold. On the untrodden precipice of which new abyss would I choose to practice my fouettés? Stay tuned.
|I don't think this is how it's done. Twelve years later and my neck still hurts.|