The longer I am married to my dear husband, the more I am exposed to countryboy--shall we say "rural"?--experiences I never thought I'd a) have, or b) enjoy, experiences which, in the end, I wind up loving, despite my urban background. On this list, we already have Mudding, Skeet Shooting, and Cow-Chasing. But those are topics for another post.
Yesterday, I added Enduro Racing to the list.
For those of you who don't know what that is (and 24 hours ago, I was one of those people), Enduro Racing is an everyman's NASCAR. Here's how it works: 150+ cars, mostly 4-cylinder beaters whose engines have been fixed to run well, all start the race at the same time, running 3 or 4 abreast on the track. The track we went to is known as the "fastest 3/8 mile track in the WORLD." To figure out just how much carnage that leads to, do the math--150+ cars running a 200-lap race on a track that is less than 1/2 mile long, or, to be precise, 1980 feet long. Cozy. Add to that the fact that, when a car is disabled, either as a result of a wreck or engine failure, or, as we saw, flipping over or losing a wheel, the race pauses for the driver of the disabled car to leave the track, then the race continues, with the damaged car remaining in the spot where it died. To put this into perspective for you, by the end of the race, there were approximately 40 cars in various states of disrepair littering the 3/8 mile track. The winner is the driver who successfully dodges these obstacles and completes the 200 laps first. In the race we watched, very few drivers completed all 200 laps.
Well, that's all well and good, but for me, the real beauty of the race lies in its participants and their vehicles. All the paint jobs were homegrown, the fenders crunched from previous races, the numbers mostly free-painted, and many of them had ephemera bolted to their roofs: Pizza Delivery signs, stuffed animals, rocking horses, Homer Simpson. Some had names, words, or phrases painted on them and they ranged from the poignant (In Honor of Jordan 7/17/07) to the cutesy (Daddy's Little Girl) to the pithy (U Just Got Passed) to the witty (4-Sale). But the two signs that held my attention were a bit more understated.
I noticed the two cars as soon as they drove onto the track--they were both painted in day-glo yellow. One said CPA on the hood, and that driver's number, fittingly, was 1040. The other had no number, just a simple "Steve-O" painted on the side. But I knew they were together, because they had lookalike signs strapped to their roofs: one said DAD and the other said KID. Now there's a bonding experience if ever there was one. "Son, I think it's time you put a roll cage in that car of yours, strapped on a helmet and a fire-retardant suit, and hit the track with me." "Gosh, Dad. That'd be SWELL!"
Because of their easily-spotted paint jobs and highly recognizable signage, they were easy to keep track of, and they seemed to stick close by one another. Periodically, I'd find one, and not the other, and panic--"There's Dad. Where's Kid? WHERE'S KID??" I did get a little emotionally attached. It usually turned out that Kid had hit the pits to bang his hood straight after a collision or change a flat, and I'd breathe a sigh of relief. Kid was okay.
But about 3/4 of the way through the race, the story changed. "I see Dad--where's Kid?"
Oh, no.
Kid's car was stopped at the side of the track, unable to move. He was stuck behind another disabled vehicle, and it looked as if there was no hope for him to get off the track and into the pits. Cars, by this point traveling at about 90 mph, barrelled past him, offering no reprieve. Things looked bleak.
Just then, another car nudged his rear. I was furious. Stop picking on Kid! I wanted to yell. And then I noticed that the driver was number 1040, the CPA. Dad.
Dad cozied his car up to the back of his son's, and then he did the unthinkable in this pell-mell, run-at-your-own-risk race: he pushed his son into the safety of the pits. The two traveled gingerly the 100 yards or so to the arms of safety, Kid drove off to his resting spot, and Dad traveled on.
What would be cool is if this story ended in a win for Dad. It didn't. Some guy whose car was labeled "White Trash" came in first. "Some of you are white trash, too, you just don't want to admit it!" he crowed.
And Dad, who had been running cleanly and fast, sacrificed his position for his son's safety, and ended up in the middle of the pack.
But somehow, I don't think he minded.
So if you're ever bored and looking for something fun to do, I recommend Enduro Racing. It's fun to watch, and you just might learn something about healthy family dynamics in the process.
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