My dad said he had a surprise for me.
Flying home to the North East Kingdom of Vermont, I expected an engraved knife, not a race car.
I call it a race car, because it was a car, and it was in a race, but really it was a 1984 Monte Carlo SS. It had a roll bar and a really tight seat belt, but that was about it for customization.
Saturday night at nearby Groveton, NH’s Riverside Speedway starts with (as far as I could see) a lot of pre-race drinking, posturing and last-minute repairs to what look like mainly cars recently dragged out a local junkyard. My race wasn’t for a while, and only following about 3 other races, during which the cars sequentially got bigger, more oil was spilled on the track, and everyone got much drunker.
My class finally got the start and I slid into my old Monte Carlo in and helmeted up, I gently pushed the car into moving through the muddy pit row onto a more-than-expected steep track.
Already the sound was completely deafening, and would go onto get louder and louder.
What would follow I can only describe as a mix of a personal “Days of Thunder” 100 lap, a flight in a fighter pilot and a masacre is forever imprinted into my head. I watched with a combination of frustration, utter fear and humiliation as driver after driver spun out, passed me, passed me while spinning out and about everything in-between.
In my defense, I couldn’t see a damn thing the whole time. For the first time I realized that even at a mere 70 MPH, a race car is in a slight skid at all times. That takes a lot to get used to, and it makes one really appreciate professional drivers.
I didn’t even come close to placing that cold, drunken dark night in northern New Hampshire, but I sure had a hell of a ride.
Apparently, rubbing isracing.
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