If you ain't first...

I don't get a chance to talk about my family nearly as much as I wish I could on here, but this is a great post to share. For Father's Day last year I purchased a "Nascar Racing Experience" for my Daddy. He is a pretty die-hard fan. I mean... when I was growing up I wasn't much of a baby doll kind of girl. Instead, I had a suit case full of hotwheels. Fo real. Also... expect intermittent dropping of Ricky Bobby quotes.

So we were finally able to schedule a time at Kentucky Speedway to get my Daddy in one of those cars! (I just wanna go fast, Daddy!) It is pretty hard to get these scheduled as the crews travel from NASCAR track to track and I think there were only 4 days total this year that they were at ours. Well, one of those weekends was last week.

We high-tailed it to Sparta at a rapid 80 mph. Whoa. I know. Watch it. We met up with my little brother and sister, and my Daddy, and shuffled our way to the check in - last of course. After donning the official fire suit racecar drivers wear, we all sat together in a 45 minute crash course (pun not intended... no... totally intended) on how to drive a race car. The first question they ask is "who here can't drive a manual?" Luckily, I come from a family of pros.

During the crash course we learned mostly about what NOT to do... these things consist of... do not drop below the yellow line, do not drive on the apron, do not hit the rev limiter, do not pass without radio confirmation, keep it between the white dots, do not pass go do not collect 200 dollars. We were also informed of the numerous crashes that incurred when drivers did not heed the many instructions. Next we were told how to escape a burning mangled death trap of a wrecked car. 

At this point I was ready to pack up and leave. Excuse me? You want to put MY daddy in one of those? Obviously my concerns were overruled. What's even better is that, since we checked in last, we were last to go. This left a solid 2 hours for me to sit and stew it over. (I'm still sittin' in my dirty pee-pants!)

We watched as driver after driver struggled into the tiny driver side windows, were strapped in, and rolled out of pit row. We watched as each driver rang around the track 3 or 4 times before being called back in. We watched as each had done so without slamming into the wall in a ball of fire and agony. Every time a car rolled back to the pit, the crew would remove the window net, pull out the driver, who would then stumble their way back to the infield with the biggest grin imaginable. I guess I was ok with this.

Finally, it was Daddy's turn. He had a pep talk from the crew chief before he climbed into the number 6 car. They checked everything out - not at full pit crew speed, thank goodness - and after several minutes they let him loose. (Hang on, baby Jesus, this is gon' get bumpy!)

He rolled, flawlessly, I might add, out of pit row and picked up speed fast into the first turn. We timed him as he passed us once, twice, and heard, on the third lap from behind us, the engine roar down the backstretch. On the final lap he was flying. 

It was over within 5 minutes that felt like 5 seconds. In those five minutes he had traveled over 6 miles on the 1.5 mile track, at speeds of 159.83 mph. That is over TWICE as fast as you should legally be driving on the interstate and almost THREE times as fast as you are legally allowed to drive on the Watterson (unless you are me and sometimes you forget and end up going 75 on the watterson and wondering why everyone else is being so. damn. slow.. except for that corvette... with a cop in it... giving you the "im watching you" finger to eye motion).

He climbed out of his car with the same giant grin and sea legs that everyone else had and made his way back to our tent. We cheered and clapped and yelled and generally made an all-out scene (which no one else had done). As soon as he was oriented again we bolted to the register to see what they had clocked as his top speed: almost the fasted at the track that day - 159.83 without hitting the rev limiter.

We went out for dinner afterwards, at the only restaurant in Sparta doesn't just serve hamburgers and boobies. Once James and I were on our way home I nagged him about driving so fast, to which he replied, "I am only going HALF as fast as your dad was a minute ago...". And then I wet myself all over again.