An Open Letter to My Friends; and Whoever else is Listening

It is a peaceful Sunday, light rain is falling and I'm drinking my coffee and posting next week's science lesson.

Oh wait, I'm posting it because kids can't go to school...because there is a global pandemic in which a virus is infecting 80,000 people or more worldwide each day.

I guess it's only peaceful from my privileged vantage point, but in reality, there are currently thousands of first responders who are sprinting, covered in sweat under their (maybe adequate) PPE, trying to decide who to save, and how.

There are people mourning loved ones to whom they did not get to say goodbye, and scared patients knowing that they might die completely alone.

There are families who don't know how they will get food, and inmates and refugees who literally have no chance of avoiding infection.

Peaceful might have been the wrong word.

But for most of my friends reading this, your life might still feel that way.  You, like me, are probably safe at home with your loved ones.  You can probably safely get the food and water that you need.  You are likely still getting a paycheck to work from home because you have the technology and education to do so.  You may (like me) be baking, knitting, doing yoga, having wine with friends over Zoom.

I am writing to ask you to try to gain a little perspective on this Sunday.

On Friday, I chose to drive from Northern Michigan to Detroit to retrieve nearly 2 months of mail from my apartment, in addition to some other luxuries like my bike, and clothing that is not fleece or wool.  I left some wine and a handknit gift for the woman in my building who has been caring for my plants.

I say chose, and luxuries, because that's exactly what I did and what it was.  If we were being smart here in the good ol' USofA,  I would have never been allowed to do that, despite the fact that I stopped once for gas, (where I used gloves and a mask despite remaining outside,) packed my own lunch, and peed only in my apartment inside my own building, inside of which I wore 2 masks and gloves.

I expected empty roads, desolate gas stations, boarded up windows.  What I saw shocked, saddened, and scared me; heavy traffic headed north.  RVs and SUVs full of bikes and kayaks towing ATVs and fishing boats.  Gas stations packed full of people wearing neither gloves nor masks; people running in just for bags of chips....one dad sipping nonchalantly out of his Starbucks cup.  There were signs asking for the overthrow of our governor for 'stealing our freedoms' and restaurants blatantly open for business in the more rural regions of the state.

A parade of potential carriers, headed to small communities with limited resources and small hospitals, communities that feel safe, away, pristine.  I finished my drive near tears...scared and angry.

The hypocrisy of my anger is not lost on me....I promise...but I was really careful.  I waited until I had sufficiently quarantined, and until there were repeated reports of zero cases in our building.  Based on my observations, and training in anti-infective research, and solid, (though admittedly limited) understanding of epidemiology, we're fucked.  It is coming, folks...we're just a little behind.

I spoke with 2 dear friends yesterday who, after talking with me about how scary this all is, also did things like invite us out on their boat, or say, "once so and so gets here and is done with quarantine, we will go out for drinks...'  I bring these statements to light not in judgement or anger, I mention them to try to highlight how, even for the most conscientious it is going to be so so hard for us to change our habits, to process a life in which there is no more going out for drinks....no more going over for dinner...no more lazy afternoon boat rides....like...for YEARS.

Our lack of leadership in this country, and a general misunderstanding of not only science, but of what a right is vs. a privilege, means that this is going to get much, much worse before it gets better.  We have utterly inadequate testing, completely lax travel restrictions, (my friends in Ireland cannot go more than 1km from their home, and in Argentina one needs a card with permission to even be out AT ALL.)  I should have been stopped on my journey several times; I should have been asked where I was going and why, and probably should have had my temperature taken and my nose swabbed when I exited the freeway at my destination, and when I entered my building.  I should have at least been forced to wear a mask, (which I did, but there was no enforcement.)  I should be monitored for the next 14 days to ensure that I don't infect anyone, even though my journey was reasonably safe.  I took a highly calculated risk, and I know that I could get sick.

Now...take your mind back to the fudgie parade on I-75 North.

Friends.  Loved ones.  I would love to go for a masked walk with you at a safe distance...being out is a privilege, having a reasonably comfy mask is too.  Let's get used to wearing them and set good examples.

I would happily support local curbside ventures to sit on the grass outside, 6-10 ft apart with you and sip cider and eat pizza and rant about the state of the world.  Or even better, to count blessings that we are in a place, both physically and financially, (for now) that we are able to do just that. 

If you are someone who is, (as I did) traveling to a place you call home, or feel safe...quarantine completely for 2 weeks.  Going into the store is not quarantine...have someone bring you groceries or pick them up curbside.  Don't know what you want?  Be glad you have that problem and get over it...make a list and be thankful.

If you want some information based on science...I'm happy to do what I can to help you understand transmission, infection, etc.  If you're reading this, I probably love you and want you and your family to be safe.  However, I also want you to be aware, and smart, and patient.  I want you to think about what you really NEED vs. what you want, and to consider what life might look like going forward as this second wave hits, and we all are faced with much more imminent danger, followed by a very real recession or depression.   I don't want to sound like the fun police, or like a doomsday prophet...in fact, I hope I'm wrong and that way more people are doing the right thing than I think; but my observations tell me differently.


We are not special; viruses don't care, and in an overrun ER nobody knows how much money you make.  We are only privileged, and for some of us that really could change as this pandemic plays out.  Write your legislators and ask them to protect teachers and families by keeping schools CLOSED.  Support businesses who are keeping their staff safe and protected so that people like my sister can maintain their livelihood in the service industry without endangering their health.  I bet, if you ask a Doctor or Nurse, they would love for us to stay home so that maybe they can sleep some day, maybe even eventually without the PTSD and haunting nightmares of people gasping and gurgling their last choked breaths.

I encourage you to talk to the people you know.  Share the numbers with them.  Explain that fishing and using parks are privileges, not rights, which is why in order to do these things, you have to buy liscences and passes (on which you literally sign contracts.) You have to wear a seatbelt to avoid a ticket...even if you won't to protect your own life.  You may have to start looking at masks the same way, except the life you're protecting is someone else's...maybe that makes it easier. 

Check yourself and your friends when they think that 'just running in' is ok, and remind them of their loved ones at home who may be far more vulnerable.  Share good science, and remind others kindly and repeatedly about good habits...it doesn't make you an asshole or a hypochondriac.   It makes you a conscientious citizen, and maybe we can relearn what patriotism and community are supposed to look like.

Remind others that we have a lot of time, we don't need the cleaning crew to come, we can do it ourselves.  The handyman can come fix the sink, but you can probably do it with some curbside parts from ACE hardware and a youtube video.  Your hair looks fine, nobody cares....we love you anyway.

I love you.  Stay safe.

Thank you sir, may I have another...?!

This weekend I watched as a grown man, in good shape, with a lot of driving experience climbed out of the car in front of me, leaned on the car he was navigating, heaved and swayed a bit, looked back at me, and groaned, "codriving is fucking hard."

This weekend, it was.  It was hard.  Everything about it from the sleep deprivation to the heat and dust.  From the terrifying "drops on outside" to the parade of incompetence and error that led to yet another heartbreaking DNF for our aptly named, (although maybe not for long,) Just About Right Racing Team.  I simply wasn't on...nothing was, and yet, I'm ready to go again.  Was ready to go, and would have gone, in a much bigger and faster car had I received the call from Thompson Racing Fabrication requesting my assistance just an hour earlier the day after our retirement.  Because, as they say, "that's rally."  It's heartbreaking, and exhausting, and frustrating...its fucking hard.  But you wake up in the morning, (depending on whether or not you actually had time to sleep,) and you ask for another whack.

Here is the story of the Southern Ohio Forest Rally.  It's not a short story.  It doesn't have a happy ending, but it will eventually.

On Thursday, the Thursday before the rally, exactly one week from Recce, I receive a text as I'm siting at my desk at school.

"It's not done."

I almost drop the F-bomb in front of a bunch of 7th graders but manage to restrain myself.  I call Jimmy after school and he tells me that the dogbox, for a number of reasons outside of our control, is not put back together.  Now, I am admittedly a terrible mechanic.  If I take it apart I can usually put it back together, and I can logically interpret how most mechanical pieces work if I see them in action.  However, I know that bearings are very important to making a transmission go vroom vroom, and I know that we don't have any. But the shop has promised Jimmy that it can be done on Monday.

And so, Jimmy heads north, sans transmission, (which we had planned to install and test over the weekend.)  We drive the 323GTX into the trailer on it's notchy, (so they tell me,) stock trans, pack up all of the rally materials; spare parts, wrenches, zip ties, duct tape.  (My white board by my back door reminds me still today to grab the "clutch, sledge hammer, and large adjustable wrench,") and Jimmy turns around and heads back to Detroit, where ever so graciously Paul at Team Illuminata Motorsports has agreed to host and hoist the car for the transmission swap.

It's Monday.  I receive a text as I'm sitting at my desk at school eating lunch.

"The bearings didn't ship.  Something fucked up."

I audibly drop the F-bomb and my heart sinks.

"So...now what?" I ask.

"Well, I called and they have been sent out.  They will be at the transmission shop tomorrow."

Tomorrow.  Tuesday.  We should be leaving for Ohio on Wednesday.  The engine is out.  The entry fee is paid.  The trailer is packed and is half way there.  And we have no transmission.

Tuesday.  2:000pm.   The transmission shop calls Jimmy to ask where the bearings are.  Jimmy replies that they were delivered at 10:30am.

They were indeed.  To the neighboring business rather than the transmission shop.

I am not telling every detail of this story.  Let's just say that when Jimmy told me that at this point that if he were at all religious or superstitious we would not be going,  I was inclined to agree.

The transmission gets finished at about 8:00pm on Tuesday.  The boys at TIM work until about 2:30am as I understand it, and finally call it quits on the install.  There are just a few last bolts to tighten and wires to connect before the car is, theoretically, ready to roll.

I arrive in Detroit at around 4:00pm on Wednesday.  We go to TIM and finish the install.  There are several other indications that our trials and tribulations are not yet over, but they are hard to describe and will be boring to read.  At around 12:30am on Thursday we drive the car into the trailer...shiny rebuilt dogbox and all, and begin driving.   We have to hustle if we're going to make it to recce at this point;  we'll just have to take turns sleeping in the car on the way there.

And then, of course, I get pulled over.  I have been pulled over in Ohio before; it was not a pleasant experience.  However, this officer simply wanted to let me know that my trailer lights were not on.  Didn't hold us up, didn't even take my license and registration, just wished us luck and sent us on our way with our now functioning running lights.

I would like to tell you that arriving in Ohio, of all places, was a bitter disappointment.  It was, in fact, perhaps the only non-disappointing portion of the journey.  Chillicothe and the surrounding hills are incredibly beautiful, and watching the sunrise as we navigated our way to the first stage of recce brought a sense of hope to the adventure.  In addition, the amazing team with whom we stayed had selected an equally amazing cabin on a small creek that couldn't have been more comfortable or convenient.  Things were looking up.

We got through recce, made some decent notes considering we were both  delirious from lack of sleep, (well, except for the super-special because I fell asleep in transit and was worthless by the time we got there...didn't much matter in the end I suppose.).  And then, after some minor prep to the car and some tabbing and preparation of the stage notes, we slept.

The car breezed through scrutineering and seemed to be running like a champ.  We arrived at parc expose on time, relaxed, and ready to go.  The SOFR media team did an interview of all of the female competitors, asking us where we were from, how we got into rally, etc.  As much as I hate the "girl power" type stuff, this was a positive, funny, and bonding experience.  It's great to hear that so many women share the story and love of rally.  Its fantastic to know that they too get lost, scared, and frustrated, but to see how resilient we all are regardless is inspiring.  Some are drivers, some are mechanics, others welders or engineers or codrivers.  Some are all of the above.  Most, however, fell into a car somewhat by mistake, and work hard to learn and improve at every event.  There IS a rally family, and the greatest thing about being a female in the sport is that, as one competitor said, we're not looked at as "girls" (for the most part.)  We're held accountable, expected to perform, encouraged, supported, congratulated for our successes and coached through our failures.  We're just racers, and part of a family.  It's a crazy, often dysfunctional, part time family, but it still represents the amazing environment that has been created by rally organizers, fans, and all of the male competitors.  I was proud to stand with that group of women from all over the country and beyond.

When we finally pulled out and headed for the first stage, normal nerves aside, I think its safe to say Jimmy and I were both excited and feeling rally ready.  However, my calling of the notes wasn't great...I was reading too fast and couldn't seem to find my rhythm.  Jimmy commented that the car felt funny and that we needed to find time to adjust the suspension...something easily overlooked when you have no time to test.  Things continued to get rough as I began suffering from heat stroke, we misjudged a R3 after a bridge and blew a tire.  We came in for a short service and although it felt rushed we managed to get back on stage without penalty.

Then, on stage 7, as I was finally getting my wits about me and starting to get in the groove, the car started making a shitty noise.  I say shitty because we both knew what it was and couldn't believe it.  We stopped before 8, drove the car around, and it sounded like someone shaking nails in a coffee can every time Jimmy put it in 3rd.

I was crying but was too dehydrated to make tears.  Jimmy looked resigned; simply stating, "well...now I'm really done."

Codriving is fucking hard.  Rally is fucking hard; its expensive, dangerous, exhausting, frustrating, dirty, hot, cold, wet, painful.  It's also challenging, rewarding, thrilling, exciting, and a tremendous bonding experience.  If you can survive rally as a team, let alone as a rally couple, there is something to be said for that.  I'm not sure what that something is...it may simply be what so many people say to me..."you all are crazy."  I'll take it.

On the way home, we complained, reassured, swore, laughed, and eventually made a decision to regroup and reassess.  Over drinks later that evening, we came up with a new team motto;   "Hopelessly Persistent, Foolishly Optimistic."  Or something like that.

There will be more rally, although maybe not in the little red Mazda.  There will be more codriving for me as I build some confidence after this trying and  heartbreaking trip though the hills of Chillicothe, Ohio.  I hope everyone who wrecked, heat stroked, broke, or just retired are doing well and regrouping themselves.  There are too many thank yous to even mention, but big ones go to the Pelizzari's, because I love them all.  Adam and Paul for dog duty.  Marianna and Nathan for being great people, amazing hosts, and inspiringly fast rally car drivers, Paul Eddleston at Team Illuminata and Sue Cindrich.  My mom and Julie for not telling me I'm crazy for doing this.  Dan Hutchinson for crewing even when he's not there and Ted Andkilde for actually crewing.


I've made it through my initiation, and have reached a point where I think I'm a pretty good novice codriver.  Now, I'm ready to learn and do more...way more.  I look forward to learning how to feel the car better and know when I can push my driver vs when I maybe need to reign him in a bit, (or try anyway...)  I'm ready to work on consistent pacing and volume.  I'm ready for more scorching heat and freezing cold and dusty tire changes in the poison ivy with no gloves or boots. (Thank you sir...may I have another...)  Bring on the next adventure.  Keep me locked in this crazy "Animal House" they call rally...until next time.

Falling in Love...or...How a Ski Racing Girl Became a Motorsport Lovin' Lady

With a deep exhale and a few wiggles of my toes I bend over to buckle my boots, enjoying the last few seconds of feeling in my feet as I tighten the power strap and give my skis a stomp...
    With a deep exhale I wiggle my backside into my seat and look down to clip my belts into my five-point, double checking that all of my notes are within reach as I tighten the harness and give my head a shake...

I stand "on deck" listening to the buckling and stomping of the competitors around me.  The snow squeaks as skiers shift nervously on their skis.  I sort of listen to my coach's advice as I run through the course in my head, trying to ignore the sting of the cold through my GS suit and the fact that my feet now feel like lead blocks...
    We sit waiting at the ATC for our minute to come up, inhaling the exhaust of the car in front of us, watching the gauges and listening for any knocks or rattles that shouldn't be there.  I try to ignore the fog of the dramamine and the dryness of my mouth; I can't drink too much water because as a female co-driver I may not have time to pee...

The girl in front of me blasts out of the gate, and I follow her in.  I place one pole over the gate, and then the other, seeking the placement that will provide the best leverage and speed out onto the course.  I hear the starter say "10 seconds....5, 4, 3..." and then even though my edges rake over the ice, even though my coaches, family, and friends are cheering and ringing cow-bells, even though the wind is rushing past my helmet at 50 some-odd-miles per hour, all is quiet.
     The car ahead of us hurls out of the start, leaving us 60 seconds to find a place where the ruts and gravel won't slow down our take-off or crush our fragile transmission.  I hand the starter my time card, and he tells us "good luck" as he passes it back through the cracked window.  The digital clock to my right counts down the seconds, and I can hear Jimmy breathing and nervously messing with the shifter, making sure that we will get the best possible start.  "10 seconds," I say.  "5, 4, 3, 2..."  and even though the engine revs and the tires hurl gravel into the wheel wells and against the skid plate...even though I am shouting into my boom in my helmet, all is quiet.

When most people think of quiet, they think of it in terms of an absence of sound.  But for me, quiet is something else.  Even as a small child, my grandfather, Pop, used to tell me to "be still," which I didn't understand because I wasn't moving.  But as an adult, I get it.  He could see that, even at the age of 8 or 9, I was wiggling inside of my head.  I was worrying, or making up a story, or imagining what could go wrong, or getting really excited about something that hadn't yet happened, and may never occur.  I have never outgrown this wiggle; much like a child who gets yelled at for not sitting still in their seat at school and, even as an adult, paces, squirms, drives with their foot on the dash board.

Many folks go to the woods to hike, go out on a lake to fish, or go to yoga class to find quiet.  I love all of these things, but they do not always help me to be still; in fact, it is quite the opposite.  Sometimes, they provide additional opportunities for the wiggle to perpetuate.  It has only been in moments which for so many would be unbearably stressful that I find true stillness.  In the 30 seconds I spent navigating my skis through a GS course, or the moments it took to make a challenging move or clip on a climbing route, or as I find my place in my route book after something mildly scary happens so that I can tell Jimmy our next move on stage in the rally car...it is in these moments when my...I guess it's anxiety...disappears, and I can be the most true version of myself.  There isn't room or time to be anything else.

Many might also compare this feeling of stillness to "the moment they fell in love."  Although I do not believe that love happens in a single moment, I do believe that these moments, in retrospect, can let you know that you are involved in something, or with someone, that you truly love.  I love to ski.  I loved to rock climb, (and probably still would if there were opportunities to do so nearby.)  And truly, I love rally, and am falling in love with the world of motorsports racing in general.

Like skiing, cars and racing are constantly evolving in terms of technology, and therefore strategy. This means that in order to be involved with them in any real way, you must be constantly learning.  As a scientist and teacher, this satisfies the lifelong learner and problem solver within me, and I'm sure within so many other enthusiasts.  And, like climbing, you must learn to trust and be utterly responsible with your gear, your partners, and your choices....but once you've done so, you must then completely relinquish control, and exist fully within each moment.  In those moments you find courage, (and even bravery,) intelligence, persistence, enlightenment, peace, and yes...love.

I actually hated auto racing for a large portion of my life.  Much of that centered around one incident, which involved an all night trip home at age 8 or 9 from my aunt's wedding in Boston, (which we left mid-reception,)  so that my father could watch the Indy 500 from his own couch.  It was a tremendous source of conflict within my family, and between my mother and father, who divorced a year later.  Some of it centered around a second horrible day when my high school boyfriend, (and just best friend in general,) died due to injuries he sustained after having a seizure while driving and striking a tree.  However, I am now fortunate enough to have a driver-teacher-partner-friend-love in my life who has re-introduced me to this world.  He has done so with great patience, understanding, and yes, even excitement.  He has taken me to the 500 and shown me that it's not just about cars going in circles; its history and technology and competition and community and singing and being sweaty-hot and mildly drunk and really uncomfortable but not caring at all.  He helps me "be still."

I don't ski race any more in any true competitive way, but occasionally I find stillness in the mountains when I am able to seek them out.  I no longer climb seriously, as an ankle and elbow became uncooperative to the extent that I risked additional surgery or lifelong injury.  But, I find stillness riding in cars, (and sometimes boats,) with my Handsome Race Car Driver Boyfriend as I grow and learn and develop as a rally co-driver and motorsports enthusiast.  I love rally, and racing.  It doesn't mean it's never heart breaking.  It doesn't mean I never worry or get overly worked up.  It doesn't mean that I don't get overly excited or crushingly disappointed.  It doesn't mean I never hate it. But that's love.

Sometimes, quiet is loud.

100 Acre Wood

"So, y'all mean to tell me you don't make no money...there's not even any money to win?  You just come down here and drive around in the middle of nowhere Missouri and break your shit and you can't even win nothin?"

"Um...yep...pretty much."  we reply in tandem.   

You have to imagine that it's 4:30pm, and we are indeed standing in the woods in the middle of nowhere Missouri.  Not only are we standing in the middle of the woods, we are standing on a 1962 Studebaker "Duece" military vehicle with a Punisher-embellished star on each door.  We are preparing for the cars to come through stage 12/15 of the 100 Acre Wood Rally, (Day 2,) with our newly found friends; a family of lead miners from somewhere near Salem. We came across them simply out of curiousity, as we could see the Duece from our spectator point.  First impressions were not wonderful, as Mike approached them with his phone out, recording their hootenanny for posterity.  However, in the end, they made our day better than anything we could have hoped for; genuine, hard working, fun loving, folks willing to share their food, fire, and libations and talk about race cars all day.

We should be competing, but we are not.  We are drinking at a rate which, I feel, sufficiently reflects our disappointment that we are not in fact doing so.  However, by the time the first car comes through, it is not only the homemade 'shine, the "brapp" of the oncoming rally cars, or the spray of dust and gravel slung up as they fly past that brings smiles to our faces.  It is also the realization that this sport brings folks together who never would have spoken otherwise; its the acceptance that yep...there's no money in this brand of grassroots motorsports racing.  There's a lot of heartbreak and credit card debt.  There are endless mystery gremlins buried in rat's nests of wiring, blown tires, funny smells, scary sounds, and missing yet critically important tools.  There are tests of will, patience, courage, friendship, and sanity.

But, then there is flying across the finish of the last stage...reaching for the hand of your driver, knowing that even if it wasn't your boyfriend, you'd be doing it anyway because you worked so damned hard to get here, and you're so damned excited.

There is persisting despite frozen toes, scraped knuckles, and mouthfuls of dust, only to see the grins on the faces of your family, your crew, and the random fans who love your silly little car and your relentless optimism.  (Sometimes, your "intern" even cries when you not only finish, but win 3rd in class...)

However, there was no flying across the finish in Missouri for the JARR team.  Parc Expose was great...people LOVE seeing the GTX getting prepped to race, and we love seeing our rally family.  They're excited, nervous, smiling...ready to race.  So are we.

Stage 1 went off with only a small hitch; the roads down there are amazing; smooth, grated gravel...winding but fast.  Then, on stage 2, at the bottom of a steep down, we hit deep, riverbed gravel.  The skid plate bottomed out, the transmission made a funny sound, and then another, and then another as Jimmy tried to get the car into gear.  It wouldn't go, and so we coasted across a small bridge and pulled over on the other side of the river.  I ran to put out the triangles, (which alert oncoming racers of our presence and misfortune,) flipped my book to the "OK" sign, and stood silently, sad-furious-disappointed, by the side of the road waving people by while Jimmy swore, kicked things, and finally resigned himself to skipping stones as we waited for the sweep.   (They were two elderly locals who almost crushed Jimmy between the truck and the car while hooking up the strap, but at least they got us out.)

Just past the stage finish, we waited.  And waited.  And waited.   Two ladies in a medical service car stopped and notified us that our friends in car 228 had wrecked, but were ok, for which we were thankful.  We had no cell service, so we had to trust that the radio guys and gals had gotten word to our crew guy (Mike) who still would have to re-pack the trailer, hook it up, get directions, and try to find us in the middle of East-Jesus-Nowhere.  Four hours, two random hound dogs, and a couple jogs to the end of the road later, we were loading up the car and headed for service.







We made a valiant effort to restart on Day 2.  We rang the nearby watering hole to try to find a random local who had drunkenly sworn to us on the previous night that he had 3 GTXs in his "scrap yard."  (We found him.  He did not.)  We searched the internet over some "Missouri Hick BBQ" (I'm not making that up...) to locate the closest GTX transmission to Salem.  (It's in Omaha, Nebraska, in case you were curious.)  We debated staying up all night to do a 2WD conversion with a potentially available transmission from 2 awesome local dudes who race an old Ford Fiesta.  Eventually, we resigned ourselves to spending the second day as spectators, and tucked in at The Ranch motel for the night.

So, on Saturday, we made new friends, ate brats, watched rally cars, and drowned our sorrows.  We congratulated friends with huge hugs and high fives.  I met John Buffum and almost got his t-shirt, but Travis Pastrana (who defeated David Higgins for the win, incidentally) cock-blocked me.  Driver and Crew were over-served, but smiling and dancing...(until the next morning, that is,) when we piled into the rig and headed home...through the snow.















There were some gnarly wrecks; of nearly 70 cars that started, less than 30 finished, but all drivers will race another day.  There were, (as there always are,) moments when we were all ready to give up on this ridiculous venture and leave the car, (and possibly each other,) on the side of...whatever road we were stranded on.  But you dust yourself off, you let the love back in, you have another cocktail, and you Press On.
Until next time Missouri...