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...