"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...
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.
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...
