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 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."
Sometimes, quiet is loud.
