March Meet Reflections
POOF! After months of anticipation, a little testing, tweaking (on the car, mind you), thrashing, saving your pennies and wading through the pre-season rumor mill, it's over. Before you realize it, you're standing in a just-vacated pit spot, watching your rig pull out from where, hours earlier, it was all asses and elbows, blood, sweat and almost tears of anticipation; and all you have to show for it is a single empty silver bullet (you do have to drive home, after all) and a feeling of "well, that was fun."
We all suffer that morning after thing on Sunday at the drags when it's all over; at least when you're not in the winner’s circle. You know the feeling all too well - like the proverbial hung-over drag queen on New Year's Day with a broken heel.
I've talked to more than a few folks who feel like our year is over - that's it. We've just had the biggest deal our little corner of drag racing will ever have. Post-partum depression at its finest, I guess. It is a little bit of a letdown, but let's be glad we now have a series with some integrity. This nostalgia thing has a mind of its own and has even got the Burkster looking for parts now that he has jumped in with Paul Romine. Come on in, guys! The water's fine! He swears he won't complain about the purse money.
I know most of you have seen all the web coverage starting with DRO's very own same-day coverage of the 50th March Meet, so I won't waste bandwidth with stats and results.
I will say it was great to participate in the 50th March Meet. Doing the pre-race display on Thursday night at Chuy's restaurant was a gas even if I almost got my ass kicked by some locals who thought my crew uniform was "cute." This was, of course, before my crew arrived to at least demonstrate that not just short, blond guys wear all black and shirts that have their name on the chest. Of course qualifying number three in AA/FC is something my poor kids will never hear the end of.
Some more thoughts on the March Meet experience.
I don't know what it is about Famoso, the Utterbacks and oil. This time it wasn't the Things playing in the green gooky stuff, but dear old Dad who got a bath. In our first round match up against Mike Savage, I stayed with a bout of tire shake probably a little too long, that is, until a fitting on the back of the oil pressure gauge failed and allowed the braided line to act like a water-wiggle spewing Anderson's Pea Soup, all the while coating me, the inside of the car and my first round victory hopes with a copious amount of 70 weight. At least none of it ended up on the track, much to my relief. My poor boots now weigh 50 pounds each though.
Jeezus H. Chrysler! Did any one else notice that any time we race at Famoso it's like a "Pit-Bike & Golf Cart Regatta"? It seems every ex tire-biter now skater-dude and his former "timeout doll" sister are running around on something motorized with wheels under or around them at all hours of the day and night, sometimes shuttling a slightly "over-served" Mom or Dad to the head or to someone else's not-yet-empty ice chest. I must be getting old if this is starting to bug me. Far be it from me to suggest any type of regulation, but maybe someone will run into something expensive and get a road-rash (don't want anyone to get really hurt, ya know), or maybe common sense will prevail and the parents will step in and limit their use. Yeah, and I'll be running a 5.50 in Pisano's car next time out.