The art of racing in the rain

That's the title of a good book I once read. Recommendations  #237 Lord Mick dirt box ragger.  It was done in the perspective of a dog. In schooled up writer people terms i think thats something like personified 1st person narrative. Maybe I just made that up. Basically the thought is that holding on loosely (figuratively and literally), embracing the slide,  and feeling the flow with all around you is a good way to live (race (live)). I like parentheses. Somebody, who is one of my favorite writers recently  praised the way I write this blog without offending anyone. This person wondered how I accomplish this. Much self-control and patience?  Maybe subconsciously. I have frankly from the conception of this blog just really not gave a flying fuck. At least not to my language. Or content. I am sure it has offended plenty but I like to think in a punk rock way. Not a raving neo nazi pro life snuff film gun totting redneck bigot way. What I do care about is just hoping to delivery some sort of internet shovel load of shit with enough quality that some other like minded nuts can relate and maybe enjoy. Like minded in maybe more than just the surface context of racing, or living on/in wheels. I like to read something when I don't think it is deep or serious and find it to be completely full of both. Kind of like when a road side taco stand knocks your socks off. (I hope you washed you feet today.) So I reckon I find motivation in sharing something from the heart. Sharing is good. The world could use more of it. I love to read someone's stuff when it is unfiltered, from the heart, and simply pure. It's like watching someone kill it on the start line and be in front by the end of a race. The race strategy is ditched and replaced with just the racer's emotion. The mental rules of the game are shed and the talent and heart of the racer is shining. It is the good stuff. The stars are aligned allowing the whole organic and metal machine to mesh and operate on a rare and precious level. Some years ago, I was driving home from a desert race in the south west. Ten hours in after a long two days of racing with only 45 minutes of driving left. I was completely checked out, on auto pilot, and basically lost deep in thought. Not driving, Not thinking of living to see another day. Not the fact that the road had become shinny with frozen snow. I think they call that ice. I crested a high pass with my foot deep in the accelerator pedal pushing the overloaded van up the grade. A corner we know as a blind apex sent the boat into a tremendous four wheel slide down the grade to the out side of a corner. A run away death ramp that stopped some where near the bottom of the San Juan mountains. My slideways  brain sent my feet into pedal tapping actions and suddenly my hands were steering the wheel like a graceful octopus bus driver in downtown Boston. I am not sure if the overhanging back wheels caught some traction when they left the tarmac or if I saved it with my skills or the possibility I am just a lucky fuck. I did a speedometer check and yup; I really did have my foot into that accelerator pedal. Coming down the backside of the pass I saw two 4x4 autos pilled into snowbanks and trees. I am sure they were crawling along all white knuckled with there hubs in and wrists locked.  I like to think a loose grip and maybe an adventures soul is the way to roll.  Ride the slide. Keep the balance.