4 months. I think that is some kind of record. A sad record since last posted. Is the sickness taking hold of me? Is it the empty easy screen scrolling time spent on facebook? The impeding physical form nearing the completion of it's 39th rotation around the sun? The fact I moved my house and shop to a new all in one location of honky heaven this summer? That I am a proud loving father of a 12 month old wonder girl who loves being a dare devil and spends three or four days a week in a motorbike shop recking havoc and wants nothing more than to show me how much she loves me and is worthy of my hopelessly adoring admiration? Or is it just the nerve damage I suffered in my last post? Well, I reckon a little of all of that and some more than others. But I still can't feel the skin over my left knee. And I will die first if I ever have to move my shop again. Very serious. I feel old, and yet I feel more than ever the need to live hard and go fast. Like hill climb racing where so much preparation and anticipation goes into one short run or hopeful full throttle perfection; every chance I get to pin it now, you best believe I'm a stretch that mother fucking throttle cable like a piece of dental floss picking a crocodile's ass out of a t-rex tooth.
Anyhoo, my little darling daughter Nova is an amazing addition to life. I am a very lucky man! The new shop/casa is taking form and it excites me, but that is probably not why you are reading this blog. like I have a fucking clue if anybody even reads this blog any more or why I am sharing/gloating/whining?? I don't know. It is my happy place to just write like a fantasy editorial for a bike mag or a journal that a Jewish girl wrote in an addict during some serios shit going down. Maybe someday I'll get a pair of fancy slippers and change my name to Ann. Maybe that is not very funny. What I was really trying to get on here and post about is the racing! The racing! I did race this summer, It was sick! Sicker than a covid booger on an airport escalator hand rail getting all stretched out like laughy taffy. Sick I tell ya! I raced the bug at the first two hill climbs finishing 3rd and than 2nd at Lands End. I got to share the Podium with some guy named Jeff Zwart. A former 24hr of Leman and team mate of Paul Newman. 3rd place podium was a no show. We picked up our Champaine bottles and he looked at me and said "Do we really want to do this?" I did not hesitate and I said " Hell no, lets save this shit for mimosas in the morning!" I like to think that he saved his bubbly, went back to his beautifal abode in Aspen and had a nice orange juice breakfast while thinking of me and my rusty slug bug like I did while thinking of his turbo factory Porshe but I like to dream a lot.
The 3rd race I entered this summer was the high elevation Monarch hill climb and I thought it best to leave the little anemic edamame commie at home and get the led out of my ass with the Pontiac veteran hill climb car. Two years ago I spent a lot of time and a fair amount of money building that sbc350 engine from the crankshaft up all my self and I was ready to see what the fuck it all came down to. I had most of the bugs worked out but I figured there would be more so for the first time in my life I went racing without a motorbike. Just the big old car. I have won every hill climb I have entered for that last few years on a bike and I figured what the hell. I knew I would miss the last two hill climbs this year for my daughters' birthday (Mom said so :() and another weekend I promised Mom for the final. I love Mom. So I knew I would not get the points championship but who fucking cares anyway. I used to but really? who fucking cares? It is a silly game. I ... I will win that fucking championship next year! Any how I did not bring a bike to Monarch so that I could focus on racing the big stockcar and working on any bugs. There were enough bugs to keep the Orkin man busy. My Hill Climb racing hill-billy friends helped and the old 1980 Pontiac finished every run taking the class win. Better yet, it scared the ever living shit out of me. The engine I built is strong and happy and the suspension on that big chunk of iron is more soggy than a soup sandwich. On the start straight stretch of the narrow two track mining road we hit 90mph. And a jump. On a motorbike I heard them say jump and never knew what the shit they were talking about. In the Pontiac I knew. gravel flew over the hood and around the windshield landing in my lap while I did things with the steering wheel resembling a Honey Mooners wife smack. but she smacked back and all I could do was keep my foot in it. Similar front suspension feed back was felt another time or two in the course. After my final fun the front cross member and a-arms where packed tight with a granet shale concrete like substance. She needs some stiffer springs and at least some shock absorbers that dampen more than my screen door spring.
Peace, grease, and healthy knees!
