The fucking essence

 After racing for 25 years now, I have come to know some interesting folk, I have seen some crazy shit go down, and I have always come to philosophize every bit of it that I can wrap my head around. The always asked "Why?" is more of an inescapable ponder than an answerable question. All I know is what I have come to dig up and dust off like some archeologist stuck in their own back yard. My back yard is racing; The art, the act, and the blood, sweat and piss of it. There are some folk who are such divine seekers of perfection, their image is a window to the thoughtfulness of there obsession. Displays of beauty and power have always been in natures arsenal of dominance and survival. I love to walk through a race pit or paddock ogling the display of machinery, gear, and tools. I also really enjoy the back row where there are privateers with no matching outfits or loud banners proclaiming loyalty to a corporate sponsor. Something transparent and organic can be found in the less than perfect and it makes me feel good, warm, and, maybe even at home. That rare place where I feel complete and wholly alive. Like being right on the edge of disaster. Giving it your all and pushing with every bit of will and desire to win. Along with the raged edge comes the mind bending adrenaline and acknowledgment of one's own true self. The insane moments of speed and serenity, the true fucking essence of racing. Mmmmmm, racing.