Bob loves his car. A lot.
My father, who, you will have noticed, I call Bob, lavishes his spare time, energy, and retirement dollars on his 1971 Camaro Z28. He's had it since America went to the moon, and it doesn't look like it's aged a bit. Slate blue, chased in chromed stripes, the interior still the same glossy leather it sold in. It usually lives in the third bay of the garage at home, propped trophy-like on red steel struts. One weekend a month, he'll slide under it on casters, wiggling his boots somewhere near the tailpipe. I'm not sure what he's been fixing for the past 40 years... but it seems important enough to keep it off the road. That is -- Bob has not, in living memory, freed the Z28 from the garage.
That, actually, is not strictly true. Friends & stalkers will probably remember
the story of how I crashed my first car, which, properly told, starts with a father / son trip to Capitol Racetrack in Laurel, Maryland. Today actually marked the one-year anniversary of that trip, and the accident that happened later that day. Though the crash flipped my car, it was non-lethal (obviously?), and taught me a lot -- which I why we did it all again.
So, ten-o-clock this morning had Charlie and I in the S10, following Bob on a muggy Maryland morning down the interstate. We brought a camera along, because the Camaro's liberation is such a rare event, and snapped pictures from the window as we blocked traffic. The roads were dry, so Bob's car stood no chance of crashing this time, but it was still a little alarming to be behind him when he shifted. Due to some oversight in his multi-decade tinkering, Bob is missing his speedometer, and so passes 80 m.p.h. without a second thought.
Aside: try, some time, to catch a muscle car in a pick-up truck. Easy, isn't it?We arrived at Capitol Racetrack at maybe 11:30 AM. A woman and her three-person support group took tickets at the foot of a massive hill, broken only by a wide road. Bob, cagey as ever, registered my brother and I as his pit-crew, and avoided the $10 spectator charge. Sweet -- free dragracing!
The air was thick with the throaty idle of muscle cars. As we tailed up the hill, he swung into another line, and let the engine throb on as he filled out some paperwork -- probably "
please-don't-sue-us-if-you-mash-yourself-into-the-windshield" legal stuff, or something. Charlie and I couldn't restrain ourselves; this was too good. The line was filled with dozens of versions of Bob -- fifty-something men in prescription sunglasses and sleeveless shirts that advertised long-dead automotive brands. There was a little gathering a couple cars up, and as Bob finished up, we saw him start to edge towards his people, awkwardly looking away as he... happened upon their company. They swaggered, laughed, compared engines, interiors, keys... old men letting something younger out.
When he passed tech inspection and left the line, Bob swung into the race lanes, getting a spot for the drag race. Charlie and I parked, and sat under a spot of shade near the sponsored car show, and panted in the heat. An announcer lady came on the loudspeaker in a thick country accent: "
As a courtesy to the churches down the road, we'll be delaying the race until after noon. Also, Chuck, call my mother." Charlie and I smiled to each other. We grabbed a few cokes apiece, and walked through the car show, pointing first as this, then at that shiny thing. Everything was overblown, overdone; the owner, lounging in a lawn chair with a cooler somewhere behind the trunk, was always more than happy to hop out and explain how he had tacked on 100, maybe 200 horsepower to the factory rating.
Every good thing comes to an end, though. The rain earlier in the week had, apparently, soaked the track thoroughly enough that racing was impossible. For the second time, Bob was thwarted from racing like he did when he was young. Still smiling, he packed it in, and we tailed him home, weaving on the Beltway, now and again, to catch a picture of him in his lane. The air behind him stunk of burned rubber and unburnt gasoline, rich and heavy and ancient. He sped all the way home, and really let it roar the closer we got to the house -- opening up a last volley for the hill before our driveway.
When we got home, he let the engine fade into a loose splutter, nudging the beast, in fits and starts, back into its cradle. With a few deft pumps of the jack, it was lifted back into the air, kept captive by small yellow chocks. There was nothing about it to suggest it had burned through a half our state and a full tank of gas. Bob wept his brow with his gray t-shirt, and said, after a wet cough, "I considered that productive... how 'bout you?" He smiled, and went inside, ready for lunch.
As for me -- it was really cool to see Dad so animated. He lives for his kids, the lawn, and his car, not necessarily in that order, so seeing him in his element was rewarding. It was also very strange to be celebrating a few anniversaries: today marked not only the day I crashed, but also the day before I left for Stanford. This time last year, I was getting ready for another big trip. Strange, as I pack the car with my stuff for Peru, that this should be the last thing I did with Bob. At least this time I kept all four of my tires on the ground.
