THE ESTROGEN PAGE

Having slid, ever so gently, into the second half of my fifth decade, there are a few things  I am absolutely sure of.   I know I will crawl out of bed tomorrow morning cursing the dawn but nonetheless preparing for another day of battle.  I know that no matter how carefully I have crafted my shopping list, I will forget to buy the one thing I absolutely need.   I know that no matter how savvy I think I am, I will never be prepared to deal with the horror of a senseless surprise attack on our country that may forever change our skyline but will never change our resolve.  I also know that the only possible response to that level of encroachment is to stand tall and proud and say “No you can’t.”

September 11 was the day that everyone lost someone.  September 15 and 16th became our chance to bond – a rag tag, disparate group of numbers and classes and horsepower, all at the same place, at the same time and probably for the same softly spoken reason.  The greetings were warmer, the hugs were tighter, the smiles were more genuine and the flags were everywhere. Especially during the Volvo Historic Races.

Watkins Glen, September 2001 is indelibly etched in my brain as not only a brief respite from the realities that life has brought us, but as a testament to our ability to level the playing field.  Yes, we were attacked in the most mindless and cowardly way possible, yes, we have suffered the loss of some of our best and most promising, yes, we have been wounded,  but, be assured, we are made of tougher stuff than those terrorists will ever realize.

There is a definite cadence to a race weekend. It begins at registration with the early comers and their lawn chairs, pets and cocktails, waiting for the windows to open marking an official start to the festivities. The line becomes snake-like in appearance bending this way and that, so those in the rear of the line can see who arrived before they did.  It is the most democratic and civilized process I have ever seen and it never fails to grab my attention.  On this day there was no impatience in line, or none that I observed. No one got excited with the predictable “cuts” in line – always a ruse but on this day – absolutely forgiven. We shared our experience, we shared that day, we talked about those we knew were gone and the ones we were not yet sure of.  We, each and every one of us, knew exactly where we were and what we were doing when it became clear that this was not a tragic accident but a willful and sickening strike.

Racers mark their territory like every breed of cat known to man. Early comers are in charge of securing space for their friends using any and every implement available including trash containers, yellow hazard lines, rope, string and when all else fails, bodies! Just as there are rules of engagement, there are rules to encampment and woe to the poor bloke who doesn’t get it. On this day, everyone got it. On this day, everyone helped everyone else.  Canopies were erected in record time, helping hands came out of nowhere and the reward of a cold beer and a kind word were all that it took.  There was a need to erect this mechanical city, almost as a testament to that which had been leveled.  The sound of generators winding up, usually discordant and irritating, on this day were soothing and almost melodic. Lights flashed on and another section of the city was built.
Vidi, vini, vici.

Race weekends have only two hard and fast rules that must not be violated.  Rule One: make sure your car is race-ready...or...as ready as it is going to be given the economy of the moment.  Rule Two: make sure you have enough food to feed the state of Montana.  Rule one is their department, rule two is ours.  If you have to stop and think about who “they” are and who “we” are, then I can only suggest that you return to Momma for re-training.  It’s simple really, I don’t want to be in charge of gaskets, wheel bearings, torque wrenches or air hoses.  I don’t want to refill the generator when it starts protesting, I have no interest in figuring out how to blow up the air bed.  In fact, the most mechanical thing I want to do is apply a cork screw to a bottle of vintage wine. This leaves 2 possible avenues: make a banquet or make reservations!   While I have mastered the latter, when it comes to the former, my skills pale in comparison to Carol Hamilton or Margot Matejka, who produce gallons of gourmet fare as easily (and quickly I might add) as bunnies multiply.   I’m not exactly sure when the tradition of wining and dining the entire Volvo Series and half the event officials started, but somehow the three of us figure it out and get the job done. Say what you will about “the need for speed”, the undeniable scent of used nomex, finding the right line in Big Bend, …I defy anyone to say that one of Carol’s and Marco’s gourmet meals isn’t right up there.

Those of you who did not stumble upon the Volvo Historic encampment on Saturday night (and from the size of the crowd, there wasn’t many) missed the debut of WBAD’s “Muddy Waters” – a character of dubious origin, suspect lineage and outrageous presence. Muddy, was originally meant to be a parody of one of our own, a one-time only performance - who became larger than life before our very eyes.  He was bigger, funnier, more irreverent, sillier than he ever intended or ever knew he could be.   Muddy didn’t need a reason to be, but no one was more surprised than he that his “schtick” would be so well received much less understood. And that weekend, no one was more important.  The best part is we have the whole thing on video tape and have every intention of using it should “Muddy” ever run for elected office!

However each of us deals with the events of September 11th, there is one more thing I know to be true.  Since we only get to run this track once, we must honor the spirit of those we have lost by doing what we do with class, joy and a reverence for what life allows us.