THE ESTROGEN PAGE

Yes, I know, this is an impossible premise, but I revel in the impossible and actually take great joy when one has pronounced something “impossible” and that theory ultimately is proven flawed.  We’ve all been schooled in baseballs’ three strike dictate, the three strike rule is in place in certain states who have decided that miscreant behavior does have it’s limits and it certainly works in that devilish adage that bad things happen in threes.  Well, guess what?  “He Who Must Race” has five under his belt so far this season and for each of our sanity I’m rooting for the streak to stop here.

This season started out with all the promise of a nubile high school junior with a bit too much make-up, barely camouflaged breast enhancement, her first corsage and tinted satin high heels that sort of matched her prom gown.  The car was ready, “He Who Must Race” was itching to get to New Hampshire and into that nomex to break in a new season.   Break we did and we hadn’t even arrived at the track.  Strike One arrived compliments of a trailer ramp that dislodged itself in front of us just in time for us to run over it.  A little zig, not enough zag and kabluie goes a truck tire.  After a hair-raising tire change in a screaming wind storm seven inches off the highway we arrived at the track a bit shaken but resolved to put that happenstance behind us and move on.

Strike Two crept up on “He Who Must Race” about the same way a mortar shell greets a bunker.  Kaboom!  It probably would be helpful to know at this point that my automotive educational syllabus has not yet progressed far into the “D” section so “drive shaft, exploding” didn’t make much sense to me.  I had only made my way to “debris, automotive”.

“Distributor rotor, committing suicide” was both strikes Three and Four – a double play, no men on base.  But it was not until strike four that “He Who Must Race” began to comprehend the scope of the problem caused by strike two.   Now, obviously since my automotive education is stuck in the “D” section, it may be decades before I grapple with the “W’s”, “worm gears, stripped”. But wait!, There’s More!

Strike Five was mean and heartless and we ended up damn lucky it struck when it did.  As we departed Pocono, “He Who Must Race” was pulling the trailer and I was in the PT behind him in a pathetic attempt to protect him from the ever-present idiot who can’t decide what lane to be in so picks all of them.  We chatted aimlessly on the track radios mostly trying to decide what lane the aforementioned idiot might not try or what to have for dinner that night.  All was proceeding smoothly until five miles out from the George Washington Bridge..….in hindsight, an omen.  A passage that should take ten minutes ended up taking two and a half hours – a lot of braking and inching and braking and inching.  The Cross Bronx Expressway, under normal conditions the next ordeal, was amazingly passable.  The approach to the Throggs Neck Bridge was clear sailing UNTIL this shiny silver object let loose from the trailer and sailed straight for my windshield, missing it by inches.  Within seconds smoke was streaming out of the rear drivers side wheels of the trailer so I dutifully called to “He Who Must Race” and advised he pull over after the toll to investigate.

Once again, I’m sad to admit, my automotive education, mired in the “D” section, struggled with the concept of “wheel hub, missing”.  It wasn’t exactly missing…..it had committed suicide, according to “He Who Must Race”.   I’m still working on that concept.

Now, you are probably wondering why I am burdening you with this incredible tale of woe.  Well, for those of you who have actually completed a lap of racing this season, I want you to feel very good about that.  For those of you who have successfully completed a qualifying round, I want you to feel accomplished.  And for those of you, who have successfully completed a lap, qualifying and a race, be warned.  I’m a woman on the edge married to a guy who just wants to complete a lap.

I really don’t think that’s asking too much.