Out Of Rust To Glory
Out of Rust to Glory
Two hundred and twenty- two hours of bruised and bloodied knuckles, oil streaked foreheads and lower back pain that would bring a giant to his knees. Two hundred and twenty-two hours of wrenching, lubricating, fabricating, jamming, forcing, prying, frustration and thrill. Two hundred and twenty-two hours of early mornings and late nights that turned into early mornings again. Two hundred and twenty-two hours of head scratching, thought pondering, calling gear head friends for advice to only end up on countless hours of “ how to” youtube videos. Two hundred and twenty-two hours towards fulfilling one of the biggest dreams in my life. It was a hot July day in California the flies were thicker than Midwest humidity. I was suited up in a full bodied fire retardant jump suit, gloves, race shoes, neck roll and a helmet, happier than a five year old’s Christmas morning. As the sweat dripped down my back and the sun beat on the top of my helmet making the top of my head feel like it was going to catch fire. By this point my smile was the size of Texas. The crowd bustled around and cheered for the preliminary races, the music blasted between the commentator’s recaps and I stood proudly outside of the door of my race car, my purple and white ole’ number 77. Two hundred and twenty-two hours of determination and fantasizing about this very day, my first race. As the crowd cheered for the beginning of my division the hobby stocks, I took in a deep dust filled breath, said a silent prayer in my head, pumped the fists of my pit crew, grabbed on to the driver’s side roof and slid into my seat through the window, “Dukes of Hazard” style. When I landed in my driver’s seat it hit me like a thunder bolt. This is it this is what I had spent all those pain staking hours building and dreaming of this is it Race Day. My heart pounded like a jack- hammer. My palms started to sweat so profusely it was like they were a water soaked sponge being
Two hundred and twenty- two hours of bruised and bloodied knuckles, oil streaked foreheads and lower back pain that would bring a giant to his knees. Two hundred and twenty-two hours of wrenching, lubricating, fabricating, jamming, forcing, prying, frustration and thrill. Two hundred and twenty-two hours of early mornings and late nights that turned into early mornings again. Two hundred and twenty-two hours of head scratching, thought pondering, calling gear head friends for advice to only end up on countless hours of “ how to” youtube videos. Two hundred and twenty-two hours towards fulfilling one of the biggest dreams in my life. It was a hot July day in California the flies were thicker than Midwest humidity. I was suited up in a full bodied fire retardant jump suit, gloves, race shoes, neck roll and a helmet, happier than a five year old’s Christmas morning. As the sweat dripped down my back and the sun beat on the top of my helmet making the top of my head feel like it was going to catch fire. By this point my smile was the size of Texas. The crowd bustled around and cheered for the preliminary races, the music blasted between the commentator’s recaps and I stood proudly outside of the door of my race car, my purple and white ole’ number 77. Two hundred and twenty-two hours of determination and fantasizing about this very day, my first race. As the crowd cheered for the beginning of my division the hobby stocks, I took in a deep dust filled breath, said a silent prayer in my head, pumped the fists of my pit crew, grabbed on to the driver’s side roof and slid into my seat through the window, “Dukes of Hazard” style. When I landed in my driver’s seat it hit me like a thunder bolt. This is it this is what I had spent all those pain staking hours building and dreaming of this is it Race Day. My heart pounded like a jack- hammer. My palms started to sweat so profusely it was like they were a water soaked sponge being