It's funny how differently two people can perceive the same event. Especially when those people have similar backgrounds and ideals because they were raised in the same family. Though I guess it's not all that unusual for siblings to have totally different viewpoints on life. The important ting to remember is that perception does not equal truth.

Travel agents and wedding planners

It's my understanding that the whole idea behind people like travel agents and wedding planners is that it is their job to find you the best deals. To negotiate on your behalf. To reveal the tricks and secrets that save you time and money making your trip, or wedding, respectively the best possible experience. So how is it that my first experience with both cost my double what it would have had I done things on my own?

Riding the racing roller coaster

Looking back, I think I tried to sabotage myself. But Colin wouldn't let me. First he sent me to Bondurant Driving School. I passed that, so then it was my turn to act. I had to file the proper paperwork with the SVRA and VSCDA to get my respective license and/or driving privileges. So a month went by, then two, three, four and so on until my certificate from Bondurant was almost expired and I would have had to take the course again in order to get my vintage racing license. 

Again Colin forced my hand. He wanted me to do the VSCDA Spring Brake driver's school the first weekend in May at GingerMan Raceway, followed by what would be my first race ever, and Colin's first race of the season. So in order to participate I had to file the paperwork I'd been procrastinating filing. 

I'd been saying all along I wanted to drive a racecar. So what was keeping me from taking the proper steps? Colin was handing me my vintage racing opportunity on a silver platter and I was practically letting it slip through my fingers. But I only realize this looking back now. 

The paperwork was filed, the entry fees were paid and everything was set for my driver's school. And the roller coaster of emotions begins.  First the car needed some additional safety equipment, mainly an expanded roll cage to include driver's side impact protection. No big deal. Well that's what the car got, except now the side impact protection was filling the space where my left elbow had previously called home. Colin said I could adjust. All I could think was how nervous about driving the car I already felt and now my left arm had limited mobility. I was trying to be a good sport, and if Colin said I could do it, I believed him, and I told him I would drive the car, roll cage in my way and all. Thankfully, Colin sensed my fear of driving with my left arm seriously restricted and magically had the roll cage altered so that once again my left arm had full range of motion. 

The same shop that installed the too-small roll cage was also supposed to have done a comprehensive pre-race mechanical prep and swore the car was ready to go. But Colin, detailed-orientated as he his, thought another once over couldn't hurt. And so he had Marty, one of his seriously gifted ace mechanics, go over the car. And, you guessed it, the car was not even near to being track worthy. Scary to think I'd already did one track day with the car in this condition. The right rear brake wheel cylinder was rusted solid; front wheel bearings way over torqued; rear axle hubs rubbing on brake shoe springs and wheel cylinders; left front brake hose had a hole rubbed in it; cracked transmission case bleeding gear lube; half the bolts in the suspension were loose; upper radiator hose kinked due to wrong thermostat housing on the engine; front to back brake line pinched by seat mounting bolts; etc. Naturally, at this point the car was supposed to be on the trailer, loaded, tied down and ready to go bright and early the next morning. Needless to say it was a long way from "ready to go." But as anyone who has done any kind of racing will tell you, it is not unusual to be working on your car until right up to the race start. I'm sure this situation will repeat itself time and time again throughout my racing career.  

After a run to Pegasus, minutes before closing (thanks Bob) and a very late night paired with a very early morning by Colin and Marty, the car was ready in time for my school and my first race. 

School started with an evening session of chalk talk covering the basics of vintage racing, going over the flags, the line, and the finer points of being a "gentleman" racer. I'm thankful all the information wasn't new to me, otherwise it would have been a lot to take in in one evening. 

Friday morning the vintage racing immersion program for the 30-some new racers began. Track time, followed by classroom debrief, then back in the car, then back in the classroom and over and over all day. But the good thing about a tight schedule is that there's less time to spend being nervous. Though the nerves still found a way to sneak in, of course. After the first session even a little self doubt crept in and I found myself wondering if I was cut out for racing. It's not that the session went bad, it was just uncomfortable. It was new and I don't think I'm a natural. I don't understand enough about how cars work as a machine to be a natural. But this is why I was at the school and Colin reassured me that I'd get the hang of this whole racing thing and kept sending me back out on the track. 

And he was right, each session went better and better. I started to feel comfortable in the car and with the track and I was starting to get hungry for the next session. By the fourth session, I was feeling pretty good. And then it started to rain. But we were just practicing race starts. So I would go as fast as I felt comfortable going. On our first start, I was about middle of the pack. I didn't get a very good start but it didn't matter, as every car in front of me spun or slid off the track in turn two. I avoided the debacle, and what do you know, I found myself in pole position for the second start. I was a little nervous and excited. As we came around for the green flag, I could see that the rest of the cars were not in order behind me, thus causing the starter to wave us on. And that was okay, I was still getting used to how the track felt wet. Slick. Very slick. As we came around again to get the start. I felt good. I was setting the pace and I had the rpm's right where I wanted them. Green flag. Bam, I jumped out in front of the car next to me, cut over to get on line for the turn in point. Beautiful, textbook. First turn, hit the gas, oh too much gas, too slippery. Steering correction, steering correction. The car's not settling, looks like we're going off-road. And so my fantastic start ended with a little off-road excursion. Though some may call that a shortcut? Either way, it was a great experience to feel what it's like to drive in the rain. The car survived and so did I. 

And so I passed the school and was given my VSCDA driving privileges. And I was happy. The fun I was having on the track was beginning to outweigh the nerves I felt when off the track. And now I could only ask myself, what was I so scared of? Thank you Colin for not letting me off the hook too easy and believing in me when I didn't believe in myself, or at least putting on a supportive front. :)  

Now I just had to make it through the rest of the race weekend without an incident. To be continued...

 

Wedding Date

So we set a new date. After the excitement settled. It hit me, wow, that's only 5 months away. Decisions need to be made. Plans need to be planned. Thankfully I have a history of working better under pressure. LIke when that big paper was due, you know I didn't start that until the night before. This is kind of like that.

Change of date

It seems there's been some confusion, so let me take this opportunity to clarify. If an engaged couple changes the date of their wedding, it does not automatically mean that the couple is having issues and needs to postpone the wedding. While that could be the reason, the change of date could also be as a result of a legitimate scheduling conflict. And legitimacy is determined by the couple as they consider what's important to them, not by what outsiders think is important. So yes, a racing schedule conflict is legitimate. Or even more importantly, the change of date could be due to that fact that the bride is trying to work around her younger brother's deployment but the government is worse at setting a date and sticking with it than the bride and her fiance.

So, with that being said, I hope we're all clear. And I hope to have a new date for you all soon. Keep the next six to 18 months open.

And where the heck are the bridesmaid's dresses that were supposed to be in in February? MOH, you need to check on this!

Travels with Dempsey

All good things must come to an end, and so ends our winter in Arizona. Which means packing up the car and the dog for the trip home to Wisconsin.

Day one: Picture the southwest in your head. What do you see? Desolate, dusty expanses of sand and cacti stretching across the horizon. All a dull shade that can only be described as brown dry heat and it makes you thirsty just to think about it. Ah and don't forget the lone, signature tumbleweed drifting aimlessly across this vast playground for all things that bite, sting, or poke.

But there are more tumbleweeds than imagery leads one to believe, as I laid witness to traveling on I-40, crossing New Mexico and Texas. I felt like I was in the game Frogger, though instead of being a frog dodging cars, I was a car dodging tumbleweeds. Dempsey was sleeping, so he didn't realize the imminent danger we were in, but I'm thankful we made it out alive.

Day one also presented the opportunity for me to get to know our dog better. I did not realize that he and I had such differing views on what the proper road trip car climate should be. You would think that being a dog, Dempsey would display classic dog-in-car behavior. Sitting up, head out the open window. But oh no. Not our dog. He prefers lying down with the windows up, which presents a problem when dealing with matters of the sun. You know how when you're driving the sun is always beating on one side of the car, depending on which direction you're going? So either the passenger is roasting in the direct sunlight and the driver is shaded and cool, or vice versa. Well the sun happened to be on the passenger side, Dempsey's side, therefore causing him to pant. And being that he is much more susceptible to heat stroke than I am realistically susceptible to hypothermia, Dempsey won and the air-conditioning was turned on.

Being the only human in the car, I falsely assumed I would be cruising in my comfort zone the entire trip, I was not properly layered and therefore unprepared to compete with the arctic chill now blowing from the Mustang's vents. I am usually ready to state my case and face this classic man/woman climate debate when I get in the car with Colin. But woman/dog? How can I reason with the dog. Score: Dempsey 1, Cana, zero.

Day two: Long sleeves and all, I was ready to hit the road, even with the air-conditioning on. However, the car gods were on my side today and it was cloudy and cool. No direct sunlight on the dog meant no direct A/C blast on me. So right off the bat, the climate score was even up.

Day two was a rather uneventful day of driving. Which is a good thing in a road trip. The most noteworthy things happened around St. Louis, around the end of my driving day. First was the dead pit bull in the median, rest his poor puppy soul. Now I don't really want to get into the many different options for how this pit bull came to be in the median on the interstate with no town around for miles, but certainly my first thoughts of owners that made bad decisions over the course of the dogs life. I'm not judging, but I do believe that mean dogs come from mean owners. And that if you find yourself with a mean dog, there are better, more humane ways to handle the situation than disposing of your dog on I-44 as if he's no better than the takeout bag from White Castle your redneck ass had for dinner.

On another note, the second interesting thing I noticed around St. Louis had to do with the traffic. There are five lanes of traffic going in either direction on I-44 through St. Louis. And do you know which lanes a majority of the traffic were driving in? Where you live will influence your answer. If you said the right two lanes, ding ding ding, good for you. That is correct. And that is always where traffic should be. People were using the center lane to pass. And virtually no one was driving in the two far left lanes, or passing lanes as they are known. However, if you're from Illinois or Wisconsin, you probably answered that traffic was driving in the left lanes, as that's where most people in our fine state like to sit. Even when they're not passing. People seem to think that the left lane is the fast lane and meant for going as fast as whatever their speedometer is currently reading. To those people, go to St. Louis and take a driving lesson. And get out of the left lane.

I wish there was a way that when you got off to make a pit stop, when you were finished you could be transported back to where you were in traffic before getting off, so as to not have to re-navigate around all the road hogs you just spent the last hour passing.

Which brings me to day three. A short, sunny (Dempsey 2, Cana 1) five hour driving day. I think I've covered the weakness of most Illinois and Wisconsin drivers so I don't need to spend anymore time on that topic. It's good to be back in Wisconsin just as Spring is hitting it's upswing. I'm just happy we made it, the car made it and after a quick garden inspection upon our arrival it seems most of my tulips made it. Which brings me to another Cana vs. Nature war, and today, it is Cana: 1; tulip-eating deer and rabbits: zero.

Copperstate overview condensed

Colin and I just finished the Copperstate 1000, a 4-day, 1000-mile road rally through Arizona. Each day had its highlights, whether it was the breathtaking scenery (which there was plenty of, Exhibit A: The Painted Desert) an especially drivable stretch of road (both Colin and the Cobra were made for navigating "S" curve after "S" curve), or an extra interesting lunch stop (how many of you can say you've flown in a Ford Tri Motor). But on the final leg of the final day the stars aligned and the car gods smiled upon us as three 427 Cobras found themselves grouped together on the same stretch of road. It's a rare enough occasion that you would see one original Cobra on the road. And if you ever saw two, well that's the makings of an Urban Legend and your friends would never believe it was true. But for three to be together it was simply divine intervention. ,

Soon each driver realized the opportunity of this momentous occasion and they all knew there was only one thing to do. Hit it. And so three 427 Cobras proceeded to make there way down the road cruising between 100 and 120 mph, with a few moments spent above 120 as necessary to trade positions. Very few exhaust notes rival that of a Cobra and these three combined were a melody of car bliss every car enthusiast would wish to experience and record to use as a lullaby to rock themselves to sleep each night as dreams of horsepower and performance dance in their head.

I wish I could say the story ended there, however, I'd be remiss to not mention the fact that this tri-Cobra, high-speed tour did end with one blown engine. No one ever wants to see that happen. Though it was very impressive to see a cloud of smoke, followed by a dumping of oil to rival that of the Exxon Valdez catastrophe and watch the driver keep the car straight. Nicely done Hammer. It surely is an experience for all involved not soon to be matched.

Coming soon to a vintage race near you

I wish I could say I was a natural. But after a day to reflect on the experience, here's what I learned from my track day.

1st: Racecars are not durable. They are fragile. You know how some things are forgiving. Like a Timex. Racecars are not like a Timex. If you do not warm them up, cool them down, shift them, brake them, accelerate them, steer them properly they do not take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. They don't just slow down or wear out over a period of abuse. Oh no, the day will usually result in catastrophic failure. For instance, when you downshift from third to second without incorporating a good solid blip to match the engine RPMs you can break a differential, a transmission, a drive shaft, a transaxle. Or all of the above. Don't ask me how I know.

And breaking something is never a good feeling. And as you limp back to the pits, if you're lucky enough for your car to still be capable of moving under it's own power, instead of the clunking of broken gears, or whatever it is you broke, all you hear is cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching, as in the money draining from your racing budget. So the lesson here is the way to keep your bank account balance up, and your lap times down, is to be smooth. Smooth inputs of the throttle, the brake, the steering wheel, the gearbox. As a person who just naturally seems to be hard on equipment, this is not going to be easy. I mean I knock things over constantly, I can't close a cabinet door without slamming it, I hit my head most times I get in the car. I am the proverbial bull in the china shop. Which gives me a sneaking suspicion I might be seeing a lot of broken mechanicals in my near future. But hopefully I'll become more mechanical in the process and learn to treat my equipment nicer.

2nd: Mid-engine, rear-engine, and front-engine drivers are not created equal. I'm not cut out to drive a Porsche 911 S race prepared car. While being able to comfortably drive the 911 S would make me a better driver, I don't think there's enough money in our bank accounts to support finding out whether I could ever drive a rear-engine car or not. So while it may be the "easy" way out, I'm going to stick with a front-engine car.

Until now, the Ford GT had been the only car that was really scary to me to drive, but only scary in the sense that the power of the Ford GT probably (not probably, but certainly) far outweighs my driving talent, but not my innate need for speed. You can see how that might be a bad, if not lethal, combination? But that doesn't stop me from driving it, I simply have to work harder at expressing self-control, or throttle-control rather.

But the Porsche was scary to drive in a different way. The car was just so foreign to me. Apart from being a rear-engine car, there was the shift sequence. Not a standard H pattern. Instead 2nd is where I'm used to 1st being and 3rd is where 2nd usually is and I guess 4th is where 3rd should be but I never made it that far. So every time I went to shift I had to really think about what gear I was in and where I was going. I've been driving a standard H for 12 years, so it was difficult for me to break out of that pattern. If you ever find yourself in such a situation, here's a tip: Amidst the turmoil of trying to figure out what gear you're currently in and what gear you're ultimately trying to shift into, don't forget to brake. As not braking enough before heading in to that very sharp turn will cause your Porsche 911 S to spin. I didn't believe it at first, so I though it best to try it a few times. And yep, it's a Porsche that's what it does.


3rd: Thankfully, some cars are not only more durable, but also more forgiving than others. For instance, the car I will actually be racing, a 1959 Austin-Healey Bugeye Sprite, is not nearly as ass-happy as the 911S, whether I'm carrying too much speed into a turn, or didn't quite get my blip right, the Bugeye seemed to handle it all without getting too upset. And as nothing broke, it seems it may be able to handle my less than gentle touch. But most importantly, I felt comfortable in the car. Not intimidated at all. I wish I could have a track day everyday. Wouldn't it be great if every time you felt like driving your racecar there was a place you could go, without it costing a ton of money? The only way for me to get better and more comfortable is to log the seat time. But it's not that simple. You have to find a track day or rent a track and then transport the car and then have track support. And on and on. Some times I think it'd be easier to be a stamp collector. But what fun would that be?

Yogurt boycott

Has anyone else stopped eating yogurt for fear of the dreaded yogurt eruption that occurs when peeling of the foil top? I can't tell you how many shirts I've had to change because they become speckled with yogurt. Maybe it's just me...

Head-turners

Every car we drive gets a reaction. Some cars get a reaction from everyone, some just from middle-aged men, some mostly from women and children and some from the select few with a keen eye for a rare classic. 

The head-turning isn't always a positive, as sometimes Colin and I are cast a scolding look due to "unnecessary" exhaust, speed or tire squeal. But, in general, when we take our cars

 out, more often than not they receive approving gestures. These gestures come in the form of waves, whistles, thumbs up and the ever popular light 'em up motion made by making a circular gesture with your hand that loosely resembles spinning rear wheels. 

In fact, one of my favorite memories of such said reactions took place when my younger sister, Rachel, met Colin for the first time. Rachel found herself fortunate enough to be a passenger in Colin's Jeep Cherokee. There are two key elements you must know, first, Rachel's favorite marque is Jeep, and second, this is no stock, run of the mill Jeep Cherokee. Oh no, but rather a supercharged SRT 8. So as Rachel fastened her seat belt she was surprised to be met with such a monstrous rumble as Colin turned the key. That deep growl from the exhaust must have awoken something inside Rachel as she proceeded to say quite loudly to Colin, "Light em' up, bitch." Colin handled being called a bitch better than most and even appeased my sister with a little tire squealing and what some more conservative types may have called excessive acceleration. Not sure whether he was trying to impress my sister, or me. 

Not everyone has the same appreciation for the Jeep as my sister. But there is one car in our arsenal I've found to universally turn heads. This car alone has the power to bring 

poised, sophisticated men to their knees, turn classy ladies into giggly school girls, and put the spring back into the step of an arthritic elder. The Ford GT. 

Every time we release the Ford GT from it's prison that is the garage, driving down the road is like watching a parade unfold in front of our eyes, but we're the only parade entrant. Pedestrians hear us coming. We see them stop. Turn. Look. And then their eyes get wide and their mouths fall agape. Soon both sides of the street are lined with onlookers who resemble Venus fly traps. 

The Ford GT not only stops people, it stops traffic, and may even have been

 the cause of a minor fender bender. I can't say for sure, but we were at a stoplight a

nd the oncoming car was stopped waiting as well and we see him staring at the car (familiar Venus fly trap face), and then the light turned green and we started to go. That's when we heard the unmistakable sound of bumper meeting bumper. Our onlooker had been rear ended. Now I can't say for sure what the cause was but I'm guessing he was busy looking and he didn't go when the light turned but the guy behind him did, or the guy behind him was busy looking and forgot about the car in front of him.

Hopefully we weren't the cause of that unfortunate meeting of Detroit fiberglass, but we were definitely the cause of a temporary traffic delay. This guy gave one of the most colorful reactions, and it was fun because you could see he was just thrilled to be even in the presence of the GT. He was so effected I couldn't help but think one day he's going to tell his grand kids about the day he saw the elusive Ford GT. We pulled up next to him and I saw him see us and then there was a delayed reaction. He looked away  and then paused, I could see his mind processing what he'd just seen. He then looked back and smiled. His smile was that of a child who had just been giving a bowl of ice cream bigger than his head and told there was more where that came from. Then he started shouting things I couldn't hear with his window up, then as we pulled away he got out of his car - in the middle of traffic, mind you -  and started yelling, "That car is f*^%ing nice." All while laughing as though the meaning of life had just been revealed and all the while the cars behind him are honking and yelling their own thoughts about things. If this was his reaction at just seeing the GT, I think if Colin had given him a ride, it may have been more than his system could handle, resulting in Milwaukee's first case of human spontaneous combustion. 

All the wonderful entertaining head-turning gestures aside, there is one reaction I'm most thankful for. As the Ford GT is the car I was driving when I almost learned the meaning of "felony speeding." I will forever be indebted to the kind stranger who saved me from jail with a quick flash of his lights.  

The joys of vacationing

In our realm, January means auction time in Arizona. Barrett-Jackson, Russo and Steele, RM, Gooding all in the same place during the same week. Colin can reflect on the market and what that means for his business and maybe add some things to his inventory. Which in turn means leaving the winter wonderland of Wisconsin for a warmer climate. And not just for January. We stay all the way through mid-April. What more could a girl ask for? A nice place to stay while we're there, if I may be so bold. That doesn't seem like too much, does it? 

Naturally we plan in advance. Colin likes things to be "turn-key." Just show up and go. We have the advantage of Colin's mom living in Arizona. Couple that with the fact that she's a real estate agent you would think finding a house to rent for the winter would be a breeze. That being said...

Call it karma. Though I don't know that Colin and I could both have been so awful in former lives to deserve the road blocks we seem to encounter so frequently. I prefer to think we simply just both have bad luck. Everything seems to be a challenge. Even finding a place to stay on vacation.

And we did find a house. Colin paid the security deposit, cleaning deposit and first months rent before we even arrived. Our decision to rent this particular house was based on the pictures and listing description provided on the real estate website. The house was listed as "show model quality."  Amazing, fully furnished. Luxury rental. All sounded good. And the pictures seemed to support the description. However upon arrival, the house was not as it was purported to be in the listing.  I felt like a balloon being deflated, and not just for the fun of sucking out the helium so you can talk like a chipmunk! Walking in and looking around it was such a disappointment. This often happens with high expectations. But when you're paying more than the per capita income of an entire third world country for three months rent, the house damn well better exceed expectations. 

Remember Pig Pen from Charlie Brown? Well if he was a grown bachelor, this could be his house. There was dust and dirt and dinge everywhere. Upon opening a closet I was caught off guard by a dust bunny the size of a mouse, which is what I mistook it for at first. All the walls and floor boards were banged, scuffed and gouged as if someone had let a hockey team practice in the house, which we later learned wasn't too far from the truth. The family that had previously rented the house had four rambunctious young boys who did in fact play hockey in the house.  

And as far as being fully furnished and completely stocked, I guess it's all relative. But I don't consider four severely chipped plates, a  box of plastic forks and a couple of threadbare towels fully furnished.  

But really, all this is manageable, with perhaps a reduction in the rent and the help of a cleaning service. However, dirt and less than ample supplies is not where the sham of this "luxury rental" ended. Sadly, the crème de la crème was a curious spot on the living room couch. As Colin so eloquently put it, "If our living room were a crime scene, there'd be plenty of DNA evidence." And he wasn't referring to blood, if you follow. Due to some tightly budgeted family road trips, I've built up a tolerance for staying in some pretty, um, interesting places, but even I draw the line at couch stains of the male reproductive variety. 

So I refused to stay there. Who knows what else was a recipient of such deposits? We didn't unpack and were forced to find some place else to stay. Which we did. Though Colin is still trying to resolve the lease/misrepresented property issue. 

That all said, if needed I'd go through it all again because as far as I'm concerned the headaches, and possibly the extra three and a half months of rent (plus security deposit plus cleaning deposit) for a house we're not occupying, are certainly all worth my being able to sit on my back patio in Arizona and bask in the sunshine in a near 70 degrees on January 9th typing this blog post. 

Come visit. 

In care of: Passive aggressive

Before I continue this post, let me just say, I love my mother. That being said...she possesses an uncanny talent to irritate me. 

When Colin and I got engaged, Helen (my mom) was very excited. She really likes Colin and seems to be proud of the fact we're going to be married. So she decided it was important to her that we carry out the custom of having an engagement announcement published in the local newspaper. And she volunteered to take it upon herself to write the little blurb.

My mother, my stepfather, Colin, Colin's mother and myself happened to all be together and so Helen decided it was a good time to get the details necessary to include in the announcement. Typically included are parents names and locations and the couples education credentials and occupation and maybe location and wedding date. Seems straight forward, however, when it comes to my mother nothing is ever straight forward. 

First a little back story. When I met Colin I was working at a radio station (WBKV/WBWI) as a copywriter. My mother considered this a real job. 

After awhile I wanted to try something else. Something more journalistic. So I took a job as a writer and sports reporter for a web site company. My mother did not consider this a real job. Writing for the Internet? Who reads anything on the Internet? 

The web site job didn't work out as expected and so after careful consideration and discussion with Colin, we decided I could leave the web site company and try my hand a working for myself as a freelance writer. This my mother didn't understand. To her I was simply unemployed, which caused her some discomfort, though she's not much for working herself. Go figure. 

So the point of all that is this. When it came to the part to list my occupation my mother suggested we put "Formerly employed as a copywriter as at WBWI/WBKV." (If she wanted to use my last occupation, she would have used the Internet based company, but you can see, that really didn't count.) Colin and I said my occupation should simply be listed as writer. And so she tentatively made a note of my occupation as writer.

And so a few weeks go by and my mother calls to ask if we have the picture of us that is to accompany the announcement. I tell her no and ask her to mail what she has written up to me and when I get the picture I'll handle sending the announcement and the picture the newspaper. (Sidebar: Now when I said mail, I meant email, but my mother doesn't have the Internet, silly me, so she typed it in Word, printed it and mailed it to me, as in postal mail.) 

Before I get into how she butchered the announcement, let's start with how she addressed the envelope. At this point, I'd officially moved in with Colin for just around six months. I'd done a change of address with the post office, given everyone my new address, and had had no problem receiving my mail. However, that did not stop my mother from addressing the envelope to Cana Tinkle

In care of Colin Comer

As though I were just a guest in his house instead of it being our residence. So that was jab number one letting me know she didn't quite respect where I was in my life. And if she hadn't have addressed the envelope that way, maybe what was inside the envelope wouldn't have affected me so much. 

The announcement started fine. Parents blah blah blah, Colin graduate of blah, works at blah, Cana a graduate of blah, and then BAM! There it was, her little passive aggressive jab number two: "Cana is currently pursuing a career in writing." Currently pursuing? As though the last five years where my job title included the word writer, as in copywriter, sports writer/reporter, were insignificant and didn't warrant my mother believing I already had a career in writing. 

If she wants to say I'm pursuing a career, or hobby even, in racecar driving, I'll give her that. But I am not pursuing a career in writing. I am a writer. Yes, Mother, that's a legitimate job. Even if it's freelance and even if it's only for the Internet. 

Lyn St. James in training

I've been saying I'm a racecar driver for years. But my only real track time consists of a couple of Northwoods Shelby Club track days at Road America. Considering that's closer to racing than most people get, no one could really dispute me.

So when Colin decided a trip to Bondurant Driving School would make for a great anniversary gift, my initial reaction was excitement. However my excitement was soon replaced by fear. Going to driving school is the first step to getting a competition license. What if I didn't pass? What if I crashed and burned? A poor performance at driving school could out me once and for all, completely discrediting the happy little delusion I'd been living - and letting others believe - that I was in fact, a racecar driver. Plus I was pretty sure Colin would decide I was unfit to marry if I couldn't pass driving school. 

But this is what I wanted, wasn't it? I wanted to have some concrete evidence behind my "I'm a racecar driver" story. So off I went to Bondurant driving school in search of my competition driving license and my nerve. 

Bondurant has a photographer on staff to take pictures of the students along with offering the option of having an in car camera installed to capture your track time. Naturally, I thought it'd be great to have the experience captured forever on a DVD. Two laps in it dawned on me, maybe the in car camera wasn't the best decision. Simply because it meant that if I did in fact fail, now there'd be documentation of my failure. I couldn't make up a story about mechanical failure, poor teaching or the lack of talent on behalf of another student because the whole experience would be caught on camera as proof. I seriously considered exiting the track so as to have the camera removed. But then I realized I was driving a C6 Corvette on a racetrack and instead of focusing on my impending failure, I should really be concentrating on the track. Isn't concentration the first defense against making a fatal mistake anyway? 

That was the last thought I gave to not passing the class. Honestly, how bad could I do? I'd had track time (though limited), Colin's confidence and an innate desire to go fast paired with just a hint of being overly cautious all on my side. Plus, it's the job of the instructors to teach me and guide me and make sure I pass. So if I didn't pass it was more a reflection on their ability as teachers than on my ability as a driver. (Isn't it nice to be able to rationalize anything?)

I did pass the class. And I even showed Colin the DVD. It wasn't the embarrassing evidence of what a poor driver I am I was worried it would end up being, besides that fact that maybe it showed a little more of my overly cautious side than my desire to go fast side. In fact, the DVD is really a great teaching tool. Colin and I can watch it together and he can help show me where I did well and where I could use some improvements. 

Now all I need is a racecar. Any sponsors out there? 

Life, 14 seconds at a time

When I road raced I was always surprised how calm the atmosphere inside the car was. With long straights stretching the engine to peak rpm's before every shift followed by the start of the braking zone before downshifting and then entering into a graceful turn and back on the accelerator. I'd expected it to be chaotic. But it was peaceful. No oncoming traffic, no real hurry. It was about planning, thinking, maneuvering. Basically it felt like being on a deserted open road, free to manipulate the car anyway you want, as fast as you could. Ultimately trying to reach the finish line first, but, with the exception of a crash at the start line, the race certainly wasn't won in the first sixty feet. To me, road racing is about what happens along the way. Road racing is ballet on wheels with the miles in between being the crescendo into the final scene, the curtain falling as you cross the finish line. Road racing is refined.

So when I tried drag racing for the first time, I thought the atmosphere inside the car would be the same. But I found out drag racing is raw. Drag racing is chaotic. A controlled frenzy. You have a quarter mile to go and you want to get there as soon as possible - but not necessarily as fast as possible. Fast doesn't always mean first. It's possible to drive faster than your competitor and still lose. A drag race can be, and most often is, won in the first sixty feet. Reaction time. Simplified, drag racing is reaction time. Stage. Wait for the lights. Yellow. Get the rpm's up. Yellow. Hold it there. Yellow. React. Green. Are you already launched? Did you hook up? Don't spin the tires. Feather the throttle. Shift. Floor it. Shift. Faster. Shift. So much going on, and in so little time. There's no room for error. React late, dump the clutch, spin the tires, those mistakes can all mean defeat. Drag racing's not like road racing where you have lap after lap, mile after mile to make up for a mistake. There's no planning. No maneuvering. It's react as fast as possible, hook up and go and it's over. Did your win light come on?

For all intensive purposes, I'm an idiot

For all intensive purposes? For all INTENSIVE purposes? What the hell was I thinking?

If you ask me what my talents are I'll tell you I don't really have any. And it's true. I'm just sort of okay at a handful of things. But if you ask me what my strengths are I'll tell you I'm good with words. Spelling, writing, editing, proofreading.

I like to think of myself as intelligent, and don't think other people would disagree. So when I crafted an email to my future stepmother-in-law, who just happens to be a lawyer, and more intelligent than I, you can imagine my horror when I realized I'd made myself sound like a complete idiot. To quote myself, I'd written, "For all intensive purposes..." What followed is not important here. What's important is the fact that I'd written something so ridiculous. This sort of thing would make me cringe if I had read it somewhere else. I mean I'm the type of person who will refuse to eat at a restaurant if there are too many typos on the menu. Seriously, I've walked out because the menu was so offensive to my English sensibilities.

Perhaps this is a type of grammar-snob karma coming back to bite me. For all those times I'd laughed at some poor idiot for not knowing how to spell, or for using a word in the wrong context, I'd now made a fool of myself.

Most likely, now someone is going to make it their mission to point out every typo in my posts. So for all intents and purposes, I welcome your criticisms, as it seems grammar-snob karma has deemed me an appropriate target.

Bulking up

Genetics only take you so far when it comes to your body. At some point you need to start doing some activity or you're going to pack on the lb's. I figured I'd reached that point. I made it a good quarter of a century looking decent without much excercise. But everyone always says the older you get, the harder it is to get back in shape. So I decided it was best not to chance a complete downward spiral by waiting much longer. Plus Colin, nine years my senior, was ready to start living a more active lifestyle as well. He was one of those guys that until recently could eat anything he wanted and not gain weight. So what a rude awakening he had coming when one day he stood on the scale to find himself a hefty 30 pounds over his fighting weight, so to speak.

Knowing that I didn't have the discipline to workout consistenly on my own, as one of my very more developed talents is rationalizing with myself why I shouldn't do the things I'm supposed to do, we hired a personal trainer. He's a little muscly guy with a shaved head. He fits the personal trainer profile. If I ever find myself in a brawl, I want his scrappy ass on my side.

So how's it going you ask? Well it's going great for Colin. He's down at least two pant sizes, I'd say a good four inches, and at least 20 pounds. But it's hard to guage exactly how much weight he's lost because he's gained so much muscle. I love to grab his biceps when he flexes - how's that for cliche! But I can't help it. He was sexy before, now he's super sexy.

Me on the other hand...I've lost -10 pounds and am down -1 dress size. Yes those are negatives. So to put it more clearly, I've gained weight and gone up a size. What the hell? This is not supposed to happen. I wanted to get healthy and tighten up those soft spots that were developing. I've tightened up most of them up, but I've also bulked up some. Everyday I struggle with whether I'd rather be soft and smaller, or toned and take up more area. Let's just say, I'm much more athletic in person. I've gained mass everywhere - well not everywhere. Naturally, the one place I'd like to amass some extra tissue, my chest, has gotten smaller. How's that for icing on the cake?

The first thing people ask is, "Well are you eating more?" The answer is no. In fact I'm probably eating less, and eating more healthy. So I don't know what the deal is. When I was at my peak of in shapedness and playing high school sports I was never this muscly. My legs have always been athletic, but I was always lean. Why can't I be that way now?

For those of you who know me, let me just clarify I'm not trying to say I'm too big or overweight, because that would be crazy. I'm very realistic about my body. I'm just saying, when I joined a gym and decided to pay a personal trainer to kick my ass three days a week I didn't expect to gain weight. Just so we're clear, I don't want any hate mail or people telling me I need to see a shrink to work out my body image issues.

With that said, Colin's an asshole (and I mean that in the nicest way possible) for losing weight and getting svelte, and I'm, well I'm perplexed.

Money as metal

Yesterday I held $5 million in my hand...give or take half a mil.

First I just stared at it. Taking it all in. The way a person stares at a pile of puzzle pieces deciding where to begin. How to tackle the task at hand. Then slowly I began to touch it. I stroked it front to back, top to bottom, trying to memorize how every smooth, cool line felt beneath my fingers. I wanted to pause this moment in time so that I could burn the image into my mind, engrave it into my memory like a jeweler inscribes a heartfelt message on a piece of fine jewelry. The inscription in my mind would say, "You have touched greatness, you lucky bitch."

People would give a kidney to have been in my place today. How did I get this opportunity, and who has 5 mil just laying around for me to play with? Well this 5 million was not cash, but instead in the form of cars. And it was my honor to dust them off and wipe them down with detail spray. I'm probably in the minority, but if given the choice I'd take the cars over brief cases filled with cash any day. Of course if I did have the cash, I'd just use it to buy cars.

So how many cars does it take to equal $5 million? In this case, only seven, comprised of one very dirty 1957 Mercedes SL Prototype, 1961 Austin Healey 3000, a Meadowbrook winning 1965 Shelby GT350, a '66 GT350, a 1968 L78 Chevrolet Camaro, a 1974 Ferrari Dino, and the coup de grâce, a 1966 Ford GT40 Mark I. How's that for a dream car garage lineup? Some American muscle paired with some European sports car styling.

Of course the Dino and the GT aren't allowed to park next to each other. They don't play nice as the Dino is still bitter about his predecessors losing to Ford at Le Mans. You'd think after 40+ years the Ferrari would just accept the loss and move on.

I didn't get to drive any of these cars yesterday, but as my reward for cleaning them - as if cleaning them weren't reward enough - I got to drive something else as a means of my first drag racing lesson. A 1965 Pontiac GTO. Tri-Power. Next weekend is the Supercar Reunion, and I will be drag racing. Look for me around the means streets of Milwaukee this week, practicing my launch. I've already amassed one fan. Some guy pulled over to watch as I was getting ready to launch and told me he wanted to see me light 'em up. I was more than happy to try and oblige. I wonder if he's always dreamed about finding some cute young blonde driving around squealing the tires of some old Goat?

Wedding dress

I picked up my wedding dress today. We just set the date a week ago, but I already have my dress. I ordered it in March. It was the first dress I tried on. It took me a total of seven minutes to find my perfect wedding dress.

Oh the horror of it, right? Only seven minutes? Girls wait their whole lives to pick out their wedding dress, it's supposed to take more than seven minutes. My mother expressed that very sentiment when she told me she was disappointed because her and my sisters were looking forward to the hours and hours and hours of bridal gown shopping. What I'm finding out is I'm not the stereotypical bride. I'm okay with that. And I think my fiance is okay with that. Hopefully our guests will be okay with that.

It's so funny though because for some reason people, mostly my family and soon to be in-laws seem to already have this idea that I'm going to be a typical bride. For instance my mother said, "Well, I guess I better start looking for some boring beige, stuffy, taffeta mother of the bride outfit." To which I took offense. I'm not even sure what the bridesmaids or the groom are wearing, I certainly don't have any rules for what my mother should wear. So I told her, wear whatever you want, I want you to have fun. Then a few months later I get the same thing from my future mother-in-law, Deila. She said, "Well I better call your mother and see what's she's wearing so we can coordinate. I know there's so much etiquette involved." I told her the same thing, wear what you want. I love her sense of flare anyway and I want her in a showy Deila outfit. An outfit with some character, some flare and some color. Just like her personality.

People need to understand our wedding is going to be fun and is about celebrating family and friendship and less about the ceremonial aspect. The dress and the tuxes and the church are more just a formality leading up to the celebration.

When I think about my dream wedding, I don't have a complete vision from start to finish. I never have. My eventual matrimony just wasn't what consumed my thoughts. I had better things to dream about - like being a race car driver. Not to mention that certain key pieces of the dream wedding puzzle were missing. How could I plan my dream wedding in my mind when I hadn't met my dream guy yet. So when I finally found that piece of the puzzle (Love you Colin) the rest has started to fall into place. Colin and I will create the perfect wedding together, instead of him having to fit into some prearranged template I dreamed up years ago.

After we got engaged I did start to envision what I wanted. Color scheme was the main aspect that I actually had some idea of what I wanted. We have a '53 Buick Skylark in a lovely shade of green called Pinehurst Green. I thought it would look good for the bridesmaid dresses. For some reason my girls weren't sold on the green. But I hadn't given up...until today. When picking up my dress, my sister Rachel (a bridesmaid, naturally) and my matron of honor Jaime were present, just to make sure we still liked my dress - which we did of course. Then we addressed the issue of the bridesmaid dresses. What did we go with? Well, not green. Instead Rachel found a cream dress with sections of black lace overlay. And four different styles. One for each girl. So, as you can see, if I'd already had my whole wedding planned, we couldn't have made such spontaneous decisions. Plus this way, if they don't like their dresses, it's their own fault. They picked them out.

Brush with fame - literally

Do you remember the TV show Happy Days? It's okay if you don't, I'm a little young to remember myself. Happy Days was on the air from 1974-1984 and featured Henry Winkler as Fonzie or "The Fonz." The show revolved around a family in the '50's with The Fonz as the epitome of cool. Considering it was on for 10 years, I guess you could say it was a big hit.

So what's the point? Well Happy Days was supposed to be set in Milwaukee, the town I currently call home. Well on Monday I was boarding a plane in LAX heading back to Milwaukee. And who's taking up the first three rows? Most of the major players of Happy Days, including The Fonz. My fiance, Colin, at nine years my senior, found this to be a much more significant encounter than I. He grew up with Happy Days. I was faced with a celebrity. Should I exclaim loudly, OMG, you're Fonzie!? No, that didn't seem right. Should I nonchalantly say hello, like he's not some celebrity? No, that somehow seemed disrespectful, because he is a celebrity. So I just walked by and took my seat. No reaction, no acknowledgement that I'd just walked past Henry Winkler.

Here I was at a moment I'd always dreamed about. Not walking past Henry Winkler per se, because, well Henry Winkler doesn't really register on my radar, (No offense, Fonz, but you're just a little too soon before my time to get my motor running) but what I'm talking about is meeting a celebrity.

I've always hoped that when I actually met a celebrity I'd say the perfect thing. Something clever and witty to make me standout. Something that would make the celebrity want to discover me, or befriend me, or write a song about me. I know, this is not reality, but you never know. Why couldn't I make such an impact on someone? Well for starters, I'd actually have to say something, but I always clam up and discover myself at a loss for words. As a writer, I should never be at a loss for words. The same thing happened when I met Chip Foose. I thought, here's my chance, I'm meeting one of the great masterminds of automotive design, say something memorable. So what did I go with..."Hi, it's so nice to meet you Mr. Foose." That's all, well that witty repartee paired with the deer in the headlights gaze.

So as I sat in my seat, I kicked myself for missing a second opportunity to at least make a celebrity laugh, if not make a lasting impression. And I vowed next time I would do better. And next time came much sooner than anticipated. When we landed in Milwaukee, there was one of two baggage carousels our luggage was going to come up on, but we didn't know which carousel it would be. So we took our place in line by carousel and waited. When the luggage didn't come within a few minutes Colin said he'd wait by this one and I could go check the other. Good plan. So as I'm navigating through the sea of other passengers awaiting their luggage, BAM, someone runs into my left side. I turn to say "Excuse me," and no shit if it isn't Henry Winkler. This is the opportunity I was waiting for. Here was my chance. Not only did he run into me, but I had him as my captive audience. I would not mess this up. So he says, "Oh, it's nice to run into you." And I, say, "I'm sorry, excuse me."

That's it. Dang it, Cana, you can do better. In fact, I have done better. Remind me to tell the story about Mario Andretti and his bottle of wine sometime.

Define passionate?

Does being passionate about something mean you have to be knowledgeable and capable?

When I think about the people I consider to be passionate, they all have one thing in common. They are all extremely knowledgeable about their specific interest or hobby they're passionate about.

I'm not an expert on anything. I have interest in many things. I like horses, but I don't know anything about them. I like to read, but I can't quote Dostoyevsky. I like stained glass, and even know how to use a soldering iron, but I'm no expert craftsman. I like cars, I like to watch racing, go to car shows and auctions. One of my favorite past times is to just ride in the car with my fiance while we drive around looking at cars. But when it comes decoding VIN tags, rebuilding an engine, or even discussing the history of a certain marque at length, I'm not your girl. But I could be.

I'm just an average person with average talents. I've always accepted the fact I'm just not a passionate person. But I've reached a point where I don't want to just coast anymore. Until now I've been driving down the center line of life. It's time to find out if I'm capable of more.