Time in a Bottle

To the usual important markers of life (birthdays, holidays, graduations, etc.) I add another – race weekends with my son. There have been many over the last thirteen years. For me, their specialness has no comparison. Each one an incredible gift and a forever memory. They are the yard stick of my life, measuring both time and how fast it’s passing. This past weekend Pants climbed those old, weathered bleachers to look out over the infield, the last time he did that was June of 2012. Twelve years gone. Where did they go?

Of late, there have been fewer race weekends for the two of us. It’s been exactly a year since we last faced off against each other and that’s a huge disappointment, but the explanation makes me proud. Pants is focused intensely on his volleyball ambitions while simultaneously managing the demands of a “higher education” (he just completed his sophomore year at Ball State University). When the 2023 POC event calendar was published, a race weekend opportunity finally appeared. We locked it in. After months of preparation and planning, including extensive modifications and upgrades to our cars (Rosie and Ms. B.), they were ready and so were we. On Friday, June 2 we set off to Willow Springs International Raceway to mark another moment in time and create more memories at a track named “Streets.”

Along the familiar drive we talked about racing, fantasy car line ups, old trucks, real estate, black holes and galaxies, and our future homestead back in the Midwest someday, all while jamming to George Strait, Dwight Yoakam, Van “F’n” Halen and of course AC/DC. If you haven’t turned it up to “11” on AC/DC’s “Dirty Eyes” and Van Halen’s “Me Wise Magic” – you haven’t lived.

We arrived at Willow late that afternoon. Passing the gate, we see Dwain and Martina out in front of the Vision Motorsports Ranch and give them a wave, we’re here! Our instinct says turn left but we go right, to the far back paddock already dotted with race cars. We claim a patch of asphalt, off load 263, go get 262 from the Vision paddock then raise the Tool Shed.

The Saturday morning drivers’ meeting was quick, tidy and the only thing that stood between us, speed, and some intense family competition. Based on our running win/loss record, Pants has the upper hand. However, if my capital investments pay dividends and if I can muster up a slight bump in courage, I could take him. We ran counterclockwise on Saturday. After the practice round we compared notes, we had a lot to relearn. We compared preliminary times, we were close. Ninety minutes later we’re a few laps into the first race, dialed in and running nose to tail. We each had stolen the other’s lead position by race end. I had the pace. Back in our paddock, the numbers are revealed. The victory was mine. Granted it was a measly .03 second margin, but a win is a win. Pants was not happy. His disappointment quickly turned into despair when he attempted to restart Mrs. B and she didn’t respond. Uh-Oh. After a thorough examination, we diagnosed the problem as “insufficient owner knowledge” so off to the Vision paddock for some professional guidance. Minutes later Mrs. B. was running. Shout out to Chris from Vision Motorsports for his amazing customer support. The balance of Saturdays’ racing was equally tight with both of us turning low 1:27’s. Those two races resulted in another win for me by .04 seconds and the first win for Pants by .02 seconds. The gaps shock us both. We are insanely close, we’re also exhausted. The shoes are untied, the suits loosened, and our thirst quenched. Time to turn on some Country music, pick up our guitar and take turns practicing (competing) in a new and different arena.

After dinner, I’m spent. The tank is empty. Pants sensing my weakness say’s “lets’ go work out at the hotel gym”. Splendid idea. The contests ensue. Push-ups, squats, curls, planks, presses. I lose them all. Firmly defeated, I surrender and retire the day, there’s more racing tomorrow.

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning at Streets. We ready the cars and ourselves. Running clockwise means we’re facing a brand-new track, starting over at square one. During the first race, Pants displayed a skill set I have yet to fully acquire. He learns a track lightening quick. He hit his marks, he’s smooth and he put lots of track between us. I’m struggling. The race results are dismal, a full two seconds separates us. Pants is delighted. I shake it off and profess that my greatness will return. While we wait for round two, we turn our attention to some delicate front wheel well fabrication needs on #262. Without our crew chief (brother Steve), we do our best. Pants jacks up the car and I grab the 24-ounce framing hammer from our toolbox. A few heavy swings later, good as new and just in time. We hurry to the gird. Soon into the race it became clear that despite my Conor McGregor bravado and private hopes, I was not going to prevail. Pants pulled away and held it. That made back-to-back losses for me and this one hit hard. I had lost even more pace, falling further behind now by three seconds. Humbled and shaken I question everything. All the while Pants is strutting around the paddock, spewing wisdom … “Come on Dad, do this, stop doing that.” Then comes his zinger … “You’re just thinking too much.” I took the bait and replied “O.K., Bergmeister, show me your line and let me hear your shift points.” We fired up the video footage and he began his lesson plan. I listen carefully and study it closely. There’re only two races left.

We failed to properly manage our down time. We’re low on gas. We’re late to the grid. We need Steve. The track is under green, so we hold for the starter to cut us lose. Pants is in front, and we blast up hill. Hard squeeze on the brakes, eyes on apex, commit, turn in, on the gas. I’M WITH HIM. At the entrance to the bowl, I slip my nose down beside his right rear tire. “You see me now kid?!” We hug the inside line together, back on the gas, tracking out we clack our CAE Shifters to 3rd in perfect synchronization. The blind entrance to the waterfall comes at you quick. We’re a car length apart. Pants has the lead. Around the skid pad and onto the straight I maintained my position. The first lap was over, but the race had just begun, and my mojo had returned. If there is a perfect lap, that was mine. I just needed 9 more … and I got them! I filled up his rear-view mirror for rest of the race, secured a pass only to give it back. Pants took the checker, but the clock was mine. A .02 second victory was mine. We celebrated in the paddock for about the same amount of time as Pants was more interested in boasting how it was HIS coaching that gave me my win (as if that’s cheating?). The Sunday stats now showed Pants with two wins to my single win and only one race remained.

The temperature had climbed. It’s hot and the typical strong afternoon winds have kicked in plus those huge clouds of smoke from a brush fire near Tehachapi have reach us. They hang low and the smell of ash fills the air. Our run group is the last of the day. Only a hand full of race cars remain in the paddock and only two of them will be racing with me and Pants. There’s not much chatter going on in the Tool Shed. We’re focused and getting ready while the situation we’re not talking about sits in our heads, we both know that I can beat him. This final race will tip the scales to him with a three and one record, or it will give me a very respectable tie splitting the races two each. We’re in our cars, in the paddock with engines on. I blip the throttle to get his attention. I flash him the thumbs up sign and he returns it. Let’s go! The next thing I remember is climbing out of my car as I watch Pants doing the same. Helmets still on we meet in the middle of our paddock. He raises his visor, smiles, and tells me “That race was the most fun I’ve ever had.” I hug him and tell him “Me too kid.” I stayed glued to that hug etching every emotion into my memory locker. Another marker in time. We drop into our paddock chairs and wait for the lap times to upload. I’m too exhausted to go find my glasses so I tell Pants to read the results out loud. He fumbles around for a second, pauses then says’ quietly … “You got me.” With that .04 second win our weekend came to an end. Neither one of us a winner or a looser. Just two almost equal drivers having the time of our life. Unsure when we’ll race again, we decide to linger. Hour’s pass. The track is silent. Our paddock is packed, and we are alone. But this place called Streets is still beautiful. We begin our journey home. Just outside of the track, heading down Rosamond Blvd. as Pants is pulling up his Country playlist on Spotify, he says he wants to add some aero to his car. I respond, “Let’s do it!”