Tom Hits the Track

One day I was sitting at my computer, Pat was at hers, when she asked me if I would be interested in a racing school at Stockton Speedway. I told I would, but doubted we could afford it. She told me that she had a half-off coupon. I jumped up and trotted over to her computer to see.

So a month later we make the trek to Stockton. We got there early and got to look around town some. This is not an activity I would recommend, unless you have a strong desire to have a drink in one Stockton's several structurally unsound bars.

So finally it was time to head to the track. Got all checked it and suited up. Pat and Tonya took their place in the stands to watch. Then I stood around for nearly an hour waiting for my class to start. The people running the show seemed to have no actual plan and several employees ran around doing all the work while several other stood around chatting.

Finally the called my group. We all piled into the pace car, or rather pace SUV, for a tour of the track. This was not an entirely pleasant experience. The SUV had a frightening amount of body role and the majority of the time the guy at the wheel, our instructor, was busy yelling at the cars being paced.

Finally the cars were paced to satisfaction and we were dropped off at the outdoor classroom. Where we sat for a long time while the instructor went and paced a few more groups. Finally he came over and gave us about fifteen minutes on the theory of cornering and instruction on the odd gearbox which consists of two levers, one for first and reverse and the other for second and third. Fortunately, once you get moving you leave it in third so that got rid of my shifting anxiety.

Then is was time for the ride-along with the professional driver. Actually it was time to stand around for quite a long time waiting to be picked at random for the ride-along. I finally got tired of waiting and put myself in the face of the pit manager and got put in a car.

The first thing I noticed was that I couldn't see anything. The seat was so low that I couldn't see the front, back or side of the car. Then we were off, and I do mean off. The speed was surreal. It was pretty frightening to see the wall rushing by the window and the corner leaping towards you up front. At the same time though, there was no real drama going on. The pro driver was moving like he was on a relaxing drive in the country, and the car had no body roll at all and there was never a peep from the tires. The four laps went by very quickly. I was left feeling very intimidated.

Then there was another wait. But finally my name was called and I was assigned to car number 1. Always a good sign. I got strapped in and sat waiting while the others got their belts adjusted. Surprisingly, sitting in the car was comforting. I was still scared though. First there was the lingering memory of the ride-along. Also, I hadn't driven a standard transmission car in several years. I was praying that I didn't stall it out and look like a fool.

Finally we got the order to start engines. The monster fired right up. Then I got waved forward. I pushed in the clutch, put it in first, let out the clutch and the car rolled forward without incident. Then as I approached the gate to the tack I was warned not to hit right wall, which I could not see. I steered slightly left and entered the track, apparently missing the wall. I took my place behind the pace SUV and waited for the others.

We ran the pace laps and did the passing drills, which was comforting, because now I knew that if I was in anyone's way, the flagman would tell me to pull over and let them pass. I worried less about going too slow.

Then the pace car pulled off and the green flag waved and the car in front of me barely accelerated. After a couple corners the flagman had him pull over to let me by. I went by and let the engine roar for the first time. It was surprisingly easy. Then next few laps I pressed a little harder and went much faster. I was amazed at the power of the brakes.

Then I came quickly upon another car and it took half a lap to get past him. A lap later I had to wait for another car to get out of my way. i had now passed all the other cars on the track. The ego took over. I pushed harder and found it no harder to slow it down for the corner. Each lap I pushed harder and went faster. Then I got caught behind a slower car. It was the one I passed on lap two. Two more quick laps and I got caught behind the other two cars going quite slowly. This time though the flagman didn't move them over. Turns out the session was almost over so I was stuck for another lap and a half till we pulled into the pits.

Broke Down on Kindle

Yes, my latest novel, Broke Down on the Road to Glory, is now available for the Kindle for a mere 99 cents. How come it's so much cheaper than the print book? No dead trees!

I'm starting to warm up to this e-book concept. Being a closet tree-hugger I like the idea of killing fewer trees, but I also like being able to charge so much less for my books. That may sound weird, but being a relatively new writer I feel uncomfortable asking people to cough up ten bucks to read my stuff. But at less than a buck for the e-version, if they don't like it they're just out the cost of a single Krispy Kream.

On the other hand, 99 cents is about average for what I pay for books anyhow. The vast majority of my reading consumption comes from Goodwill and library books sales. I'm a cheap reader so I can only expect that my target audience are also cheap readers.

I guess now though I'll have to break down and buy one of the Kindle things for myself. Maybe finally get around to reading all those Project Gutenburg books I've been meaning to read.

http://www.amazon.com/Broke-Down-Road-Glory-ebook/dp/B004TNGLC0/ref=tmm_kin_title_0

100 Words

There was nothing good on the radio the night that Spider left. He didn't mean to leave. He just wanted to get out and do something. He circled town twice and found nothing to do that he hadn't already done one too many times. The bars were full of people he'd already met. The movies he'd seen. The bands he'd heard. So he aimed the car west. He drove and drove till he came to a new town. Went into a new bar. Heard a new band. Met new people. Three years later, nothing on TV, he headed west again.

A Splinter In My Mind

Somewhere among longing, desire and addiction there is writing. A disease. A mental illness. The arrogant belief that people will care to read whatever words my fingers happen to spit onto the page. The hubris of it all.

There are better things to be doing. There is a Harry Potter marathon on TV. There is a racing bike that needs its wheels put together. There is a pile of cardboard that needs to go to the recycling center. But no. I have a thought. It must be recorded. Everything must stop and wait while I make another feeble attempt at immortality.

I shut off the TV, put my headphones on and tune the internet radio program to the goth-industrial-techno music that keeps me pumped up with its beat without the distraction of any intelligible lyrics. The idea is transferred through the fingers and the keyboard onto the virtual page. Seeing my idea transformed into letters and words relieves the awful itch in my brain. I have written. I have conquered thought.

I save the file in the "use later" folder along with all the other stuff I simply had to write down at the time. All the stuff I still believe I will some day find a use for, find an audience for. Someone must want to read this.

Major Disappointment

I finally got around to going to the bike shop today and bought all the grease and lube and stuff to make my bike all running smooth and everything. Then when I got home there was the box holding my bar end shifters. This would, barring any other surprises, be the last parts I would need. No more excuses, time to finish the build. I tore into the box and unwrapped something else. It wasn't my shifters! It was some other shifter parts for a flat handle bar.

A quick look at eBay showed me that the guy I bought the shifters from had also sold what I had gotten in the mail to someone else. I can only assume that person has my shifters. A simple mistake and I'm sure the seller will make good, but still, major disappointment!

A Minor Failure

Last week I saw a scene of amazing passion, anger and righteous outrage. I've spent a week trying to recreate with the written word the facts and emotions of that moment. I spent countless hours typing and retyping. Rearranging adjectives and adverbs. Exploring the bounds of description, from straight reporting to metaphor glutted hyperbole. I have failed miserably. The faces, the voices and the invisible energy that drove and colored the moment haunt my words but will not manifest themselves. I am emasculated by this failure. One scene, one moment has wrestled by creativity to the ground. I must surrender.

My first Bike Build - OOPS!

The aero bars don't fit. Well, to be accurate, the mounts are setup for a thinner handlebar. The handlebars I got bulge in the middle where the stem is mounted. I got these because they are what I got. I didn't really plan anything beyond making the numbers match and unfortunately the aero bars didn't have any numbers. Fortunately, it looks like all I need is some longer screws and perhaps some stiff plastic spacers. TO THE BIKE SHOP!

UPDATE

Well, the trip to the bike shop didn't help. Longer screws alone won't do it, so I either need to get thinner handlebars or a $50 dollar fit kit that will add three to four pounds. With my weight I don't think the thinner handlebars are a good idea. The fit kit looks really kludgey and I'm not sure that saving the aero bars is worth it. I did some research on the internet and think the best solution is to get a pair of bar end shifters. That will simplify things without too much additional cost. You can get new Shimano bar end shifters online for $56, so they should go for half that or so on eBay.

UPDATE 2

People who buy stuff on eBay are nuts. They are paying more for used bar end shifters than what new ones cost. Same model numbers and all. It makes no sense. I may have to buy new ones. Oh the shame.