I grew up on racing. Formula, stock, or funny cars, I craved
speed. I loved to watch the races but more than that I loved to go fast in a
car. I adore the recent car commercial of the little girl in the back seat as
her daddy is driving. She has her own steering wheel that she is working hard as
her daddy drives fast in circles and back and forth. I can tell that she feels
like she is in heaven. It is a fearless world.
Interstate 30 used to be a toll road between Dallas and
Fort Worth. Bridge St. ran alongside of the interstate from Brentwood to
Oakland. If you didn’t want to go all the way to Dallas, that road was the one
you had to take. There was a hill that I loved…Daddy would always accelerate
going up the hill so that when we crested the hill our stomachs would slam into
our throats. I would always squeal in extreme delight at the rush of adrenaline
pumping through my body. I wanted to do it again and again.
I remember when Daddy bought a 1966 Grand Prix 2 door
hardtop. My heart leaped in joy at the sight of its long low lines. I was only 11
but I could tell that it would roar down the highway eating up the pavement.
Mom considered it incredibly inappropriate for a family
of four. She didn’t like to drive it but I could tell she loved it as much as
we did when we crested that hill.
As for me…I wanted to drive it. I wanted to feel the power
surging through my hands and feet. I wanted to feel my heart leap as the fear sped
away.
Daddy let me drive that big old hunk of metal down our
driveway one day. It was a lane that was maybe a quarter of a mile. I am sure I
scared the bejeezus out of him. It was the only time I got to do that. I know
Mom would have yelled if she had known about it. All it made me want to do is
to drive further faster.
My grandmother had let me drive her Plymouth Valiant with
push-button transmisison from a very early age. She would get out to open the
gate and I would drive through it and stop. I don’t remember how young I was
the first time I did that but I would have pitched a fit if I thought my
parents had let my daughter drive through anything at that age! But as for me,
it felt so natural. Forget the fact that I basically had to stand up to touch
the accelerator or the brake.
I hated going to the go-kart places until I was old
enough to drive my own. Then…I loved it. More importantly, I was good at it. I
wanted to be a race car driver. I didn’t care if it was at the Indy or
Daytona…I just wanted to drive fast.
Fat chance of that. Danica Patrick has had her own problems
breaking into the white man’s world of racing…I had no chance in my teen years.
When I learned to drive…formally…I sat through dull and
boring classes learning all the do’s and don’ts of the road. The only part I
liked was the driving. My driver education instructor was also my geography
teacher. We could easily get him off of the lesson of the day by asking about
his summers at the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. He would show us videos of
his races.
I got my first car for my 17th birthday. It
was a 1970 Mustang fastback that my daddy had bought from a banker friend of
his. I almost got a 1971 Cutlass 442 but
the guy who owned it came up with the back payments just in the nick of time. Oh
my God, that yellow Cutlass was so hot! But I quickly adjusted to the Mustang. Even
though there were very strict rules as to actually driving it, I would just go
sit in it and dream of racing in my head.
The maddest I have ever been at my sister was one time
when she snuck out my Mustang. For whatever reason, I was with Mom and Dad while
she stayed at home. When we drove back into the driveway, it was immediately
noticed by me that MY precious vehicle was GONE. Going into the house, it was
quickly noted that my sister was nowhere to be found. Just about the time, as Daddy
walked back outside, up drives my sister in MY car. She bounced over the curb
and came to a rocking rest in the driveway. I was so angry that I don’t
remember much but my dad saying to her, “you can’t even drive! You hit the
curb!” And she belligerently and indignantly bellowed back, “I was driving just
fine until I saw you standing there staring at me!” I think she was 13 at the
time. Always sassy, my little sister. While it may be worth a smile or a giggle
now, I was not amused at the time.
Over behind Bell Helicopter was a stretch of road that
was perfect for drag racing. It is what is known as Trinity Blvd now but then,
it was mostly an access road for the hundreds of people working at Bell to get
to the parking lot. The road also led to Mosier Valley. Mosier Valley was the
area of town where most of the black folk lived. Mosier Valley was the oldest
black community in Tarrant County. It was founded by freed slaves in 1870 and
named after a plantation that was home to slaves who had been brought from
Tennessee to the Trinity River bottomland. (Read more here:
http://www.star-telegram.com/opinion/opn-columns-blogs/bob-ray-sanders/article3843937.html#storylink=cpy)
On Friday and Saturday nights, all the teens of the area
would gather alongside the shoulders of Trinity Blvd. Cars would line up so
that headlights could light the path of the screaming vehicles that raced down
the road. The bit of road used was straight and perfect for drag racing…until
the end. The race was over when the cars had to stop before going around a
curve to the left or into the two lane road leading to Mosier Valley. There
were numerous crashes when one driver or the other was so hell-bent on winning
that they slowed too late.
I never raced out there on the weekends. In the first
place, I, as a girl, would never have been allowed in the lineup. Secondly, my
car was fast but it was not souped up enough for winning. But I would go out
there on a week night. I would set my car at the start line, allow a mental
countdown and bam! Foot to the floor I would be flying down that road. Too soon
the curve would loom ahead of me and I would slow down. Many years later, as my
little Bronco was rolling over and sliding on its side, as I saw the asphalt
and grass flashing past me, I had a split second memory of the way the road
looked as I raced down it.
Fear has been such a major part of my life. I have rarely
been without it. But when I sit behind the wheel of a car, fear fades as the
car accelerates. I can get into a zone and zoom in and out of cars,
accelerating into curves, and focusing solely on the road ahead. It is a world
of its own. Caution flies out the window when the “pedal meets the metal”.
I used to drive between Fort Worth and Ruidoso New Mexico
on a fairly regular basis. On one journey, we were in a Good Times Van, one of
those custom vans with all the comforts of home while on the road. It had a
huge engine in it and gas was cheap. Traveling down U.S. Highway 380 was
perfect. Long stretches of straight uninhabited highway. I could see for miles.
At one point, the highway was on a upward grade and it traveled through a cut
out…an area that was blown out so that the road could go through it. Just as I
crested that cut out, I saw a Highway Patrol car on the other side. Too late.
Sure enough, I saw him pull a u-turn in the highway and come speeding up behind
me. I pulled over to the shoulder of the road and watched him angrily walked up
to my window. He fiercely glared at me and asked, “Do you know how fast you
were going?????” I innocently answered, “No, sir, I don’t.” He basically yelled
at me, “Well, I don’t either but it was too damn fast!!!! Slow this vehicle
down!!!” I said “Yes, sir.” He turned on his heel, marched back to his vehicle,
slammed it in gear and spun out as he pulled another u-turn to go back from
whence he came. I slowly put it in gear and took off, feeling fairly proud of
myself. I am just as sure that before long, I was once again going far faster
than he thought I should be going.
I suppose I could claim that a level of maturity brought
me to the point that I slowed down…but no. That was not it. Rather, it was the
speeding tickets. While I have not had one in a good many years and I did not
get one that day, I have had a multitude of them in the past. That, plus the
fact that racing a minivan doesn’t do much for me…it’s just not the same.
I find it rather ironic that driving fast is the one
thing that makes the fear go away but at the same time, fear of being stopped
for speeding is the reason for slowing down. If that understanding is maturity,
I don’t really like it.
I still dream of racing every time I drive on I-44. With
all its curves, it would be perfect for a little sports car low to the ground
and capable of hugging the road.
I think I will always feel the call of the open road, the
wind in my face, me racing past life, free of obstacles, the unknown ahead, the
present left behind. Maybe I will go again…one day…but maybe not.
Maybe I have found other ways to be courageous and let fear
fly out the window of my soul.
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