Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Auto Racing Not Just For Inbreds

For the longest time I have held an aggravated spite toward the sport of auto racing. It has never seemed in any way, shape or form appealing to me. But not just non-appealing, I saw it as a complete and total waste of money, gasoline and fried foods. The concept of 50 guys going around in circles all day long at 100 mph never seemed to catch my attention. Ever.

But what about the crashes, one may argue? Don’t those get your motor revved? No! Why would one car colliding with another at near-Autobahn speeds, putting both drivers’ lives at risk, excite me? That is just mere stupidity. Sure, it may be a rush of excitement for .8 seconds, but is anyone thinking about the long-term consequences? I doubt that highly.

I once had a man attempt to explain to me that auto racing was an “art,” and that there were so many other variables and directives in place that keep one entrapped in the beauty of such a competition. The turns, the driving maneuvers, the politics of the race, the precious seconds at a pit stop all made the race so much more complicated and wonderful.

Swamp Thing: “Now look here, Mr. inebriated walking advertisement for the anti-Jared diet, auto racing is as simple as this: Hold down the gas and turn left.”

I hope I have adequately explained my distaste and loathe for this ridiculous concept thus far. Having said this, one can only assume my frustrations this past weekend when I was invited to be on a pit crew at a race in Salt Lake. With my journalism pen handy to describe to all of you the stupidity of an auto race as my goal, I set out to destroy this perplexing sport with this blogpost.

I don’t think I made a quicker 180 in all of my life. While the hours passed before the race that day I observed one of the most beautiful and intriguing activities I had beheld in my life. As I was up there, I was looking for error, for flaws, for moronic behavior. All of my remarks were degrading and sarcastic, until I was shut up five minutes after arrival.

One of my first words was to a fellow pit member.

“Why are the tires bald? Is it because this civilization hasn’t figured out the concept of treads yet?” I said scoffing.

“No,” he smiled back, “It’s so the drivers can get more traction on the track. The hot rubber grips better on the asphalt if it doesn’t have the air running through it. From a physics standpoint it just makes more sense. Less air flow on the underside of the car will create less drag and make the car go faster. It’s a science really if you think about it.”

Oh. Yeah. Of course. Open mouth, insert foot. And it only went downhill for my sadistic views from there. I learned about the science of creating a car. I learned of the mechanics of what a car needs to work better on certain kinds of tracks. I was taught the chemistry of what fuels to use because of how hot it burns and keeps an engine producing at its highest level. I learned about the mental preparation a driver goes through as he is going into a race. I saw the politics of racing, the unwritten laws and rules of a sport moving at heartbeat speeds. I saw the mutual respect given to the senior drivers, sort of like a racing hierarchy. I heard the communication between driver and crew chief on how to most effectively stay the race and most importantly, stay alive.

It was incredible! The whole thing! From “gentlemen start your engines,” the checkered flag, the smell of the excess fuel burning off into the night, the sounds of cars propelled past me at momentum speeds to the sights of the thousands of fans cheering for a single cause, I was in heaven.

After the race was over, I sat back in the cold stands reeking of secondhand smoke and motor exhaust. My face was dirty, my body ached with fatigue, but my heart and mind paced with adrenaline from such an enthralling evening. I was in a semi-redneck utopia. Life was bliss. Before we left, I had a chance to approach one of the drivers and ask him about the race.

“What was it like out there?” I gushed. “What was your strategy and thoughts as you went around and around pulling for position and trying to win the race, and save your own life? How did you do it?”

He chuckled and looked down for a few seconds, wiped the grease off his forehead, and then replied: “Oh it was easy. All I did was hold down the gas and turn left.”

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Being A Kid

Saw this in the back of a Ford Taurus that was parked right next to me this morning. I'm not sure if it's the po-dunk town that I'm staying in's version of a Sonic restaurant, or if it's just a tired parent stowing away breakfast from a few minutes earlier. Either way, it's awesome.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Price, UT

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Big Words Are Just For Show-Offs

I think the picture above of a man who can't remember that one third thing goes great with today's post.

There are many things about growing up that I am not really enjoying. Along with taxes, mortgages, root canals and C-sections, adulthood appears to be a pain in the neck. One of the main things that I am a tad bit nervous about also, is the use of big words.

Yes, you read that correctly. Big words, or in adult terms, copious vocabulary, is something that confuses me beyond all belief. Apparently once you cross the border of adolescent juvenility to ripened maturity, that is when you begin to use words that are massively polysyllabic. See, there I go myself, I am turning into the substantial statement spewing monster that I am sarcastically scorning.

Big words are an intimidating terror that baffles people into a colossal state of confusion. Words like troglodyte, fantasmagoric, charlatan, or supercalifragilisticexpialodocious are such vocabulary terminology that perplex people into an annoying migraine. Words that make someone want to play tag with a porcupine, or leap frog with a unicorn.

Now why do people say such things? Such enormous expressions evolving from their mouths. Is there a reason that once you hit adulthood your language transforms into this new-fangled inventory that so confuses the youth? Do you want to know why? It’s the reason that people are trying to look smart I tell you. Saying words that nobody else can understand makes them think that they are on some kind of intelligent plateau that no one else can reach them on.

For example, I was at a recent meeting surrounded by adults who clad themselves with language and terminology that no one else could understand, all while their noses were pointed high in the sky, proud at the fact that they are speech geniuses.

Now I've been living in "big-kid" world for quite some time now, and I feel that I have a fairly decent understanding of “big kids” conversations. But hold the phone Dora with this group of prudent pompous people, I was out in left field as they spoke in what sounded like a jibberish articulating extraterrestrial from one of Saturn’s moons’, one that was mumbling in German at that!

Over all, big words are an atrocious alarm that leaves myself and such other students in a load of apprehension. You as a reader may find it somewhat ironic that littered throughout this article are words that half of the English majors on campus can’t even pronounce let alone understand. However even more ironic is the fact that the word Hippotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia is defined as the fear of long words.

Try saying that five times fast.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

When I Found Out

You want to see one of the best websites that lets you vent about all of your dating blunders from accidental text messages all the way to finding out that she's a Siamese Twin? Check this one out. I'm usually not a spokesman for anything online, but When I Found Out.com has to be one of the funniest things I've seen in a long time when it comes to all of the relationship foul-ups and misdeeds.


Monday, March 5, 2012

I Am Now An Old Man

I am Brock's bruised coccyx.

And yes, that may be the second time that I've used the word coccyx in a blogpost. Come on now people, I'm cultured, I'm not snickering under my breath or thinking the word "giggity" at all. I'm more mature than that.

At least I think I am.

For full effect, download "When You Are Old And Grey" by Tim Lehrer and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I think that's the way that I feel after today, old and grey. See kids, there once was a time when I was young and chipper and full of vibrance. I had the tempo of a hummingbird on steroids. I had so much energy that I made Pee-Wee Herman look like he was on phenobarbital.

But those days are all over. Take this afternoon for instance, as I was out shredding the gnar, (And yes B.E.P. Longhorn, I said that just for you). While approaching a jump I misread the lip and took a tail dive right for my tail bone. It wasn't that traumatic of an injury, but due to the fact that I am now an old man, the rest of my week is going to be doused with Icy Hot and pillows on my chairs at work.

I know, I am officially an old man. A tender one at that.

What has happened? I have no clue. I miss the days when I could face plant into a set of bleachers and shake the pain off like Hercules in his teens. I miss the high octane levels of testosterone flowing through me that motivated basketball games at three am. I miss not dozing off at two in the afternoon because my work schedule was so brutal (insert sarcasm here).

But those days are over, and here I sit awkwardly as a bruised up 26-year old who has no idea how much more pain and abuse that this physical specimen I am planted in can take. It's times like these when I wish I was ten years younger and had the attention span of a houseplant combined with a body dipped in the river Styx.

Its also times like these when I wish that I had a wife who was a professional masseuse. Because man, does my coccyx need one right now.

Please, no giggity.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone