Turn Left! Turn Left!

You can talk to me for five minutes and know that I love Nancy, Star Wars and Superman. On the other hand, you could talk to my parents for two days and walk away with just two insights into their lives: my dad is not happy about our public education system, and my mother is the funniest person on the planet.

I grew up in their house, and it took me years to get a handle on what they're passionate about. Not because I'm self-absorbed, but because they put my sister and I before everything... including their pastimes and passions.

So when I tell you my parents love open-wheel racing, I'm not talking about the "Oh, I love celery" or "Oh, I love Snoopy" kinda' love... I'm talking about the kind of love that could even make its presence known in a household that was almost entirely kid-centric. The only Sundays we didn't have a huge, butter-laden, syrup-besotted breakfast? Race day at Indianapolis my friends.

My dad had -hell, has- this huge transistor radio. AM and FM, mind you. Telescoping antenna? Oh yeah. He used it twice a year: the afternoon before race day he'd take it out of the linen closet, and check the batteries... and race day? He'd carry it everywhere so he wouldn't miss a moment of the race as it was broadcast live while he swept the gutter and fed the dogs. See, in those days (Good Lord I'm old... I just typed "in those days") the race wasn't broadcast live on TV, and my dad? He's many things, but patient he ain't, so he and that radio were as inseperable Sunday mornings as Lenny Bruce and handcuffs.

I remember watching him from the kitchen window, holding the radio in one hand, and a rake in the other, and stopping every so often with a far-off look in his eyes when the announcer somberly decribed a crash, or excitedly called out that Mario or AJ orBobby had taken the lead, and thinking "So dad loves car races. Huh." It made me feel like I knew him, and didn't, all at once.

Of course, once the race was over it was time for the TV pre-race shows, and eventually time to watch the race itself. I used to think my mom watched just 'cause my dad did... but then I learned that they dated at Sprint Car and Midget races... and saw Grand Prix "in the round" once... turns out my mom loves the shiny cars and the drivers with the unpronounceable names almost as much as my dad does.

Me? I like auto racing, sure. What's not to like? It's loud and smelly and full of gadgets. Stock Cars are okay (there's a Superman car, you know) but I prefer the open-wheel cars... I dunno, they're more... glamorous. They speak of some exotic, European lifestyle where every driver lives on champagne and watercress, and is married to Catherine Deneuve. It doesn't hurt that James Garner played the quintessential American Grand Prix driver in the aforementioned Grand Prix, either. Or that I had a racing helmet just like the one he wore in that epic film... 'cept mine was made out of plastic, and I wore it when I rode my bike... 'till I got old enough to understand embarassment anyway.

Yeah, I like auto racing, but I've come to understand it's not the races I'm drawn to so much, but the memories of my parents enjoying them. There wasn't a lot of "quality alone time" for my parents during my formative years... but there was that one Sunday, each and every Memorial Day weekend. That Sunday I got to see my parents enjoying the race, and enjoying each other, and not just looking out for us and the family... and you know? I don't think I've ever felt closer to them.

Gentlemen! Start your engines!