Kerouac, Dirt Tracks, the Call of the Road, and Wags: Part 1

There are few things that I build up in my mind that ever turn out to be as epic as I envision them, but dirt track racing rarely fails to meet expectations.

Neither does anything involving my little brother.

On Monday night, I was laying on my couch watching TV when I got a call from Wags. 

"I've been thinking about racing, Bubby.  We have to write.  We have to capture it like it really is.  Like Jack did."

"Jack?" 

"Kerouac.  On The Road.  Midget racing.  He understood, Bubby.  He got it.  You and me, we're going to bring that back.  Maybe a series of essays.  We'll capture that thing.  You know, that thing that everyone else misses."

And in that one frozen moment, it all came together.  Every experience of the past four weeks slammed together into a fated beautiful plan.  Reading Neil Peart's Ghost Rider and growing agitated with his views of boorish Americans and their boorish pastimes.  Making Dano watch Thundercars and then sitting at my dining room table, pleading "Don't you see?  Americana, baby.  This is where it all starts.  This is the passion.  This is where the dream comes from."  Planning this road trip to Eldora with him for the World of Outlaws this weekend.  Trying to explain to people that this is not just a race, it is the fundamental reason for being.

"It starts this weekend, Wags," I said.  "Eldora.  World of Outlaws.  I'm going to be there."

All of this agita, all of this angst.  It's all been leading me to one conclusion:  racing road trip.  Because I've always needed that epic event to get out of my own head, to reconnect with that part of my life.  Wags and I, we grew up on this road.  It might have gone a different direction every Friday night, but it always led to a dirt track.  This is our root system.  We stretch and grow away from it, but we can never get too far.

I remember Wags, practically a toddler, climbing into Doug Wolfgang's car in the parking lot of a Super 8 the afternoon before the last race at Erie, Colorado before they paved it. 

I remember him, sleeping face down on the splintered wooden bench the night they landed the helicopter at Angell Park for Scott Hatton, how we couldn't wake him up for anything.  The pictures he drew for Mike Frost.  Listening to him announce a heat race over the PA at Knoxville.  Recreating the photo with Jac Haudenschild, 7 year-old Wags, 20 year-old Wags. 

Almost every racing story from my past, I can start it and he can finish it.  We have been together through the good, the bad, the heroic, and the torrential rain with a side of tornado siren.

When I think of racing and Wags, I realize that I am bound to him by something more than the shared experience, the way we were raised.  I am connected to him by the ability to talk about the one thing I am unable to discuss with anybody else.  The dark thing we are supposed to pretend never happens.

"It gets worse as I get older, Bubby.  Every time it happens.  Even just the injuries.  Jeff Shepard at Knoxville.  I took it hard."

I get that.  I get it in a way that makes my stomach hurt some days, wondering if I can experience it again without walking away completely.  But I know that I can, because of him.  Because of him, completely.  In the same way that he has made all of the other tragedies of our shared past bearable.

At the first mention of Eldora, he grew more animated on the phone.  Always the one thinking about logistics, I was not as excited.  His trip would be half of mine, we could not drive together.  And selfishly, I wanted our Kerouac-inspired racing road trip to be something where we could actually spend the time together in the car, where we could endlessly debate the nuances of the experience.  We excel at road trips together.

He was not to be discouraged.

"I've been watching old races on YouTube.  I need this.  Finals will be over.  I need this."

I understand that need.  And it wouldn't be the same without him, anyway.

If any of you will be at Eldora on Friday or Saturday, you are welcome to look us up and join us for this epic adventure, but you must agree to a few conditions.  You must be passionate - no jaded hipsters allowed, my friends.  You must be open to the possibility that Wags and I will endlessly wax poetic about what a spiritual experience this will be, how it represents everything that is good and right and undivided and perfect about the midwest.  You must acknowledge the transcendent quality of Americana. 

And you must not mock me for crying during the A-main parade lap. 

Part 2 will follow.  From the road.