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late, but worthy. this, originally written two weeks ago. sound: the relentless drone of motor home generators... the subdued tones of distant conversations... the occasional shock of a detonated firework. vision: the stark white illumination of the battery-operated tent light, magnetically fixed to the billowing tent wall, bent to the breath of the chill north wind. surrounded by cordura bags of every size and description... in fact, this laptop is balanced on my holdall, containing five days' worth of clothes changes. seated on the same sleeping bag that i've owned for twenty-five years... a neon orange that hasn't faded with age or mileage (and there's been LOTS of them). scent? more like SMELL. the unmistakable bouquet of smoke from someone's oak campfire... and the acrid funk of a tent that'd been packed away for much too long. now, it's home. just across the street from Indianapolis Motor Speedway. this be heaven. at this point, i'm much more coherent than i've been since Wednesday... except for the fact that it's difficult to remember which day it actually is, were it not for the pamphlet for the formula one race schedule, it would be impossible. maybe the date on my watch is somewhat illuminating... though it's not telling me what the day might be. let's see... yesterday was pit walkabout. today was practice day. tomorrow is qualifying. the next is race day. that's how these days have been defined. as is said, getting there is half the fun. i suppose you could call it that . always, adventure is best romanticized with the glow of time passed. so it begins; sneaking out two hours early from work, way back on Tuesday night... an eternity ago... the frenzy beginning with the trip back to an empty house, except for the cat. she'd been entertaining herself with dislodging various bits in the absence of humans. i cranked up the whirlwind of packing, never sitting down for more than five minutes without jumping back up to do some other absolute necessity, before collapsing at three AM/ to get back up at six. lovely. not so very different from the inherent spasticity that you are overcome with on ChristmasEve... when you're a kid. grabbing bags from the pile assembled hours earlier, loading up the car... rendezvousing with SlickWillie and transferring said bags into the tiny toyota truckbed.. along with his bags. and a motorcycle. and coolers. to the point of teetering. not leaving until noon. are we there, yet? 600+ miles. stops regularly to top up the tank, and whatever fancy struck the mind. for what seemed like hours at a time. up the Blue Ridge and down. across the West Virginia state line, down corridors of ridiculously green mountains that rose even more ridiculously to contours and heights and unseen depths. tiny waterfalls carving out scars in to stair-stepped, naked strata... ripped from the slopes for the sake of cars ascending them. refineries with pinprick of lights scattered along Gigeresque superstructures. hills diminishing into Kentucky, as the daylight dimmed. road, relentlessly, more road. taillights. burnt brake fumes. spent diesel soot. geysering radiators in the emergency lanes. trailers of semis bent into collapsed "v's". skylines tattooed with miniscule lights... silhouetted in hazy orange fog: Lexington. Louisville. Indianapolis. and then, it was 3 AM. on empty streets, past the sleeping vastness of the colosseum of the internal combustion engine, to the entry of the campground. too early to be admitted. directed to an adjacent lot to wait. too road-weary, chemically-treated, and inspired to doze. then dawn, and a new inspiration. racecars. international flair. soul food. like going home, but not. |
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