I used to have this shirt that I would wear sometimes when doing SCCA Solo II events in my Miata. I think the wording was, “Autocross: If it were any easier, they would call it Driver Education.” I know, real funny. I thought it was, at least. It was all part of the good-natured ribbing that takes place between parking lot racers and track guys. The lines of demarcation have always been blurry for some, though. If you look at many of our chiefs (Bill Gilbert and Scott Studer immediately come to mind), instructors like Keith Peare, Rick Newman, and Robert Ida, and advanced drivers like Tom Iervolino, Joe Aiovoli, Lou Hudyman, and Iskender Catto, the multi-discipline guys are represented in good numbers.

I count myself among the “ambidriverous” (I just made that up). And so, when the SCCA Northeast Autocross Championship was up on the calendar for May 12-13, I was really excited. Finally! A national-level event locally at the Meadowlands! What would I drive? Who would I co-drive with? The excitement lasted a couple of hours, when Tom Iervolino reminded me that the 13th was Mothers Day. There are some things in life that that you just do not mess with, and Moms are one of them. Rats. I had to cancel. Intrepid Lou Hudyman, with his teammate and wife, Kelly, were driving their Lotus in the big event, though. I decided to live vicariously through them, and follow the live results online as they drove in the competition over the two days.

I was surprised on Sunday, when no results were being posted. I figured something was wrong with the online results system. A text message from Lou late in the day, informed me that the event had actually been cancelled due to a fatality that took place at the Meadowlands early in the day involving a motorcyclist and a traffic investigation. Being a part-time motorcyclist myself, it always touches a special chord in me when I hear about a fallen biker. Naturally, your thoughts turn to their lives, their families, and the general sadness of it all.

“Just wait until you try a New York pretzel,” my dad said, as our pale yellow Coupe de Ville glided down Route 3. I admit I was skeptical. I mean, I was almost six years old already, and I knew what pretzels from a store tasted like. They were good, but hardly the stuff of dreams. My Dad was undeterred his enthusiasm. “The street vendors have these big carts where they cook the pretzels over a charcoal fire,” my dad continued. “They’re hot and a little crunchy on the outside, but soft in the middle. You put a little mustard on them and they are out of this world.”

Food was always inextricably woven into the weekend adventures with my dad. Sometimes he would introduce a new pizza place that he had come across in his travels (like Pizza Kings). Sometimes it was a bakery with great cheese buns (Hahns). Or an amazing burger joint (The Brook Tavern). Or the best sloppy joes in New Jersey (Bangiolas). Or hot dogs with long slices of pickle and birch beer on tap (Johnnys). Whatever the place or cuisine, he made it all part of the adventure, and the adventure on this day was my first trip to New York City to see the Auto Show.

I sat in the passenger seat of the big coupe, in this time before modern annoyances like child seats, rear-seat laws, airbags, and seat belts. I guess as it is with most recollections from childhood, that Caddy seemed bigger than life. Only it was bigger than life, with an enormous split bench in front and a long expanse of dashboard that dwarfed me in a wall of plastic wood. I loved the small details that the car had, like those little sentinel lights on the leading edge of each front fender that showed that the headlights were functioning, and the Cadillac emblems, ducks and all, seemingly everywhere. The car’s eight-track player clicked back to Program 1, and Barry Manilow appropriately began to wax poetic about the New York City Rhythm.

“Here comes the Lincoln Tunnel,” my dad announced. He had already primed me for this part of the trip, and I was eager to see what driving under the water felt like. “Like a big bathroom,” I thought, as we drove through the tiled tube, my eyes scanning vigilantly for even the slightest of water leaks.

Earth Day, April 23, marks one year since John’s death at the age of 62. I met John at Watkins Glen a dozen years ago in my early days of driver education. My gearbox had broken and was bleeding oil. I had come alone and was more than a bit worried even though I was […]

I can remember like it was yesterday getting dressed to go out and play in the snow as a kid. There was usually a turtleneck shirt involved, thermals, snow pants, snow jacket, gloves, boots, a hat (sometimes with a mask included), and a scarf. There would be so much snow on the ground, piled up by the plows from multiple storms, that we would have all of the materials we would need for a season of snow forts, snowmen, snow cones (don’t eat the yellow ones), snowball fights, and whatever else begins with “snow.” This was all winter long, too. There were snow days, early closing days, and those magical moments on snowy mornings when we would sit huddled on my parents bed, listening to school closings on AM radio. As soon as I heard the “Men-” of “Mendham,” I would react like I had won the lottery…and my mom would grimace as if she lost a bet.

I thought about all of this the other day as the kids and I washed the remaining bits of 2011 from my track car. I had followed the old adage last fall of “running it hard and putting it away dirty.” The paint still has black marks from all of those sticky Hoosiers and slicks in front of me (as I passed them, of course). A dog-eared Watkins Glen II tech sticker still adorns the center of my windshield, and a couple of water bottles roll around the floor of the passenger side. On this fine sixty-degree day in February, with the sun way up high in the sky and the water drops drying almost faster than I can take a towel to it, those old winter memories seem a world away. There has not been a snow day since October, and the kids’ boots still have tags on them. Pity for my kids, but not bad at all for me as I start to prepare my car for the long track season. Indeed, as distant as winter seemed, Lime Rock is dead ahead in my sights.

As you read this, we will be about a week from our season opener, at beautiful Lime Rock Park. I am already having those panic dreams like you get before a prom (I forgot to rent my tux!) or my graduation (I needed three more credits??), only this time I am waking up in my dream at 10am and missing a DE that I am supposed to be running. Maybe I’ll assign someone a wake up call function just to be safe.