Saturday, February 23, 2008

How to Lose your Husband in 10 Seconds or Less.

This morning, I nearly lost my husband. We were getting ready to leave (irritating our neighbors again by chugging up the diesel on an early Saturday morning), when he heard it. The whine of cars on the race track. As soon as I heard it, I had visions of him, nose in the air, much like an animal seeking prey. I knew I had lost him. The race track is over the hills, and not too far away, and I knew if he could follow the sound long enough, he'd pick up the scent of rubber on warm pavement and he'd be gone forever. Not gone forever because he'd be lost in the fast world of racing, gone forever because about 100 yards into his run for the race track there would be a boom as he stepped on an unexploded mortar from the old Army Fort near here. (I'm serious about the mortars. We're not allowed to leave the walking path.) When I reminded him of that, he snapped out of his zombie like state, wiped the drool off of his chin, and we got in the car and headed down the road. Whose idea was it to live this close to Laguna Seca? Today it was close but because it was cars and not motorcycles, I got lucky. The day they are motorcycles, well:

It's the hogs and the blood, the dust and the mud, the roar of a racing crowd.
The white in the knuckles, the chrome on the cycle he'll ride down Hwy 1.
It's boots and shafts, it's black skull caps, the wind, and he's gone, no doubt.
The grips and the gears, the fun and the fear, this thing called Harley Davidson.

Okay, so it doesn't rhyme perfectly, but take Garth Brooks' "the rodeo" and apply it to Motorcycle racing (and DBZ)... Yeah, that's Not the Momma.

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