Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Third? That was all? Surely I’d been out here for two hours already. My arms were trembling from effort and I was raining sweat like the pilot in that old Airplane! movie. I should have worked out with heavier weights.
When a Toyota that looked like it was made of Legos nearly sideswiped me near the aptly named Gut Check section of the track, I shouted and jerked the steering wheel too close to the wall.
“Holy shit. Lego tried to kill me.”
I mashed the clutch, downshifted and floored it instinctively to get my speed back up the way Bernie had taught me. I glared at the Lego smiley-face pattern on the back of the car, now inches from my front bumper. “Fucker.”
“Pit Master to Little Sister. Hold steady. Those are the nice guys and they make great ribs, but as soon as they hit the track, the red mist descends and they turn into asshats. Let them pass and they’ll ignore you.”
The pink-Cadillac ladies were sounding better all the time. A big sturdy car. A slow steady pace. Like Gene and the others, they weren’t here to win. They were here to participate. Lego was apparently here to be a jerk.
There was a not-so-subtle metaphor for life in this experience, wasn’t there?
A bunch of old cars covered with dings and scratches, most of which should have been put out to pasture or a junkyard years ago, were given new life to come back swinging. There would always be one or two assholes, but most of the others were just doing their best not to crash into each other while pushing to make that one extra lap without spinning out or breaking down in the middle of the road.
They were all lemons. But they didn’t let that stop them from living their dreams.
“Sorry for all the swearing before,” I said, knowing Kingston was recording.
“The Pit Master has heard worse. Believe it or not you’re at five laps now. You’ll get the feel of the turns eventually. It takes time. You already know not to pump the brakes, and that’s half the battle. I can see you downshifting like a demon going into those curves and I am impressed.”
Lucy, saint of generators and positive reinforcement.
If I did survive, it would be in part because of him. And Bernie’s yoga and driving lessons. And Chick’s unwavering support, in spite of his own fears. And Wade.
I’d have to thank them all by never, ever entering a car race again. Not even the funny amateur ones. I already had enough anxiety, and I was too old to be starting new hobbies that could spike my blood pressure.
Maybe I should take up knitting.
“Don’t you ever want to be a part of the story, pumpkin?”
Yes, I did. I’d been observing courageous and interesting people all my life, starting with my mother. When I was younger, I read about them. Then I wrote about them.
I always told myself that someday, it would be me. I’d climb a mountain, search for treasure, or discover an ancient temple in the wilds of a rainforest. I’d learn to fly a plane or go deep sea diving.
I’d fall in love.
Someday, when I had more money in my savings account. When I was in better shape. When I was finished with my book. Later. Tomorrow. Next time.
The queen of Procrasti-Nation, remember?
Only I wasn’t anymore. I was here and now. White-knuckling a steering wheel with my heart actually trying to escape through my throat. I was living in this second, in this moment. I was saying yes to all of it.
I’d been doing it for months, and it hadn’t been as hard as I’d imagined. In fact, since I took that first step outside my door, most of it had been wonderful.
After all this time, it felt like I was finally honoring the words I’d read out loud at Mom’s celebration of life.
I wish I’d said yes more often. To all the crazy adventures she wanted me to join her on. To living the way she did. Fearlessly, unapologetically and completely in the moment.
But because she lived, we are here. And because she lived, we are family. Some found family she gathered along the way, some blood relations who couldn’t be more different, all of us connected forever in ways big and small because of her.
She lived and we weren’t alone.
She lived and we were inspired to do something we always wanted to try but never thought we could.
She lived and we wrote poetry, and read poetry, and owned scarves covered in poetry—‘I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart.’
She lived and we made ridiculous hats and silly movies in our living room. We sang and laughed our way through long car rides across the country, cars we always named and had theme songs for, and trips that always became adventures.