Ever The Classroom Starter.
Last night in class, we were asked to write an essay about our hobby, but make it directed to a very specific crowd. The crowd we were given was a biker gang. Rowdy, destructive, implosive, cursing, sweaty, nasty, bikers who probably didn't care or want to hear anything we had to say.
It was a free-write; non-stop for ten minutes. We had to start and just forge ahead, not giving consideration to proper grammar, punctuation, or sentence structure. ...Just....empty our thoughts onto paper.
I did mine on drag racing....and ended up getting chosen to read it in front of the class.
UGH!
Anyway, here it is:
I love drag racing. Yes, drag racing. I don’t know why, but something about me usually doesn’t make people link me to anything like racing. It’s never seemed that surprising to me. I’m not sure how anyone could avoid getting a little attached to any sport that lets you do something that’s illegal anywhere other than within the confines of one small area; an area which is also filled with people who like to break the law as much as you do. I don’t know how anyone could purposely try to stay away from feeling the cars rattle you from within, from feeling the race inside your chest as a spectator, and from smelling the aroma of burning cherries as a car blazes by you.
I personally enjoy driving more than spectating. Spectating is great when you know a driver, or are part of a pit crew. It’s exciting to see your friends prevail while driving a car you know they’ve put much of their free time and money into. It’s exciting when you watch a car that you’ve put your free time into, blow the doors off the car beside it. It’s exciting to run back to the pits and hug and congratulate your driver. But nothing is as exciting as driving.
As a driver, you get to feel the excitement of sitting in line. You get to smile while many other racers walk by your car, peer in your windshield, and cock their eyebrows because there’s a girl behind the wheel of your car. There’s nothing like starting your car and bumping it up, up, up, toward the line. There’s nothing like pulling up to the beams running across the pavement and watching the lights on the Christmas Tree light up one-by-one until you're properly staged. There’s absolutely nothing like watching those lights fall until they hit the green, mashing your gas, popping your clutch, and feeling your ass slide involuntarily back in your seat. You can’t remember the pass you made. You can’t remember which RPMs you hit when you jammed your shifter into the next gear. You can’t remember the green light flashing on at your side.
You only know how you did when you pull off the end of the track and creep slowly toward the little hutch where the worker throws an arm out the window clutching your slip. You grab it as you drive by, you park your car in the pit, and you review your stats.
*TIME*
After this one, we were asked to write about the same hobby, but direct it at a group of female religious zealots. Again, mine was chosen to be read. *sigh*
This was it:
I love drag racing. While it may not be a conventional pastime for a girl such as myself, it’s proven to be quite useful in my life. Growing up with a family who spends one day of each weekend at the track, we learned many useful life tactics. We learned discipline, problem-solving, used mathematics on a regular basis, and learned to work together.
We all knew there was a certain time you had to be up and certain things that needed to be packed and ready to go. We worked together and made sure we had everything we needed for the day and then piled in the car together. We’d listen to musicals and sing every word as our father drove us to the track. We paid our fees, found our parking spot in the pit, then unloaded and began unloading our necessities. We set our canopy up, the grill, the groceries, and then we helped our father back the car out. We all got our towels, shined up the car, and helped dad get into his gear. We’d drive him to the line and watch proudly as our father shot off before us and cheered and hugged each other when the green light flashed on his side.
We’d drive the track behind him, hop out at the end to help him get hooked up to our tow vehicle and head back to the pit to review his race slip. We’d pull out the barometer, check the weather and the pressure, adjust the delay based on that information, then we’d start the whole process over again.
During the weeks when we had free time, we’d help our father put together posters and banners for our “Race Against Drugs” campaign and excitedly discuss our tactics for the next speech he'd present at whichever school asked him to visit them. We’d proudly be the test audience for our dad as he ran through his speeches on how, when involved in racing, you can’t have a mind that’s muddled by anything unnatural. We’d feel moved as he talked about how your mind has to be crisp and fast-acting in order to react to your signal effectively and make it to the end of the track safely in your car.
*TIME*
At the end, I had people asking if they could go with me next time.
It was a free-write; non-stop for ten minutes. We had to start and just forge ahead, not giving consideration to proper grammar, punctuation, or sentence structure. ...Just....empty our thoughts onto paper.
I did mine on drag racing....and ended up getting chosen to read it in front of the class.
UGH!
Anyway, here it is:
I love drag racing. Yes, drag racing. I don’t know why, but something about me usually doesn’t make people link me to anything like racing. It’s never seemed that surprising to me. I’m not sure how anyone could avoid getting a little attached to any sport that lets you do something that’s illegal anywhere other than within the confines of one small area; an area which is also filled with people who like to break the law as much as you do. I don’t know how anyone could purposely try to stay away from feeling the cars rattle you from within, from feeling the race inside your chest as a spectator, and from smelling the aroma of burning cherries as a car blazes by you.
I personally enjoy driving more than spectating. Spectating is great when you know a driver, or are part of a pit crew. It’s exciting to see your friends prevail while driving a car you know they’ve put much of their free time and money into. It’s exciting when you watch a car that you’ve put your free time into, blow the doors off the car beside it. It’s exciting to run back to the pits and hug and congratulate your driver. But nothing is as exciting as driving.
As a driver, you get to feel the excitement of sitting in line. You get to smile while many other racers walk by your car, peer in your windshield, and cock their eyebrows because there’s a girl behind the wheel of your car. There’s nothing like starting your car and bumping it up, up, up, toward the line. There’s nothing like pulling up to the beams running across the pavement and watching the lights on the Christmas Tree light up one-by-one until you're properly staged. There’s absolutely nothing like watching those lights fall until they hit the green, mashing your gas, popping your clutch, and feeling your ass slide involuntarily back in your seat. You can’t remember the pass you made. You can’t remember which RPMs you hit when you jammed your shifter into the next gear. You can’t remember the green light flashing on at your side.
You only know how you did when you pull off the end of the track and creep slowly toward the little hutch where the worker throws an arm out the window clutching your slip. You grab it as you drive by, you park your car in the pit, and you review your stats.
*TIME*
After this one, we were asked to write about the same hobby, but direct it at a group of female religious zealots. Again, mine was chosen to be read. *sigh*
This was it:
I love drag racing. While it may not be a conventional pastime for a girl such as myself, it’s proven to be quite useful in my life. Growing up with a family who spends one day of each weekend at the track, we learned many useful life tactics. We learned discipline, problem-solving, used mathematics on a regular basis, and learned to work together.
We all knew there was a certain time you had to be up and certain things that needed to be packed and ready to go. We worked together and made sure we had everything we needed for the day and then piled in the car together. We’d listen to musicals and sing every word as our father drove us to the track. We paid our fees, found our parking spot in the pit, then unloaded and began unloading our necessities. We set our canopy up, the grill, the groceries, and then we helped our father back the car out. We all got our towels, shined up the car, and helped dad get into his gear. We’d drive him to the line and watch proudly as our father shot off before us and cheered and hugged each other when the green light flashed on his side.
We’d drive the track behind him, hop out at the end to help him get hooked up to our tow vehicle and head back to the pit to review his race slip. We’d pull out the barometer, check the weather and the pressure, adjust the delay based on that information, then we’d start the whole process over again.
During the weeks when we had free time, we’d help our father put together posters and banners for our “Race Against Drugs” campaign and excitedly discuss our tactics for the next speech he'd present at whichever school asked him to visit them. We’d proudly be the test audience for our dad as he ran through his speeches on how, when involved in racing, you can’t have a mind that’s muddled by anything unnatural. We’d feel moved as he talked about how your mind has to be crisp and fast-acting in order to react to your signal effectively and make it to the end of the track safely in your car.
*TIME*
At the end, I had people asking if they could go with me next time.