My (very) Brief Career in Auto Racing, Parachuting, And Footlball

When 17 years old or so, I had a nice 75 Camaro that I started hot rodding. (NOTE! the car to the left is a camaro, but NOT MY CAR!) My friends had cars that they too started ruining trying to go fast, or at least look fast. I spent every spare nickel I had on my car, and after a period of time, it started looking pretty darned good. I built the engine up for mild racing, painted stripes on it, and installed "Traction Bars". I think the stripes really help in top end speed. As time went on, I got more serious about having a "race car", so i yanked out the back seat and the passenger seat, put some racing stickers on the front fenders, installed a fire extinguiser and removed the air conditioner. None of that did a damned thing to make the car faster, but it looked cool. So the day came when we scavenged up enough money to go to the track and let 'er rip. When you are in the pits the safety guys come around and check your car to make sure it is not a recklessly built piece of shit that will sling a 40 pound clutch up in the crowd and take somebody's head off. They started looking at my car and asked if I had a "blow proof bellhousing". Hmm? Well, my car had a 4 speed stick, and with this type transmission you have to have a special bellhousing to keep said clutch from killing somebody. I told them "Well, I have one back home". My friends looked at me like I was possibly the stupidest person on the planet. Anyway, they let me race because I had lame tires and they knew I would not be able to generate enough power to sling a clutch.

So I get up to the starting line, having no idea what to do, the lights came down, and when it hit green I "dumped" the clutch and stood on the gas pedal. If you know anything about cars, you already know what happened; I sat there with my back tires spinning furiously with smoke going everywhere, but I was going nowhere. I finally eased up on the gas and headed down the track. I went through the finish line with a time of 15.5 seconds. That number probably doesn't mean a lot to you, so let me put it another way; a fully loaded school bus would finish in 15.8 seconds. We did a few more rounds and headed home. I knew the problem, i needed a set of back tires called "racing slicks", which are tires that are smooth and sticky and meant for traction. Take a look at the rear tires in the photo above. You'll notice that they are fat, smooth, and wrinkled on the bottom. These are racing slicks.

So I bought a used set and went home beaming with pride. My dad looked at them and with a sad look, said "Son, those tires don't have any tread". I could tell he felt like a failure of a dad, after all those years of teaching me, I go and buy bald tires.

Back to the track with my brother Tommy. Now I am a REAL race car driver with slicks! I get up to the line (with new blowproof bellhousing by the way), and when the light hit green I dumped the clutch and WHAM! I took out of there like a bat out of hell. Half way down the track, I smelled something burning and the engine died. I went across the finish line with a fire blazing under the car and leaking oil all over the track. Finish time was 20 seconds.

Now, when you "oil the track", that means the crews have to spend the next 45 minutes cleaning it up before anyone else can race. You can imagine your popularity with the gang after oiling the track. Me and tommy loaded the car up on the trailer and snuck out of the place hiding our faces with our hands. They were all glaring at me as we limped away.

That was my final time to go to the track, and the end to a blazing career.
Well, we did go one more time, but just for fun. We brought "the bomb" to race. this was our nickname for my dad's Oldsmobile Delta 88. After he was sick of it he gave it to my brother Robert and we used it to cruise around town. Now, The Bomb had a very special characteristic; it could burn rubber like nobody's business. One day I was out in the street in front of our house in the bomb and decided to really create some big smoke. I stepped on the brake with the left foot and stuck my right foot deep into the gas. this is teh standard technique for creating burnt rubber. Well, I stayed on it until an area encompassing half our street was thick with smoke and reeking with the smell of burned rubber. My dad was inside and heard the racket and watched from the window. Tommy was in there and heard my dad say in a low disgusted voice "I wish I money to burn up a good set of tires".
Well, we took The Bomb to the track and figured we would really have some fun. Robert took it up to the line and got the back tires wet in the water pit. The water is used by real race cars to help heat up their slicks better when doing a tire burn before taking off. Robert did the standard brake+gas and created more smoke than any dragster out there that day. Needless to say, the Bomb was the crowd favorite. The light went green and Robert took it down the track at a speed that can only be referred to as "lumbering". he went through the traps at 22 seconds at about 80mph. The crowd was cheering. We did a couple more runs and went home.

JUST IN FROM ROBERT:
The Bomb's time was 19.069. Don't ask me how I remember that, but I do (at least I think I do). I remember we drove it all the way from Hammond, about a 75 minute drive, and the transmission was so heated up that about a quarter way down the track, it started slipping and I had to let off the gas a LOT before it caught again. I did that a couple more times on the way to the finish line. If the transmission had been cold, I bet I'd have pulled 17s!

Parachuting.

I fly balloons, and about 8 years ago or so I took a few skydivers up to do a jump out of the balloon. I thought this parachuting thing was cool as hell. I think I just liked the gear. So I started acting like I knew all about skydiving and running my mouth about it and how I was going to get certified so I could have somebody else pilot my balloon and do jumps. I started throwing around phrases like "dropzone", "throwing out", "went in", "eight way", "zero P", "saber canopy", and so on and so on. Well, the big day came for my first jump. I went to the airport with 2 friends that were also going to do their first jump. Friend #1 went first and after landing commented that it was "Ok i guess". He seemed about as thrilled as a parking lot attendant. So now it is my turn and of course I am ranting on about dropping skydivers out of the balloon and blah blah blah. My jumpmaster and I (this was a tandam jump) got in this huge plane with 40 other people. Yes, unknown to me, it was a very special weekend where they have a big DC9 jet come in and take 40 at a time for contests and stuff. Skydiving usually consists of jumping off the wing of a crappy little Cesna 152, an airplane about the size of a minivan. Anyway, we get to 14,000 feet and the "forty-way" all go out the door at once. Amazing, a forty person evacuation in less than 2 seconds. Now it is just me and the jumpmaster standing at the door. I look down and realize that this was a stupid idea. Right about then, he pushes us both out the door and immediately initiates a couple of forward flips. I'm doing flips at 14,000 feet while falling at 140 mph. My brain tells me that this is the worst possible thing that could be happening to my body. the next 40 seconds were pure hell and i was counting them down until the chute went open. Now, my jumpmaster, "Larry Portman" weighs about 300 pounds and so with all this weight, we were falling at a much faster rate than other tandams. When that chute went out, we went from 140 mph to 5 mph in about 1 second. I took my first breath in over a minute and passed out. a few seconds later i came to, and counted the seconds until we hit the ground. My friends said I was "gray". This little stunt immediately stopped my swaggering around acting like some sort of real adventurer. To quote my good friend Julian who also despises skydiving ; "The jumps were the most terrifying period of my life. It escapes me how anyone can parachute for fun". Bingo. I hate people who go do a tandem and rave on about how much fun they had.

All these years later I have decided I must resolve this in my head so I have decided to go do another jump. this time at least I know what to expect. My plan is to ask for the lowest possible altitude to jump from, I am hoping for 4,000 feet max, so we open the chute like 5 seconds after going out. I also intend on calling my mom to acquire a small quantity of "mother's little helpers", i.e. "valium". I figure 15mg and a shot of gin will do the trick. Honest, I am not making this up, this is my real plan. I will report back after the jump.

FootBall
Around 8th grade (I think), I signed up for little league football. This consisted of daily "practice", which is; 1) putting on tons of gear and sweating to death in 90 degree heat with 90 percent humidity 2) doing all sorts of miserable exercises like "six inches", running laps, and getting run over by the fat boys who played linemen. After weeks of agony we finally had our first game! Before the game I was running around goofing off and I needed to get back, but I had to jump this 6 foot fence first. I climbed up, slipped and fell down the other side resulting in a nice sprained ankle. It stopped hurting after a while so I figured I could play if i was careful. Well, about midway through the game we were getting the shit beat out of us so the coach decided to let me play. I was skinny to the point of being gaunt, and for some odd reason the coach played me at middle linebacker. Anyway, I lined up, the ball was snapped and a big fat boy came through and rammed me square down, with my ankle sinking nicely in a hole in the ground. Now it REALLY hurt, so I hobbled off the field and simply told the coach "Send in Pat". Pat was worse than me.
The coach looked at me like with that "you are a pathetic sissy" look. I never went back to practice.

Quick note my my baseball career
oh! I forgot, I also played little league baseball but did much better although they put me in right field, which is the worst position on the field because nobody ever hits anything to right field. This position is usually reserved for kids who are mentally retarded, have cerebal palsy, are paralized, or just simply stupid. One time we played a game that the other team had to forfiet because they did not have enough players. Well, they were beating us 13-1 so the coach decided to let me pitch, i guess so the whole crowd could have a laugh. I never pitched before in my life. i got up on the mound and threw the first ball, which promptly went clear over the back fence and up in the crowd. The second pitch actually made it near the catcher. The third was a dead center strike. They pulled me from the mound after that pitch.