A Need for Speed

My husband has a need for speed. This need does not apply when there are household chores to be done. He has the timing of a highly trained Olympic athlete knowing exactly to 1/1000 of a second when to arrive “to help” after the last dish is washed and put away.

This past Christmas morning as he opened his last gift with a tear staining his cheek, he looked at me and said, “This is the best Christmas gift I ever got.”

I had purchased him a driving experience at Atlanta Motor Speedway.

When he scheduled his “driving experience,” we had no idea that it would coincide with the hottest weather in recorded history, but there we were. By two o’clock, the asphalt had begun to soften beneath our feet. The spectators, husbands, wives, cousins, babies all huddled under a tent, waiting, sweating to see our loved ones speed by us on the track. Now I know why they call that area, “the pits.”

The drivers already wet with sweat donned required fireproof suits and helmets. All that sweating did help them slide into their race car seat sized for a 13-year old fashion model. The “driving experience” was over in a flash. Some of the drivers looked kinda woozy after their laps, but it was thumbs up anyway. The dream was reality.

As my husband confessed after his laps, “I have a greater respect for those drivers.” Thinking he was talking about the skill it takes to drive the car, no, he just couldn’t believe how uncomfortable the seats were.