Bent Words

Bent Words

June 03, 2010

BRAA-AAAAA *bench wheelie* AAAAP!

Road America, bitches! Superbike racing!

(Well, I think so, anyway.)

I've assembled a troupe of misfits to join me on this journey and hopefully we'll pull it off with some sort of relative success. Success meaning, number one, we'll actually go (in the morrow's eve). Number two, no one yard sales hard enough to require hospitalization or drinks all me beer (arrrr) causing me to hospitalize them. Number three, we actually make it Siebkin's this year (which is the place to go if you're going and ten years runnin' I still haven't graced them with my presence). Number four, NO F'ING MONSOONS, PLEASE!

Oh and hopefully I'll be able to convince this rambunctious bunch that camping in the adult section is not the way to go if you're going. Tyros...

You camp in the family camp grounds if you're main desire is to drink all day (I mean, watch some serious racing) and sleep through all or most or even part of the night. There will be no such thing as "sleep" if you actually camp amidst the chaos.

The chaos is there strictly for viewing purposes only, in my mind. After dark, you mosey on over, armed with a few aperitifs and you remain solidly planted on the outskirts of Camp Crazy. But you do not, under any circumstances, venture into their world. Be prepared to point and laugh at what stupid people will do when consuming copious amounts of hard liquor, but do not let them suck you in. You will be sorry. And I will giggle when you're hanging so hard the next day that you can't even fully open your eyes.

tee hee!

You should also be prepared and so I've got my little list:

* Towel
* Board shorts
* Crap back pack for ice and beer
* Travel bottles
* Bug spray
* Toilet paper
* Chap stick/sun screen

No makeup -- I'm not gonna be one of the 45 women crowding the bathrooms throughout the day to curl or blow dry my hair, trash my face with paint or ruin a nice pair of pants. I'm not there to impress anyone -- that's what the umbrella girls with the boobs are for. You dress up for weddings and funerals, not for racing with a chance of Special Elkhart Weather.

Transportation -- unfortunately The Boy has my scooter but we're working on that one. Might get a hookup on a Zuma (the way to go if you're going). Otherwise I'll be hoofin' it. Which is straight up unacceptable. I rely on the men to bring some serious meat (!) to the table for I will be fed. I got them in the gates, they will feed me, dammit.

Excited -- I am. Mostly. I'll have fun no matter what situation ya toss me into but this is my weekend. This is my thing. And it may not be as great as it used to be but it'll be damned fine when I look back on it as a memory. Although I wish I could tweak the company a bit, I really can't complain. I just hope not too many ask after him while I'm there (especially since I'll be getting my drink on).

Which reminds me... Moto Marc asked me today if Shane was going to be there, working with the crew or just chilling.

"Dunno," I replied. "But I'm down for some serious Shane Spotting."


Marc grinned and pointed out my rubicundity.

"You'll never not have a thing for him, will ya?"

"Let's just say that he's the only man who can make my entire world come to a direct halt every time I see him, Marc. It's stupid crazy, but it's true."

"Go big or go home, right?"

It's the only way to go if you're going.

Written at 8:08 p.m.