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Now would be a good time to mention why I hate Road & Track. It was that crusty band of old farts who, in my formative youth, poisoned my psyche with the romantic notion of the gentleman racer and the stringback definition of a “real” sports car. In their version of the world, a gentleman drives his sports car to the track, prepares it by taping the letter “X” over the headlights, races it, and then drives home with a girl and a trophy in the passenger’s seat. I’m sure he then makes sweet love to said girl down by the fire, but being a good family magazine, they never actually say things like that.
Somewhere in the dusty corners of my addled brain, this idea still held enough romantic sway over my actions that I failed to secure a trailer, a truck, or a service crew for this race. Instead I brought a Mazda Tribute with 3 spare tires, two small boxes full of oils and moldy brake pads, and a AAA card in case something went horribly normal.
In a usual service stop I would have a crew of at least one waiting for me. He would have already laid out the required tarp for me to park on, he would ask what was wrong with the car and then proceed to fix it, and anything else he found, while I ate fried chicken.
Instead we stopped near our spot while I dug for the Tribute keys. Then Amar danced around in the wind trying to spread a car-sized tarp by himself. Finally, as he disappeared to deal with timing, scoring, and assessing our lateness penalty, I was left to unpack the jack, jack stands, tools and spares and proceed to toil away in the sun as the engine idled, the cooling fan vomited hot air on me, and one lone spectator hovered nearby in blank-faced disbelief.
