Soul Sacrifice

... a sonett of a hill

I know, I know, you think you caught me with the spelling of “Sonett,” but read on…

During a recent bout of terrible sinusitis, many evenings of disheveled sleep, either from my moaning or John’s snoring, or my moaning and intermittent mouth-wide-open-snoring…. John ended up on the couch.

During his couch time, John discovered a Netflix docu-series called “Drive to Survive.”

A week later, during my recovery phase, on the couch, we watched a documentary on Netflix called “Schumacher.” “The greatest racer of all time,” as many have continued to call him. Seven-time world champion, Formula 1 racing.

Seeing the original filming through the drivers point of view was thrilling to say the least. The story of his life doesn’t end well. In fact, it’s beyond heartbreaking.

During the thrill of old footage, John said, “you think this is amazing? wait ‘til you see the latest documentary on Formula 1.”

Wait til you see drivers like Lewis Hamilton!!

“20 drivers, 10 teams make up the highest class of international racing for open-wheel single-seater formula racing cars sanctioned by the Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile (FIA). A Formula 1 or F1 season consists of a series of races, known as Grands Prix. Grands Prix take place in multiple countries and continents around the world on either purpose-built circuits or closed public roads.” <wiki>

I suddenly woke up. Funny how that happens.

Dad was a huge auto racing fan, took us out to the Riverside Races in the 70’s, watched it on t.v., and of course, had his own penchant for speed, fixing up old cars, creating off-road dune buggies from scratch, etc…… and taught me to drive stick.

By the time I was nine Dad had already taught me to ride a motorcycle and allowed me to test drive one of his prized dune-buggies at 15. Built from scratch, dad holding binoculars, I sped along a dry lake bed in Big Bear, California. I promised I wouldn’t leave his view. Boy, was he fired-up when I came back… but he let me drive it again the next day.

As the Formula 1 racers sped down the track, with even better than ever “driver’s eye view,” plus those one-second pit stop tire changes, like a moose with a muffin, I heard dad say “you’re going to learn how to drive stick on a hill!” “get in.”

Get in?

No time to think, or talk myself out of it… which was so weird in reflection. Dad was more than a planner. He had enough A-type in him for all of us.. plus some.

Speaking of driving, fresh with a license, I got into, not just any car, but this odd looking little fiberglass orange thing my dad had picked up as a used bargain to sweat over in his beloved garage.

Totally un noticeable, as was my dad’s British accent, we hopped into the orange Saab Sonett, and headed to the infamous Babbit Hill. All the neighbors knew it was the hill of many bicycle crashes, including a rather outstanding one from my little brother.

Sidenote: one weekend day, “Adam,” nine, decided to leave home on his bike and head to the hill, from which I referenced above… with a few friends in tow. After climbing it on something like no-speed Huffys, they encountered some neighborhood bullies and sailed down the hill for their getaway. My little brother looked over his shoulder and smacked into the back of a parked car, bouncing his face off the trunk. I will never forget this day when a neighbor from Babbit St. pulled into our driveway, delivering my little brother (and his bike) in the bed of his truck.

I’m gonna say there was a slow-mo effect and I was there to witness it as dad ran from the garage, lifted Adam out of the truck and shook the stranger’s hand. Miraculously he survived with no more than some bruises and a very bloody lip.

Back to Formula 1 and my moose-head…

Is it me or doesn’t everyone hear Soul Sacrifice in their head when driving fast watching car racing? It’s a good thing I don’t have Alexa in my car. Here is Santana with the young Michael Schrieve on drums (exhaustively amazing) at Woodstock. In case you haven’t seen it - watch all of it. There’s race car drivers and drivers of music.

Anyways, nowadays I have two car seats in the back bucket seat of my Ford Focus ST 6-speed. Precious reminders of how crazy it is out there on the road, even when a little voice says “faster nana, faster.” Maybe one day we’ll turn it into a rally car.

Watching “Drive to Survive” I saw that hill dad drove me to. He got out, walked over to my side. Dad always had a Clint Eastwood kinda thing going on and no one messed. In the car he looked straight ahead, mustache and aviator glasses. “Drive.” Slowly I drove, not to disappoint, shifting to second, keeping some speed up to the stop-sign at the top of the hill.

Let me tell you I stopped in a head-banging death grip, clutch down, pushing the brake of the little orange beast as if my life was over.

There I was with Clint remembering the time we slid all the way down from the top of a dune… in a buggy dad built. for fun. going backwards. side-rails yet to be welded on.

I still see mom’s face, back at the camper, when Adam reported how dad didn’t listen. As luck would have it he was excited to tell her we found Dad’s tool box in the dunes (thankfully there were seatbelts or it would have been a hard no from her). I’ll leave that scene up to your imagination as we waited “in” the buggy “sideways” on the dune, while Clint wandered around looking for his tools.

Babbit Hill was my moment. Dad taught me to release the clutch ever so slightly, while gently pushing the accelerator, rocking the car back and forth. He firmly warned me that this can destroy the clutch, so “NEVER do it for fun.” Dad was equipping me with skills. I needed to know how to get out of a situation like this without hitting a driver behind me.. or something worse. I did good.

Looking back, I realize how much dad sensed my passion for driving, the love of speed, driving a manual car. Rather than shut it down, he embraced who I was and taught me solid skills. After his time at Disney, dad became a well respected quality control/safety inspector in the aviation industry. I trusted him.

When I was 17 dad got a ‘67 Mustang to fix up and sell. He would drive these cars for awhile, but we could never afford to keep them or make space for them. One day he told me we were going to go for a drive in it. He drove me out to the end strip of a brand new freeway in San Fernando. Stopped at the on-ramp, exchanging seats, dad told me to get on the freeway. As I began to drive up the ramp he barked, “hoof it!!” Serious? hoof it? what does that even mean? “GO FASTER!” Pedal to the metal I flew onto the freeway and I’ll never forget it. Afterward, he said, “that’s how you get onto a freeway and you make bloody well sure you do.”

I look at these Formula 1 racers, most of the top drivers very young. Time after time, like with most daring sports, their stories begin with the support of parents or someone who believed in them. Saw their need for adrenaline. Typically starting with Kart racing, heading up the podium pole.

As in life, each person, every driver, represents a unique story and despite the support, emotionally and/or financially (or lack of either), they have one thing in common…

They don’t give up… and if they survive a crash, they come back for more. Plus, they have mad driving skills.

The podium might be the ultimate goal, but it’s the need for speed, for the thrill of feeling “alive” (as I wrote several pieces back) that drives them. No punn intended.

Out of the top 15 most dangerous sports in the world auto racing is 8th on the list with Base Jumping coming in at number one. Free Solo Rock Climbing is 5th (in case my youngest is reading). Thankfully road and mountain bike cycling is not on the list, however it still leaves me praying for safety every time John leaves the house and rides. He rides hard. I’ve often asked "did you win?” (to him, riding is a race). There are cars out there…

Interestingly, women have a hard time entering the arena of pro-racing and it’s not everything we think in a nutshell. We’ve personally hosted women’s pro-cycling teams in our home. We know their fight for respect, purse money, etc., matched to the cost of the races, support, getting sponsors, and if there’s an audience to support it. For a woman to get all the way up to pro-racing, like Danica Patrick, it is a feat like none other. This article explains a bit of the reality.

I don’t know about you, but I’ll head to the races any day, take a front row seat on the couch, slap the headphones on, crank up Soul Sacrifice and think about that Sonett on the hill.

I’ll remember you forever dad. Thank you.