October 2010 Archives

The last leg of my return trip was spent with friends in Sonora, CA, and Yosemite National Park.  Had I not already rediscovered my fondness for California, this weekend would have done me in.  Sonora itself is like any small town, I imagine:  charming and inviting unless you grew up there and longed for more.  Still, I'm a small town girl at heart and Sonora enchanted me. 

The early Sunday morning drive from Sonora to Yosemite cut through a vast expanse of rolling warm-golden hills.  It is breathtaking in its scope and gentle stillness.  Having grown up and lived most of my life in the hot, moist green of the southeast, I had no idea I could love this endless gold so much.  The drive could only have been more perfect had I been in a Miata with the top down.


Yosemite itself is, of course, spectacular - it is a national treasure, after all.  I could expound on how gorgeous it is, but you can Google pictures for yourself.  Better yet, just go.  I am not so talented a writer that I would dare to try to describe the rocks carved by the hands of gods, the Universe, Mother Nature, and time.  I can, however, take nifty pictures with my iPhone...
 

I say terrible, terrible things to men. Things like, "Let's be realistic here. Your penis doesn't get me anything I actually want."

These words are not meant to be cruel, they are simply honest. Spending five days alone in a car with no radio, talking to yourself for 10-14 hours at a stretch gives you a plenty of time to assess yourself and your personal life with a brutal clarity. Trapped in that little race car barreling towards Florida, I reached some conclusions about myself, and a few ex-boyfriends, that weren't terribly flattering. Mostly, I realized that I too easily confuse lust for love, and as an attractive woman, I fall in lust a lot.

How did I get to this place? I could blame being the child of a dysfunctional/broken home, or theorize how the pill has reduced the consequences of my actions and thus my morality, or claim that I am just gullible. Really, though? It doesn't matter. I know who I am, and what I want from this world. I can get it on my own. Anyone touching me in an intimate manner should do so with genuine respect and affection, and anyone I touch should demand the same.

I may never find the person who wants to share my life; but I will always be the person who wants to share. I will no longer settle for less.

I left for Gainesville, Florida, race on Sunday, September 26th, a week later than I had intended. This, sadly, put me on the leading edge of a heat wave. When I arrived in Los Angeles that afternoon at 3pm, the temperature was pushing 105 degrees. There I sat in traffic in my little race car, with no air conditioning, windows rolled down and melting in the rolling oven I had created out of my own ambition. I thought to myself, "I am the biggest idiot for this..." When I reached Phoenix at 9pm that night and it was still 90 degrees, my opinion had not changed.

You can imagine the bitter irony on the drive back when, having exchanged cars at my brother's house to one with air conditioning, a radio, and (the greatest of luxuries) cup holders, I discovered the heater did not work in the chilly 50 degree temperatures of the desert evenings.

Ah, Universe! You sure know to pull one over on me.

***

One of the best things about the drive home was the chance to stop in Abilene, Texas, and meet my cousin Toni. Our fathers are brothers, and do in part to my parents' bitter, ugly divorce, I did not know Tony growing up. But, in the joys of the modern age, we have become familiar with each other through Facebook. Often, one of us will post something about a particular eccentricity and the other will respond with, "I am so glad it's not just me," or "That must run in the family!"

In typical fashion, I trusted my great Googley overlords to get me to Dyess Air Force Base's front door by simply plugging into my Google Maps app "Dyess Air Force Base" as my destination. Google rewarded my faith by leading me around Abilene and to the back of the base, from which I could not gain entrance. I had to call Toni and have her rescue me - our first meeting since I was toddler, and she had to find me like a lost little lamb. Within a few minutes, Toni learned that I should perhaps not be allowed on base, due mostly to my outrageous flirting the pretty little boys filling out the permit to allow me to pass through the gates. Despite this, she shepherded me to her home for the evening. In the future, for the safety of our great nation, I will do my best to stay away from military outposts. Promise!

In our few hours together, Toni proved to be the big sister I never had. We are neurotic in the exact same ways: she repeatedly begged forgiveness for the "disaster" that was her home, the neatest I had ever seen that had two boys in residence. We have the same bingo wings - the flabby underarms we'd both inherited from our fathers' mother - and heavy breasts. Neither of us can filter our language or censor our random thoughts. We both sleepwalk. We spent a few hours comparing notes on family. We only scratched the very tip of the iceberg. I could have stayed for days; sadly I was on a timeline...

My friend Alex has written some of her thoughts on being a woman in racing. I'm not nearly so intellectual as Alex, but I mostly agree with her assertion that in fact "sexism does not run rampant on the track." Most of the sexist things I've heard or experienced have come from men who have never even been on the track.

Granted, Alex radiates this kind of "I will fuck you up an make you my bitch - on or off this track!" attitude that tends keep men in check. I, on the other hand, apparently radiate this "vulnerable sweetness" that belies my general nature. I'm not sure if that vulnerable sweetness was born of my Southern upbringing, or the Filipino Catholic influence of my mother, or if it's simply fundamental to my being. I assure you, it is unintentional and has caused much, often severe, frustration, because it is usually misinterpreted as helplessness. Even people who should have known me well - for example, my parents or ex-husband - generally thought I would "outgrow" an opinion or desire I had expressed. However, I know myself well and I don't express such things without having considered them. I also happen to have a mile-wide spiteful streak, so the more you ignore what I have expressed, the more determined I am to make it so - even if it takes me over twenty years to do it.

In any case, I've encountered more sexism on the mechanics side of cars, rather than the racing. It's not overt, or probably even intentional. Generally, it is an attitude of, "It's easier for me to do this for you than to show you how to do it yourself," which can also be attributed to the fact that most people are poor teachers, but every once in awhile, it really is because you are a woman. It makes me extremely grateful to the men over the years who have treated me with respect, taken my interest seriously, and taught or guided me in my mechanical endeavors.

Of course, there are more egregious examples of sexism. The one that bothers me the most is the implication that, because I have an interest in cars and also possess a vagina, the male with whom I am interacting should "be fucking [me] senseless.¹" It's right up there with the guys who hit on you, and when you tell them you're in a relationship, they ask "What's that go to do with me?² "

Ironically, the guys at the Challenge that on the surface appear to be the most sexist are actually some of the most encouraging. They made sure I understood they were happily married and their bawdiness wasn't to be taken seriously. They also don't tone down the car talk when I'm around, and pause to explain concepts with which I am unfamiliar. Despite their outward behavior, they take me seriously and encourage me in their own unique way.

It can be lonely to be the only woman at a motor sport event, but the consistent warmth, support and encouragement I receive because I am doing what I love outweighs the occasional dark spot. I look forward to getting enough experience to one day help others, male and female, explore their love of cars and racing.

For now, though, I have a few more cars I need to get running...

¹ I'm not kidding. I've gotten that on more than one occasion.
² The appropriate response is, "Absolutely nothing...just like me."

The ten hours from southern Louisiana to Gainesville, Florida, were uneventful. The hotel parking lot was unusually packed - the bar had something going on for the football game that evening. I circled slowly, looking for folks I knew. My automotive mentor spotted me and before I could even stop the car, hugged me through the window. "You made it! I can't believe you actually made it! You're CRAZY, girl!"

And then it hit me. I had, with a lot of help from some incredible people, rebuilt a car in six weeks and taken it for a three thousand mile test drive. The fact that my first ten hours in the car were spent in 90-105° heat with no air conditioning and that I'd gone five days without a radio simply proved that I am, in fact, crazy. The problems I had along the way - the oil loss and the blown belt - were just flavor text for the rest of the crazy story. I extricated myself from my beloved friends, checked into my room, and in a moment of quiet, cried.

Another dream fulfilled.

For the record (since everyone asks how I did at the race), I placed 47 out of 57 entrants - a damn fine showing for that car. Truth be told, though? Getting there was all of the fun.

Oh, and that oil we found in the intercooler in Louisiana? Turned out my turbo seals were going - and by the time I was done with the quarter mile drag, they were gone. The car needed some work to make it home, but since I had to be in Yosemite for a wedding on Sunday, I decided to be a little more sensible and let my brother give me back the reliable Protege I'd left him the year before. I managed to squeeze in a quick visit with family before heading back west.

For now, the GTX of my dreams sits at brother's house in Florida, waiting for a new adventure.

It was a good thing I made the detour to MT323's in Louisiana. We decided that the valve cover was sufficiently bolted down that we didn't change it, but did change the oil filler cap. That took care of most, but not all, of the remaining oil leak. There was a suspicious amount of oil in the intercooler; we decided to pretend it was normal for the moment.

More immediately concerning was the banging I'd been hearing from under the car. It turned out that the bolt connecting the emergency brake to the driver's side rear caliper had backed out completely and the whole e-brake assembly was just bouncing around back there. That could have been quite nasty. I must never, ever tell my mother all the ways I've almost killed myself in this car...

In perhaps my finest moment as a GTX mechanic, I selected from my stash two bolts of varying sizes in the right thread and pitch to replace the e-brake bolt. I suspected the first to be too short and the second to be too long, but had MT323 test them while I looked for one that would work. In less than sixty seconds, I'd located an acceptable replacement.

MT323 has many of the Mazdas I'd always wanted, including an early 80s GLC, the car I was looking for originally when I came across my first GTX. I could have happily spent a month playing with all those Mazdas under that shadetree!

The car squared away, MT and I talked Mazda until the wee hours. I finally got a few hours asleep; I was a mere 10 hours from Gainesville. My 2900+ mile test drive was soon to come to a close...

I actually made it to Houston and caught up with old friends.  It was a much needed break from the road.  A fellow GTXer and his wife in southern Louisiana offered me crash space the following night; Mark wanted to look for any other problems before I got to Gainesville.

I spent my morning in Houston working from a coffee shop for a bit before doing some parts shopping (snagged a PCV valve and some extra coolant) .  At some point in my traipsing about, my iPhone suddenly went black.  My attempts to reboot went unrewarded.  For the first time in the trip, I felt panic.  Fortunately, I was in a major city with an Apple store.  The geniuses were able to reboot my iPhone and send me on my way.

As I left Houston, I pushed the car a bit to catch up with fellow $2010 Challenger Jonny P. and his ladyfriend who were two hours ahead of me.  When I'd manage to close the gap down to 20 minutes, they pulled off the highway, found a restaurant and called me.  I was within five miles of the exit when I was pulled over by one of Louisiana's finest for the lack of a license plate.  No problem; California doesn't believe in temporary tags, and the red window permit is confusing.  He ran my paperwork, chatted with me about the Challenge a bit, and sent me on my way.

Two miles later, a belt screamed, the car shuddered and my fuel-washer-battery charge lights came on.  More worrying, the temperature gauge spiked to the top.  I pulled over, shut off the engine, checked all the suspect hoses and saw nothing.  I cranked the car back up and noted the temp gauge was hot, but not in the red again.  I limped the last three miles to the exit and let the car cool while I enjoyed lunch.  Jonny, being far more experienced with cars (he's actually a professional mechanic), spotted the problem immediately:  my alternator-to-water pump belt was gone.

Note the distinct lack of alternator-to-water pump belt in this picture...

A belt! So easy to solve! We dashed down to the parts store. They had two kinds of belts...one for $5 with a ninety day warranty, or one for $17 with a one year warranty. I asked for three of the $5 belts. :D She only had one. I asked how many of the $17 belts they had...one. I asked if it was the same belt. She didn't answer.

We changed the belt and I was on my way to Louisiana...