Despite the wet start to the 45th Annual Oktoberfest Race Weekend, the festivities rolled on with improving weather each day, culminating with some sunshine on Sunday.

Point leader and the season’s Rookie of the Year, Ty Majeski got caught up in a nasty accident on Saturday night after setting the fast time for the event.  The accident completely destroyed the young driver’s rocket-fast race car.  Majeski’s team had few options; they either needed to completely rebuild the mangled machine in less than 24 hours, or find another ride–but it had to be a car that was already qualified for the main event.   

Majeski’s team had originally planned to use the race car of Mark Kraus, who had raced his way into the main in a qualifier heat, but Kraus was having brake issues and the team was not certain they had it fixed.  Instead, they opted to talk to Cardell Potter, who had rented a back-up machine out of the C&C Motorsports shop, after he had wrecked his primary car.  

C&C Motorsports also happens to be the shop in which Majeski’s team operates out of, so it was another car that was built by Majeski’s crew chief, Toby Nuttleman, and would likely be the best option for their effort to finish the season on a high note and secure the 2014 ARCA Midwest Tour Championship.

While Majeski was running well during the first half of the race, a plug wire came loose in the second half, causing him to lose full power and positions throughout the rest of the race.  Nathan Haseleu, who had been battling neck-and-neck with Majeski all season for the top spot, passed his rival for eighth place in the waning laps, but Majeski managed to still have enough points in the end to take the championship.

Travis Sauter dominated the race, holding off a hard-charging Dan Fredrickson.  Griffin McGrath was third, Jacob Goede and Andrew Morrisey rounded out the top five.

Attitude is Everything

It’s the unexpected in life that brings out the best or the worst in people.  No one goes to the race track intending to haul their car home on a flatbed, looking like a mangled mess.  Some racers act like lunatics when that happens, and lash out at anyone within a six-foot radius.  Others become more withdrawn, pulling a big gulp from a can of beer at the end of the night, eyeing their car and making a mental list of what it’s going to take to fix their machine.  

The old saying, “You can’t control what happens to you, but you CAN control how you react to it,” applies to racing and to life in general.  How we respond in the face of an unpleasant or tenuous situation speaks volumes about us.  It’s incredibly hard to make a conscious effort to always put your best foot forward, but it’s worthwhile to try.  You never know who could be watching—a potential sponsor, a co-worker or boss, your kids, or someone else who may hold you in high esteem.  You don’t want to ruin your reputation with a childish outburst triggered by an emotionally charged situation.

My husband is more of the quiet guy, who internalizes things that irritate him.  Case in point: that dreaded health scare and upcoming colonoscopy that I wrote about last month.  He didn’t care that I wrote about it.  He has finally come to the realization that it is important for everyone to have that vital check-up, and if his story will encourage others to take that step—well, he’s in favor of that.  Quiet guys will surprise you that way from time to time.  

However, he really surprised me when we were in the waiting room.

“You’ll want to empty your pockets of any valuables, Mr. Nuttleman, and let your wife hold them,” said the nurse who was about to take my husband for his colonoscopy.

Toby obliged by stuffing his thick mitts into his jeans, then handing me a large stack of shock packers and a little shock tool.  I married a motorhead, what can I say?  

Admittedly, it wasn’t so much what he handed me that struck me, as it was the look in his eyes.  I saw fear in his gaze, as he gave me a quick peck on the lips and shuffled off behind the nurse.  I wasn’t accustomed to seeing that in his steely blue peepers.  My heart sank and I prayed that he would be one of the many patients that wakes up from the procedure with no recollection of anything—except having to drink that God-awful gallon of GoLytely that I mixed with Crystal Light Lemonade last night.  

I waited.  And waited, listening half-heartedly to the conversations of others who had loved ones there for the same screening.  Surprisingly, it wasn’t all just “older” folks who were in for the “backend-look-see.”  The ages varied and they weren’t all men either.

About an hour later, the same nurse appeared and smiled sweetly as she called my name to come back with her.  I was led to a little room, where Toby was laying on his side, wrapped up in a blanket, with an IV plugged into his hand.  There were monitoring wires hooked up to him as well; very reminiscent of the emergency room heart scare we experienced in June.  He appeared to be sleeping, but assured me that he was “just resting his eyes.”  The nurse giggled and told him that he could get dressed now, if he wanted to, and informed us that it’s recommended that he pass some gas before leaving after this procedure.

Toby’s eyes fluttered open upon that directive and immediately, released another one of his epic bursts of flatulence.  His eyes were twinkling and the corners of his mouth turned upward with delight.  Some things never get old for him, I suppose.  The nurse cheered for his musical abilities.  I buried my face in my hands in utter embarrassment.

It wasn’t much longer and the doctor came into the room, closing the door behind him.  He informed us that he had found two polyps and removed them, which is fairly commonplace during a colonoscopy.  I was both surprised and pleased that Toby only had two.  But it was the doctor’s next sentence that sent my mind reeling.

“We also found a tumor.”

What?!  I looked over at Toby, who was nodding his head with his eyes closed, like he was jamming out to a song.  Was he still THAT drugged up and not hearing what I thought I heard?  I whipped my head back over to the doctor and frowned.  He repeated the words again, as it was painfully obvious that I was in denial and perhaps Toby was too.

“We found a tumor.  It’s about an inch in size.”

A ringing started in my ears, as the doctor continued to fill us in on the nature of the tumor.  In his experience, and based upon the appearance of the tumor, he believed it was malignant.  They planned to performed a biopsy, which would give us a definitive answer.  By the next day we would know if we were about to embark on a new journey—battling cancer.

Waiting for the phone to ring with news from a doctor is grueling torture.  It is astounding the crazy scenarios that a worried mind can concoct.  The call finally came late that next afternoon.  The tumor is malignant.  Toby has cancer.

It hadn’t even been a full week since the initial find and already we were scheduled for a slew of appointments to gather information and insight so doctors could formulate a plan of attack.  The next step was to have a CT scan done, to see if there was cancer in other areas, or if it was localized to this one tumor.  Have I mentioned how much waiting sucks?  Things were running behind at the hospital, so we got the scan done a half hour later than scheduled, a trend which continued to snowball as the morning melted into afternoon. 

It’s hard to get overly angry when appointments of this nature run late.  I refer you to the earlier part of this story, where how one responds to adversity speaks volumes.  For all we knew, doctors either needed more time to consult other patients and their families who were facing a horrible prognosis, or perhaps more time was required to read test results to ensure proper actions were taken in someone’s treatment.  Hell, for all we knew they were pouring over Toby’s scan longer than anticipated to be certain of what it revealed.  I’d rather not hurry them along on that endeavor, so it’s best to zip one’s frustrated mouth, and find something to busy the mind.

For me, that meant grabbing reading material in the exam room where we were waiting.  The selections are apparently quite specialized and limited in the colorectal department.  I learned more about the treatment and prevention of hemorrhoids than I care to admit.  

The exam room door opened, breaking up the reading of the hemorrhoid booklet.  It was the doctor who will be performing the surgery on Toby’s cancer.  He was tall and slim, a snappy dresser with glasses, who reminded me of a character from a 60s James Bond movie; only he was sporting a white medical coat.  

He was engaging as he spoke and explained the findings.  The good news was that the CT scan did not reveal any other cancer inside of Toby.  I literally felt the huge weight of worry lift from my chest, as Toby and I exchanged relieved looks.  The doctor went on to say they couldn’t even see the tumor on the scan, which he explained was good news too, as that indicated just how small it is.  Of course, for me that had a bad side too.  What if there are other tumors, just too small to be seen on the scan?  I kept my fear to myself.  No need to rain on the positive parade of news here. 

The good doctor pulled up pictures of the tumor, which were photographed during the colonoscopy.  Toby had a giant grin on his face, as I turned several shades of grey.  I’m squeamish, and he was enjoying this.  I swallowed hard and looked at the screen; the tumor looked like a big squishy skin tag.  A wave of nausea washed over me as proceeded to swallow hard in an effort to keep lunch contained in my stomach.  Toby laughed and the doctor must have noticed the blood had drained out of my face, so he moved the pictures off of the screen.  Toby was entitled to enjoying someone else’s discomfort at this point, so I just squeezed his hand to acknowledge his delight.  

We’re not out of the woods yet, as there will still be another exploratory exam with ultrasound, which will determine if it will be a quick and fairly easy surgery, or a more involved one that will have Toby laid up for a while.  Nonetheless, we have what seems to be the best-case-scenario for the outlook to eradicate the cancer, as the words, “very curable” passed the doctor’s lips during the conversation.  It’s another reason to breathe easier.

It’s also another reason to continue to beat the drum of early detection through colonoscopy exams.  I cannot stress enough to all of the racing family reading this just how important that particular check-up is.  Toby may not say it, but he knows damn well that if his brother, Kevin and I had not pressed him to have the exam, he would likely be battling for his life in a matter of a few years.  

Now more than ever, given the string of health concerns he’s experienced, Toby knows the value and importance of listening to his body and his wife.  (He won’t admit to that last one, if you ask him.)  Think about it—would you rather avoid what you perceive to be embarrassing, or have your life cut short because you can’t get past the awkward thought of the exam?  Be brave.  Male or female—this exam is important.  You can’t control what happens to you, but you CAN control how you react to it.  And sometimes, being PROACTIVE instead of reactive is the best medicine…literally.

Tune-Up of a Different Variety

Racers are truly a tough breed.  They’ll pour every spare minute they have into their cars and some even ante up their last dollars to get a set of tires to go racing.  I’ve known several racers—male and female—who have raced with a cast on one of their arms.  I couldn’t imagine trying to wheel a race car with one arm—let alone with pain.  My pain threshold is pretty low; in the negative numbers, really.  It is partially for that reason that I have never given birth to a child, and have long hoped to adopt a 30-year-old doctor.

Speaking of doctors, and I hate to stereotype, but men can be the most difficult when it comes to going to one!  Slice your finger on a piece of sheet metal—just wrap it with duct tape.  We don’t need no stinkin’ stitches!  Break a bone? Hobble it off, until your wife MAKES you go to the doctor.  Men are notorious refusing to go to the doctor and they wear that stubbornness like a badge of honor.

It took much convincing, but I finally had my husband, Toby booked for a physical.  He’s in his mid-50s and has never had a full-blown physical exam.  Honestly, as best as I can tell, the last time he’s had a check up of any professional degree was likely well over 30 years ago.  That was a visit to remove a chunk of tire rubber from INSIDE of his ear.  Don’t ask me how it got in there.  Thanks to his aversion to doctors, I have a new role in our relationship: Health Officer and it is my job to haul his butt in when it warrants; only after he puts up a huge fight, of course.  

Toby’s been going in a lot of different directions this race season.  He’s primarily working with Ty Majeski on his superlate endeavors, which include the ARCA Midwest Tour, the TUNDRA Series, a few special superlate model events, and some action at the La Crosse Fairgrounds Speedway.  He also puts some time in on Steve Carlson’s car at La Crosse and a few other racers on occasion.  Busy is an understatement this season for him.  

At any rate, he recently was at Wisconsin International Raceway for the Red event with Majeski.  That afternoon, as he was stooped over the front end working on the car, he suddenly became light headed and had tingling in his left arm, as well as in his jaw.  If you are remotely familiar with the basic warnings of a heart attack or stroke, you are probably freaking out reading this, much like I was when he finally told me about it—the FOLLOWING MORNING.  

Yes, my husband who gets his medical insight from an imaginary volume entitled “The Book of Toby,” sat across my desk at work and informed me of this incident approximately 18 hours AFTER it occurred—in a rather flip manner, I might add.  Obviously, I freaked out and insisted that we head to Urgent Care IMMEDIATELY.

In his infinite wisdom (or at least according to that swell, imaginary book) he informed me that he could just wait until the upcoming physical to get it checked.  I actually had to call the Nurse’s Hotline and describe what happened to get her professional proof that we needed to bring him in to be examined.  Of course, I was right, so off we went to Urgent Care.  

It was at this point that I realized that he was likely more than just a little bit scared and perhaps living in denial.  It has only been a matter of a month or so since his good friend, Bruce Mueller succumbed to a heart attack.  That hit Toby hard, as Bruce was a very close friend and the pair, along with the team had dinner the night before he passed away. I’m certain Bruce was on his mind as he sat silently in the passenger seat of his truck, while I drove to Urgent Care.  He did, however, grumble under his breath when the clinic staff put him in a wheelchair upon our arrival.  

As I finished filling out the paperwork, they wheeled him back into a room, specifically for patients with potential heart issues.  When I got back there, they already had his shirt off with the EKG monitors stuck on his hairy chest.  He appeared to be in pain, so I was glad we were there.  The nurse proceeded to ask him various questions, while she typed his responses into the computer.

Suddenly, he leaned to the right and emitted the most enormous blast of flatulence.  This is commonplace in our home or at the race shop, but it took me by surprise in the Urgent Care room.  It apparently took the nurse by surprise too, as she made a quick exodus.  For the first time in a long while, his eyes were twinkling, delighting over clearing the room with his brand of weaponry.  I will never fully understand the joy men get out of passing gas and the whole pull-my-finger ritual that they introduce to their offspring at an early age. 

The stomach pain was severely overwhelming for him.  After several hours of monitoring and a thorough questioning by the doctor on duty, they surmised that he likely has an ulcer.  An ulcer?!  They prepared a cocktail that was the loveliest shade of pink-purple which he dumped down this gullet, like a 20-year-old doing a shot of Fireball. We were told it was a concoction to coat his stomach and hopefully provide some temporary relief, which it did.

After it became apparent there were no serious heart issues showing, they released him.  And like a trout diving back into a creek, he couldn’t get out of the clinic quick enough.  My concerns were not quelled, as I knew that having his ticker checked so many hours after the incident was mostly fruitless.  And after the effects of that GI cocktail wore off, he was still having abdominal pain.  I wasn’t convinced it was just an ulcer.

But the racing never stops. So armed with his Prilosec, he embarked on a three-races-in-three-days jaunt.  I was not feeling confident with this schedule, given so many unanswered questions about his health.  That Thursday, he and Ty raced at Wausau.  It wasn’t with a car that he had prepared and the run wasn’t exactly stellar, so I hoped that it would not be the tone-setter for the rest of the weekend.

I took the next day off work and traveled to Grundy County Speedway for the ARCA Midwest Tour event.  Somehow, it felt more reassuring to be at the racetrack with him and at least keep an eye on him in person.  This race went much better than Thursday, with Ty setting the fast time and finishing runner-up to Chris Weinkauf—a first time ARCA Midwest Tour winner, so that was pretty cool, even if the hubby’s driver didn’t nab the checkers.  It’s funny how a good run in racing can make body aches and pains become less predominant.  Toby didn’t complain too much about pain that day, but I could see he wasn’t feeling 100%.

As I headed back to La Crosse, Toby and the team stayed in the Rockford, IL area to sleep before going to Jefferson Speedway the following day for the TUNDRA Superlate event.  I tried really hard to not worry about him.  I did my thing at La Crosse Speedway, while he was at Jefferson, but the uncertainty about his health still had a stranglehold on my mind.  Not in an ocean-waves-lapping-on-the-beach kind of way, but more like the torrential-splash-at-the-bottom-of-the-Log-Ride-at-Six-Flags way.  I was having full-blown panic attacks that I tried to hide. 

We both made it through the night at our respective tracks.  I had the pleasure of watching some fantastic racing, along with some Thunderstox drivers wheeling their machines as if they lost their brains for part of the night.  Toby brought home another second-place finish with Ty.  I can honestly say I’ve never been happier than when he finally got home after Jefferson, because I knew that IF something should happen, I would be there.  The added bonus for peace of mind was that we were now only a few days from the next doctor appointment.

Let me tell you, THAT was a doozy of a doctor appointment too.  It was a no-holds-barred information-fest.  We were overwhelmed with the results of all of the blood tests that had been done.  Toby was deemed pre-diabetic and that was likely a contributor to the tingling arm and jaw.  At least that’s the theory, because no one can be completely sure if it was heart-related, low blood-sugar related, or gallstone-passing related.  I neglected to tell you that he informed me (in accordance with the “Book of Toby”), that he’s 98% sure he spotted a gallstone in the toilet after one of his “sessions.” I didn’t inquire how he discovered it.  I really felt I had far too much information on that particular topic already.

Regardless, he was put on a medicine that we were told acts like a turbo-boost to the insulin that his body already produces.  Of course, with a description like that, he was more accepting.  This doctor was good.  Apparently, he knew to create racing analogies.  The doctor also finally made sure that Toby finally got a real physical.

That was fun.  I offered to leave the room, but Toby insisted that I stay.  It delighted me beyond words, only because it was refreshing for me to know--firsthand--that men have awkward annual check-ups too--despite the absence of stirrups or even a machine that will squash their private parts obscenely flat for imaging.  My grandmother always used to say, “Someone always has it worse than you,” so keep that in mind gentlemen, as you lament your annual…or should I say anal…exams?  And ladies, you haven’t lived until you’ve exchanged looks with your husband, as he’s bent over the exam table while the doctor is lubricating a gloved finger.  

Toby survived it, and I assured him that his “ordeal” was nothing compared to the exams that women must undergo every year.  But still, no matter how uncomfortable or embarrassed you think you might be at the very thought of any medical exams or tests; there is NO replacing the ability to detect health problems early.  I would much rather endure a few minutes of awkwardness while a doctor rummages around in my nether regions or squashes my C-cups into a pancake, than have to battle for my life because I never took the simple precautionary measure to discover a potential problem, BEFORE it becomes a serious threat.

Honestly, if my “tough guy” can do it—anyone can do it.  We all should.  You do a tune-up and bolt check on your race car on a regular basis, so it doesn’t fail you on the track.  You need to do the same thing with your body, so it doesn’t fail you in life.  People are depending upon you—your spouse, your kids, and yes—even your racing community.

On that note, I’m pleased to announce that Toby is now scheduled for his first colonoscopy.  I’m planning to celebrate the occasion by baking a cake.  Sugar-free, of course, and in a checkerboard design.  I’m fancy like that.

Change & Adversity

Oh the drama of racing!  Especially the stuff that happens before the race season even begins!  Radio station wars can be brutal.  A local classic rock station was informed less than a week before opening night that the up-and-coming driver in the NASCAR Late Model division that they had supported for the past several years would be parting ways with them.  It was a bit of a blow, given the station had continued to support that driver last season, when his work schedule prevented him from running more than a handful of events.  It was an even bigger blow to learn that he was leaving to carry the banner for a rival radio group.  Competition infiltrates every aspect, apparently.

Fortunately for that classic rock station, they were able to secure a former multi-year track champion and national title holder to partner with for the 2014 season.  I guess they can “settle” for that instead.

While it seems that all parties have landed on their feet and will be just fine, it gives a few twinges to the heart when you realize that it’s all-too-possible for racing on the local level to have the same lack of loyalty that the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series exhibits.

I know my husband was devastated when Matt Kenseth switched teams, not so much because his t-shirts emblazoned with DeWalt were now collector items and obsolete, but because my husband is a Ford man.   His favorite driver now pilots a Toyota.  It took him three full months to kick the sadness from that turn of events.  He was just recently able to finally say “Toyota” without the disdain in his voice.  We all eventually have to learn how to deal with change.

God bless Dale Earnhardt, Jr. for making change easier for some of his fans, back when he made the move to Hendrick Motorsports and his number became 88.  That change was nearly seamless for all of those who had tattooed a number 8 on their bodies.  They simply added another 8 to their flesh.  I’ve long wondered how much money that modification generated for the tattoo industry. 

The funny thing about change is that many times, it comes full circle.  A few years ago, race car set ups from decades ago experienced resurgence.  Big bar – soft spring, anybody?  And people who were unfamiliar with the history of that setup were amazed at the “new” innovation and how effective it could be.  What was old—often becomes new again—so save your current set-up notes; your grandchildren might need them some day.

There’s a book called, “Switch,” written by brothers Chip and Dan Heath about how to go about making difficult changes.  There are a few nuggets of noteworthiness inside of it; particularly the realization that our minds are ruled by two different systems: rational and emotional.  Once you understand those two systems, and how they work together, it becomes easier to affect change.  

Take weight loss.  For many of us trying to shed extra pounds, our rational selves know we need to quit eating burgers and fries, but our emotional selves just can’t stop it.  Those salty fries are like a big ol’ hug from mom!  I haven’t finished the book yet, so don’t look for me to have that burger and fries deal conquered before the race season begins.  The scent of hamburgers on an open flame, wafting through the air is like crack to us chubby types at race tracks.  

There are some changes that take time to implement, particularly due the behavior associated with it.  Under this banner, I would file the smack-talk that some in the racing community direct at their local track; armchair quarterbacking how the joint is run and decisions made.  If the grass looks greener on the other side, chances are that there’s more manure being spread over there.  There is no perfect situation, just like there is no perfect job.  There will always be some aspect that is not exactly how you would want it.   

Our emotional minds want to lash out and bad-mouth track management for the “wrong” we perceive, but the fact of the matter is that we are clueless as to the full scope of factors that need come into play in order to successfully operate a race track.  We tend to view things through our own little portal and neglect to see the big picture.  It’s so easy to point out what is wrong, but how about coming up with viable solutions?  

The rational mind is able to consider all angles.  Ideas and suggestions are great, but if you don’t have a practical plan that can effectively implement those changes, you’re pretty much just blowing smoke.  If you actually do have a practical plan, keep in mind presentation is the key to winning people over to your way of thinking.

Shouting at the top of your lungs, with spittle flying into the face of the other person is not effective.  It’s also disgusting.  People who can remain calm, cool and collected tend to actually have a greater chance of affecting change.  Side note:  This is also solid advice for dealing with other drivers after an on-track incident.  

Change and adversity are inevitable; whether it’s in racing, work or life.  How we respond to it is what defines us.  In the wise words of Bambi’s little friend, Thumper, I recommend that if you can’t say something nice—say nothing.  I’m paraphrasing, as Thumper had horrible grammar, but I don’t want to criticize that little fur-ball.  I’m trying to heed my own advice.  Change is hard. 

The Art of Being a 

Racing Wife

With Linda Petty, wife of Richard, recently passing away after a long bout with cancer, I got to thinking just how important racing wives are to a family.  They are the glue that holds everything together.

Lynda had been fighting cancer for quite some time. Two years ago, when I attended the NASCAR Sprint Cup race in Texas, I had the opportunity to meet Richard.  He graciously opened his RV to us to do some photos and a BS session.  It was a surreal moment.  That man can genuinely engage in a conversation with someone he just met.  As it turned out, we were quite fortunate to do that meet & greet, as Richard was leaving shortly thereafter—even before the race started, to fly home to Lynda because she was not doing well.  That was two years ago.  I can only imagine how brutal some of her days were between then and the end.  Cancer is vicious.  It’s even more vicious to watch someone who has been incredibly strong succumb to it.

Lynda was instrumental in starting the Racing Wives Auxiliary, an organization that helps injured members of the NASCAR community.  It was extremely hard decades ago to be a racing wife at the top level of the sport.  Back then, there weren’t massive pay days or endorsement deals that funded lush motor homes.  Having a place of respite where you could take care of the kids or grab a quiet moment with your spouse was unheard of back in the day.  Private jets were not a common staple in the budgets to get a driver’s family to and from the races.  It was a rough life for the wives of racers or crew members, if they even were able to attend the races.

Supporting your spouse’s hopes and dreams is something everyone should do.  It can be tough when a spouse is absent for many things, due to their work.  Spouses of those who are members of the military will always have my utmost respect.  Not only do they struggle to hold down the proverbial fort solo, but the potential risk of losing their spouse in the line of duty is always in the back of their mind.  I’m not at all trying to equate a racer to a member of the military, but the scenario can be somewhat similar.  The time away from the family while working on the race car, traveling or racing can be tremendous.  Obviously, there is risk of losing one’s life in racing is there as well.  The Petty family is all too familiar with that, when their grandson, Adam died from injuries sustained in a racing incident back in 2000.  But it’s not the same thing as military, I get that.

Still, at the local short track level, racing wives play an integral role.  My husband is not a racer per se, but he does build race cars and is a crew chief.  I’m grateful that we don’t have small children, as I see firsthand just how challenging that can be on racing families.  Being a racing wife can be tough.  Being a racing wife and mom is downright exhausting.  It requires copious amounts of patience, understanding, and bottles of wine.

It is doubtful that Lynda Petty relied upon wine.  She was a skillful wife and mother in the pits, capable of feeding an entire pit crew and brood of children out of the back of a station wagon.  I bought a bag of Fritos once for my husband at the race track.  I guess I need to work on that a little more.

Racing wives are the backbone of the family.  We soothe our husband’s bruised ego when a night doesn’t go well. We are their biggest cheerleaders when they are on the cusp of a win, and those with children end up filling in the parenting gaps solo as necessary.  We are philanthropists, always ready to help another racing family, whether it’s a fundraiser or just helping to keep an eye on kids in the grandstands.  Diplomacy is something all racing wives must learn.  We smile and pretend to be happy for another family, when their dad wins the feature; even though we wished it were our own kid’s dad in Victory Lane.

A healthy work/racing/life balance is a difficult thing to achieve.  I don’t know if Lynda Petty ever had the perfect balance, but she sure made it look like it.  Attitude is everything, and a positive one at that, which can be tough when your husband works a lot of hours.  My husband is a workaholic.  Although, I’m convinced he could probably manage his time just a little better.  He talks A LOT.  Seriously, he logs WAY over 3500 minutes each month on his cellphone, and if you get him going on stories of races past and he’ll devour hours.  And they say women talk a lot.

Regardless, our marriage seems to be made for racing.  We are both passionate about this sport we love, yet we both have our own interests at the track.  Obviously, he is in the pits with his team and I’m somewhere up top, videotaping the events or doing a live broadcast, depending on the track.  He has never said it, but I’m sure he appreciates that he doesn’t have to worry about where I’m at or what I’m doing.  I wouldn’t want it any other way.  The worst thing that could happen is for something to not go well at the track because I was making demands on his time for something, when he needed to be focused on the car or team.  I don’t want to be THAT wife.

But still, holding a family unit together with a racer can be tough, when there are jobs around the house to be done; particularly auto care.  It is incredibly strange that a guy who turns wrenches for a living, struggles to find the time to perform such tasks on our personal vehicles.

I think my husband would agree that I don’t nag.  I nudge.  However, that can backfire sometimes.  I purchased side mirrors for my Ford Explorer and asked him to help me replace the broken ones.  Those new mirrors sat by the door to the garage for a whole year, before I finally watched a YouTube video that showed me how to replace them.  I ended up doing that job myself, thinking that he would feel guilty for not doing it.  Wrong.  Instead, he bragged to his buddies how awesome his wife was for being able to do the job herself.    How could I be mad at him?  He was so proud of me.  In retrospect, I’m pretty sure that was his plan.  Kill me with compliments, so I forget that he was supposed to do the job over a year ago.

I really shouldn’t rip on him too much.  The stars aligned this week for me.  I actually wrote down the date and time in my journal.  This stuff doesn’t happen—ever.  My husband bought the swaybar bracket kit and replaced the broken ones on my Explorer!  I had only asked him once if he could do it.  I was astounded.  I even took a picture to document the occasion, and then I took him out to dinner to celebrate.  I’m starting to think he has the upper hand on this deal, in retrospect.

Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m handling these situations the way Lynda Petty would have.  I certainly don’t have the magnitude of patience and vision that she did, but I’m trying.  I think we could all benefit if we tried harder to emulate Lynda Petty, the first lady of NASCAR racing.  Be passionate about what and who you love, be supportive, but most of all make the most of every situation, even if it isn’t “perfect.” There is no such thing as perfect. 

$earching for $ponsorship

Securing sponsorships for racing can be a pretty tough mountain to climb.  It’s complicated even more so when hard economic times squeeze on businesses.  Generally speaking, advertising funds tend to be among the first things companies slash, when they need to tighten their budget belts.  As someone who sells media advertising, I can confirm, this sucks.  As someone who has helped race car drivers secure sponsorships, it can be downright maddening to find a way to get the job done.  This is a different financial world these days.  Now more than ever, businesses want a guaranteed return on investment, if you’re going to have a shot at prying any money out of their hands for a promotion or advertising endeavor.

Does this mean you have to be a front-runner on the track, who grabs headlines and a checkered flag every feature?  Well, I won’t lie.  That would be a great, if you could do that.  However, let’s be realistic.  Not everyone can do that.  And not every racer has a family that owns a chain of Zaxby’s restaurants to finance your racing.  It can still be done, if you’re up for the challenge, but you need to be willing to put the time into it.  Do some research and get creative.  Have a plan and be prepared to present it simply and concisely on a one or two-sheet proposal.  Every smart racer is out there asking for money.  You need to make your opportunity stand out from the others.  

Find ways to create promotional opportunities for the sponsor.  Look into local businesses to find out if they have a major event like an anniversary sale or other planned promotional event during the race season.  Find a way to tie you and your car into that event.  If this means, reaching out to your track promoter and seeing if you can get some race tickets or other things to help build a prize package for that big in-store event, by all means—do it.  Bringing a potential sponsor a “turn-key promotion,” that can dovetail into something they were already planning to promote gives you a leg up on your competition in the search for sponsorship dollars.

Consider bartering for sponsorship, but not just the typical trade for beer after the races.  If you want to secure bigger dollars for your season, try turning the barter into something that can be used in a turn-key promotion to take to a bigger cash sponsor for yourself.  The idea of garnering cases upon cases of beer for your team to consume post-race might initially sound attractive.  Seriously, I get it.  Dunking your hand into the icy cooler at the end of a race night to grab a beer feels fantastic.  It’s even better when it was a “free” beer, but what if you instead asked the beer sponsor for a couple of “office parties” that you could take to a prospective business to sponsor you for cash.  You have helped the cash sponsor create an in-house promotion that he can hopefully turn into a traffic-building event that will make his cash register ring, solidifying you as an ally in his marketing efforts. 

Obviously, any time you have a sponsor with an event, you should work toward having your car on display there for it, as it’s good for them and you to be visible.  I’d recommend actually being there with your hero cards to hand out to patrons as well and not just parking your car there.  People are naturally curious to get an up-close look at a race car.  Not everyone gets to the pits after the races to have a gander at a race car, especially little kids.  They tend to be tuckered out by the end of the race night, so having an afternoon to see a race car up-close is a big deal.  You may score more fans and points with your sponsor, for the time and effort you put forth at these appearances.

The old adage about “service after the sale” is incredibly important to sponsorships.  So many teams in the past have tainted the pool of potential race car sponsors by doing a quick cash grab and then not following up on the customer service side of accepting those dollars.  I’ve heard horror stories of sponsors who never heard another peep from a driver after handing over thousands of dollars, until it was time for a new season and they wanted more money.  Or even worse, the car got wrecked and they quit running at the track, and never once reached out to the sponsors to discuss the situation. Always keep your sponsors in the loop as to what’s going on with your season.  Your sponsors are your customers, treat them accordingly.

Consider doing a weekly press release of sorts to recap every race night and make sure to email it to your sponsors.  They are not always going to be able to make it to the races, so this allows you to continue to maintain contact and share the successes or challenges with them.  Make sure someone on your team or a family member can snap some photos to include in that piece each week.  

It should go without saying that a race team Facebook or Twitter account or even a website would be beneficial for you and your sponsors.  The first two are free, but it would be worth the investment to establish a professional-looking website.  Consider working with someone that has experience building eye-catching, professional websites and “gets” racing.  I’d recommend Scott Lofquist, with http://shorttracks.us to get it done right, if you’re serious.  He’s a machine and a great ally for all racers.  (I have no financial stake in Scott’s business.  I do enjoy poking a stick at him occasionally via Twitter, but seriously, he does a phenomenal job.)

Don’t offer too many options in your proposal, as it will confuse the potential sponsor.  Ideally, include just two investment options for your race season in the proposal, each with different price levels and each with a different array of promotional opportunities that you’ll include.  With two options offered, you can close the sale with, “Which opportunity works best for you?”  

Rejection can be brutal, but don’t give up if someone declines your opportunity for sponsoring your race car. Take what you can from the experience and use it to improve on your next presentation.  The more you do it, the better you will get.  You might even find you like the challenge of turning a “no,” into a “yes.”

Planes, Rains & Automobiles

When I booked my flight to Pensacola for the Snowball Derby at Five Flags Speedway, I seriously thought choosing an airline that had a connecting flight which avoided Atlanta was a good thing.  Unfortunately, I connected in Dallas, which put me right into the middle of the eye of the epic ice storm.

We ALMOST made it out of Dallas, before all hell broke loose.  The delay began with a flight attendant that didn't show up, so we had to wait for a backup to show, but then the merry-go-round of delays began.  Long lines of planes waiting to get de-iced prior to take off, constipated our forward progress.  On the second attempt to leave, a push-car, which is the vehicle that pushes the plane back away from the gate, had a dead battery, so that caused another delay.  Then the government got involved because the de-icing process had a lot of overspray that was landing on some new construction at the airport.  

Yes, a government agency was also part of our delay.  Actually, many of the delays for the planes to get out of Dallas.  They halted the entire de-icing process for ALL planes, until they could figure out where to move the de-icing area to for the planes that was safe.  As you might imagine, the government decision-makers didn't exactly come to a quick resolution on that matter.  Imagine that?

Bottom line is, after three separate boarding and deplaning efforts for this flight from Dallas to Pensacola, they ended up pulling the pin on the flight and canceling it shortly after 11pm.  Six hours past the original take-off time.

A call to the airline customer service department, as soon as I heard we were not going to make it to Pensacola, landed me on the next available flight there the following day, with a scheduled departure in the early afternoon.  Not exactly ideal, given the race festivities were already underway, but what could I do?

The hotel essentially attached to the airport was plumb full.  A call to various hotels in close proximity revealed they were full too. I decided to drop the hammer and go to get a rental car and just drive it.  I was frustrated.

I waited for the car rental shuttle to come around for about 15 minutes in the icy cold.  I ended up being the only passenger on the big shuttle bus and I was lost in my thoughts.  Should I be trying to drive this potentially 10-hour trek at midnight, given that I had been up since 3:30am?  The frustration of the situation was just spilling over and I was becoming convinced that I could do it, mostly just to get the hell out of Dallas.

It was then that I was jolted out of my thoughts—literally.  The shuttle bus had been rear ended by another shuttle bus for a hotel.  I can’t make this stuff up; the situation was spiraling out of control.

Sitting helpless on the shuttle bus, while we waited for the police and another shuttle to come and take me to the car rental office was my breaking point.  I realized then that I was in absolutely NO condition to drive 10 hours to Pensacola, let alone through a monster ice storm that had engulfed the entire Dallas-Fort Worth area.

I was insane, if I thought I could drive 10 hours to Pensacola after being awake for nearly 21 hours already.  Upon reaching the car rental counter, I instead requested a phone number for a taxi. One of the slick guys behind said counter, hand wrote the number of his friend, who would “take good care of me.” 

I’ll be honest here.  That gave me the willies and not in a good way.  Cold, tired and desperate, I dialed the number anyway.  

"Hello?" he answered in his deep, thick-accented voice.
"Hi, I was given your name as a taxi driver to get a ride to…"
"I'm not working now," and CLICK, he hung up on me!

All I could do at this point was to laugh like a maniacal idiot inside of the rental car building.  Through the tears of insanity, rolling down my face, I spotted a taxi outside, as if it were waiting for me.  I dashed out there to find a man and a woman, bound for a hotel.  The two, who were strangers themselves, both on a plane bound for Oklahoma City were in the middle of the same situation as myself.  Flight cancelled with few options.  Only, they actually attempted to rent a car, but the person behind the counter said they could not take debit cards, only credit cards.  And apparently, despite their debit card having the obvious logo of Visa on it—they were refused service.  I felt for them.  I shared my story of getting rear-ended on the shuttle bus and we all reveled in a kindred spirit of hatred toward the Dallas situation.

The cab ride was harrowing.  When we finally arrived at the hotel, we found that it was perched on a steep incline, not suitable for navigating during an ice storm, but our cabbie was a real sport and gave it all he had.  By God, we made it up the driveway and slid to a stop in front of the entry way, where we piled out and tumbled into the hotel, with our bodies about to give out on us.

The clock struck almost 1:15am when the hotel front desk man greeted us.  He informed us that he only had one room left and it was the Jacuzzi suite.  Lovely!  He then announced that it would run us a whopping $109 for the “night.” 

This was the point where I lost my marbles.  I have no idea how I remained calm, but I did.  I shared a euphemism about several things having been shoved sideways where they didn’t belong, repeatedly within the past 8 hours and pretty much begged him to have mercy on three complete strangers who were willing to share a room—not for a night, but for a mere few hours, before we all had to hightail it back to the airport in the hopes of getting to our final destinations or fork out more money for a rental car that would cost far more than it should.

When I finished my little speech, he stood there slack-jawed and said, “I’ve never heard a situation described quite like that before.  I’ll give you guys the room for $69.”

It was a small victory in a day that had quickly developed into the equivalent of any Minnesota Vikings’ football season.

I took a shower and put the same clothes back on, as that was all I had with me, because my husband took my suitcase with him in the race car hauler on Monday to Pensacola.  (He also drove through a car wash with said suitcase in the open bed of his pickup, before leaving, but in the whole scheme of things, I guess that's pretty minor now.)

I set up a text alert for my new flight to Pensacola before trying to sleep.  Sleep was a fruitless effort.  It is doubtful that I grabbed more than an hour and a half of actual sleep before I heard my cellphone vibrate with a text at 6am.

It was from American Airlines, letting me know that my new flight for Pensacola that afternoon had now also been cancelled.  That was it.  I needed to get to the car rental office and get driving NOW.

I asked the front desk if they were able to call a taxi for me.  Nope, they don't do that, but they did give me the phone number to call myself, which I tried.  I was on hold for 15 minutes and then a couple and another man, approached the front desk and they too inquired about a cab.  

I spoke up and asked if they were interested in sharing a cab, as I was in the process of getting one.  They all brushed me off and while I'm not a racist, I certainly felt the disdain they directed at me, through their narrowed eyes in their olive-colored faces.  

Whatever.  I gave up on sitting on hold and called the taxi service back, noting the app they had for getting a taxi, as being the "fastest way to get a taxi."  And they were right.  I received a phone call to my cell about 2 minutes after booking it online.

The female taxi driver said she was about 10-minutes out from the hotel. I ventured outside and assessed the situation.  I had forgotten about the steep hill access to the joint and I was wearing slick-soled, cowboy boots.  Ugh.  I ventured back inside and asked the front desk if I could have a garbage bag.  They obliged.

Then my Christian heart turned to black.  I spotted one of the rude taxi-seekers in the lobby, on the phone, trying to get through to get a ride.  I considered inviting him to share my cab, but that consideration really only lasted approximately three seconds, as I dashed out the front door, leaving him to twist in his own frustration.  

I called the cab lady back and discovered she was minutes away, so I told her to wait for me at the foot of the driveway, as it's steep and completely covered in ice.  I would come to her.

As I saw her approach, I folded the garbage bag into a big square.  I placed it on the ice, sat down and put my backpack on my lap, before shoving off, sliding down the icy hill to the road.

When I climbed into the cab, my driver was laughing so hard, she could hardly speak.  She said she had never witnessed anything like that before and it made her day.  Because of that, she was only going to charge me a flat $20 for the ride, as we started toward the airport.

Within a matter of minutes, her in-car service device pinged, letting her know someone else was in need of a ride… from the same hotel.  I knew who it was immediately.  I asked her if we had to turn around to get the person.  She informed me that no way was she going to do that, after the effort I put forth to get to the rental car place!  My smile was far too-pleased as we continued to crawl toward the airport, knowing that Mr. Rude was going to have to sit there and wait for at least another half hour.  I gave my cabbie a $10 tip, trying to make up for my horrible thoughts regarding the other fare she was headed back to get.  

It took 45 minutes to get my rental car.  Mostly because I was tired of feeling completely screwed over by businesses who wanted to capitalize on all of the displaced travelers.  I had a discount code for 15% that I had used when I booked my original reservation for a car in Pensacola.  They couldn't just "give me" the discount, as I had to book it myself online to take advantage of it.

So, there I stood at the counter, working on my cellphone, trying to book the rental with the discount.  After repeated attempts with failing cell service, I finally just called their corporate offices.  It took some serious cajoling and selling on my part, but I convinced the guy to help me book it over the phone, so I could get the discount.  Going one-way with a rental car is a losing proposition for any traveler, so I was already getting boned on the deal.  No sense adding insult to injury, right?

Finally, by 9:30am, I was prying the ice-clad rental vehicle open to begin the 10 hour drive.  It was the last compact car in their fleet.  There were only a handful of vehicles remaining for all of the car rental places from what I saw.  

As I handed the lady at the gate my paperwork, she issued a huge warning to me to reconsider driving to Pensacola.  I wanted to tell her to shut the hell up and that I was from Wisconsin--this is NOTHING, but instead I just smiled and said, "Bless your heart."  

And away I crept--45 miles-per-hour through the city, which resembled a graveyard of smashed vehicles along the road, askew in ditches.  All makes and models, including three trucks--a Ford, a Dodge and a Chevy.  One of them had a ripped up front end, due to impact from the guardrail.  There were several other cars along the road, spun out and abandoned and even a couple of semi trucks too.  I continued to crawl along, praying to get to Pensacola in one piece.  

It took a total of three hours of driving to get out of the freezing rain.  I cheered every time the outside temperature gauge read another degree over 32, as that meant a safer trek.  God Bless Texas.  They have a speed limit of 75 on the open highway, which was a beautiful thing, once the freezing rain was no longer an issue! 

It rained almost the entire trip.  I hate driving in the rain, but I hate driving in relentless hours of it worse.  I found some joy as I went through Monroe, Louisiana and spotted a billboard for Willie Robertson's diner.  If I hadn't been in such a rush to get to Pensacola, I surely would've stalked Jase from Duck Dynasty in West Monroe!

Time seemed to fly and surprisingly, despite not having enjoyed much sleep for nearly 48 hours, I was not tired, as I piloted the Toyota to Florida.  It had been estimated to be a bit over ten hours for the drive, but I pulled into Five Flags Speedway in Pensacola just around nine and half hours; and that included two stops for fuel!

And the moral of the story is:  Watch the weather, keep the phone numbers of the airlines and car rental places programmed in your phone and have a "Plan B" ready to unroll, so you don't get burned.  

Well, that, or just enjoy the adventure, but make sure you have a sense of humor.  You'll need it!