St. Petersburg, Florida

April 3, 2005

Grand Prix Honda of Saint Petersburg

What follows are the half-hearted observations and thoughts of a total racing neophyte, an automotive drifter who wouldn’t know a spark plug from a flux capacitor.

Our hero is PJ Chesson, the 26-year-old race car driver from gentrified NJ horse country. This is his second year racing in the Menards Infiniti PRO series, which is like IndyCar’s minor league. He racked up 3 wins in a row and several top 5 finishes in his first year of racing on pavement. PJ is driving for a new team this year and things are tense, he crashed during qualifying in the first two races this season. (The drivers themselves are responsible for damage if it occurs outside of the race itself.) The team is a real step down from his rookie season and the car reflects that. His girlfriend is Echo Johnson, she is a little older than PJ (although I lack the conviction to ask how much) she is a former Playboy model from Austin, Texas.

PJ didn’t seem affected by the same thoughts I was having when I entered the ‘hot pit’. My first thought when approaching these tiny fighter planes, complete with an extra wheel, was something along the lines of “you’d have to be a jockey to fit in one of these little motherfuckers.” … The national anthem ended, it worked. ended up with a smart butcher for some American Idol stunt. The honorary incumbent is Andrew Firestone, I’m sorry to report that it looks like the Queer Eye Guys have gotten another one. The engines roar and Echo and I are told to pull off the track, an order we ignore only because it was said with little authority… The second warm-up lap is over and the green flag supposedly goes up. , though who the hell knows, it’s too strong and the Florida sun is too bright to notice the little things. I will tell you, dear reader, with complete honesty and full disclosure that I am fully recovered from the New York Friday night debauchery, although I did have the flight to think about it.

As PJ predicted there was a mess on the first lap, apparently the first corner is at the end of the straight and quite dangerous when the field is all bunched up. A young Brazilian named Jamie Camara was eliminated 3 seconds into this race, although I couldn’t see much from here on the pit lane. We can’t feel bad for him since he’s apparently the son of Brazilian Ted Turner, but certainly a wonderful Portuguese style that Ted’s mustache could never match. But you can hear the slippery little missiles zipping past you at 150+ mph down the straightaway, you can feel the power of the engines, you can smell the exhaust of rocket fuel.

Another spin at the lap 21 mark gives us a chance to assess PJ’s run. He’s 5 mph off the pace of the leaders, he looks like his because not only does he look a little inferior, with his faded blue and white paint, but he runs that way too. The good news comes in the form of a gangly and somewhat slippery Aussie, no doubt descended from a long line of pocket pickers, assuring Echo that PJ is getting faster with every lap, 2 seconds faster before the last one. caution flag. The flag gives him, and all the other laggards, a chance to catch the leaders and condense the race. A much-needed mulligan, which cost someone money and a possible trip to the school nurse. I hadn’t given it much thought before, but I guess it’s designed to make the race more exciting, tighter for the fans, as there’s no speed limit for anyone as long as you don’t pass the guy in front of you.

Eventually, he is able to catch up to the leader who is being held up by an extremely ugly pace car (actually a truck). A push for the little one. A refuge for democracy in an America where evil empires and dynasties reign.

Anyway, I forgot to inform you that the slippery-looking ‘guy’ also told Echo that PJ was saying his brakes were coming loose, even to me this didn’t sound promising. Apparently all the drivers reported the same thing, they’re not used to heavy braking on an oval track, which most of these guys have cut their teeth on. PJ doesn’t strike me as someone who’s ever considered using his breaks for any reason.

Echo seems to be a real distraction to the SPFR firefighter next to us, standing behind an open 40-gallon water barrel. The good it will do is totally suspect. 10 laps to go, let us pray that there are no fires near me that need this brave lecher’s attention… The sparse crowd has risen in a round of applause, I can tell by the muted nature of the cheer that it is not a fiery clash these vultures are clapping for, but a slick pass somewhere out there. Marco Andretti is outpacing other drivers with names like Unser and Drake, most with JR, III or IV. PJ has moved up to 7th place with another driver hanging around.

I want to get a bottle of water from the cooler next to me, but I dare not offend the natives, with their colorful clothing and funny hats. Clearly, I am an outsider invading a world of interns. Luckily I know one of the bosses and I’m with his beautiful concubine.

5 laps to go, surely only a disastrous miracle will propel our man into or near victory lane. But no one expected a win except me, who knows less than any of the morbidly obese kids starting to fill the stands behind me in anticipation of the big car races later today. The hosts and their girlfriends, however, come from a different lineage than their fans. The brides can be easily identified among all the other women on the runway by their bleached and surgically enhanced good looks. Is it my imagination or are they all taller than your men? More research is needed, I’ll have to poll you guys on this at the next race and get back to you…Race car drivers may be the only short men with fast cars able to successfully compensate for their lack of stature .

It looks like Marco Andretti, the 18-year-old phenom, will hit victory lane. Another victory for heritage, empires and dynasties everywhere, but a well deserved victory for the boy. The media swarms over the champion, many Japanese media come running down the pit lane, with their wonderful straight black hair. But wait, here come the blondes, very impressive. Clearly, he should have been behind a steering wheel, not a golf ball, from a very young age.

They help PJ out of his car and he looks very pleased. He gets a big hug and kiss from Echo and congratulations from several guys who look like officers. We stand looking at the circus that unfolds around the winner’s car. I feel like he’s happy with finishing 7th and I ask him so much, “I finished the damn race in 2005, baby”, clearly a weight has been lifted off his shoulders… PJ talks to some of the other racers and their crew for a while. We all jump onto the PJ scooter, Echo then me, realizing this is the closest I’ll ever get to a playmate.

As I stand under the platform of the car lift, attached to the back of the custom 18-wheeler, trying to find some relief from the unforgiving Florida sun, I hear a soft moan. The sun/shadow line moves slowly down the runway as I conclude that the mischievous natives are letting me know my place in the strict social hierarchy of their highly evolved culture. I try to appear cool and collected, calm in the face of his passive aggressive behavior. Just barely avoiding being slowly crushed by the powerful hydrolic monster, I can hear some deep growls.

Maybe now that I’m sitting here in the Tampa airport with a family from one of the outer districts, all of us on our way back to JFK and God only knows where from there, while two generations of the family, one in a wheelchair and one in a baby stroller, and my head is totally clear of marquee cobwebs. I can tell the pit crew didn’t see me standing under the car lift and they weren’t there to spill any blood, what a warm cloudless Sunday afternoon in St. Petes, but if I don’t think so, neither should you.

JFK arrived

April 4, 2005

These drivers, and more PCs than any I have met so far, are afflicted by an atavistic need to compete for resources, to engage in the hunt, with death not in the shadows but right in front of them, all around them. This Infinity Pro series looks even more dangerous than its bigger IndyCar brethren, racing on the same circuits, just a few seconds faster per 1.8-mile lap. Why is it, or seems, more dangerous if the cars are smaller and a bit slower? The danger lies with the drivers themselves, as I look up from my scratchy handwriting to realize that my Arab friend, whose name I would no doubt need George Tenet to pronounce for me, is hurtling us ever closer to a sure fear. and possible destruction. while playing with his cell phone in one hand and touching his nostrils with the other. I have a distinct feeling that we are walking a tightrope at this point and his Israeli girlfriend is yelling at us not to look at her… The point I veered so cruelly from was that these drivers are more dangerous because they are less experienced and are driving to save their lives (no endorsements here on minors). I will say, though, that their girlfriends seem to be almost as attractive as the IndyCar drivers’, with Ashley Judd being a more polished exception.

This drive home is getting really hairy now. We barely made it across the Williamsburg bridge with our lives and now my driver is getting nervous, he can smell the finish line, victory lane is within his grasp and no one will stop him. There may not be a horde of media and groupies out there, and the purse is barely enough to cover gas, but these guys compete for reasons neither you nor I can begin to understand.

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