My mission, and I chose to accept it, was straightforward but hardly simple: Complete a one-day racing school near Toronto and make it back to Indianapolis in time to see the Foo Fighters without my mother finding out.
(Author’s note: It is true that too much fun can be had in one day. Do not attempt this at home. And do NOT tell my mother.)
The whole thing began in July at Watkins Glen, when I was invited by Firestone PR representative Mark Robinson to participate in a one-day program at the Bridgestone Racing Academy at Mosport. The conversation went like this:
Mark: “Hey, would you want to do the Bridgestone Racing Academy at Mosport next week with a group of motorsports journalists?”
Me: “Are you %$#@*&#ing kidding me?”
Mark: “No.”
Me: (Trying not to scream like a schoolgirl at recess). “Hell yes!”
Mark: “OK, I’ll e-mail the details to you.”
Me: (Screaming like a schoolgirl at recess. Possible weeping. Can’t recall with certainty. Definitely some celebratory dancing and chest-thumping. I called everyone I know. Except Mom.)
If you haven’t heard the mom story, it’s worth a listen. When I was around 8 years old or so, I nearly had my dad convinced that I should be the recipient of a motorized toy of some sort. A mini-bike or go-kart would suffice. All my friends had them. Under further questioning, I assured Dad that if all my friends decided to ride off a cliff or into a lake, I would not follow. I had all the angles covered. He was almost ready to give in, thanks to my ingenious suggestion that we build a go-kart together as a father-son bonding exercise, when Mother slammed the door.
See, Mom was a registered nurse, and apparently all day long she saw patients maimed in accidents, and therefore I was not allowed to own or operate anything equipped with an internal combustion engine – not counting model airplanes – until I was at least 16 years of age. Or 35, whichever came first. I pictured her working in a horrible ER where a parade of ambulances delivered 8-year-old boys badly injured in accidents involving go-karts they built with their fathers. Only later did I discover that she worked in obstetrics and saw nothing but cute little babies, and very few of them wore crash helmets.
So single-handedly and not quite truthfully, Mom destroyed my chances of making it to Formula 1. I may never forgive her for this, and am reminded of it every time I see a dim-witted, unattractive racer with an impossibly hot girlfriend. Money truly does buy happiness, and, if only Mom hadn’t blocked my path to a go-kart many decades ago, I, too, could have had all of that, dim-wittedness and unattractiveness pre-installed. I never let her forget it, except for a few minutes each Christmas when I remind her that she threw away a complete set of 1970 Topps baseball cards (mint condition) that I spent my entire allowance collecting. But I digress.
When I received the invitation from the fine folks at Bridgestone Firestone, all was perfect. Tuesday, July 22. Nothing on the schedule. Life was grand. Things didn’t turn tricky until the next day, when a follow-up from Mr. Robinson, still the best PR person in the business, indicated a mistake had been made and the event actually was scheduled for the following day, July 23.
Oops.
Not that I couldn’t do it that day, but there was a complication. I already had a date with my wife’s best friend, Ediane – wait, I can explain – and couldn’t get out of it without some terrible disappointment and moderate cost. Ediane, also known as Wife No. 2, and I were planning to see the Foo Fighters at Conseco Fieldhouse in Indy that very night, had tickets and everything, had cleared our schedules, had filled both our iPods with Foo songs and had for months been running around the house singing like Foos.
(Author’s note: No, I do not have two wives. It’s a joke. When I met my wife, who is Brazilian, she had a roommate, also Brazilian. When we [Wife No. 1 and I] got married, we asked her [Wife No. 2], then facing life on her own because we [Wife No. 1 and I] were getting married, to move in with us. She’s been here ever since, and I’m blessed by the two most amazing people on the planet. Our house is filled with laughter and Portuguese and samba and marvelous food and immense joy. The “wives” thing is a running gag. Whenever I see Tony Kanaan, he asks me how No. 1 and No. 2 are. When a photographer friend was introduced to Ediane at the Indy 500 in May, he asked if she was one of my wives. She shook his hand gleefully and said, “Yes, I’m No. 2!” It’s a comedy bit, so put your crayons down. I’m not a bigamist. I’m just the luckiest man alive.)
Anyway, back to the story. I asked if it would be possible to escape the racing activities early and get to the Toronto airport in time to catch a 5:10 p.m. flight back to Indy. I made this request unaware that the car-to-pavement ratio in Toronto is approximately eight to every square meter. More on that later.
