Lesson Learned..Not Quite.

When I first moved to this town I had a lot of big ideas and plans with no road map or recipe to get me to where I planned to go. I began working for the first team that would give me a shot. That part was easy. They knew, I knew plenty about sprint cars and nothing about stock cars, so the expectations weren't very high. My plan was to work hard, even if I didn't know what I was doing. Lucky for me this sport is built on the rock of hard work.

My second year here in Charlotte was the hardest. For all intents and purposes I had learned quite a bit. The expectations kept getting higher and the pressure to keep up was becoming taxing. I somehow managed to be offered the position as "suspension specialist" with a front running, well-oiled Craftsman Truck Series team (now known as the NASCAR Camping World Truck Series). I proudly accepted the job and wheeled my toolbox into their suspension room. Soon after accepting this job, I realized I had a lot more to learn than I had realized. Ironically the man who offered me this job would be the one to challenge me and second guess my every move.

I remember him asking me to do things he knew I had no idea how to do. A sense of panic would hit me. "I don't know how to do that!?!" Somehow I'd squirm, make phone calls, stare at parts .. do whatever I had to in order to figure out how to accomplish, what seemed at the time to be, lofty requests. I had moved to this town with no stock car experience. Most times I kept my mouth shut in fear of someone finding out how little I actually knew. It wasn't until I

began working for (let's call him) "Henry" that myself and everyone realized how green to NASCAR I actually was. Throughout my career as a "suspension specialist" for Henry, I hated my job. I hated the sport. Most of all, I hated Henry. He had a way of shedding a god awful spot light on every weak area that I had as an individual and as a mechanic. He was a horrible beast in my mind. I hated his smell and the sound of his voice. The day I got another job offer I reveled at the idea of working for someone else. Greener pastures. Sunny skies. All these things were waiting for me out from under his wicked fortress of a race team. Oh happy day!

Dream on Alice. AGAIN, I soon realized that I, still, had a lot to learn. I spent the next year, in the way. The following year I spent, trying to get out of the way. Then after a few more years I realized that I was, no longer in the way. I was actually figuring all of this out. I had FINALLY put my glove on and become a player in the game.

Fast forward, to this past week in St. Louis. I am now a car chief in the Nationwide series. A position that took all seven years to truly be ready for. As I walked through the garage, looking at my feet, shuffling through the days procedures in my head. I looked up from under my hat to be standing face to face with Henry. For the first time in nearly 5 years. He smiled at me and made light conversation. "What are you doing now?" he asked. I proudly stated, like a child who had just won the spelling bee, "Car chief. I'm the car chief" I highly anticipated a critical response and in a last ditch effort to throw up an, in your face, checklist of what I had accomplished over the past five years I blurted out "I've learned a lot since I worked for you. You ignorant old bastard"..ok well I didn't say that last part, but I wanted to. As he walked away he said "I always knew you would." :gasp: What?!?! No You DIDN'T! Hmmm........Maybe he did.

I guess you could say that since I walked out of his race team I have been on a mission to prove my worth..in hopes that one day I could have my, in your face, moment with him and all the other Henrys I have faced along the way. But I guess that was his intentions all along. So once again, there I was in St. Louis with egg on my face learning another big life lesson. He taught me exactly what he wanted to.

The truth is, this sport in compiled of die hard, rough, egotistical men. I wasn't at all prepared for it. How I have survived and learned to cohabitate the garage area with these men is hard to explain. But what I do know is the "Henrys" of this sport, are the ones who have built me. When I began working for Henry I was too simple minded and sensitive to be a mechanic. I didn't deserve to be there. He wasn't going to allow me to jump ahead in line without earning my spot in the garage. Now I am grateful for that. Had he treated me like the "Harrys" I may have never made it past sweeping floors and cleaning parts. I guess it's easier to accomplish things when you have something to prove.

"Hell, there are no rules. We're trying to accomplish something here." -Thomas Edison

Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

I've been a part of their world for nearly seven years. I am one of them now. Like a caged monkey at the local zoo, I've become a part of my surroundings. Other than my pony tail I blend in fairly well. They are called Harrys. The uber arrogant male species that lurks pit road and the garage area at NASCAR sanctioned events coast to coast.

I am often asked "How do you tolerate all of those men?" Truth is I don't know. Its really kind of easy now. There was a time when every fart, burp, catcall and crude joke used to cut through me. Now I curse like a sailor (a handy trait should I ever be confronted by an angry sailor). I laugh at the crudest of all jokes, in fact most of them come from me. I drink cases of beer. I even check out and rate the beautiful women we see (please note: I am not a lesbian).

The real question is "How hard is it to remember to turn off the BoysClub switch on Girls Night?" Actually this is the biggest challenge of it all. At one time flying beneath the men's radar and just doing my job was a daily task. Now I catch myself just trying to blend in amongst my own species, the females.

This past Sunday I assisted in hosting a birthday party for my best friend. Suddenly I realized how much time I have spent around the Harrys and not the Harriettas. I am good at looking the part, I put on a cute little outfit and flat ironed my hair. I looked like a girl, but I felt like a poser. I had forgotten how to hold a light conversation about life and love. I didn't do a good job at dividing my two lifestyles that day.

Perhaps I didn't spend enough time getting into girl mode before arriving at the party. Maybe I should have had Alicia Keys playing rather than Blink 182 while i was getting ready. I had accidentally left the house with my rough exterior still on. I was a bonefied wolf in sheep's clothing.At one point I found myself trying to explain the off-color joke I just told. A joke that I undoubtedly picked up from the Harrys. Let's just say it wasn't greeted with bursts of laughter.

Sometime around mid-summer the guidelines of male and female get a little hazy. Life on the road from February to November begins to take it's toll. My thoughts become very black and white. I lose my sensitivity filter and I say what I am thinking. Eventually the smelling salts kick in and I begin seeking forgiveness for my actions. I am blessed to have 12 outstanding girlfriends who understand me in the best way they possibly can. They shrug their shoulders, laugh and say "Oh that's just Ashley"

So for me "tolerating" one or the other isn't the most challenging part of what I do. Keeping them divided is.

Men are from Mars and Women are in fact from Venus. I am working daily to find the universal language between the two.

Shadows

Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin. Our driver for this week is a young, rookie driver from Michigan. Throughout the weekend he has slowly impressed us and gained our confidence. I am proud to say, even amongst all of the veterans he is one of the few drivers to not get off track during the "Test Day."

Shadowing by his side all weekend has been his Dad. Helping him buckle in. Giving him needed pep talks. Handing him water. A constant support system. He is completely content to stay in the background, as long as his son knows he is there. Most of the Harrys probably don't even notice him. I do. It's special to me because he reminds me of my own support system.When I was racing my Dad was right by my side. Every race. Every lap. Every win. Every failure. I credit him for my success in every aspect of my life.

There are so many stories about my Dad and I that I could share but there is one in particular that stands out. I was about 16 years old and I was racing in Pennsylvania at Big Diamond Raceway. It was one of my favorite tracks. It was a fast, 3/8 mile clay oval. I remember it had been a good night for us. We had been one of the top five cars all day. We were running in third place, with about 3 laps remaining when I got hit. A lap down car trying to make up time drove far deeper into the corner than his car could stand. He slid up two groves and slammed into me. Then together we went flipping. Due to the fact that I had, at this point, wrecked many, many other times and I was a daredevil by design I was rarely spooked by a flip or two.

I wrecked a lot in my sprint car days. Well everyone did. It's what sprint cars do. Any contact at all usually ends violently. I remeber waking up, still up side down. My brain was like pea soup. I attempted to gather my thoughts when sudden fear shot through me. I realized I couldn't feel

my arms or hands. I began to jumble through the possibilities of what had just happened. Neck Injury. No more racing. How will I make a living? Better yet, How will we tell Mom? As the safety crew began to extract me from this mangled mess, my mind was running rampid. I looked up to see my Dad. He was knelt down in front of the crinkled up race car. He was calm and collected. He didn't say anything or make any gestures he just stared at me. He was focused on my eyes. It calmed me. He became my security in the midst of the hurricane, that was my mind. And somehow, I knew everything was well on its way to being ok.

Obviously the loss of feeling for a minute was either shock or a pinched nerve because I regained all of my feeling within a few minutes. I never voiced that I was nervous but Dad knew. He didn't panic, over react or try to take control of the situation. He was everything that I needed at that time. He was my shadow. Right there to show his support. We were in a huge mess, but we were there together.

This weekend our driver never got hurt. He had a very unfortunate race and his Dad was right where he was supposed to be, by his sons side. Equipt with water and pep talks.

As young adults we rarely appreciate or acknowledge that support system. I know I didn't. But I do now. And all too often in this flashy, highly publicized sport of auto racing there are Dad's who step in front and demand the attention and publicity that, they believe, their son/daughter deserves. I am fortunate enough to have had a Dad who stood back. He allowed me to be front and center. His only concern was to make sure that I knew he was there.

In lieu of fathers day, I'd like to thank my Dad. He is been my biggest fan, my sounding board, my hero and most importantly, my shadow.

Dear Undertaker..

I had so many different subjects that I had planned to write about for this week, until today. This weekend, we are in Middleofnowhere, Wisconsin. Yup the cheese state. I love love love cheese. Cheese doesn't love me, but that's neither here nor there.
The Harrys and I are smack dab in the middle of P2 (P2 is the second practice session of the day), it was a good p2 in case you were wondering. Anywho, I look up and there he is. In all his racefan glory. Today is his big day. Obviously. I mean this cat has been planning this day for a long, long time...I think.

Please allow me to paint the best mental picture that I possibly can :aheem: Dick Trickle throw back t-shirt, black Spandex bike shorts, and red, lace-up, wrestling boots. He was epic. A sight. a mystical creature of sorts. Nessy, the Loch Ness Monster...maybe. I would have insisted that I get my picture taken with him except, like I said, P2, lots going on, etc.
Ok, ok lets just call him, "The Undertaker" for obvious reasons. Well the single, most important piece of his ensemble was the checkered flag fanny pack. Sure, I have proudly worn a fanny pack before. I totally get it, they are cool, convenient and hands free. They were the bees knees back in the day, on the field trip to the Science Center. If I were to wear one nowadays I would fear my chances of a date would be somewhere between slim and none. Soooo..I think it's safe to say, I avoid them.The point is, as much as I belly laugh at "The Undertaker" the fact is, he's a race fan. He's the reason I get paid. Solely, single handidly, this guy makes my personal dream come true. He reaches into his checkered flag fanny pack (buys a ticket) and pays for me to wrench on these race cars because he's a fan. Wrestling boots and all, first and foremost he's a race fan.

The cast of ccharacters that is race fans is a sight to be seen. It is my "Comedy Channel" while on the road. Much like Raiders fans, they live for the shock factor that they cause with their "raceday" get-ups. Deep down I hope the boots and fanny pack are his "get-up" to assist with getting Carl's (Edwards) autograph but for all I know they may be standard. If it's standard, I am sorry, Undertaker. Please don't hit me in the head tomorrow with an aluminum chair when you see me. You're my hero. Or better yet, you are my sponsor. Living life the way you want, even if it is in a Dick Trickle t-shirt, cheering on racecars. Lose the fanny pack or lose the boots just please don't lose your love for NASCAR. You Sir, help my dreams come true, and for that I Thank You.

Mile Markers

Today we head eight hours northwest to Kentucky Speedway. By the looks on the faces of the Harrys you realize that this is no typical travel day for us. Nope. Today we get "windshield time" in the team van. You should know, all team vans smell like ass, b.o., and well... boys. Which means "windshield time" feels more like "gym bag time" :hackt:
Currently, times are tough for a small race team like ours. Just one year ago we were staying in the fanciest of hotels, utilizing shuttle services, and even boarding private jets. This season we don't have the luxury of a full-time sponsor so the indulgences that we had grown accustomed to aren't nearly as plentiful. Yes, we have gotten a bit spoiled but no one in this van forgets that this used to be the only way real racers went racing. The "grass-roots" of our sport. We like to call them, "The Days of Dale" (The late Dale Earnhardt Sr). I believe that most of the mechanics, car owners, spotters and PR reps all began their careers in the "grass roots" fashion of auto racing.

Ex: Anxiously hoping into a steaming hot Suburban in the dead of summer with either family and friends enrounte to the local race track, loving every minute. This is when the seeds of their unforeseen careers are planted. And we didn't care how we got there, we were just happy to go.

As we pass each mile marker I am reflecting on my own "grass root" days. The days when an 8 hour ride to the racetrack was the highlight of my week. A white Ford pickup, toting our family owned race team from race track to race track was my team van. I grew up racing for my Mom and Dad at the local dirt tracks. Those days were the best. We raced every single weekend. The long drives were our time to discuss and dream of where all of this might lead. I learned a lot about life in that truck. (I also learned that making Dad keep the windshield wipers off didn't actually keep the rain from inevitably coming) Back then I believed I would be a racing champion. Those long talks past countless miles markers fueled that desire.

Along the way I transitioned from driver to mechanic. I get to live my life traveling from coast to coast, chasing the NASCAR Nationwide Schedule. I go into the garage, wrench on race cars and walk out everyday. It never crosses my mind that I didn't get to fullfil my dreams as a racecar driver. I am no longer a young driver with dreams of that Cup Race winning pass to keep me motivated. Now I am a mechanic with dreams of that Cup Race winning pit strategy. I have new goals now.

Short term:

• Do my part to help our race team run better this weekend so maybe we can land a sponsor and not ride in this stanky van anymore.
Long term:
• Work my way up the ranks and position myself to be a well respected crew chief.

I realize that to accomplish all of the things that i have laid out on my "To-Do" list I have to take steps. Each step is comparable to these mile markers that keep passing by. I know where i want to go, and there's no way to jump ahead or skip some steps. I have to reach each mile marker and continue on to the next.

"Swamp-Ass"

As we wait to get into the garage I hear the ramblings of the "Harrys and the Henrys". They aren't talking about set-ups and pit stops. They are moaning about the dreaded "swamp ass" that they all plan to deal with throughout this long, hot day in Nashville. And I agree it is a hot one. "Hotter than Africa" one Harry said. I myself have never been to Africa but he obviously had and apparently it wasn't nearly this hot.

For those of you who don't know the term "swamp ass" ..well I'm not surprised, it was new to me about a year ago. It's basically diaper rash for adult men. Which, in my opinion, is a very fitting description. Other terms used throughout the garage are: monkey-butt, chapped ass, and the worst "Chad Chaffin" (a race car driver who's name is now used to describe a rash on someones butt :sigh: poor guy). My favorite is "swamp-ass" tho.
Companies have invented products to help the Harrys out, Anti-Monkey Butt Powder and Boudreaux Butt Paste, yup Butt Paste. Just to name a few.
Throughout my years of being only one of two females in the garage I often entertain my thoughts with keeping score between myself, "The AP Organization" and all the guys, "The Harry's and Henry's" ....so when I hear the disappointment in their voices regarding their "swamp-ass" I giggle because I "win" this one. In the right situation I could fall victim to a case of "Monkey Butt" as well, but not near as easily, for obvious reasons. In the garage most all of the race teams wear black pants as part of their uniform. Most wear a brand called Dickies. I also have to wear black pants. It wasn't til the day that I made the attempt to wear mens Dickies that I realized how the Dickies play a huge role in the need for "Butt Paste." Every pair of men's pants had my inseam somewhere around 8" below my crotch. Therefore causing a "Penguin-esk" feel. "Is this how men wear their pants? This is ludicrous!" Obviously the extra square foot of fabric, coupled with sweat, extra "cargo" and lots and lots of walking is the culprit for such suffering.

I grin at the idea of a "win" over the Harry's. I don't have an extra square foot of fabric and better yet I don't have "Swamp Ass" . However this mini "win" isn't free. See they don't make Dickies for woman ... that aren't horrendous. And by horrendous I mean a waist line that comes up to my bra or a horrid tapered leg, straight out of the 1980s. I may be a mechanic but I still like to look cute and be comfortable. What girl doesn't? My price to pay for looking cute and not having "Swamp Ass" is the $70, for each pair of work pants, that I shovel out monthly to JCrew or Banana Republic. While these pants are a perfect fit and well worth the 200% mark-up, they are designed for the working girl. The paper-pushing, working girl not the climbing around under race cars, working girl.

I get it tho, JCrew and Banana Republic can't cater to the small percentage of female mechanics. So I have decided that one day I will design my own line of women's work pants, don't laugh, its going to happen. They will be Low Rise, Boot Cut but out of stronger fabric. I plan to call them "NoDickies" :hehe: Yup, I've thought this out! No extra fabric, cute cut, no "swamp-ass" ... NoDickies.

Disclaimer

I have recently been encouraged to uhm..blog. And for what it's worth I have never actually even read a blog until today. Or maybe I had and just didn't realize it. See my way of reading and writing is an art form of it's very own. I could have simply read a "blog" and thought to myself..finally someone is writing in a way that is easy for me to read. Anywho, not the point.
Apparently someone thinks I have interesting things to write. I think I have interesting thoughts. Writing them down was a way of leaving a paper trail and I was sure that wasn't a good idea. Do I clean it up? Could I get into trouble? Blog? Is that a word? I'm a bad speller! My biggest fear of this new adventure I am partaking in is I am fairly honest with myself and others. I poke fun and I "don't ever let someones feelings get in the way of a good joke" quote/unquote Dad. You should know this idea was instilled in me at an early age, kind of like most kids and potty training. Let's just say Dad taught me a lot about life and I got the art of being literal and using the big girl potty down to a science.
So I decided, in an attempt to justify my thoughts, I needed to start with disclaimer. And partially through this disclaimer I realized that I was breaking my own rule. I'm apologizing before I even get started :Facepalm: Dad would be so disappointed in me. Just know that I get myself through life one laugh at a time. I am a frog who can't swim and jokes are my lily pads. Also know that this frog can't spell either. I'm still not sure how I graduated or survived high school but that's a whole other blog and requires poking fun at myself and I'd rather not start this relationship off on the wrong foot.
I find myself apologizing daily for my sense of humor. When you get down to it, it's a pile of grey mush inside our heads that makes us all do and act certain ways. Why not laugh at it? I mean it's a flipping miracle we aren't all facing a corner somewhere trying to walk, like a robot with no direction. So I am not sorry when Harry wipes out BIG on his Razor Scooter, for the entire shop to see. This is awesome!

We as humans invented a scooter. We learned to ride it. Then things got a little sloppy with the "grey matter" and we forgot to squeeze the lever that keeps the whole damn thing from falling apart! Brilliant!

So..in this "blog" of mine I plan to respect Dads wishes and belly laugh at our "sloppy moments" and/or ignorance then grab my phone and blog about it.