A Dose Of Life

Dose of life. it's a term I use to explain short comings, realizations and lessons learned. I mostly use this term when curse words are frowned upon. ex: blogging and lunch with my Nana. It's also the time that I put my pity-party hat and kazoo away and stand back and look at the situation for what it really is....Life.

On Sunday evening I sat somber at the beautifully decorated dinner table and starred at the ham and scalloped potatoes my Nana had just prepared with a sudden loss of an appetite. I was still digesting what just happened. I made a valiant attempt to pay attention to the conversation that was taking place at the family dinner. Unfortunitly, the thoughts in my head were much louder and seemed much more important than the conversation that was taking place at the table. I excused myself from the gathering and climbed into my truck to head home. My emotions were like a pinball machine: Silent, beat-up, jealous, relieved, excited and happy. I arrived at home, laid my head down on the concrete patio, and stared at the sky. Watson sat down beside me. We sat. We listened. We tried to grasp reality. Did I make a mistake? Four years and I was only two weeks too short. Never a win. Seven f'n years! Never a win! What do you think Watson?

My last blog was about my new adventure. My new life. Starting fresh. Leaving RAB Racing. Well on Sunday, prior to my family dinner, RAB Racing :deep breath: well they won. They won in Montreal. Not a half ass race either, not the "all the good guys stayed home" race, they won the NASCAR Nationwide Series race at Montreal.

Circuit Gilles Villeneuve, as the Canadians call it, is a beautiful road course on an island of its own in Canada. It's one of my favorite tracks and none other than Boris Said, the best driver I've ever worked with, was behind the wheel. Boris flew through the gears, corner after corner, gas, brake, gas, brake, left-turn, right-turn, gas, brake. He made every move perfectly, the stars aligned, no one wrecked him and they won the race.

I began that Sunday with invisible pom-poms in the air for Boris Said and every 09 crew-member, the Harrys, my Harrys. As I watched, what seemed to be the longest race ever, my heart began to sink a little more each lap. The thought of the young, struggling team gathering up a win was beyond exciting. It was David vs Goliath. And the Harry's took down the Giant.

In my four years with them, they taught me mostly everything I know about life and race cars. We seemed to face more days of anguish, disgust and frustration then days of jubilation. In fact every year we would have a Christmas party to celebrate the hurdles we leaped over to survive our season. I would make a tribute video for them every year to reflect back on it all. This was when we had finally gotten over the disappointment enough to sit back and belly laugh at all of the madness that had taken place that summer. Last winter the tribute video began with the words "There were times we felt we were in hell, but we were there together."

I saw everyone of those Harrys through their first day of work at RAB Racing. They are all like brothers to me and watching them in victory lane on Sunday was bitter sweet. The bitterness came from the magical box that we call a television, that separated me from them. I saw all of their faces. Sheer joy and tears of happiness. I absolutely hated not being there with them. I was profoundly jealous. I hated the fact that I wasn't able to join in on their victory lane "hat dance" and the bragging rights that come along with such a prestigious win. Suddenly I felt like the prodigal son who left home.

However, I do not regret my departure from the team. Wish I had waited a few weeks, Hell Yeah! But, I am ready for a new chapter to begin. It was the correct move for me and my career. What absolutely frustrates me is I wasn't there to hug their necks in their moment of victory. Cry with them and exhale the frustrations that four years can pile on a weathered ship.

So yes. A dose of life. Ode to a dose of life. What the AP Organization learned on Sunday was...to never take any moment of this fore granted. Don't ever spend too much time in the "woe is me" mindset on the flight home from a race track. Fact is, one day...not maybe but one day your "glory day" that this sport promises you will arrive and every trial you endured to get there will make the effort worth while. I am not sure a win would matter all that much if it wasn't such a struggle to receive.

I will lay my head down tonight completely envious of the celebration that happened without me. But I will do it with the utmost pride that I worked beside every mechanic and fabricator who stood in victory lane on Sunday. Those guys are my heroes. They saw the perfect storm build up in front of them, they rode out the waves and found themselves covered in champagne and confetti.

Congratulations to the RAB Racing Crew Members, The Harry's.

Making Moves

Somewhere in Michigan, there are Nationwide Series cars screaming around a 2 mile oval race track. There is a crew member hustling to change a rear shock while another is running to the transporter to get a different left-front spring. There's a right-side track bar getting bottomed-out in preparation for a mock qualifying run. Stop watches are clicking. Wheel impacts are buzzing. Radio chatter is filling the invisible air waves. The race track is alive with sound.

In Cornelius, North Carolina the silence of this little 3 bedroom house is killing my ears. The most noise I hear is the squeaking of Watsons toy frog and the water hitting dishes as the rinse cycle begins inside my dishwasher. For the first time in my 7 years as a NASCAR mechanic there is a race car that I built making laps without me. This is all by design but it's borderline torture. I fear, any minute "Party in the USA" by Miley Cyrus will be blaring from my laptop. Its a scary thought I know but crazier shit has happened.

In the past 36 hours I have started, stopped and deleted this blog over half a dozen times. Why do I keep shaking the etch-o-sketch on this blog? hmm Well I am not sure.. maybe it's all of the lose ends that I can't tie up within this entry or maybe it's the complex outline that becomes hard to follow. Whatever it is, I need to write it, and at this particular moment its the only thing I have to do.

This week I walked away from my four year long relationship with RAB Racing. I quit. Just like that, in the midst of a 35 race season, in those exact words, I quit. Now, before we get all melodramatic about this big change you should know that, I have been planning this move for quite sometime. Now how it actually happened was not how I had hoped but none the less, the move was made. That said, here we are "the diary of a female mechanic"...uhhh from her kitchen table.. I prefer to write while I'm in the holding pattern prior to the race with butterflies fluttering around in my stomach. But Hey, There is a hot pocket in the microwave, and that might get crazy so its kinda the same thing..right?

The exciting part is once again I have made a big leap without a parachute. Again? Yes, again. Seven years ago there were sprint cars buzzing around a 3/8 mile dirt track without me. That was the day I chose to move to Charlotte in all of about 24 hours I made that decision, packed my stuff and was on my way. This move profoundly mirrors that day: Racing every weekend, everything was ticking along like clockwork, etc. Yet I felt like I was spinning my wheels. Not even the perfect race made me feel like I was moving in the direction I needed to go. I made a move, a big move. I left my sprint cars, family and job behind. Little did I know, that move would lead to my helmet collecting dust on a shelf. All while a new fire, for a different career path would be fueling my every move. I moved to Charlotte with dreams of being a race car driver and I ended up with wrenches in my hands, on a quest to call the shots from a pit box on Sunday afternoon.

Like that day, this decision that I have made leaves a whirlwind of unanswered questions for both myself, my family and now my mortgage lender. eeek What I do know is, I had to make a move. There were many reasons for me to leave the company, many reasons that will easily disappear from my memory once I am back underneath the hood of a race car. But what I will recall about all of this is, my career was growing stagnant. I was losing my spark. Everything was glassing over into a job rather than a passion. I need to learn more. I need to be pushed. I need to be challenged. I am anxious to start building the next chapter and I have a very small window of only two weeks to make it happen. And I will make it happen, I have to, no one wants to read a blog about "the diary of a homeless girl" I sure as hell dont want to write it. Stay Tuned!

"When everything is calm and life is easy you need to look around, make some moves, and get to work because your not making shit happen. Don't allow yourself to become content."

-Hamilton Parlett (Dad)

Questions and Answers

As I sit across the desk from him, there is an awkward silence. I loathe any kind of silence. Especially, strategically placed silence. Silence, inserted into an interview by design, to cause me to say more than I originally intended. I believe they call these “stress cues.” I stare at the red flashing light on his recorder and wait for the next question, the next interrogation, the next awkward silence that is sure to come. Ok, I’m exaggerating a little, but to me interviews are nerve racking, especially this one. I am being interviewed by, in my opinion one of the toughest reporters on pit road. He is here to do a story on our team and out of the blue he requested to get some insight from me about our team, our plans and how I fit in to it all. I have done interviews with reporters for the past 12 years so this one shouldn't be any different. But, it is. In the time frame leading up to the interview, I managed to transform the interview into a “Godzilla-like” creature in my mind. Here's why..like I have mentioned in my other blogs, I lack a "filter". Sitting across from a good reporter who will get whatever information he needs to make his story worth reading is a deadly combination for a "call it like ya see it" kinda girl, like myself. Especially with this interview, framed around our company. There's a lot on the line with an interview like this. It's far different from the "Tell me what it's like to be a mechanic" interview. The last thing I wanted was to shed any negative light on a company that I have invested and helped build for the past 4 years. Imagine, Jim Carrey in Liar Liar ... "The pen is blue" scenario kept replaying in my head. Every company has its bumps and bruises but smarter folks leave that out of an interview :survey says: this girl will find a way to add some spice to the story. I got to answer questions about our team, the Harry's (or crew as the reporter called them) and my future in NASCAR. It went well. I believe, my damage was minimal :hmmm: I think. :facepalm: I guess we will see when it’s in print. :yikes:

Anywho, on a few recent occasions I have found myself cornered in interviews, back-peddling and taking a more "sugar-coated" route. Completely out of character for the AP Organization (me)... I’ve been asked by several reporters, "What advice would you give to other women trying to find a career in the NASCAR garage" This is the tricky question. This is the bear trap. This is the moment where I've had to make a valiant attempt to be less blunt and more candid. I have been asked, tricked and lured into saying things I don't whole-heartedly believe. I have even had reporters turn off cameras and persuade me to answer the question differently. I find myself struggling to keep my answers PG during interviews, as it is. And now they ask me to manipulate my answers? :f: This is like asking me to plug the BP leak. I live it and I believe it's fair for me to state my feelings on it. So I chose to write this blog.

There is no easy answer to that question. Every reporter wants the “go to NASCAR Tech, meet with crew chiefs, etc.” Answer. This sport can be very tough, not just for women, but for everyone. It forces you to become callused. You will come in with big dreams, bright eyes and confidence and in the middle of July, on some idle Tuesday, you will realize that you are worn out, running low on self esteem and the only parting gift is the bags under your eyes. Sounds dreadful huh? Well it's not, that's what we live for. The point of exhaustion. The end of ourselves. The very last ounce of fight we can muster up until that one random Saturday night at the racetrack. The stars align and the hubs spin freer than they ever have before, that's the night, that you have the perfect race.

The point I am trying to make is 99% of this sport is agony and while you’re waiting for your owed 1% of glory to show up, the only thing that can keep you going is the love and passion you have for racing. NOT what some 27 year old, chick, mechanic from Maryland "spewed out" as advice during some interview. That pep talk won't last you through the first day at Daytona. There's a fire in the belly of everyone in that garage. And if there isn't, you most likely won't see that person next season. What makes you survive is the passion to play. Unfortunately I don’t believe that passion can be taught. So, if asked for an honest answer, the advice I would give is, “Do what you love and do it with determination. Don't work in NASCAR to say you work in NASCAR or I am sad to say you won't make it through boot camp. If you’re determined to be here you don't need advice, you just need to get your ass to work."

Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.

-Thomas Edison

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.