What many of you do not know is that at one point in my great and memorable childhood I was a racecar driver. That's right, I said it. I raced cars! Quarter Midgets to be exact (read more about the sport here) And for many of you who don't understand how someone as lovely and charming as myself could have raced cars, you have never been in my car while I'm driving and/or on a roadtrip with me and an open road.
Before "temps" or "drivers license" was even in my vocabulary I was behind the wheel of a car that could potentially flip, spin out and/or catch on fire not to mention I was often the guilty culprit who caused my opponets to do such things. (So what, I liked to ride up on their tires and spin them out...big deal!)
My midnight blue, shiny beautiful car was adorned with orange neon details and I even had sponsors, Electric Connection, Don Mazza Design Build and Butch Bando Concrete. In a nutshell, it was a big deal.
Dominick, my talented at anything he decides to do brother, won medals and championships. I succeeded at giving my Dad a heart attack and a mild smoking habit everytime I went out on the track on race days. I mean it when I say that 98% of the time I was either singing to myself or laughing inside of my helmet having the best time a 12 year old girl behind the wheel of a racecar could have.
Which by the way, you wear full race gear when you step into that car. Fire shoes, fire suit, neck brace, helmet, gloves and wrist restraints to lock to the steering wheel all kept my frail little brace-faced body from flying across the track in heated race moments.
What I love most is that Mom, Grandma and Grandpa came to every race (every weekend) and cheered us on, despite the fact that her children were in the most risky and ridiculous sport out there.
Now, you're telling me you want to take down highdives?
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