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PORSCHING  by Chris Welty
Hudson-Valley Region, PCA

Moms

Most track junkies will understand when I say here that my mother does
not quite share my enthusiasm for driving at the track.  This lack of
sympathy dates back to my embryonic state.  While other expectant moms
would occasionally clutch their swollen stomachs and joyfully exclaim,
"Oh, he's kicking,"  my mother would simply look confused and worried,
"I don't know what he's doing in there."

It's called heel-toe, mom.  Sheesh.

When I was born the doctor slapped me to initiate my respiratory
system, but I didn't cry.  I said, "VROOOOM!" and began peeing all
over him.

When I learned to talk I kept asking why the engine in our car was in
the front. 

My mother wouldn't let me watch "Speed Racer" because it was too
violent, so I used to create elaborate diversions (such as setting the
house on fire) and then sneak into the TV room to watch it.  She used
to wonder why, when we were driving, I kept asking my father to engage
the "saw that cuts up the wheels of the other cars."

When I was a little older and started doing PCA track events, I told
my mother I was going to "driving school" to improve my driving.  Most
of you recognize that this isn't a lie, however I was well aware what
she was thinking of when I said "driving school," and it wasn't a PCA
drivers education event.

Then one day my parents, with no influence from me at all (really),
bought a house in Connecticut.  In the northwestern corner.  About 15
minutes south of Lime Rock.

"YES!"  I exclaimed.  "That's perfect for when I go to the track."  Oops. 

"The track?  Don't tell me you've started gambling."

"Gambling?  No mom, not the track for horses, the track for cars."  Oops.

"What?!?!?  Ohmygod.  You're going to get KILLED!"

"Mom.  Don't be ridiculous.  No one's been killed at the track in....
It's been at least...well...errrr... Never mind."  Ooops.

"THAT'S SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER?! I forbid you to go."

"Mom.  I am an adult.  This is what I like to do.   It's fun.  Now
give me back my rattle."

"It's not fun.  It's dangerous.  If you love your mother you'll stop
going."

Grrrrr.  Mothers.  Hmph.  I needed some sympathy.  I needed to know
that I wasn't the only one with an overprotective mother who was prone
to worry, so one day at Lime Rock I talked to some of my track buddies
to get a consensus about what their moms thought about it.

"I am forbidden to be here."

"I'm grounded."

"My mother doesn't even know I own a Porsche."

"She doesn't like it."

"It's one of those topics we don't talk about."

"She forbade me to go and I went anyway, so now she's hoping I get
injured so she can say she told me so."

"If my mother found out I was here she'd disown me."

"She disowned me."

"My mother thinks I need to be smoother in Big Bend."

Of course there are all types, however it was clear that most mothers
satisfied the archetypical social membership criteria for their class:
worry.

That's right, mothers worry.  It is their nature.  It is their
right. Who are we to deny them their due?  It was this deep and profound
insight that led me to calmly accept my mother's worries and try to
work with them, rather than against them.

"Well, Mom," I said.  "I have to do this.  The track has become a part
of me that I can no longer ignore.  But I promise to be as careful as
possible, and I promise I will upgrade safety before I upgrade
performance." 

"Safety Upgrades?"  she inquired.

"Yes," I explained.  "Racing seats and five-point harnesses, for
example.  I will be installing them as soon as I save up enough
money."

"Why don't you put them in now?"

"Well, they're expensive.  I don't have the money right now."

In an unprecedented (and unexpected) burst of logic, my mother
realized that she could not stop me from going to the track, but that
she could make me safer. 

"Let me buy them for your birthday."

My face betrayed my shock.  "Who are you and what have you done with
my Mother!" I exclaimed.

"Better you have the safety now."

"Mom!  Stop it! You're embar....errr...."  I stopped my instinctive
response in mid-sentence.

When I was a kid in school I was constantly embarrassed by things like
having to wear three coats and a ridiculous hat because my mother
thought it was cold, or eating only sandwiches made with brown bread
because my mother thought that white bread wasn't good for you, or not
having a bike with a banana seat because my mother read it wasn't
safe, and so on.  In fact, the list is quite long.  

Would you believe I grew up in the city and my mother wouldn't let me
play in the street?  She seemed to think that because we lived across
the street from a park that I should play there.  All my friends from
school played in their streets.

Anyway, it was clear that I had paid my dues.  Now, I was
just discovering, was time to collect my pension.

"Oh.  OK.  I guess if you feel you must buy me this equipment, I won't
stop you."

I installed my seats and harnesses with a combination of pleasure and
disbelief.  Later, at the track, someone noticed them.

"Hey, nice seats!"

"My mother got them for me," I said.

"Your mother?  If my mother knew I was here..."

"I know," I interrupted.  "But this is safety equipment."

Understanding dawned.  Ignorant of the coats, the brown bread, the
banana seats, he said, "What a perfect thing for a mother to buy."

Indeed.  Somehow or another, my mother and I hit a chord.  For
Christmas I'm getting a roll cage.  It's very safe, you know.

Thanks mom.