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Sorry, I'm Not A Car Guy
by Eddie Buck
When I decided not to make the push to rush the finishing of the Hippo (another story altogether), I shifted my focus to seeing the people and the cars I missed last year. When we pulled onto the property, a few of the people I wanted to see had left, or worse, were escorted off the property. What a pisser. These guys aren't getting any younger and each year brings the absence of more of the old-timers. We can't afford the discord and early exits. Simply put and I want you to think on this for a second, what is the name of the event. . . "Reunion”.
I made a pact with myself to leave all the craziness of my real life at the door when I locked my shop Wednesday night before leaving. THIS is a huge task to undertake, I am not the type to suffer anything gladly. I have acquired a disdain for flying, though I have done plenty, I like it less with each trip.
We hung out with the boys from England, as we do every year, doing what we traditionally do. My initiation into "real" accommodations. . .The Vagabond. No Doubletree this time around. I have to say it was pretty cool for the most part. Breakfast and dinner at Milt's, wasn't too bad.
My twelve year old son came along this year. If you know me from social media, you know who Spencer is. Many times throughout each day someone would come up and ask," Are you Eddie?" I'd confirm their suspicions and they would immediately look at Spence and say, '. . .and I know who you are!" By the time we left, I swear he needed an agent!
In spite of the drama surrounding the cackle issues, the racing was fantastic. The Buckersfield tent went up in the stands at the 1,000 foot mark and the usual suspects filed in and out. A few stayed throughout the weekend and it was great to see them all. There are certain people that have to be seen before I can feel settled in, with the exception of one or two, all was well.
Perhaps the aforementioned mayhem may have been a bit less so had they not let go of the one person, and his dog, who handled the situation from the beginning. The presence of shirts and decals in favor of the pair was evident everywhere you turned.
I had bought a swap meet entry in order to park inside the grounds in my miniscule rent-a-turd. Each day, upon entry, we would have to park further back because of all the RVs. I didn't mind really, the walk wasn't that bad. But each day, I was surprised to arrive back at the turd and be boxed in by more arrivals. Maybe a bit of planning should be considered before next year’s event. Designate some space to allow for a little more room.
Here's my bitch. . .golf carts. The tightness of the confines, coupled with renegade spectators not negotiating the paths in the most efficient manner, makes for some pretty dicey conditions. Pit crews and racers, old timers and immobile... sure, it is an essential part of movement. I'm not without sin here.
The first few times I attended, I rented a cart and buzzed around the place. Even being on a cart though, it got a little precarious. I found myself uttering epithets at those who were walking. There came a point where I took into consideration that I was blowing $300 bucks for the cart plus the aggravation of parking the damn thing. Then there was what I was missing when driving by with a quick glance. It’s not the same as hoofing it around the joint and getting a closer look. No offense to anyone who rents one, it's your money and your prerogative.
I kind of lean towards what the 75 year-old guy said to me Friday morning, " If you ain’t crippled, why the hell have one." He also said something about lard asses, but that is the extent of that quote fit to print. Here again, putting two and two together, it speaks to the possible lack of preparedness the erstwhile Geno possessed. When there are people who are no-nonsense types, who can handle people and situations judiciously, their value far outweighs their cost.
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