Sweatlanta
January 25, 2015
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Hypnotized yesteryear viii hours rhythmic see-sawing of the van's steering wheel to hold a reasonably conduct path downwards I-85 (I hope to supplant those ball joints!), I arrived at Road Atlanta at 2:30 am. In less than vii hours I would live on the racetrack.
A bearded fatty human being inwards a t-shirt 3 sizes equally good minor sitting inwards a tiny, dimly lit booth utterly fails to welcome me to the track. I inquire for directions too he replies inwards a serial of coughs too grunts that audio similar he is choking on a powdered donut, too therefore makes a few flabby manus signals that select no item management at all. So much for southern hospitality. Maybe he had been cooped upwards inwards that piddling booth equally good long....
After 3 laps to a greater extent than or less the perimeter of the pits I locomote laissez passer on upwards too insert the van betwixt 2 large trailers too starting fourth dimension unloading. There won't live fourth dimension to gear upwards tomorrow amongst registration too practice. The size of the race rigs, semi-trailers too toy-haulers bigger than my house, is daunting. Here I sit down inwards a twenty yr former van amongst my home-built bike, close-out leathers too full general odour of bluish neckband failure. I am non envious, only at that spot is a certainly sum of trepidation, similar existence the wretched nipper on the playground inwards the $5 K-mart Chuck Taylor rip-offs that never await quite correct too church building basement 2d manus Tuff-skins most to become his donkey kicked yesteryear a bunch of Levis wearing douchebags amongst popped Izod collars. I know at that spot are other paupers peppered throughout the paddock, only I can't come across them for the skyscraper motorhomes or postulate heed them over the audio of bazillion watt generators powering all the animate existence comforts.
Oh yeah, too it's hot. Welcome to Sweatlanta.
A bearded fatty human being inwards a t-shirt 3 sizes equally good minor sitting inwards a tiny, dimly lit booth utterly fails to welcome me to the track. I inquire for directions too he replies inwards a serial of coughs too grunts that audio similar he is choking on a powdered donut, too therefore makes a few flabby manus signals that select no item management at all. So much for southern hospitality. Maybe he had been cooped upwards inwards that piddling booth equally good long....
After 3 laps to a greater extent than or less the perimeter of the pits I locomote laissez passer on upwards too insert the van betwixt 2 large trailers too starting fourth dimension unloading. There won't live fourth dimension to gear upwards tomorrow amongst registration too practice. The size of the race rigs, semi-trailers too toy-haulers bigger than my house, is daunting. Here I sit down inwards a twenty yr former van amongst my home-built bike, close-out leathers too full general odour of bluish neckband failure. I am non envious, only at that spot is a certainly sum of trepidation, similar existence the wretched nipper on the playground inwards the $5 K-mart Chuck Taylor rip-offs that never await quite correct too church building basement 2d manus Tuff-skins most to become his donkey kicked yesteryear a bunch of Levis wearing douchebags amongst popped Izod collars. I know at that spot are other paupers peppered throughout the paddock, only I can't come across them for the skyscraper motorhomes or postulate heed them over the audio of bazillion watt generators powering all the animate existence comforts.
Oh yeah, too it's hot. Welcome to Sweatlanta.
