My mother asks me this all the time: “When are you going to do something practical, like race cars.”
I wish she would just get off my back. She hounds me all the time. “How’s your Miata?” she wants to know. Parked. What else can I say?
“Have you blue printed the motor yet?” “What about the shock rebuild?”
When will this nagging stop?
Still, there is something cool about having a mom who’s a racecar driver, especially when you’re waiting in front of Donlon Elementary School. All your friends are getting into the yellow school bus, but you can hear your mom heal-and-toe downshifting in her Shelby GT-350 five blocks away. Whenever I hear the roar of a 289, I feel comforted in ways I just can’t explain. Kind of like how the smell of pancakes on the griddle might make some of you think of home. I smell motor oil and I get all nostalgic.
But just so you know that I am not completely biased as far as cool mothers go, I know someone who is just going to freak you out, and my mom, especially. Mom, if you’re reading this, if you thought I was crazy for racing bikes, I want you to feast your eyes on this. This is about my friend Celia Graterol. She’s a mom, too. Only, she doesn’t race cars; she jumps over them. Read her blog entry, and make sure you click the link below to read the full report. You’re just not going to believe it!
