People, racers, family, some I’ve never met, have called me a writer as of late. Usually, we identify ourselves by our job, our career, what we do to put a roof over our heads and food on the table. You know, the practical things in life. But I’ve always hated being defined by the practical. That’s why I followed my passion, which is racing and writing about it.
But people have started identifying me by what I am, not what I do. And I must plead guilty in that it feels good. You see, unlike many others who don’t like what they do, I wake each day with great anticipation. And yet I hold out the hope that I will one day leave what I have known as my career and begin down that other path, that of being a writer. I’m hungry, hungry for recognition as a writer and not just telling others that I am a writer. Perhaps I’m foolish. I have to believe that there’s something out there to chase down. Or maybe, it’s growing presently, underfoot. Maybe I just need to step off this path and take that first step down that other path. I don’t know. But, I have to believe it’s true, that my compass is leading me down the right path.
So… I’m a writer, they say. It’s what I am. And I’m coming to believe them. In fact, now I realize that I’ve been one even before I started writing. I have always known how much I enjoy writing, but it’s even more important for me to share an adventure or the journey with others, and Speed News is the perfect venue.
I have a strong desire to be a writer, but not just any writer. Dare I say, my desire is to be outstanding?
There is a narrator in my head, and he told me this is true. He has been with me for over 60 years now. He is me. Sometimes, speaking in baritone. Sometimes, grasping an imaginary shifter accompanied with raspy-throat sounds imitating a race engine. Sometimes, he dreams like a little boy. At times making a breathtaking pass on that most dangerous stage of the race, overtaking what was once the leader.
I’ve spent a lot of time alone, in childhood, and now as an adult. And this narration has been, and is, my way of talking, I suppose. All of us have an instinctive urge to share experiences, and stories, and this is often where, and how, we take others with us on our adventures, our trials, tribulations, our failures, our wins. Opening up before we truly know what’s waiting outside the door. We are hopeful, though, and so we have to take the chance. Always, take the chance.
But then, there are the loners, the ones who leave the pack, the ones who purposely separate themselves. These are the artists, the musicians, and the storytellers and writers who also love to share their stories of racing.
I am one of them.
Now, I see that I have been on the outside, telling myself stories my whole life, that narrator describing everything I do, taste, smell and see, to myself. I thought this was normal. I thought everyone told themselves stories. But as it turns out, they don’t. Instead, they listen. They listen for someone to find their experiences, words. They wait to be given their own stories back. This is a great expectation. But so it goes. I am a writer.
