On Leaving

Popular culture makes an indelible mark on us when it reflects what we think and how we feel.

Mark Wahlberg’s character in the movie, “The Perfect Storm” uttered a line that crystallizes what it’s like for me when I leave home to go racing: “I’ve got a woman I can’t stand to be more 2 feet away from. Then again, I love to fish.” The palpable dissonance lies in the diametric opposition of those sentiments. I watched that movie more than 20 years ago, and I still remember that line to this day.

Substitute “race” for the word “fish” and you can begin to get an idea how it feels when I load up and head for the track. Leaving was difficult when our kids were little, and it’s never really gotten any easier.

In music, one of my favorite guitarists, Keith Richards, put out a solo album in 1992 titled “Main Offender.” It was excellent from front to back, but one of its songs, “Hate it When You Leave,” also captured what it’s like to pack up and go. It’s about someone else leaving, but it rings true.

There’s even a famous Bernard Perlin painting called “The Farewell” in the Smithsonian that touches on the subject, but by now you get the idea.

It’s always the hardest part of a race weekend, for me, to leave behind my wife and family and our dogs to go do something that has become an enormous part of who I am, and what I enjoy doing most. Fortunately, the difficulty begins to fade when I get about 30 minutes from home as the clatter of the diesel fades into the background and the rhythm of the road settles in.

Later on, as I pull into the track, the mood shifts, and it somehow begins to feel like coming home. The gate people at the tracks are always welcoming and familiar faces. I sign the waiver, get my wristband and begin idling through the paddock to one of my usual spots.

I see friends and acquaintances and NASA regulars — some I’ve known for decades — as I park and unload the car. I hear the echoes of racecars firing up and backing out of trailers, the sounds of floor jacks being dragged across the asphalt or box wrenches falling to the ground. There are no other sounds in the world like that.

The liquor-sweet smell of race gas wafting through the paddock is almost intoxicating. Less enticing, but every bit a part of the experience, the smell of hot brakes lets you know exactly where you are, and who doesn’t love the aroma of fresh rubber at the tire shop?

When I get the car unloaded and all the tools and gear in place for the weekend, a nice cold beer is the capper that signals it’s time to focus on what lies ahead rather than what I left behind. I’m at the track surrounded by some genuinely good friends. What could be better than that?

Inevitably, at some point during the weekend, I will be digging in the toolbox and I’ll see that old photo of our kids on the inside of the lid. It’s been there for years, and I still remember the day it was taken and where. Or I will pick up my phone and see the photo of my wife with our two dogs.

Even though I’m miles away for a couple of days, I guess, in some way everyone I left at home is still right there with me. And when the weekend is done, I look forward to going home, grateful that I get to have those experiences at the track.