Mike's Post-Race Thoughts

(Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end) 

IN the midst of the gasoline, guts, and glory, reality was just a few brief hours away.  Reality that finally set in, motoring across South Carolina on SC-9, heading West.  Heading Home.  

I stopped at a homey little restaurant at the I-77 onramp that promised "Country Cookin' with all the Fixin's".  And we indeed had all the fixin's.  Mashed potatoes.  Green beans.  Cabbage.  Carrots.  Corn bread and Biscuits.  It was good.

And then came that pesky reality.  I dieseled my truck, towing the venerable Tunachucker race car, down Route Nine.  As I came round a bend, not too far from the interstate, I was presented by the scene above, which I managed to capture for posterity after digging my camera out from the grubby mess of the cab seat.  

Continuing down 9, towns passed by, mostly closed up, for it was Sunday night.  But as I rolled into Jonesville, a small trailer parked by the road advertised "Sno Cones" and the prospect of a cold, frosty, fruity desert seemed too good to pass up.  I U-turned the rig, went back, parked, and stood in line behind a very lively 7-year old who had to jump up to see over the counter and hand over her money and get her frozen treat.  I made my selection of Strawberry, paid my dollar, and with a few kind words from the cashier, was on down the road again.  

Rt. 9 turned into I-26 around Spartanburg, and about 20 minutes later I was exiting onto Route 11, that would take me back to my house.  After exiting the highway, I stopped to get some diesel fuel, and happened to pull in right next to this rig:

I snuck this picture over the front of my truck; the driver of this truck and trailer combo seemed preoccupied with filling up and didn't seem too willing to talk.  In fairness, he'd probably just had a long, hard, tiring day, just like I had.  His car sure was pretty, though.  Green, just like ours.  And... that's about where the similarities end.  ;)  But, stickers and fancy Hoosier tires and a great big motor aside, we are kin.  We race.  For fleeting glory and purses which don't come close to making up for the money sunk into the cause.  But for more than that, too.  Passion.  Competition.  Camaraderie.  For nothing more, perhaps, than because we want to and because we can.  And that's what LeMons is all about, to me, anyway.  It proves you don't need deep pockets, corporate sponsors, or even a ton of know-how or vast resources.  There is only one requirement to join this club: You need the drive.