No place like home even without the man I love

Memorial to drag racers at my local track.
MFH's name is here.

Sometimes you can go home. And sometimes it’s OK to do so; to let good memories from the past wash over you while creating good memories for the future. 

For many years, one of the biggest parts of our lives was drag racing. My Favourite Husband (MFH) loved to race and lived to race. He’d been running cars down our local quarter-mile since high school. He’d spend hours tweaking all kinds of parts that lived under the hoods of his cars just to coax them to give a little bit more horsepower. Funds were limited so, once he’d done all he could mechanically, it would be up to his driving expertise to “cut a good light” for a fast speed and a low ET (elapsed time). Once he finished school and started working, the cars got faster and he began racing even more.

Many years later, he met me. Me, the woman who knew nothing about drag racing or cars. It wasn’t long after we started dating that he told me we needed to have a serious talk. You see, he really liked me; however, if I didn’t like racing, it was never going to work between us and we should probably end it then. I thought about it and then told him I wasn’t sure about racing since I knew nothing about it. I’d come to the track with him, watch and help and see. He agreed and I began what would be my love affair with drag racing. My biggest test came shortly after I started going to the track. He needed to change a "slick” (back tire) and needed my help. I agreed to help with my beautiful acrylic nails — and broke two of those nails! And damn it, not only were they broken but they hurt! He looked at me, I at him, and then he grabbed a roll of duct tape and taped my nails to my fingers. I realized then I’d have to choose: the boy or the nails. I’ve never had nice nails since.

During our time together, he raced four cars. With the first three, he went faster each time (the last one he did seven-second passes at close to 320 km/h). His last car, though, was just for fun but he still squeezed out nine-second runs at 220 km/h. No matter what he drove or how fast he went, I became an integral part of his crew. I was the sandwich maker/ tire pressure checker/backup girl/parachute packer. And I loved it all. I loved the people we met, the community he was a part of and I became a part of. I loved the smell of blown alcohol and nitro methane. I loved the stickiness of the track as I backed him into his burnout grooves.

That we sacrificed in other areas of our lives so that we could travel and race at different tracks, so that we could afford parts to go faster, it was all good, it didn’t matter. It was what we did — spent our summers racing and our winters getting ready to race. 

The track we spent the most time at was our home track. Not quite an hour from where we live, it was our home away from home. These were the people we were friends with on and off the track. I knew the bumps in the pit area, the dip in the staging lanes, the curve in the return road. I knew the best places to sit in the bleachers because, when we were done racing for the day, I would sit and watch other racers. And then, after supper, we would get together with other racers, their families and crews and talk about, well, racing. And we’d do it all again the next day. 

When MFH became ill, he sold the car, the trailer and car parts. And because he couldn’t race and couldn’t be involved with racing, he avoided the track. It hurt too much to be out there. With the disconnect, much of his social life dwindled as well. I was still working and, as much I hated not being out there, I had friends from work, friends outside of work and, most importantly, friends outside of the track. It hurt me not being out there but not like it hurt him. 

We ended up going to the track once or twice after he quit racing but returning home with him depressed and despondent — a funk it took several days to work through — meant it was easier to remember only the good times and not attempt to create any more.

After he died, I toyed with going out to our home track to watch to visit. I went out twice last summer and, while the friends I went with were wonderful, being out there didn’t bring me the comfort I’d hoped it would. I debated ever going again. Maybe, if I want to watch racing in the future, I should travel to race tracks where we’d never been, where we didn’t know people, where no memories had been made.

That was my plan … until a friend sent me a private message with a photo he took at the track. The former owner had erected a memorial to racers who’ve passed away and MFH was included on that memorial. I had no idea it existed. No idea who put his name forward. MFH was a quiet man not given to public acknowledgment but he would love this. And I really wanted to see it in person. And so I reconsidered my decision, talked to one of my besties and together we went out to watch a night race. 

It was a great decision. The racing was good. The people we sat next to in the stands were fun and we laughed a lot. And hanging out with her always makes my heart so happy. The fact that I introduced her to drag racing and that she really enjoys it means the world to me. It’s a special part of me that I can share with her. 

Seeing the memorial wasn’t sad. It was comforting and peaceful. It felt right that people read his name at the track, a place where he fit, where he belonged. A place where he still lived, in the memories of others. I’m pretty sure he was hanging out with us that night, happy we were there in a place that had always felt right to both of us.

That night, I left there with a smile on my face — the same smile that I’d had the entire time I was out there. I left with peace in my mind and comfort in my heart. I had made so many good memories in the past and that night I had made new memories — good new memories — at a place that was special to me.

Sometimes you can go home, home to your home track, home to a part of you.