Ohio Girl

NASCAR Cup Series made its second and final stop at Michigan International Speedway for the 2005 season on Sunday. I was in attendance for the first stop in June. Michigan was a sort of culture shock. I am not talking about the beer, or the woo hoo-ing, or the little bits of rubber that rain down on spectators. (I feel right at home with all of that.) I am not even talking about the opening prayer to Jesus, or the military fly over, or the Star Spangled Banner performed by an up-and-coming, Nashville star. (The beer goes a long way towards settling my fears about the mixing of church, state, country music, and NASCAR.)

I had attended several races before Michigan including Martinsville, Texas--and TALLADEGA BABY!--to name a few. The Michigan crowd was bland in comparison. That was my first impression upon arrival. That lack of southern eccentricity was all camouflage. Those folks had been saving up some bad behavior beneath the white bread and not the good kind of bad.

A group of guys made racist remarks the likes of which I have never heard, not even among the confederate-flag-waving crowd. A drunken couple screamed at an attendant because she did not know where they had parked their car. A young boy walked by loaded down with chairs and coolers while his parents weaved drunkenly behind him. Post-race, a woman performed a strip tease on top of an SUV shaking her breasts while parents covered their children’s eyes.

It was not all bad. It was a perfect day for racing; sunny, but not too hot. I was there with my siblings and we always manage to crack each other up. My sister got the autograph of her true love, Jeremy Mayfield. And we had great seatmates from Indiana who amused us with a new drinking game. Rules: you take a swig every time you spot someone with a mullet, or bad teeth. Those dudes were blitzed.

Biffle took the checkered flag and Stewart gave a sneak preview of his streak yet to come.  

Now it is August and Jeremy Mayfield took his UAW Dodge to Victory Lane, which should make my sister happy. The top slots came down to fuel mileage strategy. Mayfield and a handful of others had topped off during a late caution allowing them to stay on track while the race leaders made a final stop for fuel. Good for the Evernham team. They have managed to stay in the top ten of points, but marginally. This will go a long way towards securing their spot in the Chase. Stewart--still smoking—came in fifth.

"Did you know women's metabolism slows when they reach their thirties?" a well-groomed woman asks her friend.

"That's why this vitamin is specially formulated to blah, blah, blah, blah."

The commercial is not meant for those of us whose metabolism has always been rather casual like a Sunday stroll.

I leave for the gym.

I go to a women's only gym. It is very pink. As I enter the attendant is finishing a smoke break out front. She loves to gamble and complain and freak people out with detailed descriptions of her gastric bypass surgery. She is the only one I like here.

There are only a few women inside on this stormy Saturday. A woman in purple shorts pumps a machine manically in the corner. Perfectly formed muscles ripple beneath skin that reminds me of beef jerky. She has been a life-long tanner. When she says hello to a woman in passing her voice is all husky and phlegm-filled. She has been a life long smoker.

A woman who has worn her swim suit does solo aerobics in the other corner. She switches between Latin hip shaking and Flashdance gyrations. She is very thin. She has no muscle tone. She watches her own breasts jiggle as she moves. When the Macarena comes on several years too late she switches to that, smiling at herself.

An older woman moves from machine to machine slowly. She sits and then pulls her legs and arms into them, forcing them to move. She smiles when she finishes a set and leaves puddles of sweat behind.  

I am wearing the same t-shirt and sweat pants I have worn the last few workouts. I am wondering if anyone notices. As I work my arms I admire the well-defined bicep that stands out right next to a chunk of flab. They are like an old married couple.

All around us shiny, blonde women with tiny, taut bodies smile. They are hung on the wall to encourage; guide us down the path. They are like commercial breaks. We hardly notice them at all.

You get one guess. Who won the road race yesterday at Watkins Glenn? That's right, Tony Stewart. Smoke is still burning hot having now won the last 5 of 7 races. Biffle's winning streak earlier in the season is but a distant memory and while Johnson is still second (or third?) in points, one can barely recall when he was at the top of the charts.

I was not rooting for Stewart. I am as excited by his success as the next NASCAR fan, but I wanted to see someone else get the glory at the Glenn--someone who needed the boost, like Michael Waltrip. Booted from the DEI team starting in 2006, he has been the perpetual victim of wrong place at wrong time including being punted out of the running by his own teammate, as well as engine failures and other no-fault disasters. Mikie looked to be a contender until he was turned into the wall by Kasey Kahne with 20 laps to go.

Robby Gordon, an owner/driver and perhaps the last of a dying breed, could also use some good fortune. Engine troubles have plagued his otherwise good performances. With the race moving into a green-white-checker (NASCAR equivalent to over time) it looked as though he might have a shot at getting to Stewart, but the 20 car was too tight on the restart and too fast once running. The Jim Beam car finished second.

Boris Said, a longtime road course ringer, has run a partial schedule this season and is looking to ride full-time for NASCAR. He finished third. Pruett, another ringer, came in fourth. He ran the race for Sterling Marlin who lost his father--racer Coo Coo Marlin--this week. I must also point out that Kyle Petty had a top twenty finish and last week at Indy, came in 13^th, both great runs for that team. Go Petty.

I have passed the psychic shop down the street for years. I always note that it is there; the large tarot card poster, the neon light, the bargain-basement reading price. I never go in. My connection to the psychic world is something like getting up early just because you want to greet the day, or being meticulous about lawn care. I believe there is the possibility of both things happening, but they have no relevance to my daily life.

I do look forward to Wednesdays when Rob Brezney's horoscopes come out in the alternative weekly. He is like Oprah, but edgier, funnier and without all the hair extensions. He never refers to Jupiter in your money house. He writes like fiction and satire and easy-to-make dinner recipes.

Recently, while stopped at the traffic light in front of the shop--the all-knowing eye looking out at me--I whipped over to the curb and decided to go in. The door was locked even though the open sign was in clear view. Through the slit between the glass and the curtain I could see someone sleeping in a recliner that sat in the middle of the room. I knocked. There was movement. A loud buzz let me in. The psychic who later referred to herself as Momma did not move from her chair. She set down a garage door opener and told me to retrieve a chair next to the wall.

"Come sit next to Momma." I jabbed myself in the thigh with my keys. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to see what she would say next.  

"What you want Momma to do for you?" I pointed at the palm-reading sale-sign; both palms for ten dollars. After blowing on my money and closing my eyes to concentrate on what I wanted to know she grabbed my hands. She pulled me closer-my butt just about to go over the edge of my seat.

"You will live a very long life."  I looked at the floor having no means to jab myself.

"Your work is going well."  I was wearing a blazer.

"You will achieve your real career in the next five years."  Now I looked up.

"There is one part of your life that is not on the right road."  I was all ears.

She jerked my hands hard.  "Now you can ask one question. Ask Momma what you really want to know."

Several questions came to mind. Will Bush bring the apocalypse? Are the scientologists right about aliens? Will my genetic predisposition to Alzheimer's make itself known? Will Junior turn things around and make it into the chase for the NASCAR Cup series championship?

I blurted out the one question I thought I was way too smart and independent to ask. The question EVERY OTHER single woman in her 30s would ask. "Will I get married and have children?

She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She was still for several minutes. I thought she had gone back to sleep. I took the time to look her over. She was a large woman in a healthy-looking sort of way, but several bottles of prescription medicine sat on the table next to her. Her hair was died black and pulled back in a bun. Her eye brows were drawn in like crayon. She looked Hungarian, I thought, but had no idea what that meant. Just as I was about to identify the food stain on her chest she was talking again.

"You had two chances for a happy marriage."  I did not recall being married, engaged, or even close to marriage with anyone.

"They were people that were kept away from you, so that love would not grow"  Well, that explained it.

"It is not your fault. You are good. You are attractive. This is being done to you."  Yikes.

"I have to do more research to find out what is the root of this. I will need three special candles and will do special prayer every night for one week. You give me thirty dollars for candles and come back next Friday."  I wrote her a check. I did not really have the money. I did not really have the will to say no. Momma said so.

During the week, I thought of Momma. I thought of her coming to America as a young woman. I thought of her reading palms to supplement a paltry social security check. I thought of her huge eye liner budget. I considered the possibility of her being Momma to a large identity theft ring of which I was now a victim.

I went back to the shop on Friday and pulled my chair close to Momma after waking her. It took her a moment to recognize me. She adjusted her position in the recliner. "Momma has been praying." She closed her eyes, concentrating.

"A curse has been placed upon you."  Game over. That was what the voice inside my head was saying.

"A curse that is causing two of your charkas to disintegrate."  For the love of God.

"I will need to do intense prayer to fight this. I will need candles for six weeks of prayer. Momma needs six weeks of focus just on you."  Here it comes.  "What is thirty times six?" she asked.

"Too much."  I was more abrupt than I planned.

"You have savings, this is important."  I actually don't have a savings account, but felt no need to argue the point. I offered to think about it and told her to take care.

"Momma will always be here for you."  I smiled.  "Put your chair back," she added.

On the drive home I remembered a man I met on the eastern coast of Guatemala many years ago. He was a Salvadoran ex-pat who spent his days on the beach shirtless and doing palm readings for tourists. I was standing on an isolated part of dirty beach having deep thoughts about the sea when he approached me. He asked me my sign, although in Spanish, so it took a moment to understand. He had long hair lightened by the constant sun and crooked teeth. He seemed pleasant and harmless, but I was on the defensive. I had already spent the last few months dodging stares and gropes and being cornered in alleys by men who believed the movies they had seen; that American women were ready to go anywhere, anytime.

He did not offer to read my palm. He talked about El Salvador and started rubbing my shoulders so casually that it did not occur to me to protest. It felt good. I had been traveling alone and was tired and stiff and warming to the possibility of getting to know him. Then he suggested that we go back to his hut so that he could perform an alignment of my charkas. Again, it was in Spanish so it took some time and questions to figure it out. I left the beach.

He followed me up the hill and towards town talking the whole way. I was not listening. Align my freaking charkas, the voice in my head was saying. For the love of God. He finally stopped and yelled out, "I was just trying to help."  I kept moving.

Maybe my charkas have always been in peril. Maybe that guy put a curse on me for blowing him off, or not, as the case might have been. It is somehow comforting to think it so. To have a clear answer to an emotionally loaded question is a relief; to be blameless even more so. And Momma knows all. Momma knows best.

I confess I only watched the last hour of the race. But what an hour it was! Stewart won. The boy is hot, having now won 4 of the last 6 races. I will join in with the clichéd race announcers by saying they didn’t nickname him Smoke for nothing! And this was no ordinary win for Stewart. Hoosier born, he grew up watching guys race at Indy and hometown hero makes good stories always work for me and the rest of America.

The fact that Smoke was not always the golden boy, even as a Winston Cup Champion, makes this latest streak all the more interesting. In fact, when I attended Indy just last year I recall a fair number of boos and middle fingers as he was introduced. It appears some NASCAR-ordered anger management classes did Tony good and when interviewed he seems like the warm-natured, fun guy we always knew he could be. Still just as edgy as ever on the track, he now makes the perfect package.

Of course the fence-climbing does not hurt his case. For this win he made a long victory lap, stopping to acknowledge his family and friends in attendance, before coming back around for the climb. His entire crew joined him on the fence and for a moment I was transported to a happy, childhood, zoo memory. I always loved the monkeys.

Other race highlights: Sadler was the pole sitter and led for the early part of the race; Kahne took the lead with 27 laps to go and made Stewart work for the win; Mayfield looked great which should make my sister happy; and Junior managed to finish dead last—something he has been working towards all season.