It's funny, but sometimes just a simple mindless image can trigger so many memories, both good and bad, of what might or might not have been, of good times that were had and good feelings that were experienced. Along with the heartache, too.
I guess I'm wired that way, for nostalgia. Maybe that's how we learn from mistakes, but also so we can relive the joys of past good times.
The other day, I came across an image on the web. It was not a particularly disturbing or provoking image, to most people it wouldn't even mean anything at all. It was a picture of a wrecked car, sitting in the woods, overgrown with trees, grasses, shrubs and weeds. It was a crumpled, bright red Chevrolet. The wreck was adorned with faded, peeling race decals, including a large numeral "8" on it's side, "Bud" on the hood nearly peeled off, and the word "Budweiser" on it's rear quarter-panel barely legible amid the crumpled and mutilated sheet metal. Forlorn, forgotten, a relic gradually being reclaimed by the forest.
Once, a long time ago- nearly 20 years ago now! I would watch this car and it's driver race to glory on Sunday afternoons. He was hugely popular, and hoped to follow in his father's footsteps, after his father had tragically died in a race just a few years previously. Though he never became as dominant on the track as his father had been, everyone loved him for his cool attitude, laid back, good old boy demeanor and his humorous commentary. Once, after a win at the Talladega track, he once said, "That don't mean shit right now, my daddy done won here ten times." And, I rooted for him, too. Nowadays, I don't follow racing as closely as I did then. There is just too much to do on Sunday afternoons- like, getting out and exploring and communing with nature- that sitting in front of a TV watching a car race just doesn't have the appeal anymore.
There were so many good memories, feelings, and impressions I get when I think of those years, rooting for the red Number Eight Budweiser Chevrolet. Riding my mountain bike on the trails and pretending I was him, on the track, hoping to steal a win and live up to my father's legacy. As a kid, I went through a few years where I was aimless and drifting, and did not exactly make my father proud, and the more I let him down the more I felt like a failure myself. In those intervening years, when I did get a successful career and made a good life for myself, I felt like my father and I made peace. Before he passed away, due to natural causes (his career was much less exciting than racing cars!) he even told me, "You are a good man." That stuck with me.
And going to bars, watching friends bands play, at a host of local venues, hanging out with the group drinking pitchers of Budweiser. Most of these guys now have families, most of those venues have either closed or no longer host local bands, and most of the bands have split up. Life happens. I've lost touch with many of those people. There was also another group of friends who I hung out with back then, too. Young, intellectuals, all of us college graduates, we would hang out at more upscale places and debate history, talk about literature and local events, and all seemed like minded, though some of them did razz me a bit about liking auto racing. "Isn't that a redneck sport?" They'd ask. ("No, that's pro wresting you're thinking of," I'd respond. And no offense intended to pro wresting fans out there.) We'd go swimming at the reservoir, go on hikes, float the river, and go out to nice restaurants together.
Most of those people have moved on, too. Moved away to other cities, married off, or just dropped out of the scene. Only, one evening, on the track of life, I got loose in turn two, and hit the wall. Late one night, at an after party, myself and three of the women went to one of their houses. I was the only guy. We were all casual friends, as in, we were good friends but not dating or fooling around. Or so I thought. Eventually, the conversation turned to "What is it about the opposite sex that turns you on?"
In hindsight, as the only guy there, perhaps the proper thing to do was to excuse myself from the conversation. Or offer a non-committal answer. One of the women, primarily a lesbian, said that while she wasn't attracted to men, she wouldn't mind sitting on a guy's face and getting rimmed. I didn't say anything, because this girl was hot (!) and lets just say I would have been into that, too. But naturally I was smart enough not to respond and make her uncomfortable. Another one of the women said she liked bicycle racers with shaved legs, while the third one liked beards and long hair on guys. I had cut my long hair and shaved my facial hair a few years prior to that, so...timing is everything I guess.
Then, the one who was turned on by shaved-legged bike racers asked me directly, what turns YOU on. I didn't want to go into every deep, dark kinky fetish I had, so I said, I just like girls in short skirts and knee high boots. And I like girls that are up front about wanting to receive oral stimulation. And that was as far as I went. But: I made a mistake by even offering that much. "Trouble... turn three! The number eight is into the wall!" screamed race announcer Darrel Waltrip out of the TV speakers. "Caution is out!"
The girl who would have loved my lost facial hair and long locks had just gone through an ugly breakup. For some reason, without meaning to, what I said triggered her. Again, in hindsight, it was a mistake to be a part of that conversation, or to respond in ANY way. So, while I had thought I was among friends and that what was shared would not leave the room...it did. She went around telling everyone who was NOT present what a pervy creep I was, taking what I said out of context, spreading all kinds of rumors about me, and even telling people that I had gone into the bookstore she worked at and bought porno mags (which was a total lie.) When I found out that she had been back-stabbing me like this I was horrified. Some of the people in that group, including the other two women who were there that night, took it in stride. "Oh, so those two have a conflict; whatever...I'll stay out of it." Others were supportive of me, as they realized that it had badly shaken me up to be betrayed among a group of what I thought were intimate friends. But with some people in that group, her words carried weight. There were some who never treated me the same. And so, things were never the same after that.
Eventually, everyone in that group either paired up and dropped out of the social scene, or moved to other parts of the country. I never spoke to my betrayer ever again after that. And because it would sometimes be awkward if she was around when we were in a group, I suppose I started drifting away, too.
But all of this went down so long ago it is hardly relevant now. Back then, I would root for the number Eight Budweiser on weekends, but that car now lays wrecked and abandoned and decaying into the forest floor, it's driver long since retired from the sport. I myself recovered from my own social wreck and learned from it and moved on. New friends, new experiences, so much has happened since then. But every now, something reminds me of those good times from back then, good times that, while fun and magical, didn't last forever, because nothing does. Something like an image of a wrecked and derelict race car sitting in the woods. And then I think of the good times I enjoy now, with the wonderful people I know now, and cherish them.
Maybe I'll watch the race tomorrow, and root for the number nine Nampa Auto Parts Chevrolet. That driver is the son of a famous racer himself. But on second thought, it's summer, the weather is beautiful though pretty dang hot, so maybe I'll go up into the mountains and hike instead. Yeah, actually that sounds better.
Thanks for reading.
