My interview with American GP3 driver Conor Daly: Barcelona, Force India and Hares!

American Conor Daly has been working his way up the racing ladder steadily for the past few years, but many more Americans took notice when the 20 year-old won the second of two GP3 races in Barcelona earlier this season.  Following that with a straight-line test for the Force India F1 team before heading to Monaco, Daly’s first full year in GP3 has proved to be a busy one, but I caught up with Conor for a candid interview about this whirlwind of a year shortly before the Monaco round of the GP3 championship.

Daly, the son of former CART and Formula 1 racer Derek Daly, is a former World Karting Association champion and multiple winner in Skip Barber and Formula Ford.  Originally entering the Road to Indy, which aims to aid racers in ascending to the IndyCar series, Daly won the Star Mazda Championship in record-setting fashion in 2010 (nine poles and seven wins) before moving on to Indy Lights the following year with Sam Schmidt Motorsports.  After capturing victory in Long Beach, Daly competed in GP3 with Carlin Motorsports (splitting his season between Europe and the United States).

But throughout all of these accomplishments, Daly has perhaps garnered the most attention in just four races in GP3.  Currently fifth in the championship standings with 23 points, Daly won the Barcelona sprint race on the opening weekend of the GP3 season, but it wasn’t easy.

What many people didn’t realize was that Daly had already been offered a spot testing the Force India before the opening weekend of the GP3 season---something he called “a nice little incentive” for those first two races.  However, that didn’t make things simpler for him in the feature race.

After a great qualifying, Daly dropped several spots at the start, from which he was never able to recover.

“I saw the pole sitter, [António Félix] da Costa jump and I released the brake just slightly which made me pull in the clutch paddle so when the lights actually went out I was slipping the clutch way too much,” Daly said.  As a result the car stayed relatively stationary before creeping away slowly.  Despite the disastrous start, the clutch had only been slipping for a total of 2.4 seconds.  “It was definitely my fault, and it was sad because I was in a good position to try and win but unfortunately I wasn't able to do so,” he lamented.

Over the course of the race a difficult battle with Marussia Manor Racing’s Tio Ellinas developed until a late safety car bunched the field together.  In the ensuing sprint to the end, Daly’s main focus was finishing the race in one piece and setting himself up for the sprint race, which would invert the top eight finishers from the feature.  He would go on to finish P6, which meant he would start P3 on the inverted grid for the sprint finale.

More jump starts saw penalties befall those in front of him, and the sprint race quickly became a one-man show with Daly pulling away.  He later revealed that in the final few laps he had to keep himself from thinking too much about what would happen if he won.  Instead he made himself concentrate more.

“The car was so good that I was able to focus on hitting my marks and just finishing out the race,” he said.  “I had to manage the tires towards the end and was able to finish with a good gap behind me so I was quite happy.”

 One of the best moments of the weekend for American fans was seeing Daly holding the American flag as he celebrated in parc ferme after the race.  Where did the flag come from, though?

 “I made sure to have my Dad bring the American flag from home because I knew I would get to use it at some point this year, I just didn't honestly think it would be this soon!  I was so thrilled to hear the American national anthem.   It was a very emotional moment and I can't really describe the feeling I had.  I was relieved because I knew that I was starting to prove myself in Europe.  I was extremely happy but it’s just the beginning and I can't wait to get to the next race in Monaco!”

For the rest of the weekend the young American was approached by numerous luminaries of the GP3, GP2 and F1 worlds.  At one point he was even congratulated by Ferrari F1 team principal Stefano Domenicali---the importance of which was not lost on the Indiana native.

“It is always nice to know people are watching,” Daly smiled.  “I don't want to get too caught up in it, though, because it’s a long season and I just want to focus on keeping the good finishes coming and scoring points to be there for the championship at the end.”

I have to ask, then, are any future deals coming out of some of those important conversations?

Daly laughed.  “Not that I know of at the moment!”

Fast forward to the Force India test a few days later. This was Conor’s first taste of a Formula 1 car.  Obviously he had grown up hearing about the machines, but the jump between GP3 and F1 technology had to be a great one.

 “They are indeed massively different cars.  The F1 car was absolutely incredible.  I was pretty much living every childhood dream I ever had!  There are just so many different settings on the steering wheel and it is a far more technically advanced race car than anything else in the world,” he explained.

But the coolest thing, if he had to choose something?

“Ultimately, though, the coolest thing had to be the sound under hard acceleration; just absolutely beautiful.”

Since the test was a straight-line test---one of the few types of testing that has been allowed by the FIA over the past few years---Daly had plenty of opportunities to accelerate and decelerate, sometimes being told to accelerate as hard as he possibly could (which he described as being “the best part” of the session).  There was a brief moment, however, when he got to test out the handling as well.

Somewhere around 150 mph a hare ran out onto the Cotswold Airport runway where Daly was testing (located in Gloucestershire, England).  Although it wasn’t as much of a near-miss as some would like to think, Daly said he ‘did have to make his way around [the hare] as it sprinted away.’

Surprisingly, having worked with the Lotus GP3 team and now Vijay Mallya’s F1 team, Daly says that the two squads are extremely different, but only because the Lotus GP3 team is really ART GP.

“It's funny because everyone thinks because we have the same name that we are heavily affiliated with the Lotus F1 team but really we aren't,” he explained.  “Lotus GP is really ART GP which has been one of the best teams in the world competing in junior formula car racing.  Fortunately, though, the [ART GP] team has aligned themselves with the Lotus F1 team which gives us the cool color scheme and a great historic name.”

 Even so, Daly says with a chuckle that he is yet to meet anyone from the Lotus F1 team.

From there Conor was going to be heading to Monaco---somewhere he had never raced but had always dreamed about experiencing.

“I have been looking forward to this race since it was announced on our schedule.  I love street courses,” he said.  “I have raced on many street courses in America, and I've thoroughly enjoyed every single one.  Now I get to race on what is arguably the best street course in the world!”

Citing the 27 cars that will be taking part in the race, Daly noted that he may need a little luck when it comes to avoiding the inevitable traffic jams, but through simulator work and studying the track, he felt very comfortable leading up to the race.  He even mentioned that he was most looking forward to “pushing the limit in qualifying and using every inch of the track to try and get the pole.”

So, with one victory in the first two races, Daly would head to the French Riviera to the legendary and dangerous streets of Monte Carlo, where few could have predicted the outcomes of that weekend’s races.  We’ll catch up with Conor and get his thoughts on Monaco and the following round of the GP3 championship (Valencia, Spain) next time.

The Magic of Monaco

As we get ready to begin the most important weekend of the motor sports calendar, who can blame me for being too excited to sleep?  Aside from watching the Indy 500 on Sunday, I plan on getting up tomorrow morning at 4am to watch the final Formula 1 practice from Monaco, going back to sleep an hour later, then getting up at 7am to watch qualifying.  Such is the difficult life of a die-hard American F1 fan, but you certainly will not hear me complaining.  Quite the opposite, actually.  I'm thrilled to do it.  I'm beyond ecstatic to witness every moment I can from the Côte d'Azur, whether it be over the internet, television or Twitter.  Why does this Grand Prix get my heart racing more than any other (possibly excluding Spa), though?

There are many reasons to count against Monaco for being an awesome race to watch.  Some past races have been outright boring.  The track is as narrow as the room I'm currently occupying, and overtaking is supposedly impossible.  At less than two miles per lap, the circuit is far from modern F1 venues in both circuit length and safety, and the cars barely average 100mph over those 2.075 miles.  What makes the Monaco Grand Prix so fascinating, then?

I'll start with my background to the race.  As I've mentioned before, I was first introduced to the sport by my father who had been a passive fan since the 1950s (in the early days the occasional "Wide World of Sports" was the only F1 exposure Americans like him received).  The first race he ever saw covered on American television, broadcast in black and white on the television in his childhood home, was the Monaco Grand Prix.  He remembers seeing Stirling Moss and Graham Hill climb the podium over the ensuing years.  He remembers the early days of the tunnel and the many names of the hairpin.  He also remembers the cars that landed in the harbor ten years apart as well as the horrific death of Lorenzo Bandini broadcast live, the flames of his boiling Ferrari fed by the wash of the television helicopter's blades.

My father has seen a little of everything over the years, and he thought it was my turn.  He woke me up early one Sunday morning because he thought I would appreciate the technical nature of the sport and the extreme talent of the drivers.  That morning was the Monaco Grand Prix, barely a few laps old.


Of course I had no knowledge of the drivers, the location or the history of the race, but I was beyond awestruck.  I won't go into why I was blown away by the sport (I could fill a long blog with that), but part of the allure was this whimsical location:  A tiny principality situated on the French Riveira, the epitome of old world opulence and modern glamour, contrasted by these sleek, sexy hypercars that seemingly defied physics.  Seeing the cars blast past the historic casino or traverse the harborside, meters away from the Mediterranean was something so alien from any other form of racing.  I was immediately hooked.

As I've come to immerse myself in every aspect of Formula 1, one facet that I cannot overlook is history.  Always a fan of the tradition, stories and ghosts that surround such events, Monte Carlo has a bit of everything.  The race has been run on virtually the same roads since 1929, which isn't hard to discern through the grainy footage of those early Monaco Grands Prix.  The track was a treacherous one when it was first defined.  Its mixture of road surfaces and vulnerability to the Mediterranean's changing weather was a perfect way to test cars and drivers alike, and even 80 years ago there was little room for error within its narrow streets.
As the cars grew faster and the principality thrived, the face of the Grand Prix changed in some ways.  Racing was dangerous, the drivers were a mix of aristocrats and mechanics, and Monaco soon gained importance in the international motor sports scene.  One could see a little bit of everything in this tiny principality's races.  By 1936 the race was a part of the European championship and helped pioneer the use of lap time-based qualifying (rather than the balloting procedures used in the early races).  The Regenmeister Rudy Caracciola won that year for Mercedes-Benz.

By the official start of the Formula One World Championship, it saw Juan Manuel Fangio secure his first F1 win (in 1950, and he would win again later that decade).  Stirling Moss, the British legend, won three times on the Monte Carlo streets, although an overall Championship always eluded him.  Jackie Stewart won thrice here, too, as well as a slew of one-off victors whose racing immortality was wrought by the twisty streets of the Monegasques.


The statistics that always sit in my mind, though, are the drivers who have won at Monaco more than any others---a virtual "Who's Who" of timeless champions.  Only a dozen drivers in history have ever won here more than once.  Alain Prost earned four Monaco wins during the 1980s.  Almost a third of two-time World Champion Graham Hill's F1 victories came here; his record five wins earned him the nickname "Mr. Monaco," although others merely called him "The King."  His record stood for decades, and is now tied by seven-time World Champion Michael Schumacher (who, shockingly at the time, did not win the first Monaco race I ever watched).  For me, though, the jaw-dropping statistic that resonates is the number of times Ayrton Senna found the top step of the podium here:  Six.  That record includes five straight victories, only broken one year by Prost.

I found it very interesting hearing Michael Schumacher talk this weekend about his memories at this circuit.  He was asked about his favorite moment, and the first that came to mind was in 1994.  It was that year, he reminisced, that he first experienced "flow" in a race car---the otherworldly moment when you lose consciousness of the world around you, when every inch of the car's carbon fiber skin becomes an extension of your own.  It was in Monte Carlo that he first experienced it, and he'll never forget that moment.


This may bring back the words of Senna from years before, popularly known nowadays for the voice-over they provide during his pole laps in qualifying.  He spoke of the spiritual moment when he was no longer driving the car with effort, it was just happening.  It was automatic and flawless.  Few drivers truly experience this, although many will claim to have tasted it briefly.  For those who are genuine, the fickle circuit rewards them greatly.

This is another aspect of the race that fascinates me.  To succeed at Monaco, you have to be perfect.  Any incapacity, carelessness or neglect will be punished by the guardrails that now patrol the circuit's extremities. The corners approach so quickly that a driver can never afford to be "behind the car" as he drives.  The incessant bumps and greasy pavement require the utmost feel for the car and management of the tires.  And the layout demands entirely new parts to be machined in European factories and baked in multimillion-dollar autoclaves.
If anything, the challenge of the Monaco Grand Prix seems perfectly suited to test the F1 circus.  Remember, though, this is a track that is relatively unchanged since 1929.  Eighty-three years ago, Grand Prix planners had no notion of downforce, 700+ horsepower and carbon fiber.  The track was designed to test the drivers and cars of that age.

Somehow the ingredients were just right.  Somehow a race was created that was perfect enough to throw the biggest of loops at the cars and drivers of yesterday and today.  Yes, the circuit in Monte Carlo is extremely out of place compared to the rest of the F1 calendar, but the Grand Prix is a welcome anachronism that exists outside of the rest of Formula 1's guidelines and norms.  It's the perfect mix of high society, the latest technology, plenty of prestige and history.  Drivers may win on brand new $1 billion circuits in faraway lands where speeds reach 210mph, but every driver out there would give it up for a win in  the narrow streets of Monaco.  To reach the top step of the podium here (where you will receive your trophy in the royal family's skybox) means you have tested your mettle and supreme driving talent and have been deemed worthy by the racing gods.  Your name will forever rest beside Senna, Schumacher, Hill, Fangio and others under the heading of "Monaco Grand Prix winners".  Simply put, there's nothing like it in Formula 1 or anywhere else in motor sport.

And just like that, the plucky, rusty little Maxwell had its rear axle back

There's nothing quite like the advent of summer when I get to wake up on my own accord, throw on some ratty clothes and head up to The Garage to work.  I'll take a pop or two to drink, turn on the Oldies and wander around doing whatever job catches my fancy.

To start this summer, which is the first in ages where I'm not taking a class or needing to be in another city, I've already spent two days exclusively up in The Garage working on the Maxwell.  I have a long list of things I want to accomplish this summer up there, but the Maxwell is first on the list.  Over the last 48 hours I've probably spent eight or more up there squatting down behind the Maxwell formulating a plan, hitting it or spraying it with WD40 (I'll explain shortly).

Yesterday I started things off by inspecting the new U-bolts the gentlemen at my dad's workplace made for the car.  They used a couple of the broken off originals to fabricate new ones out of incredibly durable grade-8 bolts, and I must say, I'm extremely impressed with their work.  The old ones are on the right in the picture, and one of the original square nuts is sitting among all the new ones.)  I was apprehensive about how they would fit, and after trying to put them on, my fears were confirmed.  Three of the four refused to sit down over the leaf springs, and bashing the heck out of them with a hammer wasn't working.  First off, there was absolutely no room under the car to get a backswing when I wanted to use the hammer.  Second, even when I could made contact with the new bolts, nothing would happen.  They would wiggle one way and go down slightly, then they'd wiggle another way and raise back up slightly.  It was maddening.

After trying various implements of destruction for a while, I grabbed some oversize washers and managed to get the newly-fabricated square bolts started on a couple of the threads.  Using the longest wrenches I could find, I grunted and pushed against the whole car until I managed to get the U-bolt pulled down slightly.  I then put the other side's nut on and tightened that.  Alternating back and forth I eventually got all of the U-bolts down.  As you can see in the picture, they contrast quite clearly with the rust and with the leaf springs that I've already primed.  I let them sit for a few weeks to relax a little since I was needing to finish the school year anyway and wouldn't be back to work on them until summer.

The problem yesterday was the fact that the threaded areas (I'll call them legs) of the U-bolts weren't even close to lining up with the holes on the axle.  That's not good.  I precariously balanced the axle on our old two-ton jack and slowly raised it off the ground where it's been sitting for nearly a year.  It was quite apparent when I got the axle up to the bottoms of the legs that this was going to be far from easy.  I mentioned on Twitter (@WoodsiesGarage) that this probably wasn't going to be a quick job, and sadly I was right.

I sat back and stared at the car for quite some time contemplating what to do.  I could maybe get a couple of the holes to line up, but as I jacked it up farther, it would push the U-bolts that weren't lined up off of the leaf springs.  I'd be back to square one with them.  I proceeded to try a few different, wild ideas to get them right.  I hit them with rubber mallets, with regular hammers, with wrenches, I tried to pry them sideways, on and on.  Eventually I got the left rear one to line up (you're looking at the right side in the picture above, so the one on the right is what I'm considering "front") and got the bolts on.  That put me a little closer with the four on the right side, but still not quite.

I began pulling on the axle in every different direction, often to the point of rocking the car almost off of its stands.  Soon I had a couple of the right side legs lined up, one of which was even extending through the axle hole.  I could just barely get a nut on it, so I then employed a potentially injurious method of using two large wrenches hooked together to get more torque.  Slowly but surely the bolt pulled down, and soon I was able to get it tightened.  I then got the front right tightened the same way (only smashing my hand a few times as the wrenches slipped), but the left front U-bolt was eluding me.  Unlike all of the rest, this U-bolts legs spread outward instead of going straight downward, meaning I'm about half an inch off of the holes.

After trying various methods of squeezing them together, I bashed the U-bolt a thousand times and managed to get it to pop off the leaf springs.  Putting a bolt on each leg so as not to damage the threads, I then squeezed the thing in the vice to close the legs together.  My dad arrived to make sure I was still alive and took the U-bolt to grind on the inside.  After nearly burning his hands on the hot metal, we had ground and bent enough so that the bolt slid right over the leaf spring and fit perfectly!  And just like that, the plucky, rusty little Maxwell had its rear axle back.

Look Ma, no jacks!  The axle is hanging perfectly!

I think that's probably good for this post.  More to come about my activities today, but that will come later.  Ah how wonderful it is to get back in The Garage again!

Diligently filled with my grandmother's beautiful cursive

I realize that an insane amount of time has gone by since my last post, and I assure you there are good reasons for this. First of all, I'm still in graduate school for the next few months, and that's unquestionably keeping me busy. Also of note, I received word a few days ago that I'm #5 on the waitlist to get into medical school (on a list that moved 26 spots last year). Needless to say I'm quite thrilled with that, although until I get the actual note telling me I've been admitted, I'm not breathing yet.

I'll try to keep what would be a lengthy update brief. Regarding the rental house fiasco, we went to court. I accompanied my father to the wood-paneled courtroom in my county's courthouse and waited for the happy couple to arrive. Thankfully only the guy did. The girl not only didn't show up, she didn't even respond to the court papers delivered to her (where you normally plead your guilt or innocence). As a result, all charges against her were applied by default. That meant that the guy (who wasn't there for most of the awful things that happened to our house) was alone to defend against our slew of pictures and bills and receipts.

In the end we won the case hands-down. The court even awarded us our filing fees and court costs, too, so we were quite happy. We told the guy later (with whom we were very civil) that we were sorry it came to this, and if he wanted to he could go after the girl in court on his own. "Believe me," he told us, he's "thought about it."

So that was a huge relief for my father and mother. It was also a big weight off of my shoulders, although my parents both say they doubt we'll ever get a cent out of that worthless girl. But she has the charges against her, so anytime she applies for a loan or anything else the banks will know.

In the meantime I've been cleaning up the fruit room downstairs (the one they tore through), and it has been fantastic learning so much about its contents. Even the stuff that wasn't taken out of the boxes I made sure to inspect, and I've gained so much knowledge about my family's history. Some of the things were sad (hand-painted canvases from WWII Japan of Mt. Fuji tossed on the ground like scratch paper, one of my grandpa's baseball uniforms from the 1940s crumpled on the ground under a chair), but some of the things were fantastic (pictures I never knew we had, plates from my great-great-grandparents, etc.). It was so touching at times to hold something I knew my great grandmother held nearly a century ago, and it was beyond moving to find my father's baby books diligently filled with my grandmother's beautiful cursive. She kept the books so detailed because when my dad was born my grandpa was away in Korea during the war. There were a few times when I was almost moved to tears.

But as of right now the house is put back together. I spent so much time during my winter break and on weekends since then painting, scrubbing, fixing things, redoing the floors, on and on with my parents, and I'm happy to report that we have two great renters back in the house---one of whom was my mom's physical therapist when she broke her hand a while back.

Another project of mine has been to ready the Honda S90 to come to school with me. Especially now that I know I'll be in this town again next year for medical school, it's been fantastic to get the old thing running consistently to be able to bring it. I'll have to post some pictures soon, but with any luck the bike will be brought here on Sunday via a friend's truck.

Another fun project I undertook during spring break was to use Craigslist to hunt down an old helmet I've been looking for. Given its perfect shape for the task at hand, I spent all week stripping it down and repainting it in the iconic paint scheme of Ayrton Senna. It turned out unbelievably well, but I still have quite a bit of touch-up to do as well as applying the sponsor decals. So pardon the roughness, as it was my first ever helmet paint job, it's not done yet.

I'll try to keep this post short, so that's about all for now. I've also been writing quite a bit for F1 Austin, and as always you can follow my F1 and life musings on Twitter at @WoodsiesGarage. More to come soon, my friends!

Liars, tramps and thieves

I had hoped that after my semester-long absence from this blog that I would have something a bit more cheerful to relay, but instead I'm writing again out of emotion. It's not the death of a loved one or a competitor like in the last post. Tonight it's the culmination of a long and draining battle we have been having with our renters living in what used to be my paternal grandmother's house. I'll warn you now that I won't be proofreading this, nor will I include every detail. I plan on leaving out a lot, even though the end volume may seem otherwise. But I digress.

For some background, my dad grew up in that house. The Garage is in the same area, and I spent countless summers up there with my grandma. We both spent years up there, but after her death in 2001 we completely restored the house (built in the early 1900s) to pristine condition as it would have been in its youth. We refinished the original hardwood floors that were hidden under carpet, we cleaned and redid the ceilings and put up crown moulding. We replaced light fixtures with vintage ones and repainted all of the walls. We redid the kitchen and repainted the house. We put a new roof on it, new storm windows, new storm doors, new fixtures, cleaned the clawfoot tub, on and on and on. I would devote whole summers to cleaning that house from previous renters to get it ready to rent again, and those summers were exhausting.

We would get my friends out here to help paint and clean, and my mom and I would listen to NPR and satellite radio while painting moulding and redoing the parquet floors. Every inch of that house I have memories scattered from all ages, spent both with myself, my father, my relatives and my grandma, whether it be the corner where I would sit and listen to her read Roy Rogers stories or the kitchen where I would help her make TV Mix and hand-cut french fries.

Over the past decade we've had every type of renter, but sadly the best were also the most short-lived. Some took great care of the house, but some put literally hundreds of holes in the walls and deeply scratched the 100 year-old hardwood floors. Some moved their boyfriends in with them and some refused to mow or clean or care for the house at all. None of them, however, were like the renters we had. Or have. Hell, I don't know what to call them. Technically they're gone, but as you'll hear, the story is far from simple.

The renters have been there for a year, originally taken in by us as being a married couple with a young daughter. As the story unfolded, some of their quirks began to show; none were big, but outside of a general lack of knowledge about living in the country and being accident prone, they were more of an inconvenience for us as landlords. We were fine with it, though, because they kept the house clean and were quiet, and their young daughter (who was around ten) was enjoying herself at this new residence.

For a year they were fairly quiet, but a few weeks ago (shortly before my Christmas break began), everything turned in the opposite direction. The girl claimed the guy left her with no money and for no reason (oh, I failed to mention that they actually weren't married, but more on that later). Upon later seeing the guy he expressed his shock at getting thrown out and how 'he didn't ask for this.' Seeing as how this was the opposite of the girl's story, we knew things were up.

Within a week there were three and four cars up at the house at a time. Rusty, ratty cars would come at literally all hours of the day (we kept track: Over time we've seen a car/a person/people come/go at least once during every one of the 24 hours in a day) driven by equally as ratty people. Tattooed low-lives with hoodies and baggy pants, mostly all guys, or greasy, scuzzy looking girls with piercings would crawl out of their automobiles and slink into the house without knocking or announcing their presence. The girl's car would sometimes be one of the group of cars in attendance, but most of the time it wasn't, so my dad began taking down license plate numbers. Twenty three we have since amassed from at least four different counties, too.

Around this same time a large pile of garbage began to collect on the back step in plain view of the road and the neighbors. When asked about this, the girl said she would take care of it "right away." Over a day and a half later she finally tossed some of it in the garbage barrel, but none of it was bagged; thankfully the trash collectors took it anyway. Around this same time she began to be later and later on her rent. In the lease was a phrase about a $25 late fee for every week late, but given her situation with her daughter (before any of this happened) we allowed them to be late. As long as we got the money, that's what mattered.

Come December, though, we weren't paid at all. As time went on we grew concerned. Cars were coming and going throughout the night and early morning hours, and our neighbors grew more and more concerned. We stopped seeing the daughter outside playing, and her toys never moved positions in the yard. Lights were always on and the blinds were always closed. Most of the time the girl was never there but people were coming and going as they pleased. Some would enter the house unannounced before leaving a minute or two later. Others would stay for days at a time. We asked her about this and she adamantly said that no one is living there.

They also began to adopt a policy of parking up by our garage where we couldn't see the cars from our windows. They would park directly in front of the door (thus blocking in all of our things) and would sneak into the house as best they could. In the lease it was explicitly stated that no one was to park directly in front of that door (for a few reasons), but they did anyway. We told the girl this and she heartily agreed and apologized and said it would stop. To this day a fortnight later it hasn't.

On the 21 of December she called us to let us know she had most of the rent money and would deliver it to us in a week. We said that was fine, but amongst ourselves we decided that since everything was going on up there, she needed to leave. My dad had wanted to throw her out three weeks before but my mom persuaded him to wait until after the holidays 'for their daughter.'

Go figure that at this point the girl was starting to show her true colors. Covered in tattoos, she'd admitted doing some bad things in the past but didn't want to end up like her mother. Go figure that she's been fired from jobs before for mouthing off (including her most recent) and apparently has two other kids out there somewhere from a different father (or fathers). This, coupled with the traffic patterns and quality of people we saw, meant that we were quite concerned.

When the 28 of December arrived we were called by her to say that she didn't have the money but was going to try to get some more. She had said days before that the traffic would stop, but it hadn't, so we were skeptical of her word on the payment, too. As more time passed we decided that we probably weren't going to get money from her, so we offered her a deal: Rather than giving her a strict three-day-notice to leave, we would give her five and only have her pay her late fees and a tiny bit of December's rent. That was dependent on her being gone, though.

She wholeheartedly agreed and thanked us profusely. She was excited and said she would be 'right over' to our house to sign the paperwork and give us the money. A couple of hours later she hadn't arrived yet. We got a call from her saying "Well I just need a little more time to get the money, but I'll have it soon and I'll be back and sign things in a few minutes. I'm sorry, I'll come get it now. Yes, you guys have been good to [her daughter] and me, I know. I'm on my way." She never showed up, yet the traffic up there continued.

As the license plate list grew and her deadline neared, my dad decided to take action. We sent two eviction notices on consecutive days via certified mail. He hand-delivered two copies on consecutive days to her door and even had the official guy for our county serve her papers (she refused to answer the door, though, so he couldn't). He later talked to her and she acknowledged she had received the papers and "would definitely" be out by January 2.

We watched the house over the next few days off and on as we would pass by the window and saw very little activity related to moving. Overweight guys in hoodies smoking cigarettes would walk in and out of the house, and one day as I entered our drive a grungy girl thing with splotchy skin, a pierced lip and black clothes stared at me with a sullen face as I drove through. That was bizarre.

Finally, on January 2, just hours before the papers said she was going to be out of the house, she called. My father expertly grilled her on just about everything, and she had answers for just about none of it. She claimed the daughter was with the daughter's grandparents and that people weren't living there and that we were wrong about seeing them come in at all hours of the day. Dad explained why the parking was an issue (fire hazards, snow storms blocking in the tractor, etc.), and she relented and said that would stop (it hasn't). She also begged and pleaded that she needed a couple more days to get things moved out. My dad was semi-happy to oblige (although emotionally he wasn't happy), but she would have to sign more papers saying she was going to be out by the 4 of January. She claimed that the papers delivered to her, according to her union-supporting dad, weren't legal because of the way they were given to her, but we checked and this was completely false. We've done everything by the books (in accordance with an attorney we know).

So my dad sought her out and managed to get her to sign a TON of paperwork that he had written regarding when she would be out (noon on the 4 of Janaury), no recourse, how being there later would be trespassing, all deals were off the table, etc. And thankfully she signed every one without hesitation. She even said she'd been packing and should have everything ready soon.

Her boyfriend later came to us that same day and dropped off his key and paid his damages and such (not the late rent or anything, though). He said he was still in shock about it (whatever "it" is) and said that if there's anything more he can do for us or needs to pay, let him know. We appreciated that and sent him on his way. In the meantime it was obvious that the house wasn't being touched. There was no movement up there outside of the sleazy people coming in and out, and on the afternoon of the third I was sent uptown to talk to the attorney.

I asked her what our options were if she didn't move out, but she said they were limited. We would have to pay $500 to file forced eviction papers, which would then have to be served to her. Only when they are served will an eight-day period begin whence the trial cannot commence. After these eight days, although not necessarily on the eighth day, we will go to trial. Until then, though, she'll continue to live in my grandma's house rent-free and with tons of guys up there at all hours. Nevertheless, I told her to ready the paperwork and we would let her know the next day.

Now comes today. Even though the deadline was still a couple of hours away, nothing was happening at the house. A couple of cars would come and go, but that's it. When I saw them carrying in a new gallon of milk yesterday I had my suspicions, but now I knew they weren't leaving. So early this morning my dad headed up to the attorney and handed over a check for the paperwork. Around three o'clock, though, we received a call from the girl. Sobbing and crying she talked to my dad about how she hated her life and was going to live in a motel (my mom had earlier suggested she stay with her many friends 'since she's obviously very popular'). She also said she wasn't going to have everything out and needed to leave just the big stuff to be picked up another day. We agreed, but Dad said he would need to get her keys from her. She adamantly opposed. She said he would 'go through her stuff' and was worried about her boyfriend coming back to claim things.

He assured her we wouldn't go through everything and wanted to know when he could come up to get her to sign some papers. She said she was up at the house and he could come now, which he did in a heartbeat. She staggered her way out to the car looking quite unstable and handed over the keys. She also signed paperwork saying she would be gone and that if she returned without my dad being there, it would be trespassing. She signed quite a few lines and agreed to be gone by 5:30, she just needed to move a few more things and to get her cat. We said that's fine and that she should call us when she's done. And so we waited.

When 6:30 came around and nothing much was happening up there, my dad just decided to go up there and lock things up anyway. All the lights were out, so he called the police and had a deputy meet him and me at the house to walk through it. I was concerned someone would be up there waiting for everyone to leave only to unlock the house for everyone again. Before long we met and headed inside.

Nearly everything was still in the house, and it was a mess. We didn't go through her things, but we checked in every room and under the beds and everywhere we could think to make sure no one was there, but when we got downstairs my fears from another subject were confirmed. In the basement is a room we keep padlocked containing some of my grandma's old things that we didn't have room to bring back to our house. There are also all of my dad's childhood toys and some of mine, as well as some of my grandma's things. The screws around the door and lock were all loose, and in fact two had been changed to a completely different type of screw altogether. It took us a few minutes to get the key, but when we opened the door my stomach turned over.

Everything had been overturned and thrown on the floor. Every single box inside had been opened, and every cardboard box was torn so its contents were revealed. The entire floor was covered in things that had been pulled out of boxes and inspected by grubby, sleazy fingers of low-lives who had nothing better to do. My dad's toys and childhood possessions were haphazardly thrown about the room. Pictures of my deceased relatives littered the floor in one corner, some of which were torn. Some of my toys I used to play with when I would stay with Grandma were taken out and placed on the shelves as if they were looking at them, too.

I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. Some things looked untouched, but most of it looked like it had been rummaged through and torn apart. I still don't think I'll sleep too much tonight as a result, nor would I consider myself the most calm. My dad has been trying to keep it out of his mind, but we called the girl and confronted her about it. She claimed to know nothing and further said she couldn't know everything people are doing inside of her house at all times. She didn't have any answers, nor did she seem to care that much. Needless to say we're looking into more legal action, and considering she owes well over $1,000 to us anyway, this ordeal is far from over.

It's taught us all valuable lessons, though, in terms of knowing people. My grandma, who lived in that house for 50 years before her death, once said "A leopard can't change its spots," and she was completely correct. That's why I still don't like Michael Vick or Tiger Woods, and that's why we were right to be concerned about this girl. Her splotchy skin, constant sunglasses use and instability definitely points to disconcerting things, but it's not like we didn't have warning signs. What hurts more is that the heirlooms and history, about which I care so much, was so unabashedly violated for no good reason. My parents and I were played by a liar and a cheat, and we trusted her far too much. I suppose it's good that we've never been lied to so shockingly before, nor have we seen such a dense accumulation of the lowest tier of people this town has. Of that I am glad, but unfortunately it came back to bite us.

I can only pray now that nothing up there was taken and for the safety of my family and the house. And given the loopholes in the law and thus the fact that we may never see our money or any repercussions for breaking into that room, prayers might be all we have. The sad reality is that in this country there are far too many protections for 'the poor' like her and for the kind of scum that was always visiting/living up there. We've had quite a few people acknowledge that those types of people know how to work the system since that's all they do, but because of legislation passed through mainly-Democrat measures, we have to be nicer to 'the poor' like her. While there are people who legitimately need those provisions, a majority of landlords are having to deal with the same sorts of things we are. My dad was able to predict every excuse she gave us for why she couldn't leave, why she was late on her payments, how to make us feel guilty, on and on. If it was up to us we would have been up there with a deputy at noon today, escorted her out whether she was ready or not, locked the house and then put all of her stuff out in the yard to be picked up by her countless friends. But unfortunately the law says we can't do that.

Instead we have to wait to see what the next few days brings. We have to hope everything is out of there tomorrow (she says she's coming back at 2:30 to move out some of the big things) and that from here on out the house will be safe. We have to hope that we will get our money somehow (although that will probably require more cost to us for court proceedings, where she probably will fail to appear, so we'll be out of luck), and we have to hope nothing was stolen that was of importance to my family, my history, or myself (which, odds are it was). I don't know. I'm still pretty sick about it. I was hoping to have a relaxing night, maybe do some reading or writing, but now I'm not sure. It's a mess that has ruined all of our Christmas breaks and will thus leave my mom to try to clean up the rental house with her one good hand (since the other is still recovering from an horrendous fall she had a few months ago that shattered her fingers and knuckles) before we can get it rented again. Moreover we will have to re-write our lease agreement to add more provisions to try to avoid a complete disaster like this again. Even if we do, though, I think I'll always wonder for the rest of my life if anything was taken out of that room sometime in the past two weeks (my dad was up there a fortnight ago and everything was fine in the room). I'll always wonder whether a small knick-knack my grandpa brought back from WWII was put in some druggie's pocket and whisked away or if some little token that my great grandma liked to wear is gone forever before I even really knew about it. That's why I've been begging my dad to take me up there sometime so we can go through everything in that room. I'll mark down what it is and the history behind it so that knowledge will never be lost. Some of that stuff only my grandma knew what it was and why it was important, and since she never passed that on to my dad, that history is forever lost. I don't want that to be the case here, either, but we haven't done that yet. We haven't had a chance to go up there and catalog things, and that I will forever regret.

That's why I work so hard in The Garage, too. That's why I made this blog. To catalog. To remember. That way the things I learn and experience up there are not lost, and I can give items and cars their history back. They can continue to have their stories retold. That's why I love what I do and why I care about my history. The biggest regret I have in life is not getting to know my family members really well before I died. Sure I knew them and grew up with them (it's not like we were estranged or anything remotely close to that), but I was a little kid when so many of them died. I wasn't old enough to ask them questions about their childhood, their parents, their grandparents. I was too young to appreciate that they had their own lifelong stories and memories of times I have never and will never experience. Some would say that's not my fault since I was a kid, but it still bothers me. Now that I'm older I wish so much that I could ask my grandma about when she was young or what she remembered of that house when she first moved there. I wish I could hear my grandpa talk about working in The Garage after he built it and knowing what he'd done on the Maxwell. I wish I had questioned my great aunts and uncles about their parents from Czechoslovakia and what this town was like when they were young. So to have the potential history in that room so vandalized and violated just kills me. Most of that stuff are things I refused to let my parents part with at the auction after Grandma died. I wanted to save it and to keep it safe. I wanted to have it forever and cherish it, maybe even someday put some of it in my future house. Never did I once imagine all of it being so carelessly tossed around and broken like a pile of junk in a dumpster. I never would have envisioned worthless people tearing through boxes of our things and crumpling them up on the floor. It really opens your eyes to the kind of people that exist in this world regardless of where you live or how 'safe' your environment seems. We've learned a lot in the past few weeks, that's for sure.

Dan Wheldon

I'm gutted right now, far beyond what I ever have been while watching races. Ever since my life began to weave together with motor sport a few years ago I knew a day like today would happen. It's inevitable in our sport, regardless of what we believe to be leaps and bounds in safety measures, yet it's still impossible to accept.

I watched the start of the race today hopeful that there would be a fantastic battle between Dario Franchitti and Will Power to decide the championship. More than anything, though, I was really hoping Dan Wheldon would come all the way from last in the field to win the race and the $5 million that awaited a lucky fan and him. It was a ploy of GoDaddy to offer Wheldon this challenge because he still lacked a full-time ride this year or next, and he eagerly agreed.

He got a great start, already up a few positions when it happened. There was nothing he could do given his position on track and the punishingly fast speeds the cars traveled. Fifteen cars in all were collected, but Dan was in the most serious shape. The ominous yellow tarp draped over his car after they extracted him did not imply anything directly other than the severity of the accident.

As minutes turned to hours with no word on his condition, everyone feared for the worst. Pictures online showed the roll hoop on his car completely missing after he struck the catch fence. I've never seen anything like this, as that's often the strongest part of the car. The mood grew more somber, but as the shock of the accident was starting to subside, the anxiety of not knowing turned to inconsolable sorrow.

Randy Bernard, who dreamed up the idea of this season-ending 'world championship,' quickly got to the point and announced that we had lost Dan Wheldon. "Unsurvivable injuries" were cited, and the words slowly sunk in.

Since I've followed this fantastic sport of racing, many have died worldwide. It's undoubtedly a dangerous sport, but never before had I been apart of something like this. I've never seen a driver killed during a race live on TV. Moreover, I've never lost a driver of whom I was an enormous fan and respected greatly. Part of me knew that I would feel it someday, but I never dreamed that it would be today.

I watched Wheldon win at the Iowa Speedway years ago, and I cheered for him every year in the Indianapolis 500. I wanted to go watch him test next year's car, but I wasn't able to do so. I wanted to meet him when I went to a race this year. He was a close friend to another of my favorite drivers, Tony Kanaan, and it crushed me to watch him weep openly on the pit wall before the news had officially broken. I knew, but I certainly did not want to believe.

Even hearing Randy Bernard's words I still couldn't believe it. A painful twang hit me in that moment which I have only experienced a handful of times. Dan Wheldon is gone.

As we struggle to cope with this loss, we not only feel the pain of his passing but also the shocking realization of how real our sport is. We lose sight of the danger in it all, even though we acknowledge it in passing whenever the cars get close on track or brush the wall. "I'm glad he's okay," we say, or "That could have been a really bad one." Yet we never really grasp that the danger is so close. This comes from a sense of security we've come to know in the last decade. Racing drivers don't die in crashes. Dale Earnhardt's death in 2001 came as a freak accident resulting from a crash that didn't look that bad on the outside. People shook their heads in disbelief but knew that he liked open-faced helmets and loose belts. Should that have killed him? No. When Zanardi's legs were torn off and he didn't die, people felt that we dodged a bullet. Or when Kenny Brack looked like he was killed in Texas years ago (another race I watched live), people were astounded that he survived. Think about Robert Kubica in Canada when he limped away with a sprained ankle, or when Felipe Massa was literally centimeters from being killed in Hungary. There hasn't been a shortage of close calls.

For NASCAR, their safety measures and car designs have ensured that drivers have remained relatively safe since 2001, and I thank God for that. Indy hasn't been so lucky with their greatly increased speeds and open cockpits, but despite Paul Dana's death at Homestead Miami, even the most vicious wrecks were escaped. Will Power can attest to that, as he both came back from severe injuries to challenge for championships and lost a championship today in another horrendous crash.

Today we are reminded that life is short (in Dan's case, a mere 33 years) but that in such a brief time so much can be accomplished if we invest ourselves the way Dan Wheldon did in those dreams. He wanted nothing more than to have a full-time ride so he could do what he loved, and ultimately he died doing it. Some drivers say they want to go that way, and I honestly don't know if Dan was that type or not. Because of the love that he had for his wife and two sons, part of me says he would put their lives and well-being before his own. Who knows?

One thing is certain, though, and that is the fact that we were lucky to know Dan, to share in his successes and see the humor and genuineness of his personality. We were lucky to hear the

commentators speak to him before the race, to hear the joy in his voice at his opportunity to help Sam Schmidt, please his sponsors and help countless others with the $5 million he was trying to win. I had no idea that would be the last time we would ever hear his voice, but I'm thankful we got to be a part of that joy and hope as he faced the limitless possibilities before him. Dan was a great guy, and I'm so proud that every driver on the IndyCar circuit will benefit from his safety testing of next year's car. It's only fitting he generously helped the sport from which he had been shut out this year.

Our sport can be a painful one, accompanied by tragedy, death, glory and thrill. Days like today will happen, but I thank God they don't happen very often. Every race I watch I'm silently grateful that we can go through a season expecting that every driver starting the season will finish. I'm so glad that we no longer have to worry about each crash trapping a driver in a flame-engulfed car. But in the end we must realize that our sport will always be dangerous. The human body can only take so much no matter how strong the car is, and as long as our sport is open cockpit and open wheel, there is still the possibility of this happening. It's something the pioneers of racing knew very well, and it's through their sacrifices and triumphs, just like those of Dan Wheldon, that our sport will continue to grow and honor their memories. It will be tough when next season begins, but we'll get through it. Just like watching the movie "Senna", through tragedy and loss we learn to appreciate what we have and strive to retain it. Wheldon did that every year he raced, and he wore those emotions on his sleeve. God bless him. He will be missed.

Riding an antique motorcycle you resurrected with your own hands

As another blog post beckons, so too do the usual excuses I make for my absence on here. The school, the classes, the homework, the busyness. All of it seems to get in the way of what I think would be an ideal summer, yet I realize how important it all is in the long-run. Nevertheless, its persistence at distracting me worked, so I haven't been up in The Garage as much as I'd hoped recently.

Still, quite a great deal has happened since I last wrote on a slow day at work a month and a half ago. Granted I'm writing this at work (again), I have much more time and more pertinent updates. Where to begin, though...

I suppose the biggest success has been the Honda project. Almost surprisingly (to some), it's done! Well, the headlight bulb has not arrived yet, but when it does, and when it's installed, then the bike will be done!

This project has been a fascinating one for me. The prospect of a barn find ranks high in every gearhead's dreams in life, so to have a motorcycle-version of one tucked away in The Garage worked well. The perky little red bike had sat gathering dust for years in the back of The Garage in front of the old Woolworth's cabinets and Bruno's grave (where the Maxwell now sits) before we relocated it to the back corner, but after studying it and sitting on it secretly for quite some time I began to suspect that I could get the darn thing running. I knew my dad would be behind the idea (let's not even talk about what my mom thought), so a couple of years ago the two of us began our own Skunk Works, clandestinely sitting behind the old tractor and the dusty Model T. To a casual observer strolling into the garage, not too dissimilar from a curious mother, our activities would be impossible to discern before we relocated to the front of The Garage as if nothing had happened.

Before long I had replaced the points and spark plug and had re-timed the engine. I had cleaned it up, and we had bought a new Yuasa battery (also secretly from a local motorcycle shop). We poured new gas in the tank and tried to flush as much dirt and sediment from the bowl of the carburetor as we could. With the help of some starting fluid and a little Battery Tender, the old girl started for the first time since 1975. She sounded much quieter than I imagined, much more collected and healthy. She revved with a quick twist of the throttle yet seemed reluctant to idle. There was so much play in the throttle before it engaged, I wondered if it needed adjusting.

In the meantime my dad hopped on the bike a couple of times and was able to drive it without a problem---a fact he flaunts to this day. "I hadn't ridden that thing in 35 years! And I didn't kill it once! Just got right on and drove away. Damn, I'm good."

He had put 9,500 miles on the S90 since 1966, which was when he bought it new from a dealership 40 miles away. He was 16 at the time and rode it back and forth between home, school, and whatever sport he was in at any given time. He had dates on it. He raced it a bit faster than recommended (or so I can surmise). He may have also laid it over a couple of times, but he won't say. "You don't need to know everything I did when I was your age."

I came to find out later that my grandpa, the first Woodsie, drove it sometimes. My dad would doubt his ability to ride only to find that his dad took this bike to the store or across town for an errand he needed. And so the history of the bike broadened for me. With every story I can eke out of him I learn more about this little treasure I've come to love so much. For me it's not just having a motorcycle, it's having this motorcycle. It's having this wonderful little bike so cared for by my father as a child that he can pass on to me, that can be used and appreciated again as opposed to having rot away in the back of a garage somewhere. It's certainly better than having it sold to someone who knows nothing of the people who have ridden it and cared for it, who knows nothing of the stories surrounding it and the time put into saving each of the $413 it took to buy it in 1966.

So anyway, we got the bike running. I drove it around the yard a few times, but I had to mow over the tire tracks once and drive the golf cart over them another time under the guise of flattening molehills. I later took the throttle sleeve off and tried to adjust it as well as tightening the clutch cable, yet nothing seemed to help the idle issues and the momentary grinding I heard whenever I shifted into gear from neutral.

I sought help on the S90 forums online (of which there are many for the mid-'60s Hondas, believe it or not), and the people there were extremely helpful.

Over the past few years, as I've said before, we've been subtly working on my mom to get her to accept me riding the bike. For years it was "I will not have my only son die on a fiery crash on a motorcycle! We should have sold that thing years ago! He will not ride that thing" and so on. But over time mentions of the Honda merely elicited an eye roll or, after a while, no response at all. One morning we decided the time was right. The son was at the right attitude, the winds were coming from the ideal direction, the moon was in the seventh house, and we started the Honda with her in earshot.

We shut off the engine shortly before she burst into The Garage with a puzzled look. My dad smiled back. "What?"

"I thought I heard an engine. A small engine," she accused.

"Oh?"

"Was that the Honda?" Her eyes fell on the bike which now sat prominently in front of the old tractor. And with that, there was no turning back.

Interestingly, though, she quickly fell in love with the bike as well. Using her incredible sleuthing skills that served her so well when she and Dad would find parts for the '61 Corvette, she was able to track down a bevy of new old stock (NOS) parts as well as insanely discounted tires, tubes, foot pegs, a new clutch cable, front fork boots and lights. She tracked them down along with another old mirror (the S90 only had the left-side one) that exactly matched the original, all for very low prices. Soon I had the tires and tubes on, the mirror in and adjusted, and the wheels scrubbed (as you saw in a previous post, I believe). This was a tough task, as I had to systematically use green kitchen scrubbers and water to knock the initial layers of rust and dirt off, then I used a degreaser, more water, naval jelly and finally Mothers metal polish. What resulted were wheels I could hardly believe were our originals! There was a time when we contemplated getting new rims, but I declined and said that I wished to fix up the old ones. Boy am I glad I did.

Also, perhaps serendipitously, while going through a small box of jewelry at a garage sale I somehow came across an item that was vastly out of place: An old style metal valve stem cover like the one missing on the S90! It wasn't a perfect match for the rear one, but it was very close and vintage. Also thankfully the owners of the garage sale gave it to me for free.

In the meantime my dad somehow found a side plate that was missing from the bike, which was the one covering the frontmost part of the chain. I cleaned it up and had to go to the hardware store to get special metric bolts with Phillips heads, but I got the thing hooked on. I then removed the front wheel and unscrewed the fork uprights (below the springs). Inside was a special fluid that you have to make sure not to spill, but after those were off I was easily able to get the old fork boots off. They had dry-rotted and fallen apart over time. With some lubrication and gentle persuasion I got the new ones on, and they looked fantastic! I screwed the fork uprights back on, reattached and torqued the wheel, and it was just about ready to go.

Realizing at one point that the rest of the work may be beyond my means (I.e. taking the entire engine apart to address the aforementioned grinding), we took it to a shop to look at that and the idle adjustment.

News came back that the grinding seemed fine and normal on an old bike that hasn't been run in 35 years, but the idle issue was a bit different. The guy soon realized that, like my assessment had said a while ago, the throttle either seemed really on or really off. True to that the guy found that releasing the throttle effectively shut off the engine. When he went to adjust the throttle screw on the carb, he found it to be gone! Well that explains that, I guess.

After he ordered a new one and installed it, the bike was running like a dream again and we were allowed to bring it back. The hard work was over, right? Not so much.

When I went to take my written test, which I passed, they said in order to take the driving test I needed to have a valid license plate and proof of insurance. Well we didn't have the license plates updated, so I couldn't. Moreover, there was an increasing suspicion that my grandma had thrown away the old title and registration from long ago.

"Well you'll need this to get the plates."

"Can't you look it up in the system? My dad's been the only owner since 1966."

She looked it up and found nothing. She found the other cycle under my dad's name (he recently had to go to the state courthouse to get my grandpa's death certificate to transfer the Honda 350-Four into his name), but nothing on the '66. "We only keep the vehicles in here that have been registered in the last --- years."

Crap. This bike hadn't been registered since 1975. In fact, that's the license plate that was on there at that moment.

So I went home and told my (thrilled) father. He was determined, so we grabbed the old license plate and headed uptown. When we came back to the courthouse, he showed them the plate and asked if they could trace it.

"Wow! Look at that old license plate, Barb!" one woman exclaimed.

"Geeze, I haven't seen one that old in a long time!" another laughed.

Awesome.

"No we can't trace something that old. We don't keep registration records that long. Do you have any old registrations or insurance claims on it? Because if so we can trace it that way."

My dad wasn't too happy to hear that. "What the hell do you think, I'm stupid?!" he yelled to me later in response to the woman's question. "Shit, I must be. You don't think I've thought of that and tried it? I even said to her that we couldn't find anything!"

My father's musings went unheard. We went to the police department to see if they could trace the plates. They shook their heads saying that they don't keep records beyond a few years old, and that all the rest got thrown out. Maybe we could check with the courthouse? Dad loved hearing that, as you could imagine.

If we couldn't find any documentation, there was no way the law could verify my dad was the owner as opposed to someone who stole it. They couldn't just go off of his word or his stories, or his pictures or anything. Instead we would have to bond for it and pay upwards of $3,000 over a few years (which we may or may not have gotten back), have it inspected by the DOT and have it appraised for insurance.

And so we took it upon ourselves to find that title or else. We tore apart every level of our house from the downstairs to the attic. We looked in every old lockbox from my grandparents that we had (and found some amazingly cool stuff along the way) to no avail. I looked through The Garage. I thought I knew where some old leather folders were that contained papers from that era, but when I found them they were without the S90 title. Our final option was the fruit room in my grandma's old house.

Over the course of an hour we dug through it, finding countless toys from my father's youth as well as artifacts from my grandparents, great grandparents, and even great great grandparents. After quite some time I was digging through an old box when, way at the bottom, I found an old cigar box. Opening it, paper began to fall out. I grabbed one and found it to be a registration for the '66 instead of the 350! Moreover, as I flipped through the stack, going back in time through the years of its registration, at the bottom sat a humble yellow sheet proclaiming itself to be the title.

I rushed to the courthouse to prove the old women wrong. Again I was greeted with laughs. "Look at how old this title is!" "I haven't seen one like this in ages!" "This thing's as old as me!" "You ever seen a title this old, Barb?" Good Lord. At one point they told me earlier that I would need my dad to come with me if the title was to be transferred to my name. I laughed and told them he'd get a kick out of that, but that instead he just wanted to update the title and get plates. They shook their heads and said that I had a nickname with the women in that department, although she then laughed and claimed she was kidding. Hmm...

So they updated the title in their computers and issued me a new license plate for $10, and we were good to go. Finally. The bike runs, is fit in the eyes of the law and ready to go. Now all I need to do is find time to take that driving test and then figure out how to get it to school where I plan to ride it to class and back some days. As a result I have it cleaned up, but not too well. I don't want unnecessary attention on it, but just in case my mom took it upon herself to buy the biggest, sturdiest security chain out there. She also somehow found the only Buco rack for sale in the entire U.S. from a guy who bought it from a Honda dealership in 1966. It was a type of rack specially made for the S90 and fellow 90 models, and it was in fantastic shape.

"What do you want for it?" she asked after conversing with the gentleman about S90s.

"I paid $20 for it in 1966, and I'd like to make my money back," he said simply. So with that the wonderful guy shipped us the rack and it is now affixed to the back of the bike. My dad loves it, saying that the only reason he wouldn't have bought one of those in '66 is because he spent the only $413 he had on the bike.

So, in all she's come a long way. Almost as long as this blog post is in length. Sorry about that, I just wanted to get it all down before I forgot any details and let any more of the bike's story slip into inaccessible memory. I'm proud to say, though, that the bike is done and is completely reborn, which, as any car guy or girl will tell you, is one of the most awesome feelings you could ever have. It's a proud moment, and there are few emotions that can match the ones you feel when you're riding down the road, wind in your face, riding an antique motorcycle you resurrected with your own hands. It's a feeling I'll never forget.

The Modern Teammate Dynamic

After qualifying for the British Grand Prix concluded today, I had a conversation with a friend of mine on the subject of teammates. It was an interesting reflection to have a year after Mark Webber drove one of the most determined races I have ever seen after his team nonchalantly threw him under the bus following Vettel's front wing mishap. To this day I still think the quip "Not bad for a number two driver" was one of my most favorite things a driver has ever said. It was succinct, pointed, curt and it said a ton about the situation. Props to the Aussie for saying it after his fabulous victory last year, and props to the team for sticking with him (this coming after recurrences of his ongoing feud with bicycles).

"I guess I always thought of teammates as getting along," my friend revealed in the car today.

I shook my head and proceeded to tell stories for a while (which probably sounded like babble. After all, a short time later we nearly rear-ended a vehicle), and it really got me thinking about Webber, Vettel and the teammate dynamic.

As I started to explain, when it comes to teammates in Formula 1, it's business first and friendship later. I'm sure Webber and Vettel can get along in a professional setting, but would they voluntarily visit each other or trade gifts at Christmas? Of course not. That's far from being detrimental, though, as we saw with Mark's drive at Silverstone last year. He hip-checked his hotshot teammate at the start, refused to look back, drove flawlessly and won the race at the exact time a profound statement like that was required. He wanted to send a message to his team that he is not washed up and not going to concede to a younger, quicker teammate despite Red Bull's best efforts. Good on ya, Mark, I thought that was fantastic.

If only all teammate rivalries could produce such results with so little drama (comparatively, I mean, to the incidents at McLaren in 2007, per se). Many still remember the seething hatred that ripped the Silver Arrows apart when a proud Fernando Alonso was suddenly upstaged on the year of his big McLaren break by a smiling, steely Brit named Lewis Hamilton. The on track battles said so much, yet it was accompanied by the complete disdain showcased whenever the drivers had to be in close proximity with one another. It was illustrated also by the pit stop which came to define the hatred the two shared for each other (with Alonso purposely pausing before leaving his shared pit stall so that Hamilton would not have a shot at pole position before time expired).

What many forget is the mammoth battle McLaren were having for the championship this year. They forget how much of a non-factor Alonso was that year, save for a handful of victories that failed to outshine the wondrous results wrought by young Lewis. They also seem to forget just how close McLaren came to winning the World Drivers Championship that year. That heated rivalry simultaneously brought McLaren's pilots to the brink of a championship, but it also lost them the world title given how evenly the points were distributed between them. This has been the scenario at Ferrari when Michael Schumacher was selected by his team over Rubens Barrichello, and it was similarly what Red Bull Racing faced last year with a talented squad in Vettel and Webber.

So yes, having the rivalries may prevent a team from having a driver win the championship, but honestly I would rather have natural performances and a lost title than manufactured points totals in the hopes of getting one driver on top (last year, Massa with Alonso, anyone?). Just like any sport, competition breeds better performances. F1 inherently knows that on an engineering level given how fast the technology and advancements progress, but this year many argue that since the sport has become The Vettel Show, the rest of the competition is just lacking. Ferrari have admitted that, depending on the results of the next couple of races, they may give up on this year's championship and focus on next year's. I have no doubt that other teams will follow suit, and rightfully so; remember the advantage the Brawn team enjoyed in 2008?

Even my usual group of race watchers admits that while we really like Vettel as a person, it would be neat to see him get beaten now and again. That pushes him to improve. That pushes his team to improve. It's good for the sport. I still remember the days not so long ago when Schumacher was dominating every year, and quite a few people stopped watching. Some tuned in just to see if he would lose. Of course, this brings me back to the teammate battles, as it is still debatable how many races Barrichello lost because his team told him to let Schumi by somehow. I respect the fact that eventually he couldn't take that anymore and began to speak about it before leaving Ferrari, but his countrymen still remember those days in the same breath with the Brazilian's name. It just shows how intense and deep-seeded these rivalries can go.

Today I talked quite a bit about another great example: Gilles Villeneuve. He was young, he was talented and his rivalry with his veteran Ferrari teammate Didier Pironi eventually ended under tragic circumstances.

Known as one of the greatest drivers never to win the Formula 1 World Championship, Villeneuve was loved by his fans worldwide and became Canada's patron saint of motor racing. His name became synonymous with Ferrari, driving both with Jody Sheckter and then with Pironi. Villeneuve was long considered one of the most purely talented drivers the sport has ever seen. In his brief stint in the sport his win percentage fantastic as was his finishing record (when he finished the race, that is). Come the 1982 San Marino Grand Prix, though, the already-present rivalry between the Canadian and Pironi came to the front.

The dominant Ferraris' only real competition in the race, the Renaults, dropped out of the race early, leaving Villeneuve leading Pironi for many laps. Their lead was enormous, and given the Ferrari's reliability issues (both mechanically and fuel-wise), the team instructed the drivers to slow down to make sure both cars finished the race. From here the story gets a bit mysterious, as we will never really know what happened for sure.

Supposedly Villeneuve heard the order and believed that meant the cars would both slow and finish the race. Pironi supposedly thought that meant they would slow but that he and Villeneuve were still free to race.

After the message the Canadian's lap times dropped by two to three seconds, but soon he was overtaken by his teammate. He was initially surprised and claimed that he thought Pironi was doing it to spice up an otherwise boring race, so he re-overtook and once again thought it would stay that way. His lap times dropped back to the slower times, but Pironi eventually ran a normal race speed lap and overtook him again. Villeneuve responded and re-overtook, beginning to wonder what was happening, but he slowed and maintained the lead for the next few laps. On the final lap of the race Villeneuve took a slower line through a corner and in doing so left it open. Pironi dove underneath of him and rocketed to the finish line in front of a stunned Villeneuve. Ferrari had maintained their one-two finish, but an overjoyed Pironi was overshadowed on the podium by an angry and confused Villeneuve who felt as though he had been betrayed.

Pironi shrugged off the incident, believing that is what the team intended, and because of his response Villeneuve, in part blinded by anger, swore never to talk to his teammate again. Two weeks later, during qualifying for the Belgian Grand Prix at the legendary Zolder circuit, Pironi chose not to talk to Villeneuve who was still fuming about the race a fortnight before. With the end of the qualifying session near, Pironi was 0.6 seconds ahead of Villeneuve with both drivers still in the top ten. The team believed Gilles was on an in-lap, but some believed he was trying to do one more lap to try to better his teammate.

Either way, a collision occurred with a couple of corners to go when a slowing car tried to move aside for the Ferrari, which at the time was traveling over 120mph. Villeneuve's helmet was torn from his head and his car launched skyward for over 100 meters. When it finally hit the ground the young Canadian was thrown from it and landed in the catch fence nearby. A neck fracture irreversibly put Villeneuve on life support for a period of time before his family chose to turn it off, and Pironi regretted the feud and his relationship with Gilles for the rest of his life.

While we may never know what happened in the final days of Gilles Villeneuve's life, it cannot be denied that this competition between teammates became tragically immortalized after the events at Zolder (where a corner is now named for the late Canadian). Whenever teammate rivalries are brought up, I believe this one ranks right up there in its legendary status.

But let's bring this babble back to Webber and Vettel. (I hope in the meantime I didn't cause any car accidents or missed appointments.) Contrasting them with the semi-healthy relationship Jenson Button and Lewis Hamilton have, I can't help but feel that this balance is exactly what is needed for Red Bull right now. Webber's hand-me-down situations have inspired him, but like Zorro always preached, he has never thus attacked out of anger. It has always been a quiet determination with him that normally leads to consistent and strong finishes. These, in turn, keep him within striking distance of Vettel's heels, and that temptation alone is enough to keep him going.

Inevitably there will be days like today when the Aussie is able to get the best of the dominant German (the younger one, not the one with the red helmet), and I would like to think that so long as Webber can pull one out from under Vettel's nose every once in a while that he will still be deemed an asset to RBR. It would be a shame to see retirement come early for this seasoned vet merely because his younger teammate not only beats him consistently but because the team helps perpetuate that finishing order. Don't get me wrong, I'm not insinuating that Vettel's fantastic string of wins would not have happened without unequal treatment by Red Bull. I'm more referring to the few instances where favoritism has occurred like with the front wing. It's situations like those when a guy like Webber (who could use some reassurance from his team now and again) might feel a bit slighted, and you know, I would not blame him for a minute.

'The Modern Teammate Dynamic' can either be a blessing or a curse. The key is to finding the right balance, and to do this the team needs to make sure things don't get out of hand. Where will we someday view the animosity that may or may not be present between Seb and Mark? At this point it's tough to tell, but I have a feeling that the events of tomorrow morning's race, in a season where the young German is hot on his way to a second World Drivers Championship, may be extremely telling.

Just as fake as the headlights on her stock car

It seems so often that I think of great blog topics, but as the day goes on I realize I won't have any time to get them written. This is a bit disappointing, although I try to keep as many of them as possible stored away inside my head. When I do get a chance, I often have to pick and choose what to write based on my time frame, and I think that's what I will try to do tonight.

A while back I got a chance to meet Danica Patrick. While this may cause some to weaken at the knees and become giddy as schoolgirls, it got a healthy eye roll from me when I found out. Hooray? I was going to have to travel and go to the skybox of a man I've never met, but supposedly she would arrive and be on hand for something. I began to think of questions and clever little ways I could ask her things. Most importantly, though, I wanted to see if she was truly as unpleasant in real life as she appeared on television. Little did I know how clear an answer I would get.

She arrived a few minutes after she was supposed to be in the skybox (not a surprise). The agent lady with her authoritatively announced that she would be on hand shortly and would only be taking pictures. Line up against the wall, don't talk to her too much, don't ask her to sign anything (we would be getting pre-signed pictures anyway), and they will have a photographer there to take pictures. Sure enough, she arrived as unhappily as she could, never taking her eyes off the diecast cars she was to sign. Her steely, serious look never changed as she kept her head down signing the little cars, moving silently down the line as people called out to her to say hello. When she was done she gave a half smile to no one in particular and moved to the end of the room where the pictures would commence.

My dad and I were toward the front of the line, randomly, and he kept egging me on to take out my little notepad and get her autograph, but I was hesitant. While we waited I glanced at her feet and saw Converse shoes---the same brand I was wearing, although hers were gray and mine were Ferrari red with Corsa on the sides. When it was finally my turn, just as she had done with everyone else, she frowned up until the point that the camera clicked. I stood next to her, towering over her petite frame that could only manage to dwarf my chest.

"Hi," I smiled sheepishly, seeing if I could get a reaction out of her before the picture.

She only partially turned her head my way, expressionlessly saying "Hey."

"I like your shoes," I grinned, pointing down to her Converses. "Great minds think alike!"

She looked down, her mouth back into her usual pout after faking a half-smile for the picture. "Oh. Yeah," she said matter-of-factly.

I pulled out my notepad and asked if she could sign it, and she literally reached out and tried to shut it. "No, there's a picture over there," she said pushing it away, "That's bigger than a little sheet of paper."

I paused for a moment before walking away, her (probably) autopenned picture burning my fingers out of a Go Daddy-induced blasphemy. I looked at my dad, who had seen and heard our entire conversation. I could tell the pressure in him was building, yet he also put on a fake smile and had his picture taken before walking away. "See ya later," he quietly said through gritted teeth.

As soon as he reached me, though, the smile faded.

"Let's get the hell out of here," he said staring at the door.

I agreed and we left quickly, telling Jim (the man whose company owned the skybox) thanks for having us and giving us pit/garage passes. We exited swiftly, and upon the door's closing my dad blurted out, "Holy shit, she is the biggest turd of misery I've ever seen! Who the hell does she think she is?!"

I laughed and agreed, "I didn't know whether to laugh or be mad when I was in there! She's exactly like I imagined!"

"She didn't smile, she didn't talk to anyone. Why anyone would think she was worth a damn I don't know!" my dad continued as we walked into an elevator. The female attendant shot us a curious look thinking we were talking about her.

"Danica," my dad clarified. "We just met her; we weren't impressed."

"You should have seen her the first few times she came here," she lady rolled her eyes. "She was followed by tons of bodyguards, used disguises, on and on."

It made for an interesting rest of the day as we walked around the track. Every Danica merchandise-clad fan that passed I just wanted to shake them and say "How can you like such an unpleasant person?! Doesn't personality or class mean anything to you? It must not, but then again you certainly couldn't like her for her driving..."

Just today my dad saw Jim again who asked him what he thought of Danica at the race. He said that he wasn't too happy.

"Wasn't she a piece of crap?" Jim asked. "The whole time she didn't laugh or smile or do anything! That was a mistake getting her to come, wasn't it?"

He proceeded to act out an alternative scene of Danica's arrival, instead having her apologize for not being able to sign autographs but thanking everyone for coming out to see her and support her. She was smiling, flipping her hair, waving to people and genuinely smiling.

Unfortunately this scene was all acted out by a 6'3 200+ lbs man with a deep voice instead of Danica herself. He told my dad that the pictures we took were being printed, framed and would be sent to us. Yippee.

It just perplexes me that people could still cheer for her without caring one bit about what kind of person she is toward her fans or even her fellow drivers. A relatively new Indy fan once asked me if any of the drivers had huge rivalries, and as I began to name them, I realized that 90% of them involved Danica and someone else.

"So basically it's Danica versus everyone else?" he asked. I thought that summed it up well.

The only one she didn't outwardly hate at the time was the much-maligned Milka Duno, but that was only because she had stood up to the prima donna by throwing her gloves at her (I gave her props to that, since only a woman could retaliate without fear of backlash by the public).

Later that day I walked through the garages and pits, and every time I would see a driver I would wave and yell "Good luck today!" Of all the drivers I contacted, every one of them smiled and waved back. Some, like Tony Kanaan and Helio Castroneves gave thumbs up, too. I even had a very pleasant conversation with Kevin Kalkhoven who generously gave his time to talk to me. I watched carefully as fans tried to interact with Danica, and rarely did she ever even make eye contact back with them, let alone wave or acknowledge them. I couldn't believe it. I just knew that the crowd would go crazy when they announced her in the driver parade (I gave a small boo), but they obviously didn't know her or didn't care. Men can't see past the body (whose appeal is naturally boosted by being around nearly all males), and both genders can't get over the fact that she's a woman in IndyCar. That, alone, is enough for them to root for her. But why shouldn't that same thing be happening to Simona de Silvestro? Or Ana Beatriz? To me they should be a hell of a lot more attractive than Danica, both in looks and personality.

Thankfully I think that as more interviews occur, more and more people are starting to see that Danica pales in comparison to Simona and Ana and Pippa Mann and the other women climbing through the ranks. I already thought it was a no-contest between Sarah Fisher and her back before SF became a car owner. But oh well. Should Danica jump ship and fly away to the fairyland that is NASCAR, good riddance. Let her find more money there and a whole new demographic. Let her smash into other cars to her heart's desire and pick fights with people who may just fight back. Let her lay on the hood of her car in her sponsor-covered bikini touting an "Official" something "of NASCAR." Her affection toward the camera will be just as fake as the headlights on her stock car, but she'll be all the better for it. Give her ride to someone who deserves to race in Indy. Give it to someone who knows that he or she will actually have to win more than once in 140+ starts to keep the drive. Give it to someone who will care about the fans. I certainly won't miss her.