Even girls race

We are at the races. A day early.

It was the right decision, to come on Wednesday. When we arrived, the vast new parking lot at Pacific Raceways was nearly empty. Drag races were happening. The girls went down to watch the drags while I put the trailer in its designated spot. I found them still at the fence after about an hour.

“Dada, they go really fast.”
“Dada, one the the drivers of a motorcycle is a girl.”
“Two of the drivers on motor cycles are girls.”

And the girl on the orange bike, blond braid down the back of her black leathers, didn’t look much bigger than my 13-year-olds. She was hideously fast, I think she turned the quarter in the nines, at about 150 mph.

I explained to the twins that our race is a road race, that we would be coming around that turn there and dive down that hill there, up that hill and back to this stretch of road right here.

Okay, yes, this is one reason why it was important to me to bring the twins. Girls race. Girls work on cars. That doing is more fun than watching. I don’t expect the twins to race, nor especially want them to, or even to love cars. But I do want them to taste this from Dada’s world, to know that a ratchet is among their options.

They do not want to be “girlie girls.” On the bridge of adolescence, they don’t understand those who do nothing but talk about how they look or about what the boys are doing or thinking.

My twins demand to drive the truck up and down our half-mile driveway at home. They sleep in a tipi. They have come to the races after a six hour drive with one stop and not one complaint, not one video game, handing up almonds and Triscuits and cheese. Today, in a few hours, we will see the Space Needle and Pike Street Market.

And tomorrow they will see some of the most wonderful cars in the world making some noise.