The Pipeline of Useless Information: And away we go!

It's that time of year again. I'm counting down the hours until my 2nd track day on Monday, July 13, this time at Road America in Elkhart Lake, WI. I've graciously received a vacation day to do something utterly stupid. Mostly Naked once told me that I would be incredibly wired before track day, and there would be multiple bathroom trips and no sleep. He's also Mostly Right. I didn't have any of those issues before Brainerd last year, though. I attribute it to ignorance and comfort. I knew Brainerd's track layout well enough even though I never rode on it, so I was comfortable and relaxed, and had NO idea what was coming. I walked away from Brainerd, tired and pleased, but I rode at my pace, didn't push myself and frankly, was kinda "meh." I was actually surprised at my reaction as were a couple of others. There was no adrenaline, no abnormal quantity of bathroom breaks, too much sleep.

This year, an entire month before this Monday, as soon as I saw turn 14 at Road America, up a hill to the start/finish, I felt a jello-y quiver in my gut. It got worse a few days after when I clicked the "Submit" button on the website to pay for the opportunity. Now it seems the last couple of weeks, there's nothing else I can think about. I realize most of the thoughts, again, are logistics (don't forget to bring the bike...OR the key), but there's a hyper, spazzy, mildly terrified inner child who's not thinking about anything, except for the riding itself.

Road America is an incredible visual for a track. It's 4 miles long with 14 turns, elevation changes, and long sweeping turns and straights. Brainerd, by comparison is 3.1 miles, 10 turns, flat and tight. Brainerd boasts AMA superbike races and NHRA drag races, but RA not only has AMA superbikes, they also host indy cars as well. In my mind, a race track that can also race open wheel, super-fast, race cars is intimidating indeed.

So I'm a wreck. Anyone who makes the mistake of talking to me these past few days ends up having to hear all about my impending track day, because it's all I can think about. Sometimes more than once (I'm so sorry, "Vern.").

Man, I can't even get this blog out clean. My brains are scrambled.

Last year I wrote up a will and once again, I present my bequests, updated to reflect new friends and new items.

* * *

I reiterate for this year's event:

In the incredibly unlikely (Mom, read that again. Incredibly unlikely.)...I, Kuj, being "all there" at the moment, do hereby blah blah blah.

To my Mother, I bequeath:

My relaxing "f**k it" attitude. Some things are just not worth the energy. Your only daughter, your sunshine, your favorite child (yeah, I said it) doing a track day, for instance.
Hammick #1, for the purposes of finding the above mentioned attitude.
The three-season porch.
Your weight in Leinie's Berry Weiss.
A brand-spanking new Leinie's sweatshirt twice a year.

To my Father, I bequeath:

An extra sturdy door hinge for the passenger side of the coupe. Because whoever takes my place next to you isn't going to remember to not throw the door open either.
Two weeks in the Rat Rod mecca out West. Make it a month.
A toy hauler (see above).
The official title of "Ruffian" (as bestowed upon you by local author, Michael Perry).

To my Brother, I bequeath:

A job working for Weird Al. He's probably exhausted himself trying to swap out lyrics.
A bullhorn for your butt. The sound is funny, the smell is not. One hopes the afterlife excludes foul odors.
My bike (again). I'm still picturing that nice end table.

To my cousin Heather, I bequeath:

The funny.
Douchebag radar.
$1400 bucks. NOW can we drive the Ya-ha-ma into a lake?

To my cousin Beefcake, I bequeath:

The re-gifted Dark Lord. Re-gifted.
A custom-built Beamish can hat.
A lifetime supply of grounded shoes.

To my Aunt Joy, I bequeath:

Facebook.
Facebook.
Facebook.
Somebody to read non-fiction to you.

To my best friend Trish, I bequeath:

My brother. Take him on your next vacation. You can use the amusement.
Shorter pants for your gorgeous.
A pair of scissors. Rush the stage at the next Wilco concert. You can do it.

To my dear friend Billy, I bequeath:

Somebody to say "Dork" to.
That one t-shirt. Yes, I found it the other day. I still have it.
My mp3 player.

To my dear friend Art, I bequeath:

Someone to yell "ART!" across the room to you.
One-line zingers to use on Ben.
Dunt-dunt-dahs.

To my dear friend and riding buddy, Turd, I bequeath:

All 78 Steam entries. Yes, I did say I have a problem.
Even more appreciation for "beep."
Lots of "Proud Daddy" moments.
/fart

To my newest dear friend "Vern," I bequeath:

As requested, my hair. You'll fit right in it...heck, you're already used to the cold wind on the back of your head whenever anyone walks by.
Also, as requested, my vocabulary. Though the secret is to have a thesaurus handy, I somehow manage to store the good ones away in the brain, however infinitesimal it may be. Anyway, you're no slouch either. "Brother, can you spear a mime?" That kills me...
A pipeline from Jefferson Street in Chippewa Falls to FtC, with a multi-tapper on your end of it, of course. And all the Beamish left in the fridge.
The world's largest book of anagrams...oh never mind. You wrote it.
Hammick #2. It'll feel great when the yard's done.
Firefly and Serenity. Alex will stop giving you the crazy look, and you two will have lots to talk about.
My sweet, sweet beach cruiser. Only if you promise to ride it in costume.
Enough money to fix up the bus. Keep the Boop drapes. (Boop drapes...that made me laugh).
$5K. Get a motorcycle. Start slow. You'll love it.

To my newest dear friend Jasonopotamus:

A full-on poster of Gothapotamus.
A full-on poster of I Am Junk.
My memory of the 1983 White Sox. LaMar Hoyt, Greg "The Bull" Luzinski, Harold Baines, Tony LaRussa, Carleton Fisk. I'm sorry...that's all I know. Of baseball. In totality. Besides "Where's the beer guy?"
Someone to punch you in the arm, so you don't have to.
My M*A*S*H collection. And let that cut under your nose heal. :)

To my still incredibly gracious boss, I bequeath:

A bottle of Skyy (for honoring me, of course).
Someone who will entertain you with really stupid things...like printing blank transparencies. That always gets a laugh.
Steel mesh gloves for handling lifts of paper and opening boxes.
Your very own censoring bleep. I wish I had bothered to buy one...

To my neighbors across the street, I bequeath:

A three-season porch on the back of your house.
A rattle can to cover up those racing stripes (yes, I had neon lights under my car once. Shut up).
A sixer of Milwaukee's Best.

To the Chippewa Valley Sportbike Club, I bequeath: