Author: mathdreads

Admittedly, I had low expectations when my sister and I planned to take an overnight trip to visit the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte, NC. The biggest attraction for me was to simply get out of town for a spell. Although I’d made hotel reservations, I had no idea how well I’d done until we got there. Even the rainy weather couldn’t spoil this trip.

My sister and I hadn’t coordinated who was bringing what for this trip. Everything just so happened to work out. I’d bought two types of alcohol and she’d bought some delicious pastries. Both hit the spot by the time we’d checked into the hotel after 8 PM.

The next morning, I lifted the shades only to discover that the NASCAR Hall of Fame was just across the street. When I’d booked the room, the hotel confirmed my reservation, but warned me that, for some reason, GPS and other such apps, erroneously showed the location of the hotel. In order to get to the correct location, the hotel suggested that we use the parking garage address instead. Now I understood what that meant.

As much fun as we had in our room, breakfast was another joy. I know it sounds as if we don’t get out much, but I’m glad we could appreciate the small things in life. We hit the self-serve breakfast right on time since there was no line. She made a fresh waffle and I constructed a breakfast biscuit with premade ingredients.

Once we stored our things in the car, we crossed the street and walked the long block to the entrance. The rain wasn’t too bad, but I get annoyed by raindrops on my glasses, hence the umbrella. We stowed our jackets and umbrellas when we checked in.

Part of the check-in process was activating our card, which allowed us to use the interactive screens. In addition to that, we took our picture and had the option of putting our names, two favorite drivers, and a favorite NASCAR car on the jumbotron. As for my favorite drivers, I chose the race car driver one of my mother’s bosses jokingly called Mom since she liked to drive fast. My other favorite driver, Bubba Wallace, the first Black NASCAR driver since 1971 when Wendell Scott drove in NASCAR’s top entry.

I’m sure my sister just chose two names that she’d heard of.

Just before we took a trip down the Glory Road, we heard an announcement that the 12-minute NASCAR documentary was about to start.

I probably learned the most I was going to learn during that 12-minute film because my mind was preoccupied by one fact.

NASCAR grew out of bootlegging.

It all made sense. NASCAR wasn’t just about driving really fast, making left turns and walking away from some of the fieriest car crashes.

Bootleggers had two options: deliver the goods and make money or get caught and go to jail.

Hence, bootleg drivers developed spectacular driving skills to evade the police.

What amazes me is that for all the high-techness involved with the cars, the track, and then the sheer driving skills, the pioneers did it all by instinct, bravado and luck.

This first time I’d heard of Bubba Wallace wasn’t due to his first win, but rather the suspicion of racism at NASCAR, which turned out, after investigation, to be an inadvertent incident.

Yet, unfortunately, you never know when some incident isn’t merely paranoia/hypersensitivity without an investigation. Many times, a Black person doesn’t have the resources for such.

Most of these drivers I’d never heard of.

Still, I appreciated the focus, effort and determination to win.

Now, is it just me or are there far more speedways than one can shake a stick at?

For some reason, any time there was a speedway track sample, I had to rub it.

Now, that wasn’t for good luck, but to get a literal feel for what drivers had to work with when the rubber met the road.

In addition to the texture, the degree to which the track is elevated, known as “banking,” also affects how fast the drivers fly around the oval.

A phenomenon I was able to experience at one point on the Glory Road at 34 degrees.

My sister didn’t even bother to experience banking although she could have tried an alternative banking experience.

Now, this was the only car that knew about when I saw it.

Here’s to Mom’s driving spirit animal.

At this point, I wasn’t sure that my sister noticed the difference among Dale Earnhardt Sr, Jr and Dale Jarret.

We took a break from walking around to appreciate the Glory Road panorama.

Anyone who thought that only women enjoyed putting a ring on it, stands corrected.

Ditto for gold.

Of course, they blinged out the helmets.

I never thought about how they gassed up the cars.

What a coincidence, the only Black POTUS was the only US president pictured in the Hall of Fame.

Continuing a theme…

Of course, I had to get picture of the only woman in the Hall of Honor.

By the time we got to this part of the museum, my sister started to get restless.

So, even though I found the interactive displays interesting, especially the one that showed the innovations that helped the cars cut through the air and use it to their advantage, she was ready to try the simulation.

In our excitement, we stood in the simulation line first before being sent to the qualifying simulation.

Unlike the REAL qualifiers, no one fails this simulation. The entire endeavor was merely a sneaky pants way to teach everyone how to use the technology. Two things I knew: I wouldn’t use both feet to work the gas and break petals and I wasn’t going to shift gears.

My sister did better than I did. Apparently, crashing and burning on the track did not penalize a driver.

I, on the other hand, drove like I was driving Miss Daisy.

Nonetheless, we re-entered the simulation line. By far the most fun interactive in the entire place.

Actually, some visitors may argue that the interactive where you change tires as fast as possible was the most fun, but we steered clear of that manual labor disguised as fun. We heard the drills going off and on, competing to see who could change tires the fastest, the whole time we were in line for the driving simulator.

I’m not sure if this car was sponsored by Cheddar’s the restaurant nor am I too invested to find out. That car was already taken by the time we registered.

Since each car accommodated two drivers, I chose to be on the lefthand side.

Although a divider split the car in half, I could still hear my sister on the other side, complaining about how the compartment was too small and low.

A glitch caused the screens to go black, giving us an opportunity to take a selfie with our car.

During the simulation, I still didn’t shift gears, but I threw caution to the wind and used both feet to work the gas and brake pedals. I crashed and burned a few times, but at least I beat my sister. As she put it, we placed in the top 10. How optimistic, considering there were 14 drivers.

I must admit, after the simulation, I was just about ready to leave. That’s part of the reason I wanted to save it for last.

Yet, there was one more bright spot on the fourth floor.

I’d never seen a moonshine set up before.

All I knew was that my bootlegging relatives used lots of sugar and that moonshine was best served in eggnog.

It was only a matter of time that the entrepreneurial spirit motivated someone to monetize the skills of former bootleg drivers.

Now the dude photobombing my picture claimed that he thought I was one of the statues. Can’t see how that was possible, given that my backside isn’t gray.

After that, I was REALLY ready to go.

My sister bought some things in the gift shop. All I wanted were the two pictures that I’d prepaid for as part of our tickets.

Then we walked around a little, taking a fruit break at Whole Foods before walking around some more. We basically wanted to spend enough time until the restaurant opened at 4 PM.

I’d heard stories about Brazilian steakhouses, especially how they’d continue to bring meat to the table as long as your card showed green. I thought that I’d flipped my card to red in time enough not to feel stuffed. I was wrong, but not regretful. We enjoyed every delicious bite, along with my sister’s friend who’d joined us. We took dessert to go.

Last year in mid-April, Dad fell, resulting in a fractured hip. In his 80s, Dad’s life-altering accident meant that going places had been very challenging. Even within his own house.

Bought in 1979, my parents’ house has three sets of stairs. Upon entering the front door, one can go down three stairs to the den or up four stairs to the kitchen/living room/dining room area. Once on the second floor, one can go up the longest flight of stairs to the bedrooms and bathrooms.

Over the past several months, Dad practiced walking with assistance, but always relied on the chairlifts for two out of three of the stairs. The stairs leading down into the den remained off limits. Until the evening of the Super Bowl.

A week prior to the event, Mom had finally won the hard-fought battle of in-home caregiver assistance seven days a week for six hours a day and at least one day with twelve hours for her respite.

Given that extra pair of hands, my sister and I wanted to bring Dad all the way downstairs to join us, watching the Super Bowl. At least so he could see the first two quarters, some commercials and the much-anticipated Usher halftime show.

Not that Dad cared one iota about any of it. Of course, Dad used to enjoy watching sporting events on TV all of the time, but the portable TV that he watches in his bedroom, which is brought down to the living room where his recliner is, isn’t connected to cable. He watches the free programing available through Firestick.

Most evenings, Dad starts his protest for someone to take him upstairs so he can go to bed an hour or two after dinner. Mom counters that he cannot go to until around 7:30 PM. Otherwise, Dad will wake her up before sunrise, wanting something or other.

One of the miracles of the Super Bowl, from the start until the end of the halftime show, was that it held Dad’s attention. He didn’t doze off, protest to go to bed nor ask for anything. Once the halftime show was over, we had no problems transporting him up the short flight of stairs to the first chairlift, the second chairlift and to his bedroom.

The entire evening wore Dad out, but in a wonderful way. There aren’t too many TV events that would hold his attention nor be worth the effort.

Now with the warming weather and the new preowned wheelchair van, Dad will be venturing out more often. At least we now know that part of his adventure will include the den.

I’ve taken many stretching and yoga classes before, but never with goats. I would have taken this 90-minute stretch class even without the goats, but they were definitely the stars of the event.

This was the first time in their monthlong lives that they had been inside a building. Initially, their hooves couldn’t find purchase on the smooth floor, but goats are natural climbers and adapt to any terrain. Once they figured out how to walk, their first destination was checking out the cubbies. Didn’t even matter that it was a deadend. Couldn’t blame them though. How often do humans dwell in deadend situations as if we’re doing something?

But we didn’t allow the four stars of the event to hang out in the cubbies. Their human hadn’t bothered to name them since she’d plan to give them away in the near future. In the meantime, we just referred to them by their diaper colors: Black, Purple, Red and Orange. So, I posed with Purple while Red photobombed.

I’d asked many questions the week prior to this event such as how many baby goats would be present, how much they weighed and their size. I just knew that they’d jump on everyone and everything. However, they were remarkably shy around us, but very curious about nibbling on the curtains, the artificial flowers and other decorations.

At one point, their human put them on our backs while we were in child’s pose. They skedaddled almost too soon before a picture could be taken.

Next up: the babies needed their bottles. I fed Black, the only male goat. He took that bottle so aggressively. The last time I’d fed a goat, I was a kid myself at a petting zoo. As Mom stepped backwards, trying to capture a good composition, she thought she’d stepped on someone’s foot. When she turned around to apologize, she saw that she’d stepped on a goat’s hoof while it was nibbling on the hem of her shirt.

Then, I passed Black to my friend, so she could feed him. After a while, she passed him off to another woman to feed him. That’s when all hell broke loose. His diaper had loosened, releasing dry fecal pellets all over her mat. My friend and I had dodged that bullet.

Yet, Black kept getting out of his diaper. Just like a rebellious guy.

Speaking of a rebellion, for seemingly no rhyme or reason, one kid would bleat and get the others going. The stretch instructor did her best to talk around their noise, but we were half-distracted anyway by their antics.

After being fed one bottle each, the kids were ready for a nap…standing up. Three of them congregated around the mirror while the fourth curled up near the corner. Whatever was in that milk, I need to drink some of that to help me sleep some nights.

As advertised, the interactions with the goats left me much happier than when I’d arrived.