Morrand
Member
I'm writing this from the Cloverdale RV park, in Cloverdale, Indiana. I'm in my trailer, GSXR by my side, spending the night here before heading up to Putnam Park tomorrow morning for a track day with Brand X, which is all that I can get under the current conditions.
As I look down the hill from Stall #10, I see five trailers. Big ones, fifth wheelers, the kind with slideouts and nice trim work, each occupied by a pair of pensioners out for a quiet weekend. It is that. Other than the hum of the air conditioners, the drone of a stray cicada, and the odd car rolling down County 800S, there's nothing much to be heard.
Even the proprietor noticed. While I was checking in, she mentioned that I was the only one she'd heard from, and it was only me and one other person she needed to check in for the evening. She asks if anyone else is coming, and I say I don't know, I don't know this group as well. She mentions a drop in traffic, and hopes maybe next year will be better. I agree, but tell her the old group has kind of collapsed. She didn't know, and seems a little put back by that. As I am leaving to drive down and set up, her other customer is pulling in: fifth wheel, nice trim, pensioners. Quiet types, I suppose.
And so, here I am. Dinner is done and cleaned up, and I'm down to debating whether to break out the cards for a game of solitaire, or listen to the iPod, or just turn in.
I miss my NESBA. I miss the fact that, by this time, we'd be sitting at a table, swatting the mosquitoes and swapping stories of past alarums and excursions: of the guy whose axle came out and he didn't even notice for four laps, or the one who wiped the boards in his first-ever race, and picked up more from the protest money than the contingencies. I miss the grilling and the beer, the subsequent games of "Let's see how fast gasoline burns," and the inevitable visit from that night's honorary camp counselor to tell everyone to shut up and go to sleep.
What happened on Saturday and Sunday was the reason for the trip, of course, and don't get me wrong. I've seen the difference between the two groups, the last time I was out, and I don't like it there nearly as much as here. With NESBA, there was usually some amount of mutual respect, even for people who were way under pace (like I've gotten to be). With the other guys, it's more like ferocity, if not mutual contempt: rules are set, but they are as quickly ignored because, hey, we don't want to take all the fun out, and besides, if you don't like having your fairings scraped in every turn by someone making a mad pass, maybe you oughta toughen up, or just go play parcheesi or something. But it's Friday now, not Saturday, too early to miss what's on track. I'm not there yet.
This is the time for looking forward into the weekend: for making plans and setting goals, of course, but just looking forward to it, too. By this point, I'd know that, barring some catastrophe, in 24 hours we'd be out getting dinner and going over the day, celebrating the wins and commiserating over the losses, and if nothing else, keeping the party going until bedtime. I don't know what to look forward to, now. Can't say yet that the fun is gone, I suppose, but it's surely looking like it's in short supply this year.
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Morrand
As I look down the hill from Stall #10, I see five trailers. Big ones, fifth wheelers, the kind with slideouts and nice trim work, each occupied by a pair of pensioners out for a quiet weekend. It is that. Other than the hum of the air conditioners, the drone of a stray cicada, and the odd car rolling down County 800S, there's nothing much to be heard.
Even the proprietor noticed. While I was checking in, she mentioned that I was the only one she'd heard from, and it was only me and one other person she needed to check in for the evening. She asks if anyone else is coming, and I say I don't know, I don't know this group as well. She mentions a drop in traffic, and hopes maybe next year will be better. I agree, but tell her the old group has kind of collapsed. She didn't know, and seems a little put back by that. As I am leaving to drive down and set up, her other customer is pulling in: fifth wheel, nice trim, pensioners. Quiet types, I suppose.
And so, here I am. Dinner is done and cleaned up, and I'm down to debating whether to break out the cards for a game of solitaire, or listen to the iPod, or just turn in.
I miss my NESBA. I miss the fact that, by this time, we'd be sitting at a table, swatting the mosquitoes and swapping stories of past alarums and excursions: of the guy whose axle came out and he didn't even notice for four laps, or the one who wiped the boards in his first-ever race, and picked up more from the protest money than the contingencies. I miss the grilling and the beer, the subsequent games of "Let's see how fast gasoline burns," and the inevitable visit from that night's honorary camp counselor to tell everyone to shut up and go to sleep.
What happened on Saturday and Sunday was the reason for the trip, of course, and don't get me wrong. I've seen the difference between the two groups, the last time I was out, and I don't like it there nearly as much as here. With NESBA, there was usually some amount of mutual respect, even for people who were way under pace (like I've gotten to be). With the other guys, it's more like ferocity, if not mutual contempt: rules are set, but they are as quickly ignored because, hey, we don't want to take all the fun out, and besides, if you don't like having your fairings scraped in every turn by someone making a mad pass, maybe you oughta toughen up, or just go play parcheesi or something. But it's Friday now, not Saturday, too early to miss what's on track. I'm not there yet.
This is the time for looking forward into the weekend: for making plans and setting goals, of course, but just looking forward to it, too. By this point, I'd know that, barring some catastrophe, in 24 hours we'd be out getting dinner and going over the day, celebrating the wins and commiserating over the losses, and if nothing else, keeping the party going until bedtime. I don't know what to look forward to, now. Can't say yet that the fun is gone, I suppose, but it's surely looking like it's in short supply this year.
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Morrand
