I recently read an
article recommended by a
triathlete friend that really moved me. It's an amazing read about 8 triathletes who face terror and fear after one of them fell victim to a Great White Shark fatality. The story not only memorializes Dave Martin who died that day in San Diego, but also goes into the mental anguish that faced not only Martin's family, but also the woman who was beside him in the water that day.
The story reminded me very much of one of the core reasons I sought to pursue drag racing. I've never publicly told this story, but much like the woman in the water that day, this is my release, my closure.
Back in 1998, I had bought my first Mustang GT, a 1990 model which I had taken out to the track for test and tune almost every Wednesday and Friday night since right after graduation in 1998. My friends and my boyfriend at the time all had Mustangs and we would compete for who was faster.
One afternoon in March of 2000, my boyfriend and I got into a terrible fight. We did not have a healthy relationship at all, but being so young I didn't recognize it at the time. We had just left his grandma's in Polk City, FL for an employee softball game at Disney. I have no recollection what the fight was even about, only that I was nearing my threshold in terms of what I was willing to tolerate, and he was flexing his temper and control. In tears bordering hysterics, I turned my car around, pulling into his grandmother's driveway, and asked him to go to the game by himself so I could head for home. I unfastened my seat belt, and moved to go inside to collect my things.
He snapped me back into the car, screaming that I needed to get in the car and hurry up, that if he was late for this game, hell would pay. Seeing that it was escalating quickly, I unwisely opted to oblige, hoping to get him there and onto other tasks and away from me.
The trip down Interstate 4 was a blur. I remember the crying, the screaming, the insults.... and I remember just wanting to get there and get him out of my car. We were somewhere between Polk City/Haines City and Kissimmee at this point, and the speedometer climbed the more heated it got:
80 mph....
90 mph.....
100 mph....
I knew it wasn't wise, but as my tears blurred my vision, I silently hoped a cop would pull me over and help me escape him.
.....And that's when it happened.
He looked down, seeing how fast I was going, and spit fire.
"Oh, you want to die, huh? YOU WANT TO DIE?"
He grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it to the right. I countered, and tried to pull it away from him.
It didn't matter.
We spun around at over 100mph and slid down the embankment into the left median, a wooded area dividing the two directions on the interstate. The car struck a tree on the passenger fender, spinning it around into several other trees.
When the dirt settled, I had been ejected from the car.
I ALWAYS wore my seat belt, but at his grandma's, I had removed it, and never reattached. The impact with the trees had sent me airborne, breaking my drivers seat backwards and in half, and breaking the back seat before I exited the car out the hatch glass, which I broke with the force of my shoulder colliding. The car came to rest, and my body was sitting partly on the rear wing, wrapped around a large pine tree, wearing a cape of broken glass still attached by tint.
I was numb and in shock. Its odd how you do not feel any pain... you feel nothing at all those first few minutes. I looked down and did not see my right arm. I couldn't move it, and was panicked. Thinking it had been severed, I grabbed with my left arm over, and realized that my right arm was severely dislocated and behind me at an odd angle. I reached for my legs, which were there and accounted for. I then felt nauseous.
The boyfriend, after apparently looking over and not seeing me anywhere inside the car, had started screaming my name. I couldn't speak, couldn't find my voice. I could hardly moan. He had kept his seat belt on the whole time, and had stayed right where he was supposed to in the car (see, proof you SHOULD wear your seat belt at all times). He somehow got his door open and out of the car. I remember him vaguely asking where was I, and after finding me out of the car, if I was okay.
All I could mutter was: "My CAAAR! MY CAAAR!"
He tried to pick me up, but I screamed for him not to touch me. He insisted that I had to get away from the car, that it was leaking gas, as he grabbed me from the wing to carry me up the embankment. He told me that he was sorry, and please not to say anything.
"Look what you did! My CAR!"
But, somehow, fear gripped me. I don't know if it was fear of him, or fear that the insurance wouldn't cover the accident, but I told the officer that I had just suddenly lost control. Witnesses had claimed seeing a tire re-tread kicked up, which had been dragged by my car's front spoiler down the embankment, so the officer and witnesses assumed it had caused the accident. I never was ticketed. I was transported to the hospital, underwent many X-Rays, and was released to my boyfriends grandmother with a dislocated shoulder set in a sling. I would never regain full range of motion, halting my other passion of Volleyball.
The story was re-told a 1,000 times. Something in the road.... blah, blah, blah.... lost control... blah, blah, blah.... hit trees.... blah. In the end, I had this huge failure finger pointed at me. Because I couldn't control car, I couldn't handle it.... Again, out of a fear incomprehensible to me now, I stayed with the boyfriend for several more months. And in those months of that story being told, he started to believe it himself.
"It never would have happened if you could have controlled the car."
"You'll never be able to drive a RACECAR! You couldn't even control THAT."
Worse than the self-doubt that was forced upon me, I was PARALYSED by fear being in any kind of car. I screamed if we went around curves too fast, I would cry hysterically if the car got a little squirrely in the rain. Mainly, I was scared of other people's driving, or when I was going around curves in the rain, basically any time I perceived a chance that the car might get sideways. It went on and on for many months, even beyond when I finally wised up and left him.
It was a very dark secret to hide. I didn't want to be scared anymore. I didn't want to let this fear control me. I still loved drag racing, and still dreamed of being a professional racer. I wanted to beat this, I was DETERMINED TO BEAT THIS.
In late November of that year, I came across the now-ex at the racetrack. I had since become a permanent staple at Lugo Peformance, the speed shop we all had frequented, and had ventured to the track with Dennis on this evening.
The ex was there, looking smug as he was so good at doing, with his car in the staging lanes. He had done a lot of work to it (much at my expense!), and it now was what I considered "fast" at the time. A mid to high 11 second turbo car.
Though I had made some passes in my own car (a replacement 93 Mustang GT which was basically bone stock), I still secretly was gripped by fear of losing control. Dennis, who learned of the truth behind the accident, had tried to help me get past it, without success.
Words were exchanged that night... I can't even remember the snarky comment he made, but something angered me to my boiling point. I sought out Dennis, and asked him for the keys to the "racecar" that night.... a 92 Paxton Novi 2000 coupe.... THE coupe that I would later adopt as
MY racecar.
"What?!? Are you sure?"
Dennis of course, was very surprised by my request. He had offered many other times to let me drive, but I just simply couldn't. My mind was poisoned by planted doubt. But Dennis saw a different fire in my eyes that night. I don't know if it was my competitive nature, or if I finally had enough, but I was going to end it for good that night... end my fear's grip over me, and end his mental poison in my mind. I was going to beat it all... the accident, my fear, and HIM.
Dennis took me aside and showed me what to do. He walked me through the different transmission, and asked me how I felt. Surprisingly, I was numb again. That same numb I felt just moments after the accident, where I felt like I was above my body watching it all happen. But, I was ready.
The first pass, I ran a 12.20.... Dennis told me just to leave the transmission in drive and let it do the work itself. I didn't even use the safety harness, I used the regular seatbelt because I was worried the harness would remind me of the claustrophobic feeling I had being strapped to the backboard in the accident. I'm pretty sure he turned it down for me out of concern, he didn't want to scare me and make it worse. But that wasn't good enough, I wanted more. I wanted to BEAT him.
So Dennis, opened the hood, made some adjustments, and walked me through using the transbrake, launching the car, and manually shifting. I had never been on slicks before, I had never used a transbrake before, and the fastest I had ever been was a 13.80 @ 98mph.
It was the last pass of the night. I harnessed in this time, and felt even more determined. I did my burnout, staged and grabbed the transbrake. I put my foot to the floor, and let go..... the shiftlight glowing at each shift of that pass forever seals my memory of that night.
And then I did it.... I crossed the finishline.
I ended up running an 11.20 @ 124mph that pass, faster than him, faster than I had ever been. Crossing that finishline released me of that fear, released me of his poison. Though I did have some lingering fears that made me an overly cautious racer for several years, the hold over me was broken.
I could.... I can... and I DID.
Now, I've moved my way up to Pro Mod, and I still secretly am proud and vindicated when I see him at the races knowing that I've been where he said I couldn't go, and where HE has not and never will be. Crossing the finishline first ahead of him and fear, the win light that night was MINE.
