My dh is a drag racer, so this morning, the girl and I are driving two hours to watch him race. If you ever had the need for speed, this is the place to go. I know NASCAR is really popular, but it doesn’t do a thing for me. All those caution lights and stuff. Drag racing is a different dog altogether. Two cars line up on a line and see how fast they can go. Yeah, baby!

These aren’t the top fuel dragsters. He races EZ Street division. They’re street legal cars with big motors, a turbo or a couple of nitrous kits, and added safety features like roll cages. They go from 0 to 133 mph in 5.5 seconds on a 1/8 mile track without wheelie bars or parachutes. That’s fast! The dh offered to let me take his car down the track on a test and tune run. Nuh-uh. I’m not afraid to drive fast, I’m just afraid to kiss the guard rail in his car. If I’m getting a divorce, it’s not going to be because I wrecked his car. :O Not to mention that his fire suit would be just a wee tad big on me.

So, I’ve baked a double batch of walnut brownies (made with real butter and Ghiradelli chocolate) which will make me one of the most popular people at the track–at least with all the kids. I’ve packed my cooler with fresh strawberries, oranges, and a Caesar salad. This is one situation when I can’t ascribe to the “when in Rome, do as the Romans do.” I can’t go for that track food. The dh, being the king of junk food, loves it. I just can’t go there. I’ve learned to bring my own. And being the diligent (translate to always behind) writer that I am, I’ve printed my manuscript to take along and work on while I’m there. :hehe:

Jen