You know… I have seen fellow racers do this – race with baby pictures, kids’ drawings, Bible verses, inspirational posters, shark teeth. I never really understood the need.
I am a romantic when it comes to relationships, not racing.
If you want to take me on a date, sure – send me flowers (actually, never mind – don’t send me flowers – they just die eventually, and my cats knock them over, so maybe send a plant instead? Italian likes plants), or chocolate (nope, don’t send chocolate either, because, believe it or not, I am actually not a fan. How about some nice coffee beans? Yeah, send me those!).
But if I am racing, fuck sentimentalism. Step aside, or I will step on you.
Except… this one time.
This one time I showed up to the race – the biggest, the longest, the scariest – with a letter safely folded in my dry box, along with salt pills, and activated charcoal (THE best for stomach ache and indigestion, I promise!).
I didn’t ask for this letter. It was handed to me with strict instructions – to open when I really needed it. And I did. I opened it after the Death Race was over, and I did not walk away with a skull. When I was angry, and bitter, and disappointed.
I think I got rid of the actual letter – because I am a gypsy at heart, and material possessions freak me out… or perhaps, because I have no fucking clue where anything is in my office – but I scanned it, and now sharing it here on the blog, my virtual chest of memories.
I do not pray, but I say thanks. The two ARE one and the same.