The intersection of Interstate 90 and Montana State HWY 93 has long been known as The Crossroads. To a boy dreaming of one day driving one of the big rigs that frequented the pair of truckstops for fuel, food, or rest - it was heaven. And especially for a boy growing up in a small town like Missoula, every opportunity to drive by the trucker’s oasis had me twisting my neck and looking for a glimpse of my future.


Oddly enough, when I finally had an opportunity to pull a load into the parking lot or fuel islands with the rest of truckers I so wanted to be like, I simply drove on by. It would be easy to blame it on trying to keep a schedule, poor timing, or no need for any of the services offered, but I really don’t think that was it. I recall only one time where I stopped to eat while getting something serviced on the truck. Another time I visited the trailer dealer across the highway to get the refrigeration unit working, and met up with an old friend that grew up down the street from us and helped me get through 9th grade science and a few other classes. We were lab partners in shop class where we were supposed to rebuild a small engine. I found it easier to skip out of class, and he covered me until one day the teacher let it be known that I had been absent far too often for his liking. If only I had been in class, perhaps the Thermo-King unit would have been within the realm of my ability, as it was to my former lab partner. But that’s yet another story.


This story is about the Crossroads, and how much meaning the phrase, and the place, has to me. Hundreds, if not thousands of times, I passed by there as a boy and a teenager. Later, as an adult, each and every time I passed by I recalled of Northwest Texaco, the place where my older brother had worked. The place that defined what I would one day become. The Crossroads – ironically, a phrase that took on so much meaning as I defied my parents wishes for me to stay in school. Northwest Texaco at the Crossroads – a place that holds a very special place in my heart. How envious, yet thrilled, I was about the stories my brother told of getting to move the big truck and trailers off the fuel islands while the drivers were inside eating or making their phone calls. The longing I had to go with him when he made a trip to Spokane and back with one of the drivers, or so we were told. I believed it. I imagined it. And I drove right by with an ache in my heart.


As I now understand it, a Texaco dealer that met certain goals established by the parent company was rewarded with an exclusive toy to display and sell in their showroom. I had ‘driven’ other trucks and equipment as a child. We have pictures of me in the backyard playing with the Tonka trucks and equipment I shared with my younger brother. And that was always the way with the things we were given. Birthdays never seemed special to me back then(and subsequently still don’t today), as whatever one of us got, the other had to have something on that day as well. I recall how our bicycles matched, and a sleeping bag meant two. When I was old enough to carry a rifle and hunt, the rifles matched. How naïve I was to not question why I was older, yet we were so equal. It wasn’t all bad though. I ‘shared’ his driver’s license one time to get me out of a jam. It might have been more than once now that I think about it.


But the Exclusive Texaco Tanker die-cast and plastic constructed toy would be a different story. It would be mine, and mine alone, with no other match to be found. I won’t let myself believe that it was because it was a one of a kind piece slated for the Missoula Texaco dealer. It could probably be argued that my younger brother was never much interested in trucks, or even things mechanical for that matter. He was smarter than all of us.

No, this toy was mine, and let me tell you, I drove the wheels off that thing. I learned how to back up a trailer with it, and I did it without sliding the wheels to cheat the corners. I lowered the landing gear, dropped the trailer, and bobtailed around the neighborhood. I vividly recall knowing how much more powerful the tractor seemed without the trailer. I pretended to see the stacks smoking black diesel, and making the monotone engine sounds a big rig diesel makes as I took her through the gears. And then setting the brakes and mimicking the sounds that the air system makes as it releases the air to the air brakes. It was my truck and trailer, and I wore it out.


I wish I would have been smarter, or at least known what became of that rig. I have searched, (though admittedly not very hard until as of late), for a replica or piece that someone else was willing to part with. My truck and trailer was unique, and when I finally found one, there it was………with a few others just like it. Nothing can replace an original, but I picked the one I wanted, made the purchase, and just as I had done with one or two of the real trucks I owned, asked Ann afterward if I could buy it. So my timing was off on the question vs purchase timeline, but it had worked before, so why change the formalities.


It arrived on a beautiful and sunny day, just as the original had almost 40 years ago. And while it was a February day instead of June, time stood still as I opened the box and was overcome with the memories of what that little Texaco truck had meant to me. It defined the Crossroads, both literally and figuratively, of the town I grew up in and the destiny that awaited me. It all came rushing back. The sounds, the feel, the look of my very first truck. That sidewalk in front of our house rolled on forever. Yet as much as I love trucks and trucking, and how much I learned with that little toy, nothing comes close to the real meaning this little piece of treasure has to me.


It was my 9th birthday. My older brother was working at The Crossroads and Northwest Texaco Truckstop in Missoula Montana. And before he ran away from home, he thought enough of me to get that truck for my birthday. It was the very first truck that I ever owned myself. It really is the only birthday and birthday present I care to remember and preserve from my childhood. The bike is long gone as most are. I haven’t seen the rifle in years, which contradicts what most boys growing up in Montana could comprehend.



But this truck and it’s meaning……………………………it is the only present that lingers strong enough for me to argue with Ann over where it gets to be displayed. And now after all the years, and all of those miles, and all of the memories - it’s back at the home terminal. 10-4.

Pleasantly Blu-Team

Today I am once again thankful for being surrounded by two intelligent, happy, and healthy children....along with a beautiful and supportive wife, a loyal dog, and all of the people I consider to be friends whether or not we have actually come face to face or not. I am thankful that I am overweight which means that I have never truly gone hungry, and I am thankful that there are those out there in this country who have insured I have the right to my opinions even while others try to quell my pen....er, keyboard.

But most of all - this year, I am thankful that I had the opportunity to discover just how close and good of a friend Marshall Schlenz was to me. I've yet to have someone come forward and say they had a contract guaranteeing them eternity on Earth, so I have to accept that the short time we had to share on this planet is what God had planned for us. And when the time comes that we meet up again, I know I will be thankful for his forgiveness of my inability to live up to his expectations. There's not a lot of people who could make you laugh while reminding you how much you left on the table.

And lastly, speaking of tables, I am thankful for the massive amounts of food that my wife and daughter will prepare today and just want to remind all of you - if your turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes and everything else that garnishes your plate isn't touching..........you still have room for more!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Pleasantly Blu-Team

TJ saved his pennies so WE could return to God's country. Brian Crockett and Mike Quigley got together and filled the gap when the regular NW touring group refused to book a date in front of the greatest sprint car fans I've ever encountered.



Three nights in four days would begin on Wednesday in Great Falls, where the city of about 55,000 had enough race fans to nearly pack the stands. Montana is a place where people work, and work nights don't normally include staying out late or calling in sick the next day. Unequivocally, there is no place I would rather sign in at the back gate as a race team, then to do it in Great Falls Montana. That's not to slight the fans elsewhere. There's just something to be said for not being taken for granted.

We ran decent in our 2-night visit there last year, and had high hopes of making a good showing again. My wife loaded the Excursion to ensure my old traveling habits would endure, which basically means no stopping. Five people, Max, a full tank of $4/gal gas, some Mountain Dew, one race car in an old worn out trailer, a couple of spare parts, and at least three Ipods tipped the Tokio scale 30 pounds shy of 19,000 lbs. Max was the first to go lights out as usual, and with the entire rear cargo area to himself, had the second best seat for the 650 mile run to Great Falls.

My traveling plans normally do not include driving while the sun is coming up. We left around 9 PM, and calculations and previous history told me Missoula would be hard to make before the orange glow would bob my head. My traveling companions are easy to get along with, and all agreed that camping in the Excursion would suffice for the first leg of the trip. As we rolled through Spokane, Max woke long enough to utilize TJ's cell phone Internet capabilities and make his final Facebook post before we entered what Del Gue once described as the marrow of the world - the Rocky Mountains. I've traveled I-90 from it's Western end hundreds, if not thousands, of times. I never feel at home until I climb the grade out of Coeur d'Alene. Thats where traffic thins, the glow of city lights are few, and 19th century pioneers heading West had put the toughest part behind them.

The beauty of Montana begins at the top of Lookout Pass and continues for the entire 750 miles it takes to cross the Big Sky Country. Unfortunately, the first 20 miles of highway will have you cussing as your kidneys struggle to contain. Ann and Max begged for a stop, so Nicki and I obliged. Shelby woke long enough to climb from the car and satisfy herself that she had finally touched a foot on Idaho soil. The upper panhandle of Idaho is such that if you blink, or in her case - snooze, you just missed Idaho. The laughter was enjoyed by everyone except TJ who slept through it all...........as usual.

Normally, that would have been the time and spot for me to close my eyes as the sun struggled to clear the Mountains, but the fresh air and the thought of not being hassled for towing a trailer with the speedometer set on 80, gave me strength. One time I had Montana's finest pull alongside us and flash his overheads. I slowed to 80 and he continued on, obviously in search of real criminals.



Missoula was in reach as far as my need for sleep was concerned. A dose of adrenalin overrode the head bob when the low fuel light kicked on. Obviously we should have went back inside to give the cashier another $20 to top the tank. Pay the cashier first sucks ass. So does $140 fill ups when it doesn't even top the tank. I could have hit the first exit I came to, but it wasn't in my plan, so I continued comfortable in the fact that it was a gasoline engine and we had 10 gallons in reserve in the trailer. I would not have been so callous with the diesel rig. Four miles before my scheduled stop, I watched the needle drop and I swear I heard it make a sound like "plunk". Diesel engines will not run on fumes, but evidently gasoline ones do. I shut the engine off at pump #19, laughed loud enough to wake my companions, and instructed TJ to tell the cashier $160 of mid-grade. It didn't top the tank, but no big deal. The next leg was a short one anyway, and with a maple bar in hand, I headed up the Blackfoot River puffing my chest out that I had licked the gas pump and the rising sun.

Unless you know what you're looking at on Montana Hwy 200, it's easy to take the 130 mile run to Great Falls for granted. To the South is the Ovando Valley with ominous mountain ranges behind. To the North is 1.5 millions acres of the Bob Marshall Wilderness.....nothing motorized allowed. All along the highway is enough freshly killed meat for the Bald Eagles to call dinner. Eagles like to eat their food fresh, as it struggles on it's last breath. The display is a warning to the regulars that you need to be on your toes traveling this hiway. Dead ahead is Lincoln Montana, home of the una-bomber, banana milkshakes, and policies that allow snowmobiles to fuel up at the local gas station. The sign said August 17 - 8:00AM and 40 degrees as I slowed enough so as not to aggravate the locals. The continental divide crossing of Roger Pass and the coldest recorded temperature in the US outside of Alaska at -70 was dead ahead, and beyond that, the Eastern slopes of Montana that any normal thinking pioneer would have pulled up camp and called it good as he stared at the task that lay before him should he continue. They don't measure Eastern Montana in acres.

We pulled into the Electric City Speedway and unhooked the trailer, then went to find some breakfast, and check in to the motel for a couple hours sleep. When you stay up all night you lose track of time and the motel clerk said not yet, so we made our way to the namesake of the city and took in the Great Falls and Black Eagle power station of the upper Missouri River. This stuff is easy to take for granted unless you read the signs with diary notes from the Lewis & Clark expedition. Progress and the industrial age have made their impressions since, but Montana is still virgin enough that the diary notes still reflect exactly what you see in front of you. It's awe-inspiring to me. And as I listened to the rumble of the water over the falls and watched the birds prey on fish, I couldn't help but wonder how many times a single drop of water had found it's way over those falls since the beginning of time. More than twice was our conclusion.



We napped a little, searched the pill box for something that would regulate the fuel to the 6,500 ft elevation and 80ADR, and caught up a little with some folks who TJ had raced quarter midgets with. Dan Mann (Electric City Speedway owner) made his way over to say thanks for coming and show how much he appreciated us and others for coming. A simple task and normal protocol yes, but not easily done when you are nursing a broken foot and three broken ribs from last weeks quad rollover up in the mountains. Dan walked his way out in search for help. He's about 20 years my senior and I'm in the latter stages of my 40's. Someone helped him climb into the grader to prep his race track. He is the reason his grandstands are packed, and racers travel to take his money.

19 cars signed in including Jason Solwold in the 39c and Steven Allard in Ritchie Petersons local car. Ramaker and a few other locals along with a homecoming for a few that had long since left Montana for the fame that California brings. Edmonton was represented as well. In typical TJ fashion he drew the last pill, and laid down a decent qualifying lap of 8th quick. The short car count and invert 6 take 5 with time back to the 6 quick format meant no matter what happened he was going to start the main in 8th. Watching the heat race, you would never have guessed it though. I drove the bumper cars at the Seattle Center one time. It didn't pay anything either.

We were decent in hot laps and qualifying and kept making it worse. Our confidence to tighten the car up Silva style made it tough to get away from the carnage that was about to ensue. If it stayed green , we were OK. If the traveling official had not trusted the racers to play fair without a restart cone, we were OK. Solwold was the first to tire of the pole-sitting brake checker, and noticing the lack of orange cone, made up for his 2nd to 5th place first lap mistake by making it two wide alongside the 2nd place car in a single file restart. We've often been told that some of the local cars are squirrels and you have to watch out for them. After the heat race and up to the point of that first single file main event restart, I learned something. I learned that there are those who simply need to be shown the proper way to do things. On the second single file restart, Solwold had shown them what to do, and the resulting carnage was starting to stink up the show. During the red flag, Frenchy defended his drivers actions as it is what it is, and voiced his displeasure about the brake checking going on. I simply thanked the officials for deciding to utilize the cone on the next green and wished they had not trusted the racers so much before we went from 6th to 9th and had both ends of the car damaged.

The next restart was clean and kept the racing green long enough to get into lapped traffic. A yellow bunched the field up and placed TJ back a spot behind a lapped car he had just passed, and who was not about to give up a meaningless position to anyone under any circumstance. On the restart the lapped car went high in turn 1, TJ went low in turn 1 and 2, then the lapped car went low in turn 2, and TJ walked back to our pits. I have never, I repeat never, been thanked for coming to a race track by the tow truck operators. And these guys made Dan Mann look like a teenager. And it was a work night. They are an appreciative bunch in Montana.

We popped a new front end in the car and vowed to evaluate our condition to continue the week after a good nights sleep. Max hogged the bed, but after having been up for a day and a half, I had no problem sleeping. I awoke wondering if I would be able to transport my wife home in time to return to work if we encountered another night like that. Some of you know the story, but I was worn out, and had obviously over-estimated my ability to do the trip. TJ simply said he knew if we had any problems, it would be a problem, and agreed that heading for home was probably the best thing to do. Ann, Nicki, and Shelby were not to happy, but each is frugal with their money and playing bumper cars is not in our budget. Max never said a word. He never does. Just take him with you whatever direction you go and he is fine. As it turned out, we made the right decision without having ever checked out the car in the daylight. Bumpers, front wing, and axles were in our spare inventory. A steering box was not.

TJ called Dan and thanked him for the hosting the race and the money earned for our 12th place finish. He apologized and promised to be back. As we started the climb of the Eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, TJ remarked - "I should have followed Solwold on that restart then I would have been in third." I simply replied - I would have black flagged you.

TJ's is the racer, I am not. We took our time going home, making rare stops for food that included french fries that Max spit out, observation of more of God's creation, ice cream from a Dairy Queen that doesn't sell anything but and is only open in the Summer because nobody buys ice cream when it's 20 below. The kids had seen where I grew up before, but were too young to remember, so I gave a tour of Missoula. Apparently I was thinking out loud on a few occasions as every corner of the city brought back a memory. Ann openly stated she was glad our kids weren't like me when I was younger. I agreed. I also recall it being a different time where it took less time to look back at your mistakes and find the humor in them.



The old house seems small and I doubt I could back a trailer between the house and the neighbors garage anymore. Something has changed and I doubt they moved the garage closer. The schools seem small too, and that dip in the front lawn of Sentinel High School doesn't seem so hard to climb out of when it's covered in snow and you got stuck showing off. Montana is still huge though. If we had not been towing the trailer and praying for double digit fuel mileage numbers, I would have spent the next 3 days taking it all in. I secretly thought about how this was the real reason I wanted to return to the marrow of the world. It wasn't so we could race. That was just a bonus.

Allard won Wednesday nights fiasco, Crockett won Friday in Belgrade (a track we have yet to see but vow to take in), and Ramaker made up for his Wednesday refusal to shut his car off during the National Anthym and did the locals proud again by taking Saturday night back in Great Falls. We call Puyallup our home, and it is. But it doesn't have my heart. If we had been pioneers, I know where we would have stopped. Provided of course, the friggin' wagon wheel hadn't fallen off from Ann packing for the trip.

The words I need to express for my gratitude to a few people have not come in a timely manner. The happiness I feel that encompasses the trip that TJ took this past Spring, how it came about, who made it possible, and the way it blossomed into more than just another excursion to the other end of this planet, is still a reminder of something I can’t shake. TJ’s trip to Australia was more than just his dream. It was the culmination of someone else’s plans, made long before TJ ever knew the people who made it possible.


Life is full of the unexpected, sometimes good sometimes bad, but always just a part of being here. I’ve been asked a multitude of times how it came to be that my son would be down in Australia when the racing season was just getting underway up here. Though in a way it is a somewhat sad story, his decision to pack a bag for the unknown was easy. Racers stories are full of meeting the right person at the right time, but few get their start with the parties involved having never actually met. An open mind and an ear for sincerity are qualities that can bring together great relationships. This wouldn’t be the first time our lives would be touched in such a way, but it tied together more than this one story.

Yes, it is the dream of virtually every American sprint car or midget driver to spend our Winter in the Southern Hemisphere where people talk funny, the animals are strange, their cars are stranger, and the toilet water flushes backward. As much as the Aussies admire American drivers, American drivers admire the Aussies themselves. We had only heard stories about how friendly the people from a land that was settled as a penal colony were. Hard to imagine, but they do sit on the wrong side of their cars and drive on the wrong side of the road, so maybe they just got this whole human relationship thing backwards too………..start out with trust, courtesy, and admiration. Or maybe it’s just some of us Americans that got it all backwards. I’m reminded of a time where someone here once told me I had to earn their respect. I simply replied: Ya? Well, you have to un-earn mine. Maybe I’m living on the wrong side of the equator.

How it all came about is really just too simple to comprehend, and most people look at me with skepticism when I tell the story. Without all the intimate details, the story is – TJ came to me and said he had an opportunity to fly to Queensland, which had been virtually underwater this past Winter (or their Summer – whichever you prefer), and that’s about all I had heard of the place. He had met a few people in his on-line racing, which as a side note, explains a lot about why he slept until noon and stayed up until 5AM. I wonder if he was off ¾ of a day as well. But anyway, a suggestion and offer had been made to fly him down there, get to know the people he had only spoken with on-line, and hang out at some race tracks as the Australian Speedway season was winding down.

I truly do not know if he was asking for my permission, or for my encouragement and blessing. I simply made two stipulations, and then offered my opinion. Stipulation number one was to make it work with his schooling. Nothing is going to interfere with making sure his education is the priority. It took all of 5 seconds for his professor to grant his permission and set up a plan to continue his studies from abroad. Stipulation two was a little more difficult. The plan included to take his racing gear with him, as all smart racers do, in case something lined up. A radio show from Sydney was already talking about him making the trip down and trying to line up a ride, but without an established connection to a team, it would be a longshot at best. I stated that I did not want the reason for going somewhere he had never been to be hinged on whether or not he got in a race car. I did not want what would be a life changing experience to be clouded in disappointment if his gear never got unpacked. In all honesty, that may have been the most thought provoking thing I said to TJ. Racers want to race.

The advice I offered is this: when you are 19 years old with no bills, no cat to feed, no utility bills or rent to pay, and no real responsibility like a job to answer to, this is when you pack a bag, put your nose into the wind, and go see what else is out there in the world. You may just discover that you never want to come back. Make it work with school, call only if you need something, and let us know if and when you are coming home.

It was that simple. My son, who once upon a time would get sick from nerves if we went someplace new, or if they changed the lunchroom around at school he would go to the nurses office with a tummy ache, now had packed his clothes and race gear, boarded two planes for a total flight of about 16 hours, and his only concern was if the people he had never met would know who he was to pick him up in Brisbane, Queensland-Australia. As it turns out, those earrings he had begged for so long ago had finally served a purpose. I guess it was easy to spot a skinny kid carrying a Butlerbuilt seat and sporting two earrings. Our son had outgrown his tummy aches, and for the first time in 19+ years, I was happy that he had left us behind. Well, happy for him.


There are several people to thank for giving TJ (and as well – us) the opportunity this past Spring. First - I am forever indebted to Dale & Maria Grother. Their sacrifices to bring TJ down were more than monetary. It went beyond scouring the grocery stores in Brisbane for canned Mountain Dew. It went beyond the inconvenience of having a stranger live in your house, eat your food, and take up your space. It was truly a gesture that shows what kind of people they are – people that put others first……..good people.

Second – is Sid & Lisa Whittaker. Proving that Aussies are maybe too trusting, but know how to recognize good people like themselves, Sid and Lisa not only took someone they had just met into their home, they took him into their lives. TJ met Sid at a race track in New South Wales, and they simply clicked. Several weeks into TJ’s stay, he had stayed in contact with Sid, and transferred residence to their home on the Sunshine Coast to help out on Sid’s midget team, and take in some more of the non-racing sites of Australia. Lisa was the one who made the arrangements to get TJ’s flight changed when he was needed at home, among other things. She did it without hesitation and without reward. I cried when TJ phoned and told me he was coming home. I didn’t have the heart to ask him myself. He made that decision on his own and with Lisa’s help in the arrangements. An after note – a few weeks after TJ returned home, we were driving up to Dirt Cup and his phone rang. I tried to listen in on the conversation via the speaker phone, but the accent was too heavy for me to keep up. It was Sid on the other end, just calling to check on a friend. Just because, yep, that’s what friends do. It didn’t matter to me what was being said. The gesture was exactly what I had envisioned for TJ to get out of his trip – just to meet new people that know how to be a friend, or bloke, or mate, or whatever the term of endearment is down there. Good people.


Andy Ticehurst is someone that TJ met in the on-line racing, and someone who, along with Dale, went out on a limb to try and locate TJ a ride in a sprint car down under. A lesser minded person might see the trip as a bust when nothing could be made available, but was it really? If the whole intention of going had been to bolt the seat in a race car, then I suppose it was a failure. But if the goal was to experience something entirely new, meet new people, and be better and wiser for it, then Andy’s effort was a success. Andy and TJ never had a chance to meet up as the excursion to Sydney got cancelled, but I’m confident the opportunity will arise again. Andy’s kind words and effort to help TJ is something this father appreciates beyond words. Good people.

And last, but not least or because there are not more people to thank, (I simply don’t know all of the great people that made it possible) is a bloke by the name of Steve Weste. Now first, Steve is a semi tipper driver, and I’m going to assume that to mean he drives a dump truck. Or maybe a roll-off, but we won’t hold that against him. None of us knew who Steve was, including TJ, until my racing addicted son had spent $75 dollars on a cab ride to the race track, and thought it would be better to catch a ride back home with a complete stranger, than take a chance with a cabbie trying to run up the meter on a kid so far from home. Steve was just a fan at the races that night, and happened upon a kid that stuck out like a sore thumb. The lack of the Far Southern accent must have tipped him off, and after TJ explained his predicament, Steve was all too happy to drive TJ back home. Now the really strange part is not the fact that they were strangers that had just met, or that Steve wouldn’t accept any money. Nope. The strange part is that TJ was able to give him directions to get back. You see, TJ gets lost here at home when he has to go anywhere. We used to think he just enjoyed his sister Nicki’s company by asking her to go along with him. But apparently she is his GPS system. So that’s why he calls her Nick Nick. Steve, my hats off to you and one of these days I hope for two things to happen. First – I’d like to see what trucking is like in Australia. And second, if you ever make it to the States and need a ride, make sure you call me first. Hopefully it’s a ride to Knoxville in August. Good people.

Everyone should know that there is more to this than has been told so far. You see, the words I put in writing to say thank you can never convey what it meant to have TJ in Australia. And I don’t speak on behalf of just myself. In my previous blog I tried to write about how much our friend Marshall meant to us before, and now after, his passing. Marshall’s illness and the outcome is something that is still hard to accept. But in the despair I can still picture the look on his face and the sound of his voice when he learned that TJ would be going to Australia. Believe me when I say that he very much shared my vision of what the trip should be about. It was always his plan to see TJ race in Australia, but not before he had the opportunity to experience the land and people first. Marshall was the guy who accompanied TJ on his first trip to Orlando and the PRI show. Marshall knew enough about TJ to know that he should drive by the convention center where the show was being held the night before it opened, to alleviate any tummy aches that might arise. Marshall knew that TJ would be the one to have difficulty getting used to sitting on the wrong side of the car as a passenger, or going backwards though the drive-thru at McDonalds. His only disappointment would be that nobody got it on video.

Our friend put his own needs aside to talk with us about the details of TJ’s trip. He listened intently to what little details I could provide while TJ was there. When he learned that TJ had talked with, and then helped on, John Weatheralls Motorguard team, I can honestly say he was not surprised. Nor was he surprised when he heard about TJ hooking up with Sid – someone he had never met before that night. He knew that all TJ needed was the opportunity to smile in their presence. It was that smile and laid back attitude that captured Marshalls attention, and he knew it was only a matter of time before someone came along and stole our TJ away. In Marshalls final days before he passed, I witnessed him smile as he heard TJ’s voice on the other end of the line several times. TJ was exactly where Marshall wanted him to be at that moment - in Australia, surrounded by racers and people……….good people.

The absolute hardest thing I have ever had to do was tell TJ over the phone that our friend was not going to make it. I knew the odds were slim that they would ever see each other face to face again, but I also knew that their relationship was such that it did not matter. I resisted the urge to tell TJ to come home early, but I was relieved when he called back to say he had changed his flight and would be leaving the next day. The only thing I could think of to say at that moment was Marshall will see you soon Bud. Less than two hours later I had to call and tell him that Marshall had passed. I felt I had not told a lie in the way I worded the previous call.

The next 20 hours waiting for TJ’s flight to arrive may have been the longest hours of my life. And yet, through the sadness of losing a close friend, there were all these people, some of whom I had never met or even spoken too, at our side from the other end of the Earth. There were all these people taking care of TJ, helping him with the arrangements to get back home, sharing their concern, and sending their condolences. There were all these people who had helped someone they had never heard of, and without knowing, had granted him the ability to check off his list, one of the things he had dreamed of for his friend TJ – to see him in Australia…………surrounded by good people.

How could any of you have known. The fact is you didn’t, and yet you did it anyway. So you see, Dale & Maria and family, Sid & Lisa and your family, Andy, Steve, and even John Weatherall and your Motorguard team and anyone else I am leaving out…………..how am I supposed to put into words the gratitude I have for what you were able to provide – not only to TJ and myself, but to our friend Marshall as well. No words will ever be enough to describe the tone of his voice, or the look on his face in those final days, as he listened to the details of that lifetime experience he so much wanted to see for his friend.

And as such, no words will ever be enough to describe how grateful I am, and I know Marshall was, to each of you for providing that. As well, it may sound strange, but I thank you for the emotions I have in writing this blog. I hope you’ll forgive me for sharing it with others, the length of time it took to do it, and for the only words that come to mind to properly say thank you………………

Good People – Good On Ya

Pleasantly Blu-Team

I reflect back on my first encounter with Marshall Schlenz. He was standing on the berm in turns 3 & 4 at the old Grays Harbor Raceway watching hot laps. Coming from my left I heard a conversation that included the team I was there to help on that night. I turned to see an imposing figure dressed in street clothes studying the session without even a casual glance to make eye contact with me. The words spoken were not flattering, and they were not meant to be. They were meant to raise awareness and provoke thought. It was…………who he was.



Not too long ago we spoke for the first time of this (our first) encounter. We had long since developed our friendship into something more than special for me, and I wanted him to know what my thoughts were that day. While I have always valued the influence from all of the friendships I have made, only three have been allowed to guide me, and Marshall quickly became number three. As I described that day, he was not surprised by what he heard me say. I told him I was intrigued by what I heard, as some of it was news to me, and other parts had me wondering how this person could know what he did. Our friendship didn’t develop overnight, but that encounter on the berm in Elma was the catalyst for our relationship. While not pleasant, his words were eerily accurate. There would be many more times after that day that his thoughts would change a course…….or encourage the path. “Sometimes it is irritating” I would tell him. “Just give me the answer.” He was a teacher.

He had an intelligent and photographic mind. His ability to recall even that which didn’t stand out to you and I often had me in awe. We routinely spoke on the phone until the early morning hours. We laughed every time his phone would die like clockwork after 55 minutes, and I simply called him back on his other phone to continue the conversation. When he called and someone else answered the phone, it was never to ask if I was there. He engaged whomever he spoke with. He wanted to teach others that language and communication defines who you are. I struggled to meet his expectations for that – this I know. Yet he allowed me to communicate via my fingers even when he knew it was harmful. We did not agree on everything, but the ability to keep our thoughts open and in plain view is what we shared, and what kept our relationship strong. We never had to apologize for not being a friend to each other.

He was loathed by more than one message board owner and some posters, but loved by those who were not intimidated by oppression and thought. Truth be told, he actually shared the same goals as those who would try to quiet him. The difference being, Marshall saw banter and differences being shared through dialect as working towards a solution and betterment for all. I had to remind him of this on more than one occasion when his daughter would spar with him. She may have been the only person to ever truly frustrate him, and as I told him, you taught her too well. He would simply say “I know it.” He was sometimes frustrating for us. He created his match in her, and I suspect it was by design. He loved her enough to give himself for her.



He brought his family into quarter midget racing in full force. Not like most however. He recognized the avenues that quarter midget racing provided to which the family could bond, social skills could develop, and one could lend them self to ensuring the future of a sport they love. I tried to resign my post as President of the club one time, and that led to the only time I ever saw fear in Fred Brownfield’s eyes. Marshall would be the replacement, and Fred knew he was a worthy adversary in the form of an advocate. Fred was also the recipient (from Marshall) of the greatest compliment one can receive. Marshall was skeptical and borderline critical when Fred first took over operations of the Grays Harbor Raceway. Anyone can kiss your ass and tell you that you were right without ever questioning what you do. When one approaches you directly and admits they were wrong, it generates respect on both sides. I wasn’t there that day, but I suspect Fred simply winked and welcomed him aboard. That takes thought and an open mind on both sides. But it also took passion – something they both shared and what made them great. Is it so hard to fathom why the two of them were two of the three I allowed to guide me. Fred was better at giving me the answers though. Marshall knew I need the challenge.

Leading a group of volunteers will challenge you. One time I was questioned to the point of interrogation by some members regarding a minor safety regulation within QMA. Those who would not accept an answer I simply relayed, yet they disagreed with, found their advocate in Marshall – or so they misinterpreted. Standing at the door to my trailer, he wanted me to further define what was clearly written on the paper in his hand. I sternly told him that I had been doing this QMA thing for quite some time now, and did not need to be quizzed by a group of people who were simply looking to skirt the rules. He announced, rather intimidating I will say, his tenure of being involved in racing and he reminded me of how if time on the job was the issue, his experience trumped mine. After things calmed down I realized he was only trying to lead me to a better avenue of showing the people what they needed to find out for themselves but were too lazy to do so. He should have just given me the answer, but then it would have looked odd………..and it certainly would not have been Marshall’s way.

He stuck up for me more than one time, and looked out for my son as if he was his own. He would always ask me how I was, but especially lately, not before he asked how TJ and Nicki were. It went beyond a simple desire to help and be a part of TJ’s racing or interest in what they do. He wanted to teach. That’s who he was, and he admired his pupils that would listen and think. I suspect he was trying to emulate “Old Man Freedman”, his High School English teacher whom he routinely made fun of his teaching methods. Marshall called him 25 years after he last saw him to see if he would remember the kid who had disrupted his class. When Harold Freedman asked Marshall if ever got to race all those cars he wrote about, it erased all the doubts Marshall had expressed about his methods of teaching. I am glad it didn’t take me 25 years to discover Marshalls methods. Had I reacted differently on that fateful day in Elma, I may have never discovered my Mr Freedman. Marshall always felt a driver needs to earn it, and I suspect he got that from Harold Freedman. I hope they can now get completely caught up.

In a selfish world Marshall demonstrated how to give. Excess was not to be wasted and I was humbled when he suggested that extra items or food that surfaced be given to homeless and other shelters. When most people are driving to work they are thinking about their day and what is ahead. Many of our mid-day conversations involved Marshall telling me of the homeless guy he regularly observed and engaged near his work. I think he felt guilty that he had stopped smoking for the simple reason he couldn’t offer one of his cigarettes to the man. I reminded him that it was actually helping both of them. He agreed, but knew his reasons for quitting were not to be enjoyed by the homeless man. It is widely known that he has helped TJ in racing. It’s not so widely known how many others he has helped. In short – any and everyone in some sort of way, even if they didn’t realize it. I’ll never forget the day someone asked him for advice on how to get his 5 year old sons racing career started. “How do you know he wants to be a race car driver” Marshall responded. I won’t say what he said next.

One of his great gifts as a person was his ability to talk and hold conversation. When he wanted to show you how dumb you were really being, his voice changed to a Dr Phil impersonation that would have whomever was in listening range rolling on the ground in laughter. His wit was quick and often missed by those who were slow to get it. As he was being transferred to a different room the other night, the pair of interns assigned to transfer his bed and IV’s from the room kept bumping the door and tugging on the lines. Marshall simply looked at the badges on their chest and asked “so how do you like working at Boeing?” If they got it, they never figured it out at that moment. He did his best to embarrass the people he cared about the most and for the sole purpose of making sure they would forever hold a memory of their relationship. Although, it would seem only fair that both parties would be present to get the full affect, eh Shelby?

He wasn’t afraid to make himself the butt of the joke either. When Vern walked into the hospital room in the hours before Marshall was to pass, I struggled to hold back the laughter thinking about a story he once told. He liked to park next to Vern when they raced together so he could get out of the car and yell out in his best Rainman voice – “V - E - R - N, V - E - R - N, of course I’m a good driver aren’t I Vern?” He said they both laughed about the looks people would give wondering who this “challenged” person was driving a sprint car. Marshall was not ashamed to say his abilities in a dirt sprint car were average at best either. He had his moments, and explained them to me during the night of TJ’s first ever sprint car race. As my anxiety raged over making sure everything was perfect on the car, Marshall simply said – “do you really think he’s not going to win here tonight?” Huh? – I asked. “Listen”, he responded, “if I was in the car and we won here it would be a big deal. This is TJ we’re talking about and this is just to get his feet wet.” Some people have acted as though TJ should have won many races by now. If Marshall had actually drawn a chart, it would show he is right where his teacher expected him to be. “Anybody can put a monkey in the seat and tell them to stand on the gas” he would say. His baby step process and TJ’s “only going to do what I know I’m capable of” attitude was a perfect blend.

And yet he loved confidence. In his final days he and the nursing staff were able to experience one of the people Marshall loved the most. Even in his self-imposed toned down voice (which really wasn’t), the staff and patients on the 9th and 3rd floors knew good times were being shared. Marshall knew John was one of the people in his life that he could count on for anything, and to be able to share a laugh in his presence meant a lot to him and to me as well. We all laughed about someone that was not present, and yet this person knows the role he played in making others happy and better for it. I’m going to need someone like that to replace the person I lost. At the very least, someone as my phone date/sounding board. However, I’m going to break him in slow because 2AM phone calls laughing, bitching, and fighting while the wives are trying to sleep is not for the faint of heart. It’s going to take awhile though. Losing hurts. The hardest thing I have ever done is phoning TJ and telling him the news about our friend, and yet I know TJ was right where Marshall wanted him to be – in Australia, at a race track. Marshall passed at 10:30 PM our time. A few hours later, the race in Brisbane rained out.

One of John’s favorite questions to ask is “did you see me out there!” Well now Marshall has no excuse John………….for he has a premium seat and can see everything. I hope he is as forgiving to us as we were to him when unwritten agreements get broken – hungry and a rainout or not. I hope he and Fred and LeRoy are proud of what they see, and that they find a way to send me a message reminding me when I’m off track. Marshall once tried to help someone understand something that she did obviously not understand. In the exchange and after several attempts to explain it differently, Marshall bowed and said she may be misunderstanding what he was trying to say. She retorted with “I didn’t misunderstand, you're saying it wrong.” And that’s usually what happens isn’t it.



I’m not exceptionally spiritual, but I believe in God and faith. I believe Native rituals are stronger than most for the simple fact they are not contaminated with greed, policy, or agenda. When Ed waved the Eagle feather around Marshalls body, he was brought to peace for the first time in days without the aid of drugs or encouragement or love from his family and friends. I saw it, and I am grateful to have been there for it. As expected, this is hard for Diana & Kailey and all of Marshall’s family and friends and time will be our ally – this I am sure. I am envious that I did not get the time and experience that so many others were able to get by being around him for so long. We were late on the racing scene, but I loved listening to his stories and his knowledge of the racing community and history. Selfishly, I am deeply saddened at the loss of my friend, teacher, confidant, supporter, and surrogate family member. But I am happy that he is in a great place where you never say it wrong and they understand you just fine. When the light that’s lost within us reaches the sky, you know you have found peace.

And if they don’t like the way we spell Sprintcarz, or Bluteam, well that’s OK - they’re just afraid to change.

May you Rest in Peace Marshall Schlenz. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FhQM41vBKvs

Bluteam