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 ]]>http://www.tjhartmanracing.com/pleasantlyblue/index.php?entry=entry120203-1331312012-02-03T00:00:00Z2012-02-03T00:00:00ZAdmiration for all of the Turkeys in my Life! 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]]>http://www.tjhartmanracing.com/pleasantlyblue/index.php?entry=entry111124-0319042011-11-24T00:00:00Z2011-11-24T00:00:00ZMarrow of the World
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. ]]>http://www.tjhartmanracing.com/pleasantlyblue/index.php?entry=entry110821-1459252011-08-21T00:00:00Z2011-08-21T00:00:00ZGood People 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 ]]>http://www.tjhartmanracing.com/pleasantlyblue/index.php?entry=entry110809-0533402011-08-09T00:00:00Z2011-08-09T00:00:00ZSprintcarz is spelled with a Z
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.
Bluteam ]]>http://www.tjhartmanracing.com/pleasantlyblue/index.php?entry=entry110521-1903252011-05-22T00:00:00Z2011-05-22T00:00:00ZA Ribbon Cutting Ceremony It was an extraordinary and spectacular achievement and something I will cherish and be proud of until my final days. The link to the story is below, and tells of the true reward for being a true volunteer. Enjoy,
Pleasantly Blu-Team
http://quartermidgets.org/Article_View_ ... race+track]]>http://www.tjhartmanracing.com/pleasantlyblue/index.php?entry=entry110521-0407242011-05-21T00:00:00Z2011-05-21T00:00:00ZVolunteer TJ is still in Australia and along with having a good time, he is being treated great by his host family and all the new friends he has made down there. All of us are happy for him, coping without him, and looking forward to having the little annoying things he does, back among us soon.
Nicki took to tennis like a duck to water. While I wasn't surprised that she would do great at anything she tried, I was surprised at the fire she exuded and the competitiveness she showed. It's not easy to forget that little curly haired girl who was smooth in a race car but asked how many laps was left.
Marshall and his family are constantly in my thoughts, though I've found it hard at times to know how to inspire them. That was usually his role in our relationship. I decided a couple of weeks ago that I would resort to doing what I always did, and that is whining to him about my problems so he can tune me up and make himself feel important. It seems to perk him up and gives me a good indication that better days are ahead for my friend. It's easy to get lost in this fast paced world and forget what is really important. Marshall and I agree on one thing - we're not done yet.
Not sure who is turning into who, but Max and I can communicate without speaking......or barking, whichever it is. How warm it feels to know you're wanted. Anything he wants, he gets - and vice versa. Dogs are much better than people. A dog will lick the hand that has no food.
.......which leads me to my pet peeve of the day. When you are being compensated for something, no matter how minute you want to pretend the compensation is, you are NOT a volunteer. Pretending otherwise only enforces the notion that your intentions are not pure. I will never be the one to decide who should give and who should receive, but until you have truly volunteered your time, energy, mind, and body to something you believe in and love, then you will never know the satisfaction of what it is like to be a giver. Only a person with an agenda would be so pretentious to think otherwise.
Wishing, hoping, and praying for the cures to all that ails mankind,
Pleasantly Blu-Team
]]>http://www.tjhartmanracing.com/pleasantlyblue/index.php?entry=entry110516-0341312011-05-16T00:00:00Z2011-05-16T00:00:00ZI wanted a real job
Work, play…………..work to play. The satisfaction of a paycheck in my hand is something I cherished. To this day I would never accept automatic deposit for something I earned, even despite the hazards of theft and fraud via the US Postal Service and relatives gone off the deep end hell bent on destruction. Too many years of working for nothing, literally nothing, led me to the practice of having that check in hand before it was deposited in the bank to die a slow death……though sometimes not so slow.
18 years old, with the world at my door – no bills, no big responsibilities like a house payment or car payment, no cat to feed, and really in all reality – nobody to answer to but myself. Yet I had been trained to work. Trained to give 110% all the time. Trained to think that work was what made you who you are and what would lead you to wherever we end up in this life. Ultimately, it does for so many doesn’t it.
My older brother tried to convince me to take a path he had not chosen. As I said, we were trained from early on. “Working” would make us better workers. My brother knew a guy who was friends with someone running a professional drag team out of Denver. I can’t recall who or even what it was. A dragster comes to mind, but it could have been different. My brother wanted me to go on the road with them and his enthusiasm suggested to me it was in part to fulfill the opportunities he had missed, and in part to get out of the rut we had both dealt with, which was working for little or nothing all of our lives.
I hesitated, and ultimately let the opportunity slip by. It was never brought up again, but I’ve thought about it from time to time. Where would I be now. I read the stories of the hobby that interests me now and wonder what it would have been like to have been so bold and hook up with those who are now legends……………..yet never really had a real job. Could they really call it work?
So here we are and I don’t regret it. I kept my focus on where I was trained to be. I made a couple of wrong turns, but never somewhere I couldn’t back out of. But I did use the experience of not having made that choice, to talk with the young people that I had influence over, and let them know how their lives could be if given the opportunity like I once had. There is nothing wrong with working, and while on occasion I am bitter for what we were forced into, I know it made us who we are – in all aspects, and that is a good thing. But I remind my kids of several things (sometimes to the dismay of my wife), there is plenty of time in your life to work. We’re only on this planet for a very short time, and being burned out after working for 30 years shouldn’t happen before you’re 40 years old. And while I help them understand the good feelings, and the value of doing a task properly and efficiently, I don’t try to pull the rug over their eyes and tell them it’s for their own good and will make them better than their counterparts who they might one day work alongside.
I will never forget the realization of how wrong my parents were when a discussion with a co-worker involved how much money we were being paid. There I was, in my 20’s, and ecstatic at the thought of a healthy wage after so many years of working for nothing. There he was, my equal in experience and ability, and reminding me that he had never made less since he was 14 years old. It wasn’t the money that took the wind out of me. It was the value, and how I had come to finally be that equal, all the while being led to believe it was a process. It wasn’t. I’m who I am because of where I’ve been and I’m OK with that.
On April 6th TJ boards a flight for Brisbane, Queensland, Australia. As I told him when he asked – you’re 19, you have no bills, no car payment, no house payment, and no cat to feed. You’ve got the world at your door and now is the time to take advantage of this kind of opportunity. I had one stipulation and that was to make it work with his school because his education was the number one priority. It took his professor all of 5 seconds to grant his approval which was only slightly more time than it took for TJ to make up his own mind. I’m envious, I’m saddened, I’m overjoyed, and I am proud. It takes balls to be that age and pack your bag for the unknown.
Three days after booking the flight, the wave of good fortune kept flowing and TJ is in line to be the recipient of yet another lesson I have tried to teach him. This parenting thing isn’t so difficult………..especially when you have kids such as mine and friends who can see their potential – even from afar. I’m indebted to them all. There is a lot to be said for hard work and being focused on a job and a career. There is also a lot to be said for knowing when that time is – and who it applies to. Some people are beyond what I was capable of and I’m proud to call one of them my son.
Pleasantly Blu-Team ]]>http://www.tjhartmanracing.com/pleasantlyblue/index.php?entry=entry110328-1441182011-03-28T00:00:00Z2011-03-28T00:00:00ZGet Out of Denver Baby Go Go! Depending on how you look at it, Ann is either a godsend to a husband, or a car lover’s worst nightmare. In the 28 years I’ve known her, she has never longed to have a new vehicle. It’s her fiscally conservative attitude that rules. Yes, she’s cheap. I often joked I could have brought home a 1973 Dodge Dart 4-door with a slant 6 engine and she would have been fine as long as the doors shut and the engine started. Ironically I just described the same car her late dad had when I met her.
TJ is much the same to Ann, as Nicki is to me. He wouldn’t mind having a nice El Camino to sport around in, but he sees the advantage of a good economical (cheap) car. Nicki – it had to be a red, lowered, aluminum wheels, extra cab, 2-wheel drive pick-up – preferably an S-10. Oh yes, it would be hers. She had dreamed of it since she was 8, and nothing I could do would persuade her from choosing something less conspicuous. Thankfully she is a girl, and less prone to being taught a lesson by Pierce County’s finest, as they once tried to convince me is their job.
I had been asking Ann for a better tow vehicle for the race car. Not that my pickup was above exiting the safety of the garage, but it just is not conducive to 4 or 5 adults, the dog, overnight bags, etc, etc, on an extended road trip. The kids have grown up, and I didn’t get married so we could take separate vehicles everywhere. My two year long search ended with a perfect find…….at least for us. TJ and I had discussed that if he were to continue racing, he was going to need something that would not only pull a trailer (scratch the El Camino and the economical car) but it would also need to haul a crew, without care about muddy feet or dirty clothes. Crew cab dually’s were a second choice, as using them for everyday drivers is impractical what with today’s parking structures. But we searched, and finally found our first choice, perfect in every sense right down to the carpet delete option.
I spent all of 10 minutes making sure the car fax was legit, noted the extensive service records of the fleet vehicle, negotiated a ride from the airport in Denver, and packed an overnight bag complete with my Sorels. It was February, and any man would be a fool to head into the Wyoming/Montana Winter without them. It had been a few years since I traversed the land that only brave (or stupid) men opted to homestead, and I was excited to do it again. Frugal Ann booked me on a flight to Denver that cost less than a taxi ride from my home to the airport, and I have to say, I don’t know how they do it so cheap, but the flight was very pleasant. I sat between two very nice ladies, one of whom described her work as a linguist for others in understanding the bible. “Not a translator” she corrected, but a person who helps others understand our language as they read it. “Not all words and phrases mean the same thing in different languages” and I could relate having listened in on TJ’s recent conversations with his Down Under racing buddies. What the hell is a singlet anyway?
I noted the toll road that directed us around Denver, and wondered aloud if the lack of toll booths would prevent someone without an electronic pass from making time back North. I was told they don’t send bills to out of staters, and particularly if they have no license plate to read anyway. Travelers in the Mile High take note. The dealer was kind enough to replace the front brakes for me as a good will gesture, I handed over the remaining portion of the purchase price with a cashiers check, stopped to get some lunch and a Mountain Dew, and I was off in the newly acquired Ford Excursion, complete with carpet delete option. It was about to get interesting.
I took my time walking her up to the 75 mph Colorado speed limit, wanting to sense every squeak, rattle, and vibration. My days of trucking were often filled with just the noise of the engine, drivetrain, and road, as I listened for anything that could go wrong. I’ve never been one to make note of a vehicles sound system. Oh, I listen to the radio and music, but it’s a lot like the wiper blades – sometimes I forget that they are on. I left Parker, entered E-470 assured that there was no need to worry about paying the toll, and by the time I merged back into I-25, I was comfortable with the purchase and had the cruise set at 78. Part of the appeal of this rig was going to be the reaction of other drivers as the all white with blacked out hub caps on grey steel wheels 2wd sport utility vehicle with an antenna sticking out of the roof came up on them. I’ll admit to being disappointed that Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, & Idaho State Police vehicles are dark in color. Of well, perhaps they would think I was DEA or ATF.
Two hours from Parker the sky got dark, the wind kicked up as I know it always is in Wyoming, and I knew I was headed into Winter. The beautiful blue skies of Colorado were closing. The majestic Rocky Mountain range that defines North and South and East from West in Colorado was starting to flatten out……well not really flatten out. It was the Wyoming plains rising to her level. It’s hard to imagine or put into description the magnitude of this Earths sculpture and that of the Rockies. I’ve always felt that the best way to understand the scope of the land was to head North out of Denver with one eye to the West, and the other eye on an altimeter. Watch as about the time you reach Fort Collins, the mountain range starts to disappear. Or does it? I’ve been asked more than once why I always choose to head North and hook up with I-90 as opposed to the shorter route via I-80/I-82 West. Two reasons. First, there is always a head wind in Wyoming if you’re headed East or West. I don’t know why, it’s just always that way. Second, you’re driving along thinking you’re just on some rolling hills and the next thing you know the sign says 8500 ft and you’ve crossed the Continental Divide twice. Wyoming is beautiful in an ugly step-sister sort of way. It’s barren and lonely, and a great place to be alone with your thoughts. It’s not the place to be unprepared in the Winter. They have gates on the Interstate, and when the man says no, it means no. I-80 is often traversed by those wishing to avoid a fear of what the North brings, and can more often than not be plugged with those who would have been scalped or left as buzzard bait a mere century ago. I find the odds better the further North I can get.
As the sun dropped the snow increased. By the time I hit Casper there was a foot of snow on the ground, rooster tails and 10 degree temperatures had relegated the rear window wiper useless, and it was time to fill the tank, toss the un-drank diet Mountain dew I had mistakenly purchased in Parker, and get my first real caffeine fix in almost 20 hours. People find it odd that I was a truck driver who has never tasted coffee. I love the smell, but Mountain Dew has kept me going since the days of my youth staying up to late and being awoken too early. I paid the clerk, was impressed with the gas mileage the 413 cubic inch Ford Triton V-10 had attained despite all warnings, and scraped the windows that had frozen over in the time it took me to use the facilities.
Awaiting my turn to exit the parking lot, chaos erupted. The truck in front of me lept forward in an attempt to avoid the Expedition that was not going to make the entrance into the gas station. The slick surface made him partially stall, and had he simply maintained his position, it would have been only two vehicles involved instead of three. Left rears connected and suddenly I was staring head on into the frightened eyes of a blond lady in the passenger seat of her soon to be bitched at husbands crashed car. Contact was made, but I wasn’t going to scrape the ice and snow off the bumper off my car to find out where. Besides, if there had been significant damage, wouldn’t it have scraped the ice itself? I glanced at the tow hooks and made note of how the imprint in the Expedition matched, asked the man and his still startled wife if they were OK, let him know myself and my car were good to go, and suggested he focus his energy on the gentleman with the Toyota Tundra that was now in need of a tow truck. Ten minutes up I-25 it was now dark, cold, and lonely. I thought for a minute how close I came to being stranded in Casper Wyoming after having owned the new Excursion for less than five hours. I laughed out loud when I reminded myself that this vehicle had already served its purpose. Had that been my pick-up, we would have moved the inspection to a heated facility where I had the ability to remove the snow and ice, wash and polish the truck, and complete a thorough inspection.
If I was to offer any advice to someone on how to deal with Winter traveling conditions on the high plains and Rocky Mountain states, it would be this: bring your Sorels. bring a blanket. bring some gloves. And get in line with the LTL freight haulers. These are the guys who know the roads, travel them every single day, no what and where to expect surprises, and give you the confidence to drive while blind. My eyes are starting to fail me, but it adds a unique perspective when any amount of light causes a starburst like glare to the landscape. People don’t understand how you can truck along at normal speeds in the dead of Winter. Well, look at the tread of the tires. If they’re white, you’ve got grip. As long as you don’t do anything stupid, the cold is your ally. The Overnight Express truck and I moved along at the 75 mph speed limit towards Billings and saw less traffic then I could count on my fingers and toes. I silently muttered how heading North was once again the right decision, at the same time I kicked myself for forgetting the gloves and blanket. I had actually thought about the blanket before leaving home, but my travel bag wasn’t big enough, and besides, if something happened, I would just stop for the night. I had no schedule to keep, and the only reason to keep going is the fear of the vehicle freezing up. About then I decided to phone Ann and get a weather report. Minus 10 along the corridor did not give me comfort to park a vehicle I knew little about. But my hands were cold, my legs were frozen, and I was having a difficult time understanding how the heater could be working but I was freezing. It had only happened to me one time before. When you have to wrap yourself in a blanket with the heater working, it’s cold. The sign at the truck stop in Sioux Falls on that morning along ago said minus 23 as I passed by on the Interstate. I removed the banket because I had warmed up. I knew better than to stop that previous night. Fluids in differentials and steering gear does not warm as easy as water.
I stopped for gas again outside Billings (again marveling at the mileage I was getting on the gas guzzler), and spent a few minutes in the store warming up. Staring out at the Excursion, a thought sprang to mind. What if the rear HVAC controls were moved to the proper Wintertime positions? It took about 2 miles to warm up enough that I once again felt comfortable driving and wasn’t shivering. I hooked up with yet another overnight freight hauler and let him run bird-dog on any animals that might seek the windswept pavement for comfort as we headed West. It was getting late and I was doing pretty good until we passed by Livingston. Cresting Bozeman hill I knew he had moved into the left lane, and I was confident enough of my knowledge of the road to keep from panicking when the rooster tail blinded me. What I wasn’t prepared for was the flashing lights when the snow cleared of what I thought for a moment was an alien ship that had just abducted my trucking partner. When I came back to Earth and realized it was a Montana State snow plow we had been passing, I stated out loud to nobody listening that I knew better than to keep going when the delineator posts were dancing near Big Timber. I had been up for 21 hours working on 3 hours of sleep – the last 10 hours on snow and ice, and it was time to stop. I no longer cared about the minus 12 temperature, and my plan of taking a nap in the back seat was given a second thought when the young lady at the motel said $108 for one night. A younger single guy might have asked if that included her, but I was neither, and I was tired. I went back an exit and found the Super8 price to my satisfaction. I parked the Excursion, grabbed my overnight bag, shut the engine off and the dome lights came on…….all 9 of them. Thinking it was a product of being a luxury vehicle benefit, I went upstairs to ready myself for some much needed sleep. I made it about 10 minutes before fear of a dead battery in the morning with an overbooked AAA response crew delaying my departure took hold. I walked back out into the blowing snow and freezing temperatures only to discover my fear – this thing had a quirk, and the dome lights were not going to shut off. I made mental note that they had come on everytime I shut the engine off, but had always gone out as soon as I started it up again. Shit. With the only tool I had, I used the expensive computer coded ignition key to remove all 9 of the dome lights. Think it’s not that big of a deal? Try it in the dead of a Montana Winter storm.
I slept great, and even rolled over twice and went back to sleep noting that I had no schedule to keep and any damage done by stopping was only going to improve with the rising sun. Outside it was still minus 10, but I was warmed by the sound of a gas engine clicking to life on the first crank. I was concerned, but not panicked, when the power steering pump whined its displeasure of having been awakened. I’ve spent enough time in cold weather to know the do’s and don’ts of simply getting in, turning the key, and going. I’ve seen the result of someone thinking the differential lube wouldn’t simply have a path cut in it by the ring gear, only to smoke a rear end that was too cold to touch with bare skin. I’ve sat in an ice covered parking lot for 30 minutes, slowly rolling the truck back and forth so that the still warm tires could be cooled and would not melt me into a trough of stuckness overnight. At that moment when the power steering was crying out, I realized the mistake in not scheduling this road trip to coincide with a time that I could teach my son firsthand the rules of Winter survival in a vehicle. As I pulled from the parking lot, egg mcmuffin in hand, I smiled at the site of the AAA tow rig doing his best to help a stranded motorist. I’ve got diesel in my veins, but on this day, the gas powered Triton V-10 ruled and I was glad the 9 dome lights were stowed in the center console the night before.
The closer I got to Missoula the more the road turned shitty. And by shitty, I mean dark, wet, slushy, dirty, environment destroying, electrical system eating shitty. The laughable part is this was where anyone I had seen in the ditch for the past 800 miles was. I’ve heard that Missoula has been overran by environmentalist, and wondered to myself how the city, county, and state managers had gotten away with this destructive behavior of putting chemicals on the roads. I surmised it must have came from submission by the whackos who had no business North of I-10, but made the exception for this destructive practice to aid their travels in a land they couldn’t survive without that which they pretend to oppose. As I glanced over at the downtown of Missoula, I wondered how many power steering pumps were on those LTL freight trucks that had been my company the night before.
I-90 from Missoula to the top of Lookout Pass is without a doubt the worst road in the land. Is it a coincidence that the chemicals to melt the ice and snow creep into the cracks and disrupt the integrity of concrete and asphalt when temperatures drop below freezing? Yet it was colder and smoother elsewhere where the world was still white in the Winter. Chemicals are harmful – that much I learned in school where science never interested me. I was never so glad to reach Coeur d’Alene where my childhood best friend had moved to in the 7th grade. His older sister set an impression upon me 35 years ago when she remarked how clean the resort town was compared to Missoula. I scoffed at the idea as Missoula was still home no matter what, but on this trip, she was right. After 950 miles on ice and snow and chemicals, passing snow plows and keeping pace with State Patrol vehicles exceeding the posted speed limits, dry pavement and sunshine was once again at hand. I had stopped in Kellogg to fuel the Excursion and myself, and to check the oil. I made note of the engine compartment packed with snow and wondered if Ford knew the remote steering fluid reservoir on the Excursion fenderwell wasn’t such a good idea. Nah, that engineer worried more about protecting body panels from chemicals and most likely handed over a corporate credit card for the $108 room. Let him spend a night in Wyoming and Montana wearing Sorels to drive and watching out for spaceships. Passing snowplows is an art and not for the faint of heart.
I fueled her up one more time just around the corner from home and looked admiringly at the drive thru car wash I had driven by thousands of times but never once used. $8 and a borrowed pair of pliers to remove the antenna seemed like a bargain, and I decompressed as the hot water, colored rollers with streamers on them, and lots of soap did their magic. Was it stupid to head out in the dead of Winter in an unknown vehicle? I could have waited. Scratch that - someone else could have waited. I couldn’t wait. I returned home just in time for TJ to swap his Pierce College parking pass, familiarize himself with the domeless interior, and putt out of the driveway on his way to school. Not every 19 year old kid is happy sporting around in a family rig. Not every 19 year old has a chromoly chassis with an alcohol injected engine needing a way to the race track. He’s made my life simple.
Nicki – ya, she’s been simple too. She knew what she wanted and that alleviated a lot of looking around, driving, testing, and time wasting energy finding just the right vehicle. I still have a hard time seeing an Excursion as the perfect TJ vehicle, but the lowered, red Little Spiffy (as I call it) is Nicki all the way. It matches her personality to a T. Bold, bright, full of energy, and ready to run. I remember knowing what I wanted in my first car and everyone trying to talk me out of it. She wasn’t going to be denied. She is me.
Ann surprised me the most in all of this. Feeling left out I suppose, she jumped when I made the suggestion that her now 7 year old car was nearing a time of taking up my time. It took her all of 5 minutes to decide what she wanted. And while color has always been a point of contention with her, I’m pretty sure the ease of making the decision to buy was done with a backdoor deal in mind. Sorry Ann, a house painted green maybe, but a race car shop painted green will never happen. That left a blue car out of the running for the second time in our marriage, and we agreed on a more neutral white. I’ve done some really stupid things in my life, and meeting someone I don’t know in a parking lot with a wad of cash in my hand is right up there. More than a few nervous moments were overcome when the Washington Dept of Licensing collected their share of the deal that is going down as one of the best I’ve ever negotiated. Nothing great has ever come easy, at least for me. Well, except for Ann, TJ, and Nicki.
That was three new cars in less than a month and as Ann said, we’re done with buying cars for awhile. I got my much needed solitary road trip through the part of the country I want to call home again. TJ is in tow mode with the dome light problem fixed, Nicki is spiffy, and Ann is identical to her HHR - both are blond, fun, and exciting....OH! and practical! I’ll leave it at that. The best part is now Max and I both have a couple of choices for easy vehicles to get in and out of when we go for a ride. We love our pickup, but it’s not practical. We’ll save it for those days when the sun is shining and we can do what we both love to do the most – enjoy our rides.
As for being in a blinding Winter storm in the middle of nowhere……as Bob Seger once told it: we couldn’t see a thing but somehow we just kept on going……..Get out of Denver Baby Go Go!
I had a routine at the end of the work week. My truck would always be pressure washed and hand washed before I went in the house to call it a week. In 2001 that all ended. What had always been just a part of the regular 3 hour routine suddenly became a challenge. At first I thought I was just simply getting older and out of shape. But then my unwillingness to watch over my health led to a major battle with my wife about going to get a check-up, as making sure I didn’t have diabetes was more important to her than a $100,000 life insurance policy. I finally gave in, and the news was worse. On my first visit to a regular clinic, they drew some blood that I later found out, coupled with my symptoms, held some alarming results. I was immediately scheduled for an EMG – google it and read the wikipedia description if you don’t know what it is because I have no desire to relive even the name. I’ve heard some people describe the procedure as only a minor annoyance. Well I disagree. A minor annoyance is smashing your thumb with a hammer or spraining an ankle. I’ve done both, and neither soaked my underwear in sweat. Before they begin, they tell you it’s OK to scream, cuss, and yell, but no hitting. After each of the 3 times I had the exam, I swore it was never going to happen again. In short, they stick an electrically charged needle into your muscles and measure the time it takes for the signal to travel through your nervous system.
The short story is when you have a breakdown in your muscles they will release enzymes into your blood. My CT levels were elevated, and not everyone gets sent for an EMG on their first visit, or has a follow up with a neurologist. I was told on my second visit by a hard to understand but very caring neurologist of German decent that I had a progressive neuro-muscular disease. The cause was unexplained, and more testing and follow-up exams would be needed. All of the Internet doctor sites will tell you not to rely on them for a diagnosis, but nobody can tell you how to cope with month after month of being poked, prodded, squeezed, thumped, injected, recalled, questioned, and re-questioned…..only to be told “yes, but we don’t know why.” After many months, and making the mistake of doing my own research, reading the reports myself, and dealing with a condition that was worsening, I finally asked the doctor – what do I do? His reply was simple. He said: “Go live your life. Do what you feel like doing, and don’t do what you don’t feel like doing.” That is the short story and easier said than done.
We never kept any secrets from the kids or our closest friends and family. Mistake or not, I never kept it from our employees either. We never broadcasted that there was a problem, but to a person with an open eye, it was apparent. I stopped driving and tried to manage my company for the first time without actually being out in the field with the drivers. Ann had returned to work and I became responsible for getting a comb through Nicki’s hair each morning. Of the top 3 things my marriage has been in trouble for, getting Nicki’s first ever hair cut to prepare her for Kindergarten, without asking permission, ranked right up there. The gal cutting her hair did triple check to make sure I was of sound mind, but I was really just naïve to the process of mothers, daughters, and hair. Life should be so simple.
One of the instructions I received along the way was to limit the stress in my life. My personality type, while being conducive to self-inflicting stress, was not conducive to admitting stress affected me. But two years into not having any answers, a slowly deteriorating health condition, and a wife that had no problem with me being a truck driver yet held great disdain for being self-employed, led me to park one, and sell three of the five trucks I had at the time. I really had no rhyme or reason for keeping the one truck going, other than the driver had been loyal for us almost from the beginning of starting the business, and a sense of obligation to him fed my desire to keep on trucking. Sadly, I look back and realize that the group of drivers I had at the time, were all that loyal. But it was for the best, we weren’t getting anything encouraging from the doctors, and time with Ann and the kids was at the forefront of what I took from the words of that first neurologist when he said live your life.
I continued to do the follow-ups, and by early 2004 I was seeing a neurologist at the UofW. As I said, we never hid anything from anyone, but we never broadcasted either. It would be too frustrating to tell someone “ya, there’s something wrong and the brain works but the muscles don’t and they don’t know why” only to hear them say “well, you don’t look like anything is wrong.” They never see me use a cane to walk. They never hear the screams at night, or understand why I search for a place to sit. They never hear me wonder if it’s time for a scooter. My mind and body do the lying for me. There are those that knew something was up and later acted oblivious to the problem, and that’s OK. I found out who I could trust and who only had use for my muscles. The doctor at the UofW sat me down, told me they had run out of things to test for, talked more about the diagnosis of muscle diseases through tests of exclusion, and suggested they do the final process of doing a muscle biopsy. It’s complicated to explain, and I’m not an expert, but in general, with all muscular dystrophy diseases there are clinical tests to prove or disprove them. A muscle biopsy is the last resort, before letting nature run its course and getting one of two diagnoses by tests of exclusion, and then progression. It’s not a good prognosis to wait for, and in the beginning, was of great concern for us.
But I hadn’t progressed far enough for that diagnosis, and the options were still on the table, so we agreed and they cut a chunk out of my right thigh. The phone call with the results sounded encouraging as she explained they thought they had found a metabolic condition – something that might be treatable through diet, but needed further testing. My long time employee had just quit, and the timing was right to sell the truck and use part of the money to pay for what my health insurance wouldn’t – a trip to Dallas and one of the best neurological clinics in the country. It’s where I should have gone in the first place. Ann and I hopped on an airplane, and I spent one day in Dallas being examined. At the end of the day they pulled a piece of my left thigh muscle out with what looked like a large needle, cussed at the butcher job on my right thigh, shook their heads, and told us to come back in the morning.
I’ve often said that a neurologist office is the most depressing place to go. I learned early on that most patients with a neurologist appointment are not really going there to get fixed. It’s simply a process to find out what is ailing you, and how to cope with it. I have watched as patients would come back to the waiting room with tears in their eyes, having been told life altering news. I recall at times being envious that they had learned, while I sat unknowing. I recall feeling selfish for even being there, appearing normal, and seeing children and adults that the average person could never comprehend what they and their caregivers go through just to get through a day. I once had an X-ray technician wish me luck and hope they don’t find anything, and I felt angry that he said it. He asked why, and I told him he doesn’t understand what it’s like to know something is wrong and be told time after time they hadn’t found anything yet. The result of finding nothing was worse, at least in my mind.
The next morning we sat down with one of the most caring people I have met in the medical field. She explained that the biopsy was negative, expressed puzzlement in why we had been sent there for a metabolic problem, offered her time at anytime we had a question or needed direction in the future, and repeated what my original neurologist had said – go live your life. She even called me darling, which was a first for me when it was meant as intended, and not to remind me to get back in line. We boarded the flight for home, and I turned to Ann and told her I was done. I could no longer deal with being told “yes, you have a progressive neuromuscular disease that can’t be fixed, but we don’t know what it is yet.” It couldn’t be fixed, so what was the need to expose myself to the stress of finding out. From the beginning they offered medication to ease the pain of cramping, which I denied. I thought it better to feel and know what was going on, rather than dull the pain and risk damaging the muscles further. I tried, and still do try, to limit what I do with my muscles, but sometimes the brain works to well. Distraction does wonders, until it’s too late and Ann reminds me that it does no good to tell me to stop or slow down. I actually returned to work, against everyone’s advice, but I was sick of not being able to contribute. I stopped when others safety became a concern. The absolute worst part for me is that the brain says yes, and the body says otherwise.
Whatever is ailing me has progressed into my arms and hands over the past couple of years. Basically, if I remain idle for too long, my muscles stiffen. If I work the muscles too much, I cramp. Pain has become a constant in my life, which wasn’t the case in the beginning. Sleep is in short spurts, and is as uncomfortable as being awake. Neither standing nor walking is easy, but given the choice, I walk. Standing is not enough of a distraction to ignore the pain and discomfort. We’ve lived with it for over 10 years now, just as we were told to do. If you spend any time with us you’d see it. If you know me very well, you recognize it. If you are only acquainted with me, unless you asked, you’d never know and you’d never understand the occasional creepy stare. And all of that has worked for us. But the time has come where TJ and Nicki are getting older, and more and more questions are being asked of them and I. They have been my legs and arms when I needed, and when it hasn’t been fair to them. Ann has been our financial supporter from the beginning, and that’s not fair to her. They do it without complaint or self pity. It has become our normal. But now that more and more questions are being asked, it’s really not fair to any of them that they should have to give the answers. I’ve hesitated putting it out there for everyone to see, and I really don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to be looked at differently, like the person in the neurologist office with an obvious problem. I certainly don’t want sympathy or favors, but I can say that utilizing a blue card for parking isn’t as hard as it used to be. My patience has worn thin for those who don’t look beyond the mirror, and find any and everything in their lives to bitch about if they can’t have what they want. I’m nearing the time where doctors and medication need to come into play, if for nothing else then to lessen the burden of my loved ones and closest friends having to deal with what isn’t the problem. To put it another way – when I’m grumpy and tired and short tempered and bitchy, the ones closest to me know what the real problem is. They understand who I am and they’ve been wonderful for putting up with it and sticking by me.
I’ve learned a lot in the past decade. I’ve changed my outlook and view on some things. I’ve learned not to expend so much energy on something that can’t be changed, and to be angry about those things that can but for stupidity or selfishness – aren’t. Some would say not to focus on either, but to them I say spend an afternoon in the lobby of a neurologist office, and then tell me not to be angry about something that can easily be fixed or changed but isn’t. And yes, I still get pissed off about stupid things that don’t matter. I view politics different, and am more accepting of both sides in all that which causes great moral debate in this world. I realized in my late 30’s what many don’t get until much later in life – that we’re not here for very damn long in the grand scheme of things.
SO, I answered the question and explained it all the best way I can without providing a medical chart to scan over. It’s out there for all too see, and if for nothing else, for all to reflect on. I’m not a doctor or an expert, but I don’t need an influx of “did they do this” or “did they look at that.” More or less salt in my diet isn’t going to fix me. Joining a fitness gym is out of the question. What I have cannot be cured, according to those who get paid to give me the answers, and since that day in Dallas almost seven years ago, we have not made it a focus in our lives to find the answer why. There are times now when a diabetes diagnosis would have been welcome, but it is what it is and I accept it. I’ve wondered aloud on occasion if something I did caused this. Not wearing gloves or masks around chemicals, a bad hit to the head, or even something spiritual. I have to remind myself that it doesn’t matter how or why, but I encourage others to be aware of what they expose themselves too – in all aspects of life. Hopefully one day in the future all diseases of the body and mind will be cured. I’d like to do more for Ann and the kids. I’d like to do more for my friends who are in true need. I’d like to be driving a truck through a Montana blizzard and behind schedule. I’d like to wake in the morning or get up out of a chair and feel like an overweight truck driver that is simply too lazy to exercise. But for today, I can’t, and that’s OK. Everyone immediately surrounding me understands, and that is all that really matters. There are people that need help and concern far more than I do. There are children and their familes who have been bestowed a burden, and while I often wonder why a child should have to endure, seeing them make their way through life makes my ordeal seem insignificant. Cancers and trauma all have at least a chance to be fixed and those are the people who need the attention, the care, the time, the hope, and the encouragement. Those are the things that can be changed, and the reasons to be angry, frustrated, or hurt when they’re not.
Natalie Merchant wrote and sang a great and inspiring song called Wonder. It reflects on a time where she spent working with the seemingly less fortunate, and overcoming her fears of the unknown. That’s not an easy thing to do. She sang a verse that said – “with love, with patience, and with faith, she’ll make her way.” I couldn’t agree more. I decided a few months ago to write and share this in order to better explain what many have wondered and some can’t or won’t observe. Hopefully it brings a better understanding to how and why we live our life as we do.
Life’s issues are not always what you can see. With love, with patience, and with faith - we’ll make our way. Pleasantly Blu-Team ]]>http://www.tjhartmanracing.com/pleasantlyblue/index.php?entry=entry110105-1730562011-01-05T00:00:00Z2011-01-05T00:00:00Z
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