Such a drag

Allegedly, a few months ago I agreed with Ian that I'd go to watch some drag racing over the bank holiday weekend. I have little recollection of this conversation but last week I went through with the promise.

I can't really tell you an awful lot about the racing itself, mainly because I spent the 7 hours (no, really) that we sat in the grandstands fearing that I was sure to plummet to my death. Have you seen Final Destination? I was starting to feel like the film with the racing incident was actually a documentary. The grandstand where we sat gave a great view of the quarter mile of track we needed to see, however they were made of the most rickety wood I have ever seen, rotten and flexing as you climbed the stairs. I sat rigid, my arse bones digging into the wooden seat, trying desperately not to move too much because it felt like the whole thing moved whenever I did. This Final Destination fear wasn't helped by Ian's friend telling us about a man who once dropped dead in the crowd of spectators after a piece of shrapnel from a car flew through the air and landed in his chest.

Observations

- I had to wear my gig ear plugs because the noise of the cars was so fucking loud 

- A lot of the junior racers and one or two of the grown up racers were girls/women. I was pleasantly surprised about this, it was really nice to see

- That someone managed to get a car I would love (a '90s Peugeot 205) up to 130something mph in the space of a quarter of a mile 

- During the first race, just as I was texting my friend suggesting that we could have a go at it in our cars, one of the cars veered across the track and smashed into a barrier, I swiftly changed my mind.

Despite what I said up there, on the way home I suggested to Ian that he should get his Midget back on the road and we could become a racing team. It must've been a moment of madness on my part, I even said "there's enough room for a much bigger engine in there, isn't there?" I don't know what I was thinking, I really don't. I also suggested I should do the driving because I'm lighter and so we'd have a weight advantage. I have rethought this lunatic idea now, I need the kitchen finished before one of us kills ourselves racing down a drag track. It's a dangerous business whether you're spectating or participating. 

Where we sat, see what I mean? I actually couldn't sit on the kitchen chair the next day without a cushion for support, the bones in my arse were just too sore. Yes yes, I know I shouldn't complain about that but I was so sore, I really was.

Lord of the dance

We were ushered into a large dark room with tiered seating at one end and a black curtain around three sides at the other end. I glanced down at the programme and discovered that the first performance we'd be watching was going to be Stomp! (people banging bin lids), my heart sank. Also featuring on the list of performances was some interpretative dance, my heart sank even further down than I thought it could.

You may wonder what on earth I was doing in such a place, given my obvious dislike of anything we'd be watching. Well, a few weeks ago my brother had left a message with Ian asking if we wanted to watch him dance. Upon further investigation I discovered that he'd refused to allow my step mum to go and so I felt duty bound to accept his invitation. He's dyspraxic which means he struggles with his co-ordination, so I had absolutely no idea what to expect from the evening but I left there feeling so proud and a little teary. I welled up as soon as he started dancing, sadly he was involved in the Stomp! performance but there were no bin lids, just some thigh and a bit of chest slapping. Seeing him, concentrating so hard, sometimes managing to get himself in time with the others made me want to weep. Not from sorrow but pride and a little sadness that our Dad wasn't there to see it. He would have been beaming, as any parent would I suppose but my brother is most certainly our Dad's son, he's outgoing, he knows everybody, you can't go anywhere with him without some saying hello, he's also a performer, as our Dad was. Dad loved to be on stage, singing or dancing - the stories I could tell... and so does my brother.

After the initial sense of dread (I mean, it was Stomp! after all) my heart was well and truly warmed. The way the dance group looked after the others, how they didn't appear to be judging any of the people with special needs they were leading, sometimes people are really lovely, aren't they? To be honest, the fact nobody told my brother to stop bloody singing (I could see him singing along) was a miracle in itself.