January 10th, 2010

Empty condos, vacant save for a pathetic collection of tetra-packs and other recyclables: our meager attempt at saving the world. Empty hotel rooms bother me. All that went on, all the good times and remember-whens are exposed by the rumpled sheets and hastily collected garbage; shown to be as fleeting and insubstantial as the race results that bred them. A series of last checks, once-overs to make sure nothing that doesn’t matter is left behind, for all that matters is. What defines a racing trip? All that happens in the condos and hotel rooms, jokes and laughs, the shared stress and pressure. People don’t reminisce about the time you took that left-hand corner perfectly, or the time you won. They remember seeing you in your boxers, laughing as you tried to force the lock on your own bedroom door, your best friend holding the latch on the other side. Are those things cheapened when denied the filtered lens of the contest? Are simple things made better, sweeter, by the fact that we pay it no outward attention, claiming in all honesty that we are here for the race and nothing more? The echo of laughter, the unmade beds and hasty departure reveal our true intentions: to better know each other. If you take away the people, a race loses it’s meaning, and isn’t meaning what we’re all after anyway?