Speeding cars and my racing heart

Racing is one of my least favourite things. Wouldn’t it be yours too if the only race you ran was in kindergarten and you ran in the opposite direction, all the while thinking you are in the lead? And then crying in front of 2000 parents because you came first and no one gave you a Running Trophy? Good. So, now that you understand my feelings, I can call you my best friend and proceed. 

Ask me to race you in eating hot gulab jamuns or downing beer bottles and I will agree; as long my feet don’t have to move or muscles get used. You see, I don’t like to get tired. I don’t think God ever pronounced ‘I made you in my image. Now go, get tired, man’. Even if he did, he was talking to a man, not the woman in me. Plus, the maximum labour I could undergo was done when I popped my popsicle out. Buss. No more. Not even Popsicles. Finished. Doors closed. Don’t ever ask me, you &%$#$, etc.

However, to watch a pro race is quite something. Especially if it’s on four wheels (or two, but four is more and in Punjabi circles more is gold). Ever since televisions in my house went from buxom to slim-fit, I have been watching, without much knowledge, zooming sports cars racing on tracks on ESPN. Was I waiting for an accident to happen, a car to crash, catch fire, spin in the air and land in the spectator gallery to scream ‘Woah! Tha’ waz cooool’? I will not admit that I indeed was, but understand, dear reader, this half-baked racing fan’s fully baked love for watching mean machines speeding.

That is why I broke my favourite crystal centre-piece with my scream when I saw two invites in my mailbox to the JK Tyre Racing Championship 2014. After all, most first-times are met with a scream and I was a pure virgin when it came to watching motorsport racing live. The first thought that struck me – Is this karma coming full circle? Will a spinning car fly towards me and the driver slap me for all the stunt-obsessed thoughts I watched telly racing with all my life? Thankfully, I was to be in the Lounge, with a thick sheet of glass between me and the ferocious wheels and two lunch coupons in my pocket. Phew and yippee, respectively!

Buddh International Circuit in Greater Noida is really huge. Simplistic and wide-eyed as this statement may sound, I cannot get over the expanse that greeted me at 10 am on Sunday morning last. What was once a dot on the map, much like those little dots we cross on the two sides of the highway when going to a noteworthy place, was now an impressively designed structure hard to not stare at and very hard for Nursery-going kids to stare down. 

‘The sun is disturbing my eyes, mumma. I can’t see the top of the building’ was the gravest problem I had to trouble shoot as soon as we reached. On came the cap and up he came in his daddy’s arms for a higher view of reality, leaving his mother alone to rub her hands in expectant glee. She stopped doing that only when chilled cans of Coke welcomed her in a comfortable viewing space with TVs and a tiny balcony – overlooking the spot where the action begins! Grand indeed this stand was!

But first, it was time for the Pit Walk.

Whoever coined the phrase ‘in the pits’ to mean what it means must never have toured a race track pit. The area abounds with a pulsating buzz of wheels and engines getting prepped to go. Cars, in all their sexy glory, occupy centre stage and each has a crew fussing over every bit of it. Much like princes being readied for a coronation match. Or kings for a battle!

They sit there, those swanky monsters, like panthers without a care in the world. Ready to pounce at the first opportunity but never without reason. In controlled rage, as if, which will only unleash the moment the signal turns green. For now, getting themselves scratched behind the ears but with every angle on their bodies reminding you of the power these sleeping beasts hold within. And the sound when they growl!

‘What was that? Is it a monster, mamma?’ said he quite perturbed when one of them made the engines roar. ‘No, no, monsters don’t exist. Haven’t I told you that?’ said his mumma, convincing him it’s just a car but secretly knowing them and loving them as hunky monsters, from the very bottom of her heart!

We watched 5 races, back to back. Never met, never even seen before drivers were on a first name basis as I hung like a Juliet from the balcony cheering them on, or going ‘come on!’ watching the TV screen and turning my head as the cars turned. Did my husband mind the sudden surge of heroes in my life, in helmets and racing gear?

Who cares! Did I mind when I caught him waving back at those beauties with foggy eyes, slightly parted lips and like a scene from 'American Beauty'? I am sure I did not! 

Hours went by sped by at break-neck speed, and superb hospitality. Only one problem frustrated the race-lover in me. ‘Can you not set the camera such that I can get a still of a moving car and the moving effect on the still rail, honey?’ There was a tone to my question my beau did not deem fit to take lightly, especially the stress on ‘not’ and the formality in ‘honey’. ‘Just try panning with the focus on the car. That should help.’

Yeah, right! He might as well have asked me to ride a super bike, standing. Well, I tried!

Got it!

Still, I loved them when they posed for me standing in one place. All of them, 5 race times over. See!

Oh! The paparazzi. 

Women called the shots!

‘Oh! I would give my right arm to work here’ said I to no one in particular but knowing fully well that the sudden turn of his head meant he heard me crystal clear on our way to the cab. Shrugged I, ‘What? Oh come on! Not in that black dress, no. Look carefully! Did you notice how many women were employed for every single race? With those jazzy walkie-talkies, skinny jeans, white tees and commandeering the mean machines when they stop or where. And surrounded, surrounded by those racers all the time!’ He didn’t respond, but something told me the flutter of my eye lids got him a little worried. A little. Finally. Needless to say, all 50 kms back home were dedicated to talking about the races, as was what remained of the day.

A friend joked with me if I would be racing on Delhi roads as I go pick up my kid from school now. I think he could, sitting in Bangalore, sense the excitement in this woman's heart. I said no. ‘Racing’ is still one of my least favourite words, when I am a part of one, that is. But ask me to go watch one and I will not refuse. Look below! You think this personified Happiness can ever mean I would refuse another chance?

There's always (w)room for more in this woman's heart!

PS –Just to remind the world that I was very serious about working ‘in the pit’. Psst, don’t tell my husband for now. I’m sure he knows that behind every successful man there is a woman, and around every car racer there's got to be many of them. It's just how the world works. What can we do?