Family Jewels
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"Human Race"
Ed Donath Commentary
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January 12, 2001
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What makes these things so unsafe? Improper cell phone use!
What is my very first recollection? Excruciating pain…the result of a racing accident that occurred
during my first birthday party.
Mom always loved telling everyone how I was the world's fastest-
crawling one-year-old. Most adults, especially my dear departed
short-legged Mom, were unable to keep up with me. To further
complicate my mother's life I was beginning to take my first
steps.
Intuitively, Mom braced herself for my next trick -- running.
At that critical juncture a trendy cousin suggested to Mom that
she should get me into a new invention known as a "baby walker".
Cousin Helen reasoned that such a vehicle would simultaneously
appease my need for speed while significantly cutting down on the
amount of chasing Mom would have to do. Her idea made sense.
In 1950 those primitive prototype walkers were made-up of a
couple of pieces of vinyl-covered plywood loosely connected to
each other by thin steel rods. Three rollers were attached to the
bottom piece of plywood and a baby-size hole was cut into the
top piece from which a vinyl strip hung beneath it.
The baby needed to be lifted up and into the hole so the vinyl
strip could become a "seat", over which the baby's legs dangled to
the floor. Once properly inserted into the vehicle the baby was
able to stand in place or walk -- even run -- without parental
assistance.
Naturally, I assumed that I had been chosen to be the test driver
for these new vehicles. It was at that moment that my lifelong
quest for more speed had officially begun. Soon I would be
introduced to the race-going public…at my first birthday party.
To the delight of the assembled relatives and neighbors the party
day test session had been going very smoothly. Several hot laps of
the one-bedroom apartment had been deftly negotiated. The
capacity crowd was being thoroughly impressed and entertained
by the birthday boy's feats of speed and endurance.
But suddenly the cornering limits of my low-tech racer were
exceeded. It seems that while entering the back straight behind
the sofa one of the rollers brushed against the edge of a throw
rug.
In the absence of steering and brakes all of my efforts to
correct proved futile. I had become a mere passenger and was
destined to run headlong into the pointy corner of the coffee
table.
A scar in my left eyebrow attests, fifty-one years later, to the
bloody gash that was opened there on the day that I turned one
in turn one.
About three years later I moved up in class to steer-able vehicles.
What a powerful feeling it was having the ability to terrorize
pedestrians on the wide sidewalks of our Brooklyn neighborhood.
Another cousin had given me a hand-me-down velocipede
(a larger-than-normal tricycle) and from its seat I issued daily
racing challenges to anyone with handlebars.
During one exciting late-season dice with my pal Alan -- who
piloted a similar old trike -- our rear wheels touched, causing both
top-heavy vehicles to roll. Alan was shaken but he walked away
from the crash scene. My injuries required immediate medical
attention and so I was rushed to the hospital in a Yellow Cab
(ambulances are way too slow in Brooklyn).
Subsequently, I spent most of kindergarten wearing a heavy cast
on my triple-fractured right arm. To this day, the old right elbow
still twinges occasionally…especially during the handwriting of
rough drafts for recollection pieces like this one.
Many years of bicycle racing followed. I learned to ride a two-
wheeler (with the secret help of Lloyd Farber's uncle) the day
that the cast was removed from my arm.
Finally, exactly 15 years to the day from my ill-fated first
birthday party, it was time to go car racing.
I'm quite certain of that date because it was the very first
moment that the State of New York would allow me to test for a
Learner's Permit. Soon I would be dragging and street-racing my
way through the muscle car era.
Later, I decided to give auto-crossing and showroom stock road
racing a try. However, most of my racing trophies have not been
awarded to me on event podia by scantily clad beer models or
sparkplug company execs.
Usually, tall silent types in Smokey Bear hats bring my prizes
directly to my racecar while I chill out in the diver's seat.
During the last 25 years or so I have driven about a million miles,
most of which were racked-up in the course of business travel
and race going. Hey, if you don't think that I've been running
flat-out during this stint you've probably already forgotten the
mindset of the boomer-fidget in the baby walker.
So now, after more than half a century of racing in its purest
form -- with plenty of scars to show for it -- don't you think it
would be appropriate for the racing community to recognize my
life-long dedication to the sport? Can you name another individual
who can make the same claim as mine?
"From as far back as I can remember racing has been my life."
Share your thoughts with Ed via e-mail: speedwriter@hotmail.com
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