SPORTSMAN AWARD

Also known as the "Trueman Award" or, in a collective misnomer, "Trueman-Akin Award," the award is collected at year's end by the best of the best of the best ("sir!"; don’t you just love that Will Smith MIB routine) amateur driver paired with a (even better; um, 'bester?') professional driver.

Currently in the middle of the fight for the 2012 season's sportsman awards are 2010 Bob Akin GT bust winner, Emil Assentato, and defending DP winner, John Pew, who regularly pedals faster than . . .

. . . well, now . . . if this isn't a good time to go totally tangential, one might be hard pressed to find another . . .

Each time yours truly hauls the lead (not "lead" or "led," think about it) into town (he having long lived outside of a city limits that once was more than 12-miles east but today has crept within 2/3-of-one-mile) he regularly encounters race-car drivers, or, at least, those who evidently fancy themselves such.

One thing for sure: These incredibly gifted souls most often drive vehicles more fully suited for rollovers (center-of-gravity issues) or, perhaps, roller skating (a Yugo actually lurks among them that I regularly see. Yugo? No, we ain't talking no fancy SMS-style of communications akin to "ur" or "U" or similar shorthand. As for the car itself, ask your grandfather).

Furthermore, the folks who drive the rollover specials just don't seem to comprehend that they are, for the most part, driving boxes having engines and wheels.

Trucks and SUVs heretofore have not been the height of aerodynamic efficiency. If "the box" were, the late Kelly Johnson of Lockheed Skunk Works fame, wouldn't have produced the SR71 or, at least, in its deployed appearance.

Worse yet, as one goes faster with or in a box, needed are exponentially larger amounts of energy in the effort to overcome atmospheric resistance.

Yet, setting aside last-moment braking and lead-foot starts, still everyone wonders "why?" the car-sticker MPG numbers aren't realized in the real world?

On many of the roller-skate vehicles are found "totally cool" but usually one (just one, Menendez) terribly misaligned "blue-light" headlamp.

Having bought a two-fer package at the local discount department store (think "Wally World") and using a state-of-art Phillips head screwdriver the "master mechanic" then strips three of the four headlight-assembly screw heads before realizing that, by golly, the only thing needing removal and replacement was the bulb, itself.

After learning the "thingies" atop a screw have utilitarian purpose but now being absent of form or definition, what does one do to secure a headlight assembly sans three of its four screws?

Duct tape.

Yep. No new screws needed when duct tape, now available in a variety of colors, is at hand.

Why, existing even are wild tales of Ol' DC using the versatile sticky, stringy stuff to bolster the blown-out corners of his well-traveled suitcase. (So frequently seen is the beast that at least one airline agent no longer bothers me for an official gov'ment ID. True.)

Indeed, lore has the now-famed tape as even having been used on (what else?) race cars!

So, off into the sunset races the race-car driver/master mechanic to see the effect of his cool lights that he really can't "see" anyway -- kinda like those terribly cool but near-worthless non-OEM brake-light lenses.

Once upon another time, your faithful correspondent was sitting first-in-line in the outside lane at a final westbound traffic signal -- a last "gate" before hitting an awaiting 60 mph zone in which few actually hold speed-o-meters to 60 mph.

Pulling alongside in the inside lane comes a Mazda RX3, its new blue-metallic paint sparkling smartly, contrasted against which were shiny new, too-big wheels bearing way-too-narrow tire shoulders, ones that concrete curbs love to lie in wait to kill.

Evidently deprived of room within the car, each open window sports one vertically hanging arm, appearing to do all but reach the asphalt below.

Following the traffic-light's color shift from red to green, the RX3 accelerated and realizing he wasn't out-accelerating the old dude to his right, quickly went petal-to-metal. (It's really easy to determine such, given the RX3's tendency to increase by three octaves its engine whine.)

As the blue car's rear came into focus, seen were additional rad add-ons like its aftermarket soda-can exhaust extension, along with a trunk-mounted wing akin to those seen on DP's, endplates and all: not too big; not too small; just right. Er, for a DP, that is. On the Mazda RX3 it, well, kinda overpowered the decklid entire car.

Soon, this non-racer's Emerson Fittipaldi-massaged 1994 Chrysler Concorde was left in the wafting dust of the hammer-down automatic-equipped RX3, whose driver and his two-fewer engine cylinders were proving the car could get worse gas mileage than the old dude's 3.5L-6 DOHC, 375 HP, 456 lb.-ft. torque (in my dreams, but still . . .)

Then, about 200-yards ahead, came a flutter of glitter-blue: on-off-on-off-on-off-on-off-on-off.

Anyone remember those balsa-wood rubber band-powered "airplanes" owned and thrown by just about every kid of every generation since manned flight began? (Except those born before the Wright Brothers, Menendez.)

Should one gently detach the balsa-plane's wing from fuselage and toss the former, however briskly, the now-independent wing hits the atmosphere's mass and quickly blocks almost all forward motion, leaving it to mostly flutter along the horizontal plane.

Gravity ever more pulls the wing downward, fluttering on-off-on-off-on-off-on-off-on-off.

Just like a certain RX3's detached wing.

Oops.

Two dudes poured from the suddenly stopped roadside RX3, scrambling as would The Three Stooges Minus One, the face of each absolutely aghast, clearly wondering, "How could've it all gone so terribly wrong!?"

A nearby parking-lot stroll two days later answered the question, as within its boundaries was found wingless RX3: the two-dozen-or-so sheet metal screw holes revealing that all had been bet on their securely holding the wing, but didn't. At least, not enough.

Man, when set, sheet metal screws seriously attempt to hang on. Gnarly, dude. Gnarly. Like the RX3's trunk lid, in fact.

One supposes that now suddenly necessary is either a new deck lid or a darn good body putty.

Then again, the world's best doggone OEM deck lid or body putty won't do didley squat if the person aligning or applying it doesn't know didley squat.

When eons ago asked for his thoughts about those who say he and other race car drivers aren't athletes, Scott Pruett said: "They don't know anything and until they've gotten into a race car and have done, or at least tried to do what I do, then I won't even address the issue. High to my family back home!"

(Nah, not really. Well, insofar as the quote's final sentence's "family." I just couldn't help it. You know I love ya, Scott, right?)

The "armchair" types really believe themselves as capable as race car drivers Assentato and Pew; or team managers and chief wrenches like Jeff Pomfret and Ed Daood; or, even, engineers and strategists such as Ian Willis or Dale Wise.

It's a good thing to dream, to want, to try, to accomplish. After all, each of the professionals above probably did the same, but didn't stop with dreaming, which is easy.

It's the "accomplish" part that takes guts, desire and, often more than any of us think we have, considerable "sacrifice."

Just remember: if you want to be cool, don't use sheet metal screws to secure a rear wing.

Later,

DC