Here's a repost of an essay that I wrote a couple of years back on girls and racing. Hope it inspires all those would-be girl racers of the next generation! :-)
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Witching Hour, the time when all magic begins; the moment when everything reasonable seems to disappear; the signal for all entities to unleash their power; the bell that rings for all hell to break loose.
For some men, Witching Hour on a Saturday night casts a spell. The force of this spell is so strong that it draws them to come out with their toys and play along the forbidden dragstrip: the racing playground.
I, surprisingly, realized that I became bewitched by the same spell.
That’s precisely the reason why I found myself bringing my own toy to such a playground stretched along Libis one eventful Saturday night.
It was my car’s experimental stage (having been newly bought and out of the shop for only a month), for I was preparing it for battle by testing its power and practicing my launches.
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Witching Hour, the time when all magic begins; the moment when everything reasonable seems to disappear; the signal for all entities to unleash their power; the bell that rings for all hell to break loose.
For some men, Witching Hour on a Saturday night casts a spell. The force of this spell is so strong that it draws them to come out with their toys and play along the forbidden dragstrip: the racing playground.
I, surprisingly, realized that I became bewitched by the same spell.
That’s precisely the reason why I found myself bringing my own toy to such a playground stretched along Libis one eventful Saturday night.
It was my car’s experimental stage (having been newly bought and out of the shop for only a month), for I was preparing it for battle by testing its power and practicing my launches.
So there I was, inching my way into the starting line, searching for the perfect playmate and opponent. After all, this was just a game!
Finally, I found my first victim: quite a good-looking guy driving a Honda EG hatch. He was waiting, apparently impatient, for a playmate as well!
Slowly, tentatively, my car crept towards him and halted when I made sure that we were on equal footing with each other.
He was ready.
I was ready.
I gently pressed on the accelerator, staging my battle tank. As soon as I saw the needle of my odometer go from 0, 1000, 3000, until it stopped and remained at 4500RPM, I felt the adrenaline rush through my whole body and I knew that the race had begun.
I was staged.
He was staged.
I quickly let down my window to give my opponent the signal that I was ready for take-off, when I noticed an unmistakable look of astonishment on his face. It was a look that quickly gave way to pure amazement upon realizing the identity (more so, the gender) of the person in the driver’s seat of the black Honda EF hatch right next to his car.
I will never forget how that expression registered on his face. Nor will I forget how his surprised look gave way to a smirk, to a smile, and then to a look of utter disdain. Without another word, he nodded and focused his gaze on the road that lay ahead.
We thus began our game, wherein, to his immense shock, I had won.
Mr. Macho Racer Dude had been pulverized by a member of the female species.
And so, games like these went on as my need for speed and my passion for auto performance increased over time. The spell of Saturday night drag racing completely overpowered and intoxicated me. Playing the game became a drug, which addicted me so much that every time, I yearned for more.
Many people would probably ask how I, a GIRL, became so interested in such an endeavor that, under normal circumstances, would only entice a man. Why racing? Why am I a car enthusiast? Why do I engage in such a dangerous sport so common only to men and disregarded by most women?
Because I love it.
Many guys would argue with my reasoning, and I cannot blame them. A GIRL? With a bad-ass car? On the STRIP??? Unheard of! Totally uncalled for! Downright ABSURD! Girls and cars do NOT mix together at all!
But it’s true, in my case, at least. More so, in the case of a few other great women out there.
Nevertheless, we braved the seas, said “what the hell,” and entered the racing realm anyway.
So how would it go? Like any normal Saturday night for a girl, I put on make-up, get dressed to kill (excuse the pun please), go out on a date, go bar-hopping, party or simply hang out!
But NOT without getting a good car wash and a decent tune-up.
After my Saturday night itinerary, my other life kicks in. Witching hour strikes and I feel that familiar surge of excitement as I park my car to join my racing teammates and the other auto-enthusiasts.
I would often see eyes (yes, MALE eyes) boring down on me as I get out of my car. Sometimes I would just chuckle to myself as I see these guys’ reactions to me as soon as it dawns upon their faces that YES INDEED, I am a girl and I own a race car. It is even quite amusing to find out at times how much more I know about cars than some of my male friends. Most of my racer friends treat me as if I belong to their gender. Still, I know that my teammates are proud of me and it is their support that encourages me to go on and do what I love to do, no matter what.
However, I did not say that I was really skilled in what I do. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I will not deny that I have yet to gain more knowledge about the technical side of car performance and the technique of launching my vehicle properly. I am still the enthusiastic student, eager to absorb all the information that I can put to memory. But then again, it is not everyday that you would see a girl up to her elbows in dirt and grime over the popped hood of her car, trying desperately to learn all that her mechanic could possibly teach her. Yes, we car-enthusiasts understand that a little filth cannot kill you.
No, I am not a lesbian. Neither am I a die-hard feminist. I share the same interests and hobbies with plenty of other women in the planet. I believe that the male population is God’s greatest gift to my kind. I date. I fall in love. I shave my legs. I get a facial regularly. I get PMS. I primp myself to look good. I have to admit I could even be so vain sometimes. I do the same things many other girls do!
Except racing.
Hey, who said that women can’t hammer the throttle? After all, we don’t race in heels. :-P
Finally, I found my first victim: quite a good-looking guy driving a Honda EG hatch. He was waiting, apparently impatient, for a playmate as well!
Slowly, tentatively, my car crept towards him and halted when I made sure that we were on equal footing with each other.
He was ready.
I was ready.
I gently pressed on the accelerator, staging my battle tank. As soon as I saw the needle of my odometer go from 0, 1000, 3000, until it stopped and remained at 4500RPM, I felt the adrenaline rush through my whole body and I knew that the race had begun.
I was staged.
He was staged.
I quickly let down my window to give my opponent the signal that I was ready for take-off, when I noticed an unmistakable look of astonishment on his face. It was a look that quickly gave way to pure amazement upon realizing the identity (more so, the gender) of the person in the driver’s seat of the black Honda EF hatch right next to his car.
I will never forget how that expression registered on his face. Nor will I forget how his surprised look gave way to a smirk, to a smile, and then to a look of utter disdain. Without another word, he nodded and focused his gaze on the road that lay ahead.
We thus began our game, wherein, to his immense shock, I had won.
Mr. Macho Racer Dude had been pulverized by a member of the female species.
And so, games like these went on as my need for speed and my passion for auto performance increased over time. The spell of Saturday night drag racing completely overpowered and intoxicated me. Playing the game became a drug, which addicted me so much that every time, I yearned for more.
Many people would probably ask how I, a GIRL, became so interested in such an endeavor that, under normal circumstances, would only entice a man. Why racing? Why am I a car enthusiast? Why do I engage in such a dangerous sport so common only to men and disregarded by most women?
Because I love it.
Many guys would argue with my reasoning, and I cannot blame them. A GIRL? With a bad-ass car? On the STRIP??? Unheard of! Totally uncalled for! Downright ABSURD! Girls and cars do NOT mix together at all!
But it’s true, in my case, at least. More so, in the case of a few other great women out there.
Nevertheless, we braved the seas, said “what the hell,” and entered the racing realm anyway.
So how would it go? Like any normal Saturday night for a girl, I put on make-up, get dressed to kill (excuse the pun please), go out on a date, go bar-hopping, party or simply hang out!
But NOT without getting a good car wash and a decent tune-up.
After my Saturday night itinerary, my other life kicks in. Witching hour strikes and I feel that familiar surge of excitement as I park my car to join my racing teammates and the other auto-enthusiasts.
I would often see eyes (yes, MALE eyes) boring down on me as I get out of my car. Sometimes I would just chuckle to myself as I see these guys’ reactions to me as soon as it dawns upon their faces that YES INDEED, I am a girl and I own a race car. It is even quite amusing to find out at times how much more I know about cars than some of my male friends. Most of my racer friends treat me as if I belong to their gender. Still, I know that my teammates are proud of me and it is their support that encourages me to go on and do what I love to do, no matter what.
However, I did not say that I was really skilled in what I do. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I will not deny that I have yet to gain more knowledge about the technical side of car performance and the technique of launching my vehicle properly. I am still the enthusiastic student, eager to absorb all the information that I can put to memory. But then again, it is not everyday that you would see a girl up to her elbows in dirt and grime over the popped hood of her car, trying desperately to learn all that her mechanic could possibly teach her. Yes, we car-enthusiasts understand that a little filth cannot kill you.
No, I am not a lesbian. Neither am I a die-hard feminist. I share the same interests and hobbies with plenty of other women in the planet. I believe that the male population is God’s greatest gift to my kind. I date. I fall in love. I shave my legs. I get a facial regularly. I get PMS. I primp myself to look good. I have to admit I could even be so vain sometimes. I do the same things many other girls do!
Except racing.
Hey, who said that women can’t hammer the throttle? After all, we don’t race in heels. :-P
