The adventure begins. I have boarded a train this evening and am headed to Little Neck NY to buy a new racecar candidate. A suppose that a bit of background would be warranted here seeing as this is my first post. I had been road racing with SCCA (Sports Car Club of America) and in October of 2010 I wrecked at Blackhawks Farms Raceway totally my beloved Bella. She and I had been through drivers schools and track days together for years and we begun racing with SCCA in ITE. It was a Dream realized, in a sense, because even as a child I had a penchant for all things car. It has been related to me that at the age of three I would yell from the back seat of the car "faster daddy faster". While my mother forbade him to indulge me, it didn't squelch my ache for speed. I have been told that, my elementary years, I liked "jumping bikes", which entailed riding the bikes of the early 70s which were equipped with banana seats and long tall sissy bars, around a dirt lot over variously staged debris that created ramps, curves and I am sure, hazards. I personally don't remember this but I have it on good authority from a woman I attended grade school with. I do however vividly remember, from that approximate time period, driving my cousins' go kart around in the wooded lot next door to their house. Had I known then that such a thing as I do today were even possible (Janet Guthrie didn't run in her first Indy 500 until years later) I would have spent more time there and worked harder on getting really good at it. High school was a series of begged rides grievously given to the pesky flat chested girl who loved rooster tails on gravel back roads. It wasn't until college that I filled out and was given the magical power of enticing keys and a test drive from nearly every hot car owning guy I met. I felt myself "owner" of the cars I "dated" and chose carefully with whom I associated in order to secure the best ride. Looking back I confess I may not have been the best girlfriend. I was selfish and had ulterior motives. Virtually ignored by men in that sense in high school for being skinny, flat chested and a bit weird, I was unaccustomed to the plethora of attention now flowing my way. I admit I relished and abused it, and not a little. In my sophomore year I bought a car. My first. Walking to class, every morning I passed an old Victorian house next to which was part a lowly red car. It never moved. I felt for that car the way the cat lady feels for a mangy stray. It broke my heart to see it so forlorn. Needless to say I became its rescuer and it became my steed. My own first car, "junque". Hardly the car of anyone's dreams, she had more issues than National Geographic and was a POS Chevy at that. My dad always said "Chevy" like it was a four letter word and here I dared to take one in. Little did I know that Junque was to become my introduction to a world I would come to revere. Having had her merely a week, she gave up the ghost on a back country road at an indecent hour leaving me cold and stranded as only British cars had left me before. I was incensed. In an age before cell phones and still young enough that I didn't fear a stranger stopping to help me, we were aided by a man who lived nearby and left us with assurances that he would call a tow truck and have then come out. Ok enough for now. Tomorrow another chapter in the saga.