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Tired of it All

July 29, 2007 --  I woke up yesterday morning (was waked up, that is, by a cat that believes 6:00 a.m. is the right time to get up regardless if it is Saturday or Judgement Day) and looked at the list of things I had to do so that I could head out to a gathering of friends who may be facing their last chance to boo Sebastian Bourdais before he leaves the country, and realized that not a single thing I have on that list inspired any enthusiasm in me.

I am simply tired of everything.

My friends on the internet trudge in circles -- the racing fans whine that We Need More Americans, about ROI, about whether or not mostly naked girls have a place at the race track, and about why we should not race outside the USA; Canadian Conservative friends blabber endlessly about homoseualx, feminists and abortion, stopping only now and then to complain that their taxes are too high AND they aren't getting enough FUNDING for whatever pet activity or protected class they happen to espouse or belong to.  My American Conservative friends wrinig their hands over Hilary and Obama, about feminazis and about how Sinister Forces are Controlling The World.  And about how their taxes are too high and their own protected group should be getting more of the money that ought to be extorted only from other people and not them.  Travelling has become exhausting and annoying, airline travel more like riding the bus, and all of it crammed with people whose sole interest in life seems to be asserting their right to make as much noise as possible.  Everybody moves too slowly or not at all; all of my family seems to be determined to make a Federal Case out of things that are at heart extremely simple -- and on top of that I got a telephone call from someone at a credit card company who wants to get me to take out a consolidation loan, who purported to tell me that I was paying more in interest every month than his plan would propose, and who had the nerve to ask me why I was using the counter cheques his company showers into my mailbox three times a week begging me to improve my life by using them.  My church is filled with people who come there because they have to, who talk all the way through the service (and text message and play hand held games) and despite the knowledge that one does not attend church because of the congregation, it still bothers me that this is the fifth church I have attended in my 11 years in Canada and still nobody will speak to me except when the service demands that they do.

On the good side, of course, I still have my health and a long life experience hints that eventually everything will work out somehow.

But this weekend, as I prepare to go off to a race-watching party in a determined effort to keep from sinking into depression -- not in anticipation of a good time, and with the full knowledge that when I get home I will have to write a race report, the photographer will not have sent me any photos, and tomorrow I will have to go back to the office where everyone else is juggling eggs and chain saws and knives too -- and my lotto ticket will come up NOT A WINNING TICKET yet again.  I just wish something on my list of stuff I have to get done was the least bit interesting.

That's the way it is for now. Life looks dull gray and its a long road with no visibleturns in it.  Sigh.
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Harry Potter and The Passing of Time

July 11, 2007 -- Most of the time I don't think about my age or the passing of time.  Oh, occasionally I do, like when I read the birth date of someone retiring from racing and realize he was born when I was a sophomore in college.  Or when an indignant driver tells me age is just a number and I consider asking him for a date because I am 39 years older than he is, just to see him jump.

But this week I am uncomfortably aware of my age, because the new Harry Potter movie is out and my grandson, who has gone to every one of them with me until now, is 16 years old and frankly would rather not be seen in the same city as his Grandma, much less waiting in line for a movie.  Yes, I know he will come around one day.  But presently I am feeling rather old.

Paul was 8 when we met; he is a foster grandson from the Foster Grandparents Program and had worn out two Grandmas before he found me.  I had brought up two boys and knew all about active, athletic boys; his mother, a single parent who had adopted him, knew nothing at all about boys and because she'd had two hip replacements she found him more than the ordinary handful.  What he needed was a Grandma who could ride bikes, play goal, go on the log ride and see the same movie five times in a row, and that he found in me.  The first time the three of us went to the park together, his mother said that she just couldn't make him walk nicely with her; he was always running ahead.  We old folk settled on a bench and I said, "Paul, lets see how many times you can run around that tree.  You run and I will count."  I can't remember how many times he ran around the tree, but when he finally collapsed I gave him a huge cheer and bought him an ice cream cone and he walked along happily next to us just the way his Mama wanted him to.  The secret with boys is to wear them out.  His mother said he could not get along with other kids.  I took him to the kiddie pool at our apartments (which had a life guard) and the kids pretty soon taught him what he had to do to get along.  When we were out on a bike ride once, he shouted "Grandma, look at the ducks!" and  another kid looked at me (in a baseball cap, Penske Motorsports jacket and jeans) and said "THAT is your Grandma?"  "Well," said Paul, "She's not an OLD Grandma."

But Harry Potter was a whole new dimension in our relationship.  Paul had been adopted from an orphanage and let us say that it was not exactly state of the art first world stuff over there.  At the age of 10 he was reading at a low level and the teacher said he would never learn to read any better.  We came out of "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" and he wanted to go right back and see it again. "There's a book," I told him.  "Can we buy it?" he said.  We bought it.  He struggled and sweated and worked and fought his way through it, and raised his reading level two grades by the time he got to the end.  After the second book, he asked me, "Is Snape a good guy or a bad guy?" and I told him that  I didn't think Snape had decided which he wanted to be.  That was the first he'd ever heard that you got to CHOOSE whether you were a good guy or a bad guy, and it opened up a line of discussion that would have astonished his mother, much less his teacher.  (He also asked me what gremlins looked like and I told him that since they were imaginary, they could look like anything he wanted them to look like.  Believe it or not, we ended up discussing Sartre's Psychology of Imagination before we got to the end of that one!)  Each new book raised questions of philosophy and ethics, of what we owe our teachers and other adults even if they don't treat us right, of what "Pure Blood" means and does not mean....and about how some things happen for no reason.

Paul has grown beyond me now and that is as it should be.  But as I line up to see "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" this weekend I am going to miss his eager questions and the long discussion afterwards at the Pickle Barrel over giant milk shakes and chicken fingers and fries.  Growing up and growing old have their disadvantages.
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A word in your ear, M. Bourdais

 A word in your ear, M. Bourdais

An Editorial following the Champ Car race at Mt. Tremblant, Quebec on July 1, 2007

By Kate Shaw

Photos © Jamie Longmuir 2007

TORONTO, Canada (July 2, 2007) — A few words M. Sebastien Bourdais about your post race behaviour during the Champ Car race yesterday.

Mama called it a tantrum; Grandmama called it "acting out." In Formula One they call it “bringing the sport into disrepute” and drivers get hefty sanctions for shooting off their mouths at inappropriate times and in inappropriate words. Just ask one Jacques Villeneuve. In fact, perhaps, M. Bourdais, you should take a short jaunt from St. Jovite to Montreal and make that inquiry of M. Villeneuve himself. With another race coming up in three days’ time, it would be none too soon for him to put you in the picture.

A lot has already been said about the unprofessional behaviour of the French driver, three time Champ Car World Series Champion and Aspiring Formula One Driver Albeit At The Back Of The Grid, at the Grand Prix of Mont Tremblant over the weekend. But in case you spent Sunday in your boat at the cottage, here are the highlights. Bourdais jumped the start of the race and was given a bye. Later he misjudged a turn while under yellow flag conditions and took what the touring car people call a “lawn tour” and fell from the sharp end of the grid to 11th place. From there he stormed back to P2, but despite his best efforts he could not overcome Robert Doornbos (No. 4 Team Minardi USA) who went on to take the victory.

When interviewed on international television in Parc Ferme, instead of congratulating his fellow driver and admitting he was very lucky to dodge a couple of bullets and very good on the track to be able to rise above conditions and finish P2, he immediately launched into a tirade accusing the victor of having cheated him out of “his” win! A chorus of booing rose behind him from the French fans in the stands (how badly does a French driver have to behave to be booed by French Fans in a French venue?) yet Bourdais persevered. And not only that, but he carried his tantrum onto the podium, starting an argument with the race winner, refusing to shake his hand, and eliciting a renewed course of booing…and THEN he carried his brattish behaviour into the post-race press conference, continuing the same tirade of abuse, condescending put-downs and attempts to characterize as ‘blocking’ some moves that were obvious to Helen Keller to be an attempt to keep wet tires cool in the last three laps of a hotly contested race. A glance at the film post-race would reveal that every driver on the grid was seeking this same relief, not wishing to blow a tire and lose position in the dying minutes of an exciting and variable contest.

Here is just a sample of the Bourdais Tirade, taken from the post-race press conference transcript. First, the words of M. Bourdais.

“Just Robert passed me very cleanly on the track. Just left the door open. I was kind of hoping he was going to do the same when at some point I was a little quicker behind him. But that's not what he did. That's the only reason I was very unhappy with him. Still is, obviously,” said Bourdais. “But that's the way it is. Apparently his F1 experience is playing a little bit. He's not quite used to the way we should be behaving on the racetrack when you're not supposed to move, which he done on three occasions. Race control let it slip. That's fine. Anyway, he had the faster car. He seemed to do a great job. It's just a shame that as good a driver as he is, he had to do it this way. I think it would have been a much nicer win had he not done it.”

Got that? Bourdais blames (1) Doornbos for cheating; (2) Champ Car Race Control for allowing him to get away with it, and (3) Team Minardi for their ignorance of the Champ Car regulations, for the fact that Doornbos, and not he, came in first.

When asked for a response, Doornbos said this. “It's very easy. First of all, I'd like to thank Sebastien for all his compliments he made. He congratulates me.

“I mean, I fully think that I deserve this victory. I'm very happy for this team and for myself. But to see what happened on track, I know that the rules in the U.S. are different, a different way of racing. In Europe, we race hard. In Formula One, we race hard. It's a sport.

“At the end of the day, you're fighting -- you have to be selfish, you're fighting for your own positions. In the U.S. I have to respect the new rules. I paid the price last weekend in Cleveland where I felt that basically I made a mistake and the race director of Champ Car gave me a penalty, a drive-through, so my race was completely destroyed. With a bit of luck and good strategy, we got back on a good result.

“So I am for sure respecting the rules of racing in the U.S. In these conditions, though, you cannot predict what happens because, like everybody says, you're driving on slick tires in the wet, you're driving on wets tires on parts of the track which are dry. You're all over the place looking for grip.

“If Sebastien feels that he could have passed me, he should have done it. I felt I was quicker. “

Note that these are not personal recollections of what was said; they are a matter of public record.

Now, consider these two accounts, and notice that Doornbos did not respond to Bourdais’ slander against him, his team, and Race Control with equal vituperation, slander or ad hominem attacks. Instead, he pointed out some things that perhaps M. Bourdais did not want to consider: (1) Mr. Doornbos is in fact, not in fantasy, already an F1 driver; (2) Mr. Doornbos’ team knows the rules of the road and in fact were reminded in the race only a few days earlier that the rules on blocking are different here – and had to be aware that Race Control would be keeping an eye on him should he need a refresher course; and (3) that if Bourdais could have passed him without Doornbos simply slowing down and waving him by (no blue flags were involved), he certainly would have done so. Personally I also enjoyed the little Prost-like dig thanking Bourdais for the ‘compliments’. I equally appreciated the subtle tug on the hook of his review of the Cleveland race: Doornbos had been penalized (as Bourdais was not) for an early race violation, and like Bourdais did today he came back to stand on the podium – but Doornbos did not, as he did not point out but everyone can conclude for himself, use his air time in Parc Ferme to erupt in a tirade accusing everyone including Dan Clarke’s dog of conspiring to ruin his race.

There are times and places for exchanging opinions on your fellow drivers and their teams. I have a friend who races in sports cars who is adamantly opposed to a particular make of car, the team that runs them and all who dwell therein – but he makes his comments off the record, in places where no cameras are whirring or microphones are attuned, and not for publication. When he stands on the podium or in a press conference with members of this hated team and their suspect (to him) drivers, he is a gentleman and he gives them full points and props for their competitive race on the day. He will shake hands on the podium with a man he tried to flatten earlier in the weekend, in fact, and he has actually done so.

And even if a driver does make public comments about his fellow drivers, as our favourite Bad Boy, Paul Tracy, has been known to do (“I wonder why French guys try to pick fights with me but won’t take off their helmets?”) he gamely takes his lumps from the enraged fans and even converts them to his supporters without a single snivel, shriek or dying fit. Last year’s race in Montreal, of course, is Exhibit “A” where Tracy stood on the podium after a weekend of playing Wrestler Captain Quebec and wearing deelybobbers with the Quebec flag over his Forsythe cap, and was cheered to the echo by the fans for the way he played the game both on and off the track.

It’s called Sportsmanship, M. Bourdais. Sportsmanship, gentlemanly behaviour, and self-control are the hallmark of a champion.

I will close by offering M. Bourdais just a few words of advice and one, let us call it a heads up.

First, if you do get that drive with Toro Rosso, you will be lapped at least five times a race by Lewis Hamilton, who is 100 times the racer you are even in equal equipment. Should you jump out of your car and start accusing Hamilton and Team McLaren of the crimes, including not knowing the rules of Formula One, that you have heaped on Mr. Doornbos this weekend, you will not only be booed by a world wide audience instead of a regional one, but Lewis Hamilton will laugh at you and Formula One will suspend you, fine you and kick your tuchis.

Second, a man going to Formula One should study the epic battle of Senna v. Prost, and recognize the fact that Prost knew very well the way (as did Nelson Piquet in his battles with Nigel Mansell) to get under his competitor’s extremely thin skin was not to take him seriously in public. Prost drove at 95%, well within himself, and Senna drove at 110%, and Prost beat Senna as often as Senna beat Prost – and Prost was nonchalant about the fact and Senna hated that so much that he refused even to speak his hated rival’s name. In fact, you may wish to recall that when Senna, who was a much more noteable world champion than you are, made some of the same unfounded accusations about Prost and Race Control that you made this weekend, he came very close to losing his superlicense and trashing his career.

And finally, the heads up. Mr. Doornbos has been revealed In a Sports Illustrated article to be an accomplished kickboxer. Should you decide some day to poke him in the chest the way you did Paul Tracy, you may find yourself lying supine on the tarmac holding the gas can and wondering where the car has gone.

Just sayin’, Sebastien. Just sayin’.

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