I get motion sick. I know this. I have known this for a long time. Yet it constantly surprises me how often I place myself in situations that I know can only end badly for me.
I thought it was as bad as it could get a few years ago when I let a friend of mine talk me into going fishing in a small, chartered boat off the coast of Bodega Bay. That was hours of nauseated pain and torment that I will never forget. (For anyone curious about this trip, I blogged about it at the time. You can find it here).
Despite how bad that experience was, I believe I have finally topped it.
A few months ago, I was talking to a friend of mine. His name is Mike, and I have known him for several years. He told me that he had been taking his new car (a 2019 Mustang Bullitt in case anyone was wondering) out to a local racetrack. I told him I thought that was really cool.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have sounded so enthusiastic. He then went on to say that he had recently been certified by the track administrators to take passengers with him when he drove. I saw the light go on in his eyes, and I saw the question coming before it was even out of his mouth.
I tried to think quickly. Knowing that I can get carsick on a thirty-minute drive in the country through gently rolling hills, I was not keen on an entire day of quick accelerations, sudden stops, and out-of-control slides through hairpin turns. It sounded like the literal definition of Hell to someone like me.
I looked at Mike, smiled, and said, “Yeah. Sounds like fun.”
I know. I’m an idiot. Regardless, I had put my foot in my mouth, and I was stuck with that answer.
On the day we agreed to go, I woke up that morning with an upset stomach. Maybe it was nerves, or maybe it was something else, but I wasn’t feeling very well. I did not want to call Mike at the last minute and tell him I was sick and couldn’t go, however. That felt too much like running away. Instead, I pulled up my big boy pants, took a couple swigs from the Pepto Bismol bottle we keep in the medicine cabinet, and headed out the door.
I’m sure we can all see where this is going but try not to get ahead of me.
We arrived at the track and signed in. I was issued a helmet. Mike and I were both given wristbands, although I noticed they were different colors. I tried not to think too hard about that, but I couldn’t help wondering if it was in case the car crashed. When we were ejected from the metal wreckage, was it so the track staff could easily tell which mangled corpse on the dirt shoulder was the driver? Blue means driver. Orange means the guy too stupid not to get in the car’s passenger seat.
The official said, “Drink plenty of water today. It’s going to be almost a hundred and thirteen degrees out there by this afternoon.”
I looked at Mike and told him, “It’s a good thing your car has air conditioning.”
He just laughed. “Oh yeah. I forgot to mention. I don’t use the air conditioning. I don’t want the car to overheat. Don’t worry. I’ll keep the windows down for you.”
This day was just getting better and better.
After signing in, we had two hours before our first time on the track. Mike suggested we get a bite to eat at the concession stand. I agreed and proceeded to order the greasiest egg sandwich I have ever seen in my life. One bad decision followed by another; I ate the thing.
I won’t go into much detail, but I will say that I missed a large portion of the morning orientation speech as I was having a prolonged sit-down in the bathroom.
I staggered out of the bathroom, weak and dizzy, just in time to climb into Mike’s car and head for the racetrack. I buckled my seatbelt then felt my head smack the car door frame as we lurched out onto the first turn and merged with the existing traffic already moving.
Ten minutes later and I was already beginning to feel the first twinges of motion sickness. I was sweating and still a bit dizzy from my earlier adventures. I might have been a bit pale at the time because Mike glanced at me and asked if I was doing okay.
Unable to open my mouth for fear of something popping up from the depths of my intestinal tract, I simply held up my left thumb. I was attempting to show Mike the finger I would be using to plug whichever orifice on my person that began to eject bodily fluids first. He must have misunderstood the gesture since he immediately stomped on the accelerator.
I survived our first run. Barely. When we pulled into the pits to rest before our second time period on the track, I ripped off my helmet and ran for the nearest bathroom. Something was coming out, I just wasn’t sure yet which end it would be coming from.
I made it with seconds to spare.
When I could stagger back outside, I found Mike standing beside his car. I apologized for disappearing then told him that I was not going to be riding with him anymore that day. I didn’t want to stain his nice leather upholstery.
“But I’ll be fine watching from the side. Don’t let me…”
I was going to say, “ruin the rest of your day,” but Mike had already jumped back in the car and burned rubber back to the track. He left me standing there in a cloud of exhaust. Clearly, he had no intention of letting me get in the way, and I don’t blame him.
The rest of the day was spent in a lounge chair, listening to fast cars zip around the racetrack and trying not to let anything still inside of me escape to the outside.
I think that will probably be my last time out at that track. Not because I wouldn’t agree to go riding again. I know that I am fully stupid enough to say yes if Mike asks.
I just don’t think Mike has any plans to ask. The leather seats in his car are really nice. There is no reason for him to let me put them at risk again.
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