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Leaving a Bad Taste |
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This is a tale from the IHRA Amalie Oil Texas Nationals that could have left a bad taste in my mouth. As many of my eleven readers are aware, I pedal around the pits on my “Huffy Davidson” in search of a story or a picture during the course of the events I attend. In San Antonio , I was unable to bring the bike to the race since this is one of the very few events to which I had to fly. My plan was to hit a yard sale on the way from the airport to the track and pick up a $10 throw-a-way bike. Imagine my surprise when I found out there is no such thing in Texas …not the yard sale…but the $10 bike. The layout of the pits in San Antonio is probably the best at any event I attend, so walking wasn't going to be a problem except getting to the top end for pictures there. Bryan Epps came to my rescue when he offered the use of his second scooter. The scooter got me around the pits in record time and ran well. The looks were another issue thanks to a crash with the bike by Rick Green of FastNews at a previous race. Bryan sure is a trusting soul. I have heard stories of Rick throwing computers out of press room windows, or was that Larry Sullivan? Regardless, I motored around the pits and track nicely until during the top fuel round Saturday night. I returned to the parking area beside the tower and was unable to find the scooter. Since it was late at night, I hopefully assumed that Bryan had taken the bike to his motorhome for safe keeping. Going to his place on Sunday morning revealed that the bike had been “borrowed” by persons unknown. The news didn't seem to affect Bryan very much as he uttered: “I can't believe someone would go to the trouble to steal that POS.” However, I spent most of the day in a rather bad mood because I had not taken care of a friend's property and also wondering how in the world I was going to come up with the money to replace the scooter. As most of you know, we don't get rich following the sport we love. I had notified the security folks and the IHRA officials to be on the lookout in case we might accidentally spot the stolen vehicle, and twice during the day I made a quick dash to a reported location but had no luck in finding the illusive little scooter. Just before the final Pro round and during the semifinals of some of the sportsman classes, I spotted the bike hiding behind a trashcan near the staging lanes. The key was not in the scooter, I contacted several people to keep an eye on it in hopes that the thief would return soon and attempt to drive off again with the stolen goods. Immensely relieved, I was able to finish out the final round of pictures without the black cloud hanging over my head. Returning to the winner's circle to assist Bryan with those pictures, I found that the culprit had been apprehended. As it turned out, the thief was a young teenager who was detained by IHRA officials in the tower until his parents could be contacted. It is probably good that it was handled the way it was because Bryan and I both had different opinions of proper punishment. I was hoping I would the one who caught the individual and could administer revenge. I wanted to take the kid in front of the full stands and give him a good ole southern butt whupping. Making him live the rest of his days with the embarrassment of getting kicked all over the track by an old man. Bryan wanted to have him handcuffed to the fence in front of the stands until the event was over. Either of those would have been satisfactory with me. What actually took place was much more conducive to the heath of the young boy. The father was instructed to seek out Epps and make his son offer an apology. I was busy with the winner circle pictures and Bryan was accepting the apology from the kid as I arrived. Bryan explained who the two people were and went back to take the picture of the next team in line. The teenager was standing there looking like the world had ended and had moist red eyes. I went into a rant about how much of a stupid thing the kid had done. Then I made the statement that I had wanted to catch him and kick his butt. About that time, his dad, who was the size Hulk Hogan, said: “Now hold on a minute!” My voice froze and my heart dropped into my shoes as I thought I was the one about to be whupped. Instead of telling me that I had gone too far in my rant, the kid's dad picked him up with one hand and let him dangle and said, “Just wait till I get him home, you won't have to kick his butt, I will do it.” He then told his son about the wrong of his actions. I am glad to say he did it in a more fatherly manner than the way I had spouted. When he had finished with what he had to say, I could do nothing but hug the father's neck. I shook his hand and then shook the hand of the kid and told him that I hoped this was the worst trouble his ever got into during his life. I turned and left a crying son and a disappointed dad standing in the staging lanes. Instead of leaving a bad taste in my mouth, the whole incident left me with a feeling that no harm had been done to the bike and that this may have been the thing that will keep a teenager from making more bad choices in his life, especially since he had a dad who cared about him as much as I care about my own kids.
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