I've been trying to write this blog for awhile now, to explain it in terms of a New Year's resolution, or to somehow simplify it and relate it to wrestling fandom and my own little sporting pursuits. But the fact is that it just won't stay in all those neat little boundaries, and maybe it shouldn't have to. Maybe that speaks more to my attitude and to that of my inspiration, CM Punk, than a "proper" little Hallmark moment piece of writing anyway.

Many would call Punk a great example for kids with his Straightedge lifestyle, but fewer think about his influence on those of us who are older and might need to be reminded that hard work has its rewards, that being different isn't the death sentence some would have us believe, and that refusing to give up does make a difference. While some of us have watched drugs or alcohol take an undue toll on the lives of those around us, we have held our ground and tried to have some discipline. I have never been Straightedge myself, but I have always been wary of the kind of destruction I have seen wrought in people's lives by careless substance abuse. I drink very moderately. Illegal drugs have no place at all in my life. But I'm light years from having the kind of discipline that Punk has. I guess that's why he gets to be the inspiration and I get to be the inspired.

"Inspired to what?" you may ask. The answer is as simple as "Racing," or as complicated as "Reclaiming a great deal of my life that has been lost along the way." Racing cars was the dream of my youth. I was raised in it really, with my play pen set up in my father's paddock space next to the tire stacks and tool boxes. My "aunts" and "uncles" were racing friends of my parents, who baby sat me while they kept their anniversary "date" with a candle light picnic on the tailgate of the tow vehicle. And as I grew up and found that I didn't fit in very well in the "real" world, there was always a place for me in the world of sports cars. Even when I was a troubled, sullen, leather and chains wearing, purple haired teen, I was still welcome there, even if I wasn't entirely understood.

I guess that's another point of fandom for me with Punk; I identify because I didn't fit in except within a certain small world of like-minded souls. Mine just happened to be sports car folks instead of Straightedge punks. I grew up in the suburbs of Baltimore and quite frankly no one was cool enough to be Straightedge there. I had very few friends and most are gone, the best of them was killed by a drunk driver, which pushed me quite over the edge. I was already at war with my parents and most everyone else, but what little solace I found was at the races because for that brief time at the track, I could be on the same side as my Dad and that made it easier to talk about things. It probably saved my life, looking back. Not from drugs or alcohol mind you, just from being so rebellious and depressed that I would have ended up on my own and too immature to handle it.

But at 17 I was finally deemed ready to drive a race car. Ok, not in a race, but I was allowed to autocross my dad's car. An autocross is an event held in a parking lot, in which a course is laid out in cones and cars are run through it one at a time. The fastest time wins. Speeds are relatively low and since cars aren't out there together, there's little danger of a wreck. A rev limiter was put in place to save the engine if I should be such a yutz as to jam the throttle wide open. I ran a couple of autocrosses and utterly embarrassed myself, knocking over cones, spinning out wildly, sliding, overshooting turns, you name it. But then I showed up at the first event of the next season and walked the course, studied the map, hopped in the car and made my first couple of runs which were pretty good, walked the course and studied it some more, and made the last run. After that I came back in to find the amusing sight of a row of old men who always show up with their lovely old British cars, in their little plaid caps, puffing their pipes, standing there with their analog stopwatches... all smiling, bemused, at the leather wearing, spiky multi-color haired girl. I had just won my first event. And that was the day that I learned a new dream. There was something I could do, and do well. I won the championship that year, and my father had promised to help me build a racecar of my own when I won an autocrossing championship, so off I went.

Much like Punk's first years in the independents, those first few years were rough. I raced on my father's hand-me-downs, and couldn't afford a tow vehicle, so my car had to be driven to the racetrack, demanding that it remain street legal. That made it hard to get the suspension geometry needed to make it really fast. And in our class that was deadly because the competition was fierce and numerous. The field was usually 40-50 cars strong, and at its worst dwindled to maybe 30. There was never a dull moment. But in those years I learned a lot, including how to get my ass kicked and figure out how the guy did it. I got better and better though and in the course of time I achieved a lot, just never quite what I wanted. But I lived on optimism and the support of the fans. Yes, fans, or really friends because we don't so much have spectators as other racers and workers and a very small bunch of fans, but they're very supportive and they do let you know that you've turned in a performance. Looking through my boxes of old trophies I find 2 third place championship medals. Unlike wrestling championships, racing championships are won over the course of a season, by accumulating points, so those represent a yearlong effort apiece with a lot of high place finishes. And that pretty much is the story of my 9 year career, a lot of high place finishes, just very few wins, and no actual championships. I threatened every champion in my class for nearly a decade; I just didn't actually beat them.

And this is where the question of luck comes in. Because so many have said, "Well, you just never had the luck," or "The stars never aligned." I didn't see it that way. Besides the fact that the expense had taken a toll on my finances and accidents had taken a toll on my health, I had not come close to what I hoped to accomplish. I left racing defeated, convinced that I just plain sucked. And no one could convince me otherwise for a very long time. But man did they try. Remember those fans I mentioned? Those friends? None of them would let me just forget that I had once been a racecar driver and in their eyes a darn good one. They recounted tales of my heroism regularly, often not noticing me trying to hide in a corner. But a funny thing happened during one such re-telling. The friend telling the story recalled me winning the race and when I assured him that I had not, that I had never won a race at Summit Point, my home track he said, "Huh... I could have sworn you won that one. Well... it was still brilliant! You guys were just great..." etc. etc. And it hit me; no one else is keeping track the way I am. It isn't about the record for them, it's about the moments. It's the same way we remember our favorite matches and highlights and promos. We don't remember exactly how many matches someone has won or lost, or even titles sometimes, it's the moments that made that person special that stand out. It's taken me a little while to come to grips with the fact that I might be seen this way myself, on a much smaller scale.

But in that time I've had even more to come to grips with. As I've said, I tried to forget that I was a racecar driver, to go have a normal life, to pursue a career, buy a house, have a relationship, get a couple of cats and plant a garden. During that time I packed on weight, developed migraines, and became more and more depressed, all the while failing at most of the things mentioned above. Ok, the cats and the house worked. Well, so did the career to an extent, because I can work like nobody's business. Just that I'm not a true career person. I don't kiss ass well enough for true advancement. And while I love to learn new things, if I could put "serial dropout with issues with authority" on my resume I would. Anyone see the makings of a "You might be a Punk fan if..." test here? But all the while I stayed in contact with the racing world, trying to keep a low profile and not be a driver anymore, just hang out with my friends. I did express some interest in trying it out again, especially when a new class started becoming popular, Spec Miata. It was fairly low cost, and Spec means everyone gets the same car, throws the same kit on it and goes racing. Total equality never quite happens, but things are still a far cry from the open ended development of my former class. Then the bombshell hit: my father went and bought one out of the blue... for us to share.

After the shock wore off, the old enthusiasm started to return, with just a hint of trepidation. I told myself this was just going to be for fun and I was going to take it easy and I wasn't going to let myself get so carried away with it this time. I kept holding back a little, as if really getting into it might be dangerous, as if I might just embarrass myself if I tried too hard. Now to fill in the blank a little, I had already started moving toward some positive things. I had left northern Virginia, which was killing me. And I had started down a slow road to finding a cure for the headaches that were plaguing me and was willing to go through however many doctors it took to find one that would actually work with me. Point being, that positive things were coming together, and long about that time, last spring, I started watching wrestling again. And there was CM Punk, to remind me why I should never have left in the first place.

Punk was a breath of fresh air to a returning fan, not being precisely like anything I remembered, but a lot like me in some ways and a lot like I wanted to be in others. That's what heroes are for I think, not so much to be idolized passively, as figures we have nothing in common with, but to be those we can catch a glimpse of ourselves in and see ourselves realized as better than we are. So while I was enjoying watching him cash Money in the Bank, I was also inching my way back into the racing scene. And through his victories and defeats I traversed my own ups and downs, getting faster, and then spinning off every turn at Nelson Ledges racecourse, and running into another car as it spun in front of me. All the while, I was slowly starting to remember how much I loved being there in the first place, even when things didn't go just the way I wanted. And at the last race of the season, things finally came together. After more quiet and diligent practice, the race day dawned and kept everyone guessing about whether or not it would rain. To me, it didn't matter since I only had one set of tires, but others danced around the question of which tires they would run all day and come race time, some chose well and others did not. I ended up with a real race on my hands, and stalked and fought and ended up turning in the kind of performance that everyone knew and loved me for, including me. I had just forgotten. But I turned in my fastest time to date and finished 12th out of 33, my highest up until then.

It was almost a shock though, feeling the old fire again quite that strongly. I still had it. Sure, there was room for improvement. Dad and I had both spent most of the year shaking off the rust and our tired old engine had not boosted our performance much. But the fire was there. This fire burns, always. Who'da thunk it? After that race I started seeing things differently, and more importantly I started to act differently. I started to act like someone with a purpose and a reason for being, someone who had a dream again. I wanted back into my old driving suit, which demanded I lose a good bit of weight. I finally found that doctor who helped me beat the migraines and that put me back in the gym. Admittedly, it was a struggle, but whenever I feel lazy about it, I remind myself that Punk's knees surely hurt worse or he's got to be more tired than me. So I keep going. At this writing, I'm back in that suit, a little snuggly, but in it. And recently, I attended an autograph signing with CM Punk. But unlike those who brought their favorite photo or tee shirt, I brought my helmet and asked that he sign it with "Luck is for Losers." This is, in part, an explanation of why.

Because this time, I'm not waiting for the stars to align. This time I'm not waiting for things to go my way. In sharing a car with my dad, I'm not even able to become champion just yet, so for now the only goal I can have is to perform well, and eventually win individual races. My goal for all of last year was to finish in the top ten. That is now my goal for the first race, April 18-19. After that, the ante will be upped to the top five. And that's pretty tough company. How tough that is will determine when I can realistically set the goal of winning a race. My overarching goal is simple: Make them fear me. It's what I'm good at and have plenty of experience at, after all. But just as important as the goal is simply being there, doing what it is that I do. I spent ten years trying to pretend I gave a damn about my flower beds, but I just didn't. But I drive racecars in my dreams at night. And it's worth it to keep pursuing your dream no matter what; even if someone kicks you in the head before you have a chance to defend your world championship, even if someone flips a car over four times with you in it and smashes your neck and shoulder. It's worth it to never stop and to let all those folks in the stands believe, because they'll keep on believing even when you forget how, because they'll keep your moments for you and remind you what matters when you forget. In my case, they remembered who I was for me. And so rarbear must race again, to keep an unspoken promise to myself and to all those who supported me not to give in and be defeated. And it's good to have Punk around to remind me how.