I was six or seven when I won my first racing trophy. It wasn’t as cool as those trophies you’d get for actually racing a go-kart or soapbox derby car, but it was something. My dad and I had worked hard getting the shape of my pinewood derby car right. The right angles. Sanding the wheels and axles till they shined and could spin faster then my tired little hands could make them. Its a right of passage most father and son’s make together, the Pinewood Derby.

Its a time for fathers to teach their sons how to work safely with tools like a jig saw, sanding belt and drills of all sizes. We spent many trips to Kroger to the meat department having them weigh the car until it was perfectly balanced. The paint, the weights, everything had to be perfect. The car was smooth. Fast. Sleek. Painted silver, nothing else adorning its wooden body. A thing of beauty that now resides forgotten in some box in my parents attic (or maybe mine). But on two days, that little car was a thing to behold.

The first was the Pack’s pinewood derby. We raced in heats first, by rank. First the Tiger Cubs, then wolves, finally my group. When our heat was over, I was left standing on to the pack finals to determine who would represent the pack in the District Races. I came in second that day, but it was good enough to go on to the District Race as only one of two cars from the pack.

The day of the district race, we checked everything once again. Put more graphite powder on the axles, checked the weight one final time, then left the car with the judges until our race. That day we raced several times, each time the car seemed to know its purpose. Speeding down the short track with one thing in mind and every time achieving its goal. By the end of the day, I had come out victorious. I say I, but really it was my dad and I who won those Pinewood derby trophies, of course, those too, lie in a box somewhere….

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