This past weekend I traversed the forgotten attic lands like a Hobbit with a bit of costume jewelry in search of the holy relic that was my washed up derby racer. As fate would have it, this blurred-out photo, taken roughly a hundred years ago judging from the high class linoleum product it’s sitting on, is the only remaining evidence that it ever existed.
I was very proud of the melted-lead engine block up front, which I did myself with my father’s fishing weights and a little copper tube that he helped me bend and cut. I also take full responsibility for what I’ll just call the “unusual” cartoonish styling and ridiculous shark fin. Hey, I was nine.
It was a great experience and one I still remember as a net positive, even after I jacked up the first kit (cutting it in half with the band saw) and dad had to go get another. If there were parental politics going on, as many other readers have mentioned on Friday’s post, my friends and I never saw them go down. It was just a fun time with cars, racing, and our respective dads, which as I stated last week, seemed to be the point.