Local Moron Builds Racecar:
Learns Valuable Marriage Lesson

I suffer from an affliction commonly found in most boys in their pre-teens. I, however, have a chronic case of this illness, and it's pacing me right into my thirties. Its name is Ihaftadothat! The symptoms of Ihaftadothat vary from individual to individual, but the end result is always the same. The sufferer begins with babbling, but ends with a single statement - "I have to do that!"

The affliction started for me around the age of six. I saw my dad in the basement hammering a nail deep into a 2x4". "I have to do that!" Ever so proud, dad handed me a small hammer and soon there wasn't s straight nail left in the house. When I was nine, I began to covet the lawnmower. "I have to do that", I roared as I chased dad to the middle of the yard. Then he handed me the reigns of the 4.0HP Craftsman, and I was a mowing fool. Of course looking back, I wish I hadn't said, "I have to do that", because now all I can say is "I hate to do that."

At the age of ten, I was the passenger on many a motorcycle rides, but I knew that I had to do it. Finally, the key was in my hand, and took 175cc's of motorcycle down the dirt road and through the trails we liked to call the backyard. It wasn't long before I had my first broken bone, all because I had to do that. In 1993 I owned one of the fastest stock motorcycles available, a Kawasaki ZX-7R. 750cc's, 1HP for every pound in weight, and a top speed of 162MPH - I had to do that! It wasn't long before I was in the mist of my second downed motorcycle. 130MPH off an embankment and into a cornfield, I knew that was going to hurt. But, I had to do it.

Now I'm 30 something. I, along with good friend and business partner Chris Gustafson, own and operate a moderately successful webzine that is non-profit by accident. The most obvious way to get the Fishwrench to take-off was to put it in front of 2,000 Sunday spectators, hungry for the roar of dozens of engines passing by, and the crunching sound of sheet metal. We chose Tim Lewis (because he didn't mind our non-profit status) as the driver of the Fishwrench.com hobby stock and figure-8 cars. Sunday after Sunday I lived and breathed in Tim's world. Gas, oil, grease, sweat, tears, and blood - it was all part of the Sunday night ritual. My heart pounded everytime the hobby stock bellowed to power. How I longed to get behind the wheel of that machine. Racing fuel was filling my veins. Ihaftadothat was creeping up on my psyche, ready to make a retched pounce on my cerebral cortex. In the words of my wife, I was getting stupid.

It wasn't long before Tim Lewis met Gene Gruber, official auto-body man of Fishwrench.com. The hobby stock was in need of work, and Gene was the guy to do it. And it is Gene who also suffers from Ihaftadothat. Readers of Fishwrench know that Gene was able to pull of a miracle by transforming a junkyard ready car into a racing machine in just under eight days. Admittedly, I was jealous. Gene was doing what I had been only wishing for and dreaming about for the last year and a half. He saw his first green flag.

I like to think of myself as a smart guy. I don't know a lot about car engines, but I know that Gene's went together easily. Ihaftadothat quickly gave way to Icandothat. Like that stupid little train, my thoughts turned from I think I can to I know I can. The hard hat was on and I became Bob the Builder.

"Can we fix it?"

"Yes we can!"

For the next 45 days, nothing stood in the way of my building and racing a stockcar, except for one small detail. My wife was dead-set against the idea. The threat of her leaving me forever loomed if I decided to pursue this endeavor caused by Ihaftadothat. I'm a smart guy, so I contacted all of the friends I have and told about the racecar (both of them), and let them know the deal wasn't going down. The wife wanted nothing to do with me spending money on a racecar. Enter the lightbulb.

Guys are thinkers. Ihaftadothat will make them think, think, and think, until they can find a way to get what they want. No matter how trivial or massive, Ihaftadothat carries us forward toward our dreams, goals, and whims. "Bling", the lightbulb flickered on for Bryan, friend and neighbor. "What if a neighbor were to buy the car and you were just the driver?" Before you know it I had $200 not of my in my pocket, and was on my way to buy a 1978 Buick LeSabre. I drove the car home and parked it in the third stall of Bryan's three-car driveway. After all, it was his car. And I was so excited that everytime the wife asked me "who's car is it that", I could say "Bryan's." But his is where things get sticky. Bryan bought the car, but once the car is stripped, new parts have to be added to it. I was in a predicament, stuck between a rock, wallet, and my wife.

I'm a big weenie when it comes to arguing with my wife. If an argument grows big enough, I will cower down into a little ball, and roll myself under the nightstand in the bedroom, all the while telling her how right she is. In the offices of Fishwrench, I'll argue with staff, salespersons, and vendors - all of them - right up to the point where they're in tears, or they're hanging the phone up on me. But when it comes to the wife, I seek shelter and hide like a scared rodent. She's the absolute last person I want to see mad or unhappy. Now I am faced with a decision. To I tell my friend the project can't move forward without funding and put it off for a year, tell the wife I'm doing it without her support or not and actually stand up to an argument, or do a lie? I, much like the weenie I am, chose option three.

"It's Bryan's car. No don't worry about the money, Bryan is going to pay me back. I know all the stuff is shipped to our house. That's just because Bryan doesn't know what to order. I don't know why he doesn't drive his own car - he just wants to build one, and I want to drive one. I know it I'm spending a lot of time working on Bryan's car, but he hasn't been around to do any of it, and the race is only a few weeks away." With every sentence, my deceit became more apparent. My wife is smart - probably smarter than I am when it comes to reading people. I'm pretty sure she knew this car was mine long before I ever did. But, not wanting to give in that she was onto my madness, she never said, "I know it's your car." And I wasn't about to give in and say, "you're right, it is my car." Let the deceit proceed!

Ufda! Race day was right around the corner, and I found myself lying just to go outside and work on the car. The hole I was digging just kept getting deeper and deeper. "Oh, don't worry dear, I just have to do one or two small things to the car and it'll be done." She probably though it odd that I was loading the car on a trailer and taking it across town just for one or two small things. "I'm going to the garage for a Coke - you want anything?" She probably figured out it was more than a cola run when she heard the buzz of reciprocating saw against metal. Still, she wasn't about to let on to the fact that she knew I was a dumbass.

Race day, my pit crew assembled around the #37 at Raceway Park. My wife found it odd that everyone pitting and scoring for Bryan's car were friend of mine. "When it's racing, it doesn't matter who's helping who - it's all about team and getting a job done." Damn, that would make a fine magazine quote, but it would go nowhere with the wife.

Just before the race, I gave her a kiss and tried to soothe some of her concerns by telling her I just want to try this once, and after that, I'll never have to do it again. I just wanted to get it out of my system. And trusting me more than any other, although she saw right through my other half-assed stories, she was comforted by this one.

"I only finished 52 laps! You can't call that racing! Of course, I'm racing again." That was the first time she called me a liar. For two weeks, our conversation revolved around our son, and little more. Like two magnets of the same polarity, we pushed against each other to the point of not being able to stay in the same room. I was starting to miss her, but I was also missing the thrill of the race.

To her dismay, I did race again, and this time completed only 54 laps before blowing the engine that I had sunk so much money into before. The car was trailered to my brother-in-laws where it awaits a new engine. It's not for me this time, but rather one of the best pit crewmembers a guy could have on his team. He's going to drive the next race. I'm going to spend time with my wife.

Shortly after, the Visa bill arrived in the mail. NAPA Auto Parts, Capital Racing, Lou Fegers Racing, Osseo Automotive...the list goes on and on. "Is it your car?" she asked. "All but the first $200" I told her. Before I could muster up an apology, she forgave me. I have a good wife, and although a I'm a dumbass, she still manages to love me.

Will I race again? Duh - I suffer from Ihaftadothat! Will I choose option 3, lying to the wife, to do it again? Definitely not. I like my wife, and I'd like her to stick around for awhile.

I'm Bob Wood, and you are now Fishwrench wiser.