About three weeks ago, my brother called.
We had been talking about my flight north for Thanksgiving. So, the call was not a surprise.
He started off: "I'll meet you at the Los Angeles airport on Wednesday."
"Why?" I responded. "I'll be at your house in Bend [in Oregon] later that night."
"Wrong. We are going to race in the Baja 1000."
And so began my latest little adventure. I have never even attended the Baja 1000. But my brother has been a team member -- along with my niece -- for several years.
So, if all goes well, I will have met my brother at the Los Angeles Airport, and we will be heading south into Baja as you are reading this.
And what will I be doing? Well, let's put it his way. Remember the scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade when Indy's father read obscure clues from his diary? Indy asked (with irritation in his voice): "What does that mean?" And his father answered with laughter: "I don't know. We'll find out."
That is exactly how I feel. I know we are participating. But I am not certain in what type of vehicle. Nor do I know if I am navigating or driving or serving as cannon fodder for the course. But, you know what? We'll find out.
Someone is bound to ask this question, so let me answer it. My doctor does have concerns about me traipsing off on another boy adventure. Not because she is concerned I am going to have a heart attack or a stroke (though that could happen to any of us at almost any time), but because she has not yet found the proper combination of medication to deal with my triglycerides. She was not impressed with my suggestion that we set fire to my blood and let the fat burn out like some abandoned West Virginia coal mine.
I will undoubtedly make some promise to her that will be physically impossible to keep. But she will feel better, and I can have a good time with my brother.
If I can get internet hookups, I will keep you posted on the race. If not, there will be tales to tell in another week.