Just before I left for Brainerd I completed my version of the Sistine Chapel. Sure, it only took Michelangelo four years to complete that ceiling, but my fence job was far more complex. Anyway, eight years later and I’m done! The final (and custom trimmed, I might add) piece went into place without much fanfare, but what a sense of accomplishment. Just for giggles I just took the tape measure to give you some perspective. One hundred feet. Eight years. The math doesn’t look good. I averaged12.5 feet, or 27 pieces per year. Break it down: That’s two pieces per month. Sound impressive? Consider this: In 2,920 days I installed 218 slats, which equals about one every 13.4 days, or less than half-inch per day. At that rate they’d still be putting the middle section up on the Great Pyramid! A quarter-mile pass would take nearly 87 years. Procrastinators, I am your king!

Anyway, we headed out to Fontana to visit Cindy last week, and to celebrate Brad Cannon’s 18th birthday. He was racing out at Auto Club Raceway, so I got to do some spectating, and it was cool seeing him lock up the High School championship in his first try. He’ll get to go to the E.T. Finals in Fallon to represent Fontana and race for a Wally. The Cannons gave Jason Bradley’s old push-around plastic car, and Jason loves anything with a steering wheel.

Jason hadn’t seen his great-grandma for quite some time, so we also headed out to Malibu and had dinner with the family.

Hold on, something’s missing … oh yeah, motorhome stuff: A couple of months ago I thought it sounded like we had blown an exhaust gasket, and that definitely turned out to be the case. Thankfully we still have time left on the warranty, so we took it to Cummins in Montebello (about 35 miles from here) to get it fixed. It turned out to be a warped manifold, so I’m really glad we only had to pay the $100 deductible.

What else am I missing? Oh, yeah, Jason parading around naked. When we got back from the Western Swing, all he did for the first two days was carry around his two dragsters. Everywhere he went, they were clutched in his hands. If you think it’s a travesty that my son has a Pennz%$& dragster, look closer. He slowly is chewing off the competitor’s label, and we’ll draw Valvoline on it when he’s done. Until then he’s not allowed to wear clothes around the house (I know he’ll be pissed when he’s older, but it’s still funny).

The race went fantastic (unless you were paying attention and saw me red-light in the final). We put the Valvoline/Mail Terminal Services Dodge in the top half and put lots of points on the board. Not only did we solidify our spot in the top 10, we actually moved into ninth with our final-round appearance. Big performance, and perfect timing. Except for my miscue, it was a perfect weekend. Though I was obviously disappointed, the crew, Rodger and Karen, and Don Schumacher were very supportive and made me feel better. The rest of the weekend only made me sore (and tired).

Friday morning I had to get up early to do a radio interview at the local classic rock station, just as I had done last year, and the “Danny and Mac” show are my new Minnesota buddies. On my way to the station I listened to Brandon Bernstein do a call-in interview. What the hey … how come he didn’t have to drive on over like me? (More on that later).

After the radio piece I drove over to our softball practice. If you’re not following this deal, the NHRA drivers are staging a charity game for DRAW, to be held the Thursday before Reading. I’m on Scelzi’s team, and we got our asses handed to us by Antron’s squad in a practice scrimmage. Those guys walloped us good, 22-2, and some of them looked like they do this a lot. Take Bernstein, who showed up in neon yellow cleats! (Now I know why he didn’t want to be caught driving in public.) I hadn’t played since I was in the Air Force, and I used to be pretty darn good. I don’t know what happened, but suddenly I can’t field a ground ball. So we all licked our wounds and headed to the track for Friday qualifying.

Friday night it was time to trek into the “Zoo,” Brainerd’s wild and wooly campsite, and claim to fame. Four hundred acres of campground, 8,000 rabid fans, and tons of alcohol make this a very interesting place. Our crew took a golf cart in, packed with big men in Valvoline shirts. The fans were totally receptive, and obviously not bashful. We met up with my buddies from last year, who were handing out the Jaegermeister like it was half price. I think the guy second from right actually fell asleep standing up! I thought only CalTrans workers had that skill (Bad joke, I know). My crew is a group of absolute professionals, whether it is assembling an engine between rounds, repairing equipment between races, or drinking like fish between camp areas. Much like my softball ability, I’ve lost a step or two in the past decade. Me and drinking more than three drinks aren’t compatible, and trying to keep up with the crew is an exercise in futility. I bailed early, and got Terry Snyder to drive me back to the hotel. Also, I do NOT recommend stopping to partake in the world’s thickest, worst cup of coffee on top of Corona, Jack, and Jaeger. Not smart, not at all. Also, while dolling out my pearls of wisdom, you should NEVER leave your cell phone in the trailer and NOT call your wife, especially if she gets worried and calls the State Police to see if you’ve been in an accident. These are just some bits of knowledge I’ve accumulated over the years. Feel free to use any or all of them for your own benefit.

Saturday … ouch. I could still taste that “tar” coffee, my head was plugged up, my nose running (I think I caught a cold), and every muscle sore. Did I mention the big bruise on my hip from diving for a pop fly? Anyway, the on-track stuff went well, and I headed out from the track just after 5:30. For those of you thinking I was fleeing any temptation to return to the “Zoo,” that’s not the case (okay, it’s a bit of the case). We had our “remedial” softball practice to attend to. I’ve never seen so many sore players on one field. It made me feel a bit better that JR Todd, at 26, was also feeling the pain. Greg Anderson, Allen Johnson and the rest of us definitely played better ball, but needed ice and Ben-Gay by the gross. I’m telling you, there was some serious limping and “ginger” movements Sunday during the race, and it had nothing to do with the cars. The good news is that once I borrowed a real glove I actually could field all right again. The shot I took features Scelzi, Capps, Grubbie on second, Bob Tasca on first, and our own “best dressed player,” Tony Pedregon.

Back to Sunday. After the final round I bummed three Advil from Johnny West (apparently the crew chiefs carry lots of pain relievers … who knew?) and headed out to the airport. My surf pal Rich Camou was on the same flight, as he is picking up several national events driving Tom Bayer’s rental car. Rich won the divisional in Sonoma two weeks ago, and he was on cloud nine. That’s huge for a guy who basically just started competing last year. He’ll also be in Reading, so at least he won’t get more practice on the waves until I can get back out. Come to think of it, I’m only home for two days after Reading, and then we are taking the RV for the entire rest of the year. I sure hope ESPN stat guy Lewis Bloom and I can catch some waves during the tour ... I miss the water.

Speaking of RV (was I?), we picked it up from Cummins Monday and brought it back to the house. I had to replace all of the rubber shrouding around the radiator, and Jenna scrubbed all of the tile and stocked our clothes. That night cousin Jason, his fiancée Steph, and my brother Ted all came over for a bar-b-que. Us guys decided to tune up the sprinklers, and you just know that a disaster couldn’t be far away. Little Jason just loves the sprinklers (that was the precursor to his first blog streaking) and didn’t stay dry too long. While cycling the timer to adjust all of the heads, we heard a loud “pop”, just like the sound of PVC water pipe coming undone under the valve. In fact, EXACTLY that sound. Cool. I’m sure glad that didn’t happen when we were on the road for several weeks, as our house would be under water.

George Bush and company sent Jenna and I our $1,500 whatever-you want-to-call-it “economic stimulus” refund. Allow me a couple of moments to get political: I’m 100 percent for lowering taxes and letting the individual citizen decide how to invest or save their funds, but sending money back to people who technically haven’t earned it? I don’t know what the hell is going on in Washington, but our founding fathers must be rolling over in their graves! Anyway, it was time for us to do our stimulating (economy-wise, that is), so I let Jenna decide what we needed. I really was hoping she wanted something for the garage, maybe even some parts for the El Camino, but I got stiffed with a dumb-old washer and dryer combo. Big deal! What’s wrong with the ones I’ve been using for 18 years? My clothes are clean, what more can you ask for? (Apparently a lot.) This set is supposed to perform miracles, cook, and clean around the house, and help babysit when needed. At least that’s what Jenna tells me. Truth be told, I haven’t been near the dirty laundry much since we married, so perhaps she is onto something. I just hope they clean my shop rags as good as the older units did! And maybe Jason won’t have to go naked as often.

The Salvation Army is coming to pick up the old units. I know we could make some money selling all of the stuff that we get rid of, but yard sales are a hassle, and it feels good to help out by donating.

It’s now Wednesday afternoon, and we’ll head out to Cindy’s house, as my plane leaves at 6 a.m. tomorrow from Ontario. I land at 4:40 p.m. in Philly, and then I have to book straight to the softball game. I hope things go smooth and I don’t hit much traffic, as I already will miss most of the pre-game highlights.

Haircut, trip to Costco, load the car, done!

Stay tuned.