Pinewood Derby Disaster
“Second place is just the first loser.” – Dale Ernhardt
Ok, I’m not really sure that’s a Dale Ernhardt quote but I saw it on an ESPN promo so he could have said it. It really doesn’t change the fact that I am the world’s worst father. Or at least the world’s worst Pinewood Derby car dad.
My son participated in Cub Scouts this year. One of the highlights of the year is the Pinewood Derby. When he told me he wanted to participate in the Derby I was excited for him. I reminisced back to my days as a Webelo in the St. Lawrence Cub Scouts. There, I constructed my masterpiece… the Millennium Falcon. It was baby blue, with the name scrawled in black ink on both sides of the car, a jagged tail fin and a secret compartment beneath the car where my dad and I had put in weight. Probably illegal, but not unlike Hans Solo and his carefree, break the rules spirit he lived by. But thinking back to the Millennium Falcon should have sent warning signals from my brain, because “the Falcon” had finished very, very, very, poorly in my Pinewood Derby competition.
But this was the next generation. A fresh start. Unfortunately I forgot about the whole thing until the week of the Derby. Fortunately my wife was able to carve the car out of the block of wood the Cub Scouts gave us. She took woodworking in high school giving her 10 times the skills I had. But I didn’t want to be the dad who made my son’s car and tried to re-live his Cub Scout glory days anyway. (Granted I had no car making skills but it sounds better the way I put it.) Regardless, we were off to a good start.
Next step was the paint. My son went with red. It wasn’t the baby blue of the Millennium but he chose it and painted the car himself with spray paint in the garage. We now had a nice silhouette of a Pinewood Derby Car on our garage floor. He and I hammered in the wheels. I then ran off to the hardware store to buy silicone graphite slicky stuff to put around the axels of the wheels. They were all out of the small 2 ounce package (apparently all the other Cub scout dads had beat me to the hardware store) and all that was left was the big 10 ouncer. According to the check out clerk I know had a lifetime supply of silicone graphite slicky stuff.
Back to the house to grease the wheels with silicone. We put the stickers on and stepped back to admire his car. It looked fast. It looked invincible. It probably looked about as good as the Titanic when it left port for the last time. I went to bed dreaming of victory.
Our Cub Scout pack was given a generous donation a few years ago from a guy who gave the scouts a high-tech digital scoreboard and derby track. My son and I entered the gym the next morning and marveled at the track. Digital timer. Auto starting line. It was a thing of beauty. It was off course roped off to keep the Cub scouts from getting too close and knocking it over.
We went to the back of the check in line. I got a little nervous when I saw dads wearing leather jackets with name-brand products labeled all over them. What, did these guys get their car sponsored??? And I felt the Budweiser team didn’t exactly send an appropriate message to these young boys. Then I saw dads scurrying around with glue and tape and tiny strips of metal. Oh crap! Weights! I forgot the weights! Every pit crew chief worth his pistons knows you gotta weigh your car down to give it extra speed. I asked a dad I knew if I could borrow his glue and ran over to the table with extra weights lying around and frantically started gluing strips of metal to the car. My son began to look a little skeptical of his car’s appearance. We weighed the car in and it was grossly underweight. Oh-oh. Richard Petty, we have a problem.
But there was no time to do anything more. It was race time. We entered the car and I said a little prayer to Dale Ernhardt (whom I’m sure is in heaven and I read will be declared “Blessed Dale” by Pope Benedict). I took my seat with some parents to the left of the finish line and my son sat with his den. The first race began and the derby was underway.
We didn’t have to wait long to see what his car could do. His name went up on the digital scoreboard and they announced his car. The track had four lanes and the boy's car was on the second lane from the left. Good spot. My palms started to sweat. My son looked over and smiled at me. I can’t take the suspense! Come on Millennium Falcon Jr. Race like the wind! And they’re off!
Well, I wouldn’t use the word wind to describe the car’s flight down the track. It raced more like a crippled dog with three legs, one of which was caught in a bear trap. The car stopped a good three feet short of the finish line. I sank in my chair and wanted to die. Blessed Dale Ernhardt my %*!$+##&^. “That’s ok,” the dad next to me said, trying to comfort me, “There’s 7 more heats. You'll get 7 more chances.” Excuse me? Did you say SEVEN more heats! SEVEN! Holy Days of Thunder Batman. We in big fat trouble. Why would there be SEVEN more heats?? What crazy insensitive bastard decided to run these races 8 times??? I look over at my son and give him a “That’s ok” sign. He seems no worse for wear and is distracted by all the other races. I try to compose myself and think, “Ok, that was a fluke. Next race it’ll finish. No problem.
Well…have you ever seen a wounded squirrel struck by a car in the middle of the road, and watched is struggle to make it to the other side at a slow, torturous, agonizing crawl towards death? Take that time 10 and you get the idea of how the other six heats went. Each time I thought by some miracle the car would finish. But it didn’t. Not once. Three feet short each time. I felt just terrible. I cursed myself for not using more silicone. Call the fight!! If I had a towel I would have thrown it in the ring. My poor kid tried to keep a stiff upper lip but I could tell he was getting discouraged. Upset. Ok probably scarred for life by the whole event.
About 12 hours later, the last race finished. I was wishing they served whiskey at the concession stand. The only thing left was the award for “Best of Show”. And did you think they would throw my kid a bone for his car’s appearance? Of course not. I know this isn't the Special Olympics but come on! Now the poor little guy was a wreck. I tried to console him with some lame speech about how losing builds character. If that was the case we had enough character to last us through 2010. But he rallies later after we get home and says, “Next year we’ll build a better car right dad?” Atta boy.
In the meantime I better look into taking some woodworking classes.
Ok, I’m not really sure that’s a Dale Ernhardt quote but I saw it on an ESPN promo so he could have said it. It really doesn’t change the fact that I am the world’s worst father. Or at least the world’s worst Pinewood Derby car dad.
My son participated in Cub Scouts this year. One of the highlights of the year is the Pinewood Derby. When he told me he wanted to participate in the Derby I was excited for him. I reminisced back to my days as a Webelo in the St. Lawrence Cub Scouts. There, I constructed my masterpiece… the Millennium Falcon. It was baby blue, with the name scrawled in black ink on both sides of the car, a jagged tail fin and a secret compartment beneath the car where my dad and I had put in weight. Probably illegal, but not unlike Hans Solo and his carefree, break the rules spirit he lived by. But thinking back to the Millennium Falcon should have sent warning signals from my brain, because “the Falcon” had finished very, very, very, poorly in my Pinewood Derby competition.
But this was the next generation. A fresh start. Unfortunately I forgot about the whole thing until the week of the Derby. Fortunately my wife was able to carve the car out of the block of wood the Cub Scouts gave us. She took woodworking in high school giving her 10 times the skills I had. But I didn’t want to be the dad who made my son’s car and tried to re-live his Cub Scout glory days anyway. (Granted I had no car making skills but it sounds better the way I put it.) Regardless, we were off to a good start.
Next step was the paint. My son went with red. It wasn’t the baby blue of the Millennium but he chose it and painted the car himself with spray paint in the garage. We now had a nice silhouette of a Pinewood Derby Car on our garage floor. He and I hammered in the wheels. I then ran off to the hardware store to buy silicone graphite slicky stuff to put around the axels of the wheels. They were all out of the small 2 ounce package (apparently all the other Cub scout dads had beat me to the hardware store) and all that was left was the big 10 ouncer. According to the check out clerk I know had a lifetime supply of silicone graphite slicky stuff.
Back to the house to grease the wheels with silicone. We put the stickers on and stepped back to admire his car. It looked fast. It looked invincible. It probably looked about as good as the Titanic when it left port for the last time. I went to bed dreaming of victory.
Our Cub Scout pack was given a generous donation a few years ago from a guy who gave the scouts a high-tech digital scoreboard and derby track. My son and I entered the gym the next morning and marveled at the track. Digital timer. Auto starting line. It was a thing of beauty. It was off course roped off to keep the Cub scouts from getting too close and knocking it over.
We went to the back of the check in line. I got a little nervous when I saw dads wearing leather jackets with name-brand products labeled all over them. What, did these guys get their car sponsored??? And I felt the Budweiser team didn’t exactly send an appropriate message to these young boys. Then I saw dads scurrying around with glue and tape and tiny strips of metal. Oh crap! Weights! I forgot the weights! Every pit crew chief worth his pistons knows you gotta weigh your car down to give it extra speed. I asked a dad I knew if I could borrow his glue and ran over to the table with extra weights lying around and frantically started gluing strips of metal to the car. My son began to look a little skeptical of his car’s appearance. We weighed the car in and it was grossly underweight. Oh-oh. Richard Petty, we have a problem.
But there was no time to do anything more. It was race time. We entered the car and I said a little prayer to Dale Ernhardt (whom I’m sure is in heaven and I read will be declared “Blessed Dale” by Pope Benedict). I took my seat with some parents to the left of the finish line and my son sat with his den. The first race began and the derby was underway.
We didn’t have to wait long to see what his car could do. His name went up on the digital scoreboard and they announced his car. The track had four lanes and the boy's car was on the second lane from the left. Good spot. My palms started to sweat. My son looked over and smiled at me. I can’t take the suspense! Come on Millennium Falcon Jr. Race like the wind! And they’re off!
Well, I wouldn’t use the word wind to describe the car’s flight down the track. It raced more like a crippled dog with three legs, one of which was caught in a bear trap. The car stopped a good three feet short of the finish line. I sank in my chair and wanted to die. Blessed Dale Ernhardt my %*!$+##&^. “That’s ok,” the dad next to me said, trying to comfort me, “There’s 7 more heats. You'll get 7 more chances.” Excuse me? Did you say SEVEN more heats! SEVEN! Holy Days of Thunder Batman. We in big fat trouble. Why would there be SEVEN more heats?? What crazy insensitive bastard decided to run these races 8 times??? I look over at my son and give him a “That’s ok” sign. He seems no worse for wear and is distracted by all the other races. I try to compose myself and think, “Ok, that was a fluke. Next race it’ll finish. No problem.
Well…have you ever seen a wounded squirrel struck by a car in the middle of the road, and watched is struggle to make it to the other side at a slow, torturous, agonizing crawl towards death? Take that time 10 and you get the idea of how the other six heats went. Each time I thought by some miracle the car would finish. But it didn’t. Not once. Three feet short each time. I felt just terrible. I cursed myself for not using more silicone. Call the fight!! If I had a towel I would have thrown it in the ring. My poor kid tried to keep a stiff upper lip but I could tell he was getting discouraged. Upset. Ok probably scarred for life by the whole event.
About 12 hours later, the last race finished. I was wishing they served whiskey at the concession stand. The only thing left was the award for “Best of Show”. And did you think they would throw my kid a bone for his car’s appearance? Of course not. I know this isn't the Special Olympics but come on! Now the poor little guy was a wreck. I tried to console him with some lame speech about how losing builds character. If that was the case we had enough character to last us through 2010. But he rallies later after we get home and says, “Next year we’ll build a better car right dad?” Atta boy.
In the meantime I better look into taking some woodworking classes.
posted by Hank Louis Tierney at 7:01 PM
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