There was no going back. I had signed a waver that said if I died, it wasn’t the fault of the Barrhead demolition derby. I was about to drive a car around two barrels in a somewhat complicated figure eight patter...blindfolded.
Anyone who attended the Blue Heron Fair demolition derby on Friday may recall the intermission entertainment: the blindfolded barrel race. Some of you may recall my involvement.
When I arrived at the event, camera ready for action, I stopped to see organizers Greg and Brenda Petruchik. Brenda really twisted my arm about hopping into a car for some blind and reckless driving. It took her a whole casual suggestion for me to finally agree.
Before I knew it I was partnered with Greg and Brenda’s son Nick, who suggested I find a helmet and some body armour. Pedal to the metal, he said, that would be our strategy.
I was starting to understand the waver.
Originally I was named the navigator. I don’t think my new partner trusted me behind the wheel. That’s a stereotype, isn’t it? And adding a blindfold to the mix?
In the end, much to my delight, Nick was kind enough to let me take the drivers seat with a smile (a nervous one at that).
To the crowd, watching two people drive seven kilometers an hour through a seemingly simple routine without a collision might look simple. Easy as pie. Piece of cake.
Even as I watched two other teams before me head out into the arena and struggle slowly along the route I was thinking, it can’t be too hard...can it?
Well, let me tell you. A blindfold changes everything.
I plunked myself down behind the wheel, and donned by blindfold. Everything went dark.
The first few moments of the run went very smoothly. My confidence in our abilities was rising with each passing second. We were doing great! Perhaps we could even win …
“What are you doing! Stop! Stop it!”
Everything went downhill after that, and it was all my partner’s fault.
OK, so maybe not knowing my left from my right played a small, miniscule part. But really, how important is that skill anyway? I warned Nick before we began I had directional issues.
I could hear the announcer far off in the distance, “Nope...other right...”
Clunk.
I think I hit something...
In the confusion, my panicked brain told my foot to hit the gas again. After all, our strategy was pedal to the metal.
What does he mean stop it? Stop what? Maybe I should accelerate. I think I’m stuck on something. Am I on top of a tire? Should I reverse? I’ll back up. Where’s the reverse on this thing?
I could hear Nick shouting abstract directions at me in the background of my frantic train of thought. Through the chaos as I flailed my hands in the air like deranged (and blind) bird, I finally realized the horrible truth. I had killed a barrel, and with vicious force.
Through the yelling and the laughter, we somehow managed to make it across the finish line in one piece eventually. Needless to say, we didn’t win. But, it was certainly a lot of fun.
Despite what some may have witnessed Friday evening I promise, without a blindfold, I’m a good driver.
