"When one jumps over the edge...

One is bound to land somewhere."
D.H. Lawrence

These words fill my head these days. While not overly optimistic, it is nice that they have replaced another phrase full of expletives, which has pulsed in my head every waking moment and marched through my dreams at night for the past two weeks since I made the decision to quit my job and return to school.

It's time. I've been postponing it for ages now, but it's finally time. I wasn't quite prepared to quit my very stable, well paying job that I love, but ultimately it was the right decision. No matter that the idea of not having a full-time job, for the first time since I was 16, terrifies me! Thankfully, feelings of fear and uncertainty are offset by the excitement and anticipation of taking on a new challenge.

This 30th year of mine has been all about change, personal redefinition and flying by the seat of my pants. It's appropriate, I think, to end this year by making a huge leap...I hope the landing is gentle.

Feeding my need for speed

I am utterly exhausted. This is a bone deep kind of tired. It's the kind of tired that is the mark of a prodigious weekend. I had every intention of coming home and crashing hard for the night, but after a shower and a dinner of fried rice, I find myself firmly planted on my couch with my computer, a Harp lager and the Steelers v Broncos game. My mind still hasn't figured out that the weekend is over.

Twice each year, the population of my sleepy little town in Southwest Virginia doubles for 48-72 hours. How exactly does that work? Simple. The NASCAR circus comes to town. My job requires me to attend the race and so this weekend I was a special guest, albeit a hardworking one, of the Martinsville Speedway.

I am not a NASCAR fan. While this is not my first race, I don't know the names of the team owners or their sponsors or the entire history of racing as many fans do. (Thankfully, the drivers have their names embroidered on their belts, so if you're comfortable staring really hard at their midsections, you can figure out who they are.) I don't even have a favorite driver. Well, I didn't...

So, I spent the last 3 days wandering around a half mile paper clip in wonderment. My pass allowed me to access the pits, garage areas, media centers and suites. It's a buffet for all the senses - watching drivers and crews prepare for race day; rubbing elbows with the Mooresville pit box babes, with their identical hair, nose, teeth, lips and breasts; smelling burning oil/gas, grilled chicken and the world famous Mart-dog; listening to the air tools at work; testosterone. I even got to shake a driver's hand just before he took to the track. Never mind that he crashed and burned 15 laps later.

**writer's break for food poisoning. Damn fried rice. TMI?**

I imagine a weekend with this kind of behind-the-scenes access could turn anyone into a fan, if even just for a few days. I was standing 5 feet from the cars when Jared of Subway said "Gentleman start your engines." 65,000 people cheered from the stands as drivers were announced and I stood on the start/finish line. Even better than being on the track is retiring to an air conditioned suite stocked with all the bean dip you can eat and beer from around the world for the duration of the race.

A few other random notes from the weekend:

• Watch out for the drips of, ummm, beer while walking under the grandstands
• Award for biggest cahones - Reed Sorenson in the pepto bismol pink Target car
• Award for worst marketing campaign - Combos and the man-mom car (truly scary!)
  

Who is my new favorite driver? That would be Juan Pablo Montoya. Why? For the same reasons he has zero fans...he's pretty, he's a good driver and he's not from the South. While these may be deal breakers for the typical NASCAR fan, they are firm checks in the "si" column for me.

For photos, click here and here.

No wonder I'm dizzy. Everything's spinning.

OK, I know I began this blog under the guise of a wandering dot, so it's reasonable for you to expect great stories of travel. The truth is I'm not doing much actual wandering these days. Sure, I've had some great adventures this year, but there's no fun for you in my rehashing those trips now. I do have several exciting trips planned in the near future, but for the moment my mind is all that can wander to Guatemala and Spain. In the meantime, I'm finding great adventure just wandering around my existing space.

Last night, I attended my first contradance in the town of Floyd, Virginia. If you Google Floyd (and you should, it's worth reading about), you'll find that the town itself has less than 500 residents. Don't let its size fool you. Located just off the Blue Ridge Parkway, this burg is a growing haven for artists, writers and musicians and culture oozes from its pores.

The Sun Music Hall's website promised a lesson for first-timers before the dance began, so my friend Sandra and I arrived in time for instruction. Prior to two days ago, I'd never even heard of contradance, and so went forth with no expectations. At 7:45, our "caller," Adina stepped to the center of the room and began our lesson. She walked us through a series of steps and threw lots of technical jargon our way such as partner, neighbor, courtesy turn, circle, allemande, cross over, right hand through, spin, and on and on and on.

After 10 minutes, it was announced that we had all the knowledge necessary to begin dancing. I was dubious. So, what is contradancing? It's nearly impossible to describe - you just have to try it. To say there's a lot of spinning is an understatement. Adina warned us about getting dizzy. Some dancers find Dramamine helpful, she announces.

WHOA! Wait just a minute. Everyone who has ever danced with me will attest that I am a hopelessly terrible dancer! I have no rhythm and I do not "follow." Shocking, I know. So, I did not just sign up for an evening of being spun all over the dance floor, did I? Not to mention having to memorize a series of intricate steps that should be performed in the right order to avoid crashing into others who are in the "line of indefinite length." Talk about things that scare me!

Our lesson concluded after a few generalities from Adina:

• Contradancing is a team sport, so don't expect to dance with the one who brung ya all night.
• Whether you're a lady or a gent, remember that the lady is always right. (I knew this, but it takes on a different meaning when you're in mid swing and can't remember where to stop!)
• Try it...you'll like it. (Famous last words...)

With that, we formed 2 lines, the Bubbatones began the live music, and away we went. I lost track of Sandra after a while as the dances take you up and down the dance floor numerous times. My dance partners were plentiful and patient. Experienced dancers take first-timers under their wing willingly at these dances. They gave gentle feedback even as I laughed at my egregious errors! One suggested making eye contact during the spins, which helped with the dizziness. One taught me that the best spin is executed by keeping one foot in place and pulling against your partner - he was right...we flew!

The more I danced, the more I amazed myself. I was getting it! I was kind of...good! As the evening progressed, my partners began adding their own flair to the dances, spinning me and tossing me where they desired and, by the end, I was dizzy again from all the spinning.

In three hours of contradancing, I never sat out a song, nor did I stop laughing. I think I danced with everyone in the hall - some really good, some first-timers like me. I participated in and caused a few train wrecks with my novice. While my body is protesting today, last night I only felt exhilarated! I am hooked on this wondrous form of English folk dancing.

The next time you find yourself in Floyd on the 2nd Saturday night of the month, drop in and have a tofu chimichanga at OddFellas and then join me at the Sun Music Hall. I'll be there...spinning!

"And if you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with, love the one you're with." Thank you Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young and AM for this valuable lesson!

The scary part is crashing...

Fear, according to wikipedia, is an emotional response to impending danger, that is tied to anxiety. I suppose fear is a response by our bodies to stop us from doing something that could potentially hurt us...it’s that little quiver in the bottom of our bellies that whispers (or, more often than not, screams) STOP just before we put ourselves in harm's way.

And yet, some of us find that the subsequent adrenaline rush makes it worthwhile to press on even as our head warns us otherwise! In fact, I have a pact with a friend to try one thing that scares me everyday. So, what are those daily activities that frighten? They range from the very serious to the very silly. Anything counts as long as you feel that little twinge of nervousness in your center. Things that make me know I am alive: jumping out of a plane, especially since my horoscope specifically warned against it; driving a stick shift through the 'big city' of Roanoke during rush hour traffic (in a borrowed car belonging to a very brave friend); ice skating for the first time at age 30; standing on a racetrack with cars speeding on either side of me; blogging.