The Last Time He Needed Me in the Staging Lanes
By Abby | Race Mode Co.
Yesterday, I cried.
A lot.
If you were at Bunker Hill Dragstrip yesterday and saw me wiping tears away throughout the day, just pretend you didn't. Ha!
I've been trying to put into words exactly what I was feeling, and honestly, I'm still not sure I can.
I didn't cry at Chas's high school graduation.
I didn't cry when his 4-H career came to an end.
But yesterday? Yesterday got me.
Because yesterday was the last time my son would ever race his Jr. Dragster at our home track.
And for some reason, that one hit harder than all the other milestones combined.
Maybe it's because I can still see that little 8-year-old boy climbing into his dragster for the first time.
And now, somehow, he's 18.
EIGHTEEN.
I blinked.
That's literally what it feels like. I blinked, and that little boy became a man.
And the crazy part?
I watched it happen from the staging lanes.
For ten years, our summers have revolved around racing.
Every weekend. Every summer.
Packing the trailer. Loading the car. Checking the weather. Getting to the track. Sitting in the heat. Waiting through rain delays. Celebrating round wins. Feeling the heartbreak of first-round losses.
And doing it all over again the next weekend.
It's just what we did.
It's who we were.
While other families were planning summer vacations and weekends at the lake, we were figuring out which track we were heading to.
And I wouldn't trade a single one of those weekends.
Because somewhere between the burnouts, the time slips, and the late nights, something pretty incredible happened.
I watched my little boy grow up.
I watched him learn how to win with grace and lose with dignity. I watched him get frustrated, figure things out, make mistakes, and try again.
I watched him become more independent, more confident, and more sure of himself.
But it wasn't just Chas who grew.
I watched a father and son build a relationship around that little race car.
A relationship built on working together, figuring things out, celebrating the good days, and getting through the bad ones.
I watched friendships form that never would have existed without racing.
People who started out as strangers in neighboring trailers became people we looked forward to seeing every weekend.
People who cheered for our kid like he was their own.
And I watched our family build a life around a sport that probably 90% of the world doesn't even understand.
Think about that for a second.
A silly little race car.
That's what started all of this.
A car that carried so much more than an 8-year-old boy down an eighth-mile track.
It carried ten years of memories.
And yesterday, when I watched Chas make his final passes at Bunker Hill in that Jr. Dragster, I think all ten years caught up with me at once.
Because here's the part I wasn't prepared for.
Next year, he won't need us in the staging lanes.
Sure, we'll still be there.
We'll still show up. We'll still cheer. We'll still worry. We'll probably still offer advice he didn't ask for.
But it won't be the same.
If you've ever had a kid in a Jr. Dragster, you know exactly what I mean.
They need you.
They need you to help get them ready. They need you beside them in the lanes and start the car. They need you to guide them, help them, and be part of the whole process.
It's something you do together.
And then one day, they're old enough to do it without you.
Which is exactly what we've spent all these years preparing them for.
Funny how that works, isn't it?
We spend their entire childhood teaching them to be independent, and then when they finally are, we wish we could have just one more day of them needing us.
I think that's why yesterday hurt so much.
It wasn't just the end of Jr. Dragster racing at Bunker Hill.
It was the end of the last little piece of his childhood that I felt like we were still holding on to.
Graduation didn't do that to me.
Turning 18 didn't do that to me.
But standing at the racetrack, realizing I would never again watch my little boy pull into those staging lanes in his Jr. Dragster?
That did it.
And I know what some people are probably thinking.
It's just racing. He's not quitting. He's just moving on to the next class.
And they're right.
This isn't the end of racing.
There are new cars, new adventures, new challenges, and hopefully many more years of weekends at the track ahead of us.
I know that.
But knowing something isn't the end doesn't mean you can't grieve the part that's over.
Because what I'm really going to miss isn't just the car.
It's the little boy who used to sit in it.
It's the weekends when he needed us for everything.
It's the version of our family that existed during those ten summers.
And maybe that's the hardest part of watching your kids grow up.
You can be so incredibly proud of the person they're becoming and still desperately miss the little person they used to be.
Both things can be true.
So to the race moms and dads who are watching their kids get older, I see you.
Whether they're aging out of Jr. Dragsters, moving into bigger cars, heading off to college, or just slowly needing you a little less every year.
I feel you.
And to the parents who still have little ones climbing into those Jr. Dragsters every weekend, take the pictures.
Even on the days you're exhausted.
Even when it's 95 degrees, you're covered in sweat, and you've been sitting in the staging lanes for what feels like three hours.
Take the pictures.
Stay for the extra race.
Enjoy the conversations in the trailer.
Because one day, that little kid you helped buckle into a race car will be a grown man.
And you'll wonder how ten summers went by so fast.
Yesterday, I watched my son close one of the biggest chapters of his childhood.
And I realized something.
I wasn't just watching him finish his Jr. Dragster career. I was saying goodbye to ten years of being his Jr. Dragster mom.
And I wasn't quite ready for that.
Much love to every racing parent who's ever stood in the staging lanes trying not to cry.
I get it now.
— Abby
Race Mode Co. | Built by Racers, for Racers
