We Don’t Have A Cat! | Vol: 2 – Race Chasin’ and Balloon Knot: Rick Rarer’s Chicken

JANUARY, 2025:

Race chasing, as the name implies, is the act of spectating as many races as possible throughout the course of any given season, typically stretching from early year activity in Florida through the World Finals at The Dirt Track at Charlotte in Concord, North Carolina. There’s a particular art to race chasing, and it takes a lot of time and dedication to coordinate. Not only does the respective race chaser have to build a schedule, but they have to map out a budget, plan for any overnight stays that may not involve the front season of one’s vehicle, and purchase enough over-the-counter medication to counteract any funky concession stand foods that one may encounter. I’ve only been sick on a handful of occasions, and in a particular situation that sticks out the most, I knew better than to buy the “homemade” macaroni salad. But, it was enticing, only to spend much of that late afternoon getting to know an array of uncleaned plastic crappers. And just to be clear, they were dirty before I got there. Very few things in life will prepare you for an unsanitized port-o-potty in the draining heat of an August sun. Life decisions are questioned and you miss your family, almost as if you were stranded on a deserted island or on death row. 

My race chasin’ days were well before I accepted a job with the All Star Circuit of Champions, which forced me to commit to a specific schedule for the first time in my career as a diehard race fan. A typical day in the life of a race chaser usually commences with a quick review of the planned destination and their respective gate times and pit pass prices, followed by a rendezvous (if you’re not traveling alone) with a friend or friends who may be joining you on your adventure, all of which headlined with a heated debate on where and when you wanted to stop for lunch. Lunch was always vital, as the aforementioned macaroni salad incident of 2011 was the product of a missed lunch. To this day I question anything with mayo in the ingredients. Unless my mother makes it, then I don’t have to question anything; it’s flat-out avoided.

Now, I’d be lying if I could remember when the next part of this story occurred, or where we were going. But I do know Rick Rarer – known to most as the man behind SprintCarNews.com – was with me and he was soon to learn about my farm’s chicken. We only had one chicken; a lonely rooster named Balloon Knot that was purchased by my Old Man in, what I’m guessing was, a Coors Light-influenced impulse buy at the local auction house. I mean, who buys just one chicken? But he was good at impulse purchases, especially pointless livestock and poultry. At one time we had a goat, also named Balloon Knot, that used to let himself into the nearby Rest Home and crap all over the floor. Luckily, we owned the place and the trails of moist debris were easily eradicated without many repercussions. But, needless to say, Balloon Knot had to go and he was quick to be replaced by a chicken. I guess you can always eat the chicken if it crosses the line one too many times. I’ve never had goat meat, but it sounds tough.

Rick and I’s trek to the race track was smooth and painless, returning back to my family farm sometime in the wee-hours of the morning. Despite the fact, Rick’s trip was far from over, as he resides in Franklin, a solid 90 minutes further north than my headquarters just outside of Kittanning. As a proper host should do, I invited Rick in to stay, ultimately allowing him to snag a few extra hours of sleep before making his way to Venango County. But, Rick declined, choosing to sleep in his car rather than track his clay-ridden shoes into my home. My car and its used-to-be black floor mats were already destroyed, so for him to pass up the opportunity to track Lincoln Speedway all over my carpet was rather courteous. In his defense, sleeping in the car was nothing short of unusual and he had grown quite accustomed to it over the years. We all did, in fact. Pulling over into a rest stop at three or four in the morning was nothing short of unusual. By that time, the head bobbing was already in full force partnered by hallucinations of wild animals and old ladies. We’ll get into that later. 

By the time Mr. Rarer got settled into his Subaru for a short summer slumber, daylight was approaching, and if facing a soon-to-be inevitable glare from a fast rising sun was not enough, Balloon Knot, in all of his chicken glory, made an appearance and “doodled” to the high heavens, unconcerned with the time of day nor Rick Ricker’s mental state and wellbeing. The doodling – unable to think of a cleaner term for the sound he was responsible for – continued for several minutes, refusing to let up even as the sun began to peak through the neighboring hills. Anyone who may have missed their 5:30 alarm, Balloon Knot so graciously saved the day. 

Now, I can not be completely sure, as the original transcript has been lost in time, but as far as I can remember, the conversation following Balloon Knot’s insurmountable wake-up call was short and stern commencing with Rick’s initial message “…you have a chicken.” It wasn’t even a question, just a statement, as if I was already guilty for not giving him a proper heads up of the free-ranging, basically flightless bird patrolling the area. Hoping to pass blame and plead innocence, I was quick to reply “…my dad does, yes. Why?” But I knew exactly what he was talking about. I heard Balloon Knot’s yelp to the Gods, and as the concerned friend that I was, I attempted to go right back to sleep. 

A series of death threats on Balloon Knot’s life would eventually ensue, followed by the sound of a Subaru rolling down the driveway. I guess he got enough rest. 

Until next time…

I base my calculation on the expectation that luck will be against me – Napoleon