Hi, my Name is Jake, and…

(Jake no longer dreamed of cheering crowds, nor of women, nor of cheap bourbon, nor of great poker games, nor feats of hell-driving, nor of his ’57 DeSoto. At hospice, he dreamed only of moments now and the electric pulses flittering up his arms toward his torso. They danced like miniature bullet-trains and he loved them as he had loved the bourbon.)

~

(apologies to Hemingway)

Nothing could match the sheer excitement and anticipation of the Wayne County Fair in Palmyra, NY in early August.  We made our way to the fairgrounds on Friday night, parked in a well-worn field among the dozens of family sedans, walked through the midway, past the 4H stalls, the carnival booths (ring-toss for a dime) and found our place in the bleachers for about 90 minutes of drama on the dirt-track oval in front of us.  The gasoline smell, the sounds of the crowd and the crackling PA system - and the unmistakeable roar of American V-8 engines without mufflers (without license plates).  This was almost better than sex.  "Bumper-to-bumper, wheel-to-wheel over the first elevation..." as the announcer revved up the crowd.  All summer long we had shouted that phrase with serious glee while riding our bicycles over homemade plywood ramps.  Our hero was Jake Plumestead - the greatest Hell-Driver of them all (ever, and all-time).  Jake did the ramp-to-ramp, the T-bone crash and the best reverse-spin of all the drivers.  He never flinched, he never sweat bullets, he never failed to win the girls and he never backed down.  Each year he grew larger and more brave in our imaginations and in stories told to our girlfriends.  This is how we talked about Jake.  This is why we wanted to be Jake.  All winter long.