at the end of the straight away and is pretty hairy when the field is all bunched up. A young Brazilian named Jamie Camara was wiped out 3 seconds into this race, though I couldn’t see much from here in pit row. We cannot feel to badly for him as apparently he is the son of the Brazilian Ted Turner, but with no doubt a wonderful Portugaise style that Ted’s mustache could never match. But you can hear the slick little missiles blowing by you at over 150 mph on the straight away, you can feel the power of the engines, you can smSt. Petersburg, Florida April 3, 2005

Honda Grand Prix of St. Petersburg

What follows are the observations and half-baked thoughts of a total racing neophyte, an automotive slob who wouldn’t know a spark plug from a flux-capacitor.

Our hero is P.J. Chesson the 26 year old race car driver from the gentrified horse country of N.J. This is his second year racing the Menards Infiniti PRO Series, which is like the minor league of IndyCar. He racked up 3 consecutive wins and a number of top 5’s in his first year racing on pavement. P.J. is driving for a new team this year and things are tense, he crashed during qualifying in the first two races of this season. (The drivers are responsible for the damages themselves if they are incurred outside the actual race). The team is a real step down from his rookie season and the car reflects this. His girlfriend is Echo Johnson, she is somewhat older than P.J. (though I lack the conviction to ask how much) she is a former Playboy model from Austin, Texas.

P.J. seemed unaffected by the same thoughts I was having when I stepped into the ‘hot pit’. My first thought on coming close to these diminutive fighter jets, with one extra wheel, is something like ‘you’d have to be a jockey to fit into one these little f*ckers’....The national anthem is over, worked over with a butchers clever by some American Idol hack. The honorary starter is Andrew Firestone, I regret to report that it looks like the Queer Eye Guys have gotten there hands on another one. The engines roar to life and Echo and I are told to get off the track, an order which we ignore only because it was said with such little authority... The second warm-up lap is over and the green flag goes up, supposedly, though who the hell knows, it’s too loud and the Florida sun is too bright to notice the little things. I will say dear reader with total honesty and full disclosure that I am fully recovered from Friday nights debauchery in New York, though I had the flight down to think about it.

As P.J. predicted there was a disaster on the opening lap, apparently the first turn is at the end of the straight away and is pretty hairy when the field is all bunched up. A young Brazilian named Jamie Camara was wiped out 3 seconds into this race, though I couldn’t see much from here in pit row. We cannot feel to badly for him as apparently he is the son of the Brazilian Ted Turner, but with no doubt a wonderful Portugaise style that Ted’s mustache could never match. But you can hear the slick little missiles blowing by you at over 150 mph on the straight away, you can feel the power of the engines, you can sme

acing on pavement. P.J. is driving for a new team this year and things are tense, he crashed during qualifying in the first two races of this season. (The drivers are responsible for the damages themselves if they are incurred outside the actual race). The team is a real step down from his rookie season and the car reflects this. His girlfriend is Echo Johnson, she is somewhat older than P.J. (though I lack the conviction to ask how much) she is a former Playboy model from Austin, Texas.

P.J. seemed unaffected by the same thoughts I was having when I stepped into the ‘hot pit’. My first thought on coming close to these diminutive fighter jets, with one extra wheel, is something like ‘you’d have to be a jockey to fit into one these little f*ckers’....The national anthem is over, worked over with a butchers clever by some American Idol hack. The honorary starter is Andrew Firestone, I regret to report that it looks like the Queer Eye Guys have gotten there hands on another one. The engines roar to life and Echo and I are told to get off the track, an order which we ignore only because it was said with such little authority... The second warm-up lap is over and the green flag goes up, supposedly, though who the hell knows, it’s too loud and the Florida sun is too bright to notice the little things. I will say dear reader with total honesty and full disclosure that I am fully recovered from Friday nights debauchery in New York, though I had the flight down to think about it.

As P.J. predicted there was a disaster on the opening lap, apparently the first turn is at the end of the straight away and is pretty hairy when the field is all bunched up. A young Brazilian named Jamie Camara was wiped out 3 seconds into this race, though I couldn’t see much from here in pit row. We cannot feel to badly for him as apparently he is the son of the Brazilian Ted Turner, but with no doubt a wonderful Portugaise style that Ted’s mustache could never match. But you can hear the slick little missiles blowing by you at over 150 mph on the straight away, you can feel the power of the engines, you can sm

e thoughts I was having when I stepped into the ‘hot pit’. My first thought on coming close to these diminutive fighter jets, with one extra wheel, is something like ‘you’d have to be a jockey to fit into one these little f*ckers’....The national anthem is over, worked over with a butchers clever by some American Idol hack. The honorary starter is Andrew Firestone, I regret to report that it looks like the Queer Eye Guys have gotten there hands on another one. The engines roar to life and Echo and I are told to get off the track, an order which we ignore only because it was said with such little authority... The second warm-up lap is over and the green flag goes up, supposedly, though who the hell knows, it’s too loud and the Florida sun is too bright to notice the little things. I will say dear reader with total honesty and full disclosure that I am fully recovered from Friday nights debauchery in New York, though I had the flight down to think about it.

As P.J. predicted there was a disaster on the opening lap, apparently the first turn is at the end of the straight away and is pretty hairy when the field is all bunched up. A young Brazilian named Jamie Camara was wiped out 3 seconds into this race, though I couldn’t see much from here in pit row. We cannot feel to badly for him as apparently he is the son of the Brazilian Ted Turner, but with no doubt a wonderful Portugaise style that Ted’s mustache could never match. But you can hear the slick little missiles blowing by you at over 150 mph on the straight away, you can feel the power of the engines, you can sm

ack, an order which we ignore only because it was said with such little authority... The second warm-up lap is over and the green flag goes up, supposedly, though who the hell knows, it’s too loud and the Florida sun is too bright to notice the little things. I will say dear reader with total honesty and full disclosure that I am fully recovered from Friday nights debauchery in New York, though I had the flight down to think about it.

As P.J. predicted there was a disaster on the opening lap, apparently the first turn is at the end of the straight away and is pretty hairy when the field is all bunched up. A young Brazilian named Jamie Camara was wiped out 3 seconds into this race, though I couldn’t see much from here in pit row. We cannot feel to badly for him as apparently he is the son of the Brazilian Ted Turner, but with no doubt a wonderful Portugaise style that Ted’s mustache could never match. But you can hear the slick little missiles blowing by you at over 150 mph on the straight away, you can feel the power of the engines, you can sm

at the end of the straight away and is pretty hairy when the field is all bunched up. A young Brazilian named Jamie Camara was wiped out 3 seconds into this race, though I couldn’t see much from here in pit row. We cannot feel to badly for him as apparently he is the son of the Brazilian Ted Turner, but with no doubt a wonderful Portugaise style that Ted’s mustache could never match. But you can hear the slick little missiles blowing by you at over 150 mph on the straight away, you can feel the power of the engines, you can smell the rocket fuel exhaust.

Another spin out at the 21 lap mark, it gives us a chance to asses P.J.’s race. He is 5 mph off the pace of the leaders, it appears his car not only looks slightly inferior, with its faded blue and white paint job, but it races that way as well. The good news comes in the form of a gangly, somewhat slippery looking Aussie, no doubt descended from a long line of pocket pickers, he assures Echo that P.J. is getting faster with each lap, 2 seconds faster before the latest caution flag. The flag gives him a chance, and all the other stragglers, to catch the leaders and condense the race. A much needed mulligan, that cost someone serious dough and a possible trip to the school nurse. I haven’t given it much thought before, but I guess it is designed to make the race more exciting, tighter for the fans, as there is not speed limit for anyone as long as you don’t pass the guy ahead of you.

Eventually you can catch up to the leader who is being held back by an extremely ugly pace car (actually a truck). A boost for the little guy. A hold out for democracy in an America where evil empires and dynasties reign supreme.

Anyway, I neglected to inform you that the slippery looking ‘bloke’ also told Echo that PJ was saying his brakes were getting soft, even to me this didn’t sound promising. Apparently all the drivers were reporting the same, they are not used to braking much around an oval track, which most of these guys have cut their teeth on. PJ does not strike me as someone who has ever considered using his breaks for any reason.

Echo appears to be a real distraction for the S.P.F.R. fire fighter next to us, standing behind an open 40 gallon barrel of water. What good that will do is totally suspect. 10 laps to go, let’s pray there are no fires near me needing the attention of this valiant lecher... The rather sparse crowd has gone up in a round of applause, I can tell by the subdued nature of the cheer that it is not a firey crash these vultures are applauding, but a skilled pass somewhere out there. Marco Andretti is beating other drivers with n