Mistress Avon

Every time your husband, Tim, pulls Mistress Avon into the water box, does a smoky burnout, trips the yellow lights of pre-staging to staged and sets the transbrake, you chew on the inside of your jaw. Heat blazes. Track temperature is a liquefying 130 degrees. The ground shakes with the power from 454 cubic inches bored to 477, generating 800+ horses. You worry the flesh of your mouth and pray.

If your husband is going to have a Mistress, it’s best if she’s an automobile. Mistress Avon (Nova inverted) was born in 1970. She’s a red machine with black racing stripes. Tim keeps her decked out, saying, “You have to look like a racer to be a racer.” It’s all about her accessories. Sprays to shine her tires, waxes that don’t streak or spot, windows clear, paint and aluminum sexy. Her very own mobile home, complete with posters of NHRA winners and chicks in bathing suits accessorized in body oils. He loves her.

Once staged, the stutter box roars, the RPMs are maxed, time is dialed into the box. His thumb is pressed into her button, losing circulation. When the first yellow bulb flares, you watch his hand fly backwards. He’s let her go, but the time dialed into her box means they’re waiting for green, for go.

Now is when you get so nervous you forget to chew, forget your prayer in mid-thought and forget that you want him to win. For the next six point something seconds, you’re in limbo. Tim has spent the last week converting his machine, his mistress, from racing fuel to methanol-alcohol. He’s assured you there is no more risk of an explosion than with the pump-fuel. You forget that too. All you can think about is the fact that if the alcohol mixture explodes, the fire is invisible. You won’t even know something’s wrong…until…possibly…too late.

Green means go. Mistress’s slicks yak, grabbing the track and pulling her front tires into the air about a foot. You think “wheelie bars!” Your husband is staring at sky. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth. She bounces back to terra firma, settling into the groove. She eats track and throws down rubber. Then…she floats to the right, outside the groove. Her slicks go up in a puff of smoke, losing traction. She fishtails. Your husband is inside, doing the only thing he can do…ride her out.

Somehow, he steers her through the break, straightens her up and gets her back in the groove.

When Mistress Nova breaks the beams at the end of the 1/8 mile, her ET is 6:30 seconds. You’re looking for wavy air, the telltale signs of invisible fire. Mistress coasts onto the return road, ready to come sit beside her house hooked up to a battery box. She’s ready for her gaskets to be checked, the pressure in her tires to be gauged, her pampering. His time slip says his reaction time was .066. Not bad. He’s proud and while he shakes the adrenaline out of veins and exalts on the love of this ride, you catch his enthusiasm, smile and cheer. Why shouldn’t you? You have almost an hour before you have to hold your breath again. Anyone can stop breathing for six point something seconds.