Blown Out
A few minutes until 7AM, and the streets of Geneva were silent, traffic on State Street was scarce. A rare sensation of quiescence on a Sunday morning in this river town. It will not last. I begin to write, the raucous sound of the bean grinding machine, the animated conversation of baristas behind the counter — fills the room here at Starbucks. John sits at the round table by the window satisfied with the morning paper. Melanie occupies the end table far to my left engrossed in the laptop screen. She is a consultant. Perhaps she works on a project for a client this morning?
Life goes on… That is a comforting generalization. Could I live with anything less? No, I could not. I recognize abstractly there was time before I was present, before my particular angle of view was a feature 
of reality. And there will be an after, hypothetically. Can I imagine my before and after? There’s really no analog in my experience, death is around, and somehow my mind keeps an arms length distance. To not be… The Buddhists suggest a blown out candle flame.
Yesterday my son and I spent the afternoon at the race track, Great Lakes Drag-a-way in Union Grove Wisconsin. The venue with two lanes of asphalt 1,230 feet long with equally long shut off lanes has 
been visited many times in the 40 some years of my residing in the area. Great Lakes is one of the oldest drag strips in the country. For many who grew to maturity in the post WWII era, the late industrial age, the apogee of the street rod, — this old-school drag strip, a place to “run what you brung, and hope that you brung enough,” a mecca for love of horsepower, a quarter mile of asphalt, for space and time bending acceleration.
Any form of motorsports competition is dangerous. The hazard is part of the allure. It is rare for someone to die in pursuit of one more tenth of a second in elapsed time. That is what happened here at the “big end” of the track on Saturday July 30th. Chuck Weck at the wheel of his pro-modified Corvette race car lost his life at over 200 mph. Even if diagnosis were possible, a story told about what failed, in that esoteric complex of aerodynamics, materials, time compression of forces at the “big end,” — would the knowledge make an iota of difference?
A eulogy and ritual of remembrance was held for the Weck family in the staging lanes and at the starting line. I couldn’t attempt to photograph the occasion, as it simply felt too special, too sacred a moment for the distraction and intrusion of the camera. For twenty six years Chuck Weck had participated in racing here as a member of the Chicago Wise Guys club. I would guess that in excess of fifty individuals from that community stood on the asphalt paying tribute to their departed friend, and co-competitor while the words of eulogy were read by the president of the club from the tower.
Then, two pro-modified race cars driven by club members, scattered the ashes over the shut down lanes as the drag chutes deployed in the timing lights after a side by side, six second quarter mile pass.
That is what Chuck Weck wanted.
Photos are of the BRUTICUS Chevelle pro-mod car used in the ceremony of scattering of the ashes.
