black ice

In the moment before the car hits the barrier, time stops its slow stumble forward to dawn.  Stops, lingers: an unnatural body of black asphalt slithering through barren trees, slick and wet like a tongue; snow drifting from thick clouds, illuminated by heady yellow headlight beams; radio spilling songs of broken hearts to fill the interior, two bodies settled comfortably in dark cloth seats, bodies turned away from one another.  Silent.  Peaceful.

In that moment, they aren’t talking.  Mid-January blues hit hard; weeks of winter with no end in sight, the snowfall is no longer magical.  Lack of sunlight always goes to her already-addled head, but her plans had fallen through.  He wasn’t happy – said he was happy, but also said everything that connoted frustration with her, said nothing at all.  They buckled their seatbelts, set off home.  She wipes tears from her eyes.  He looks out the passenger window and counts the seconds between road signs, pretending he doesn’t notice.

They haven’t yet hit the ice.  A patch has formed where the trees thin out, where the wind chills the apex of a curve.  It waits just ahead of their tires, deceptive, untouched, imperceptible.  Camouflaged by a dusting of snow.

She’ll notice right away, when they do.  She’ll curse (shit shit shit!) and try to correct the way the back end of the car kicks out of her control, and he’ll reach over to grab the wheel, to try to help.  She’ll know it’s too late.  The road signs he’s been counting have instructed them to slow to 35 in good weather, but she’s so desperate to park the car and migrate to separate areas of the apartment that she’d barely let up from 62.  It’s a violent spin that will lock her seatbelt and send him crashing into her.  He had not put his on.

In the split second where they’ll realize they’re about to die, her hands will leave the steering wheel, and he’ll follow suit.  She’ll reach out for him in a display of pure animal instinct.  She’ll try to find his hand and tangle it with her own, and he’ll try to tell her he loves her, and she’ll try to apologize for being so easily hurt about things that don’t matter, that have never mattered.  Their mistake will be highlighted in a slow-motion play-by-play.  The ways they could have said they loved each other.  The fights they never had to have.  The nights he spent on the couch and she spent crying, the long days before they learned how to make up.  It won’t matter, they’ll realize, and it never had mattered, and it will never matter.  All that matters is that they’ll want to stop the cassette of time and rewind to just a few moments before; that they’ll plead with God to let them live because she won’t have enough time to hold his hand and he won’t have enough time to tell her he loves her.

The barrier will find them sooner than words or fingers, when the car spirals into a sense of normalcy and points nearly-straight down the road.  No one will be around to hear the impact, the crunch of metal pushing the engine into the floor of the driver’s side.  Glass will twinkle as one might imagine the stars would if only we could hear them, as his body hits the windshield.  

He will die on impact.  She’ll have enough temerity to try to open her eyes, to try to seek him out until she realizes that she can’t lift her hand, that she’s in pain, that the malformed shape before her eyes is his dark jeans twisted at unnatural angles, and she will close them.

After all is done, after a few long seconds tick past, the dark road will fall silent.  Two pairs of lungs will have drawn their last breath.  Two hearts will give one, last, labored effort at one more beat.  Two lives will end and two loves will be made meaningless.  Insignificant against a backdrop of events outside of their control.

But, yet, in that moment just before dulled rubber meets slick eyes, they are alive.  Living, breathing, silent, loving, falling-out-and-back-in-loving.  She is crying, and he is not.  This is the last moment they’ll spend together, the kind of moment people spend when they don’t realize it’s their last.




New Year’s Revolution (or, Why January Fucking Sucks)

This is the worst time of year to be recovering from an eating disorder.

Starting in late November, the pressure is on.  This is the holiday season, and that means we eat!  We eat in excess!  With tables full of food and counters laden with sweet desserts, we’re forced to test our boundaries – not by dipping our toes in the pool, but by being unceremoniously shoved in fully-clothed during the party.  For me, a month into recovery, it meant it was the first time I wasn’t in control of the food I spooned onto my plate in portions that seemed too big, the first time I let myself eat dessert, the first time I was consistently full for weeks at a time, and it was overwhelming.  For nearly two months during the holidays, I could no longer restrict my meals or manipulate food, but I also wasn’t able to determine for myself what I was eating via meal plan.  I wanted all these delicious meals I had banned myself from for three years, which meant I ate a lot of them, which also meant I counted down the days, waiting and pining for the end of the holiday season to come around because nobody ever tells you how exhausting, how triggering, how pleasantly unpleasant, eating can be.

And then, when you think you’re free, January hits.  And now, instead of everyone telling you to Eat Eat Eat! everyone is telling you that you should feel Bad and Guilty, that eating was not eating but Overindulging, that now you require lose-weight-quick diets and detoxes and fasting, that you need to hit the gym five times a week for thirty to sixty minutes, that it’s time to set resolutions that involve less less less food and more more more burning off all those calories.

January hits, and it’s somehow worse than the holidays ever could have been, and now your goals to eat more and work out less are suddenly targets for scrutiny and criticism, and now you’ve got another beast to tackle on the already-fraught road to recovery.

My eating disorder started, in part, as a New Year’s resolution.  Having swapped glasses for LASEK, it seemed an opportune time to cut off all my hair and, while I was at it, lose some weight.  It started with eating 1200 calories and 30 minutes at the gym a few days a week.  It progressed a little more during each successive year, where my resolution was to hit an impossible 100lbs by consuming under 600 calories a day and spending no fewer than 4 hours working out.

I bought into the fads.  I went vegan, bought whole foods when I did eat, added spirulina powder to my smoothies, made sure my ED looked Instagram-good.  I was afraid of fats and carbs, worried about toxins, doused everything with dried red pepper flakes in the hope that the spice would speed up my metabolism, stopped going out to eat, spent every free moment at the gym, tried to maintain my image as Healthy and Fit.

It was exhausting.  I could feel my body wasting away as my fingernails snapped in half, my toenails popped off, my hair fell out, my teeth ached.  When I wasn’t at the gym, I was in bed berating myself for not being at the gym.  When I was doing homework, I was mostly just thinking about eating (or, really, not eating).  I was living in a perpetual state of anxiety about my weight and appearance and food intake, which meant I really didn’t have time for things like friends because that usually meant food, or going home to see family on the weekends because that meant I wouldn’t be able to spend the entire day at the gym, or going to class because there just weren’t enough hours in the day.

There’s nothing wrong with changing up your lifestyle in pursuit of a healthier self and nothing condemnable about using the first of the year to get a fresh start at eating better and discovering how awesome it can feel to work out.  But the health industry has turned our insecurities into marketing strategies.  It’s an exercise in exploitation, where the only aim is to make a profit on a lifetime of self-doubts by fostering new problems, by making you constantly think you’re not doing anywhere near Enough, that you aren’t Enough.  You can always be skinnier, stronger, prettier – and here’s how eating only these foods or signing up for this fitness center or adopting this diet can give you the body of your dreams.  You should constantly be scrutinizing your body, trying to incorporate as many health trends as you can.  But, because it’s subtly peddled by beautiful down-to-earth Youtubers and Instagrammers, because it’s reinforced in every single store and restaurant, because your friends and family all pick up the lingo – it seems normal.

No one actually teaches you how to be healthier.  They don’t teach you how many calories you really need, how to have a healthy relationship with the food you eat, how to work out because you love what it does for your body, how to even find the kind of workouts you enjoy because not everything works for everyone.  They don’t teach you that, for as much as you can enjoy food, it doesn’t need to be the sole consuming feature of your life.  They don’t teach you to love and honor yourself, because that’s not profitable.  And that’s a goddamn shame.

It feels like no one takes the time to think about how harmful our “normalized” relationship with food is – year-round, but especially during the holidays.  We eat delicious foods and talk about how rich and indulgent they are, how we aren’t going to eat for the rest of the week, how we need to find ways to burn all those calories, how “bad” we are, even as we eat more of them.  And then, suddenly, we do a full 180.  Now, we weren’t “bad” cheekily, like we were when you have that second cookie at the Christmas party.  Now, we were just bad, and we have to do penance for our sins.  We need to restrict, diet, get back in the gym, be “good” again.

We don’t think about how much better it would be if we let ourselves enjoy those holiday foods without guilt or shame, if we didn’t separate our year into times of indulgence and restraint, of excess and abstinence.  How, maybe, we wouldn’t feel like we need to overeat if we let ourselves enjoy food every day and how, then, we wouldn’t need to diet.  We don’t think about how our body fluctuates like this naturally, how it’s normal to have days where we eat more than usual and how, if we listen to our body, it will tell us we need to eat a little less the next day.  And for someone going through recovery and trying to understand that a few extravagant meals aren’t the end of the world, it’s so, so frustrating.  I have to manually remind myself at every meal that eating is okay because, societally, we preach food as Bad when we enjoy ourselves and Good when we eat less of it.

November and December are hard, but January royally fucking blows.  Everywhere I look there’s another reminder that I am not skinny enough, not fit enough.  Everyone has opinions on how I should treat my body to make it acceptable for someone else’s standards.  I don’t even have to leave the house to run into another trigger, but now I know better.  Every day feels like a balancing act as I walk the thin rope of recovery overtop the abyss of relapse, but I know.

I know what it’s like to have energy.  I know what it’s like to lift heavier than I thought possible, to feel satisfied, to not be so hungry and so paranoid about losing weight that I have to think about restricting food or how to earn my next meal every waking second of every single day.  I know how to take a rest day, how to have cake for dessert, how to go for a run because the sunshine and the fresh air and the capability of my body feels good and not because I need to end the day in a calorie deficit.  I know what strength and health feel like.  I know I want that again tomorrow, that I want to feel even better next month, that I want to sustain that for a year.

And I know that my resolutions – that eating more, working out less, learning how to love myself and really mean it – aren’t the ones I’m Supposed To Have.  But they’re the ones I need to hold onto right now, and I’ll be damned if January gets me down.

100 Words: #43 (Age of) Consent

43.  Consent

Consent should be easy.

I was fourteen, a fledgeling feminist dipping her toes into female-fronted punk rock, when I learned about the politics and definitions of consent.  It’s an enthusiastic yes.  A vocal yes.  A yes at every stage, not a ‘yes’, then a ‘no’ or an ‘I don’t know’ or nothing at all.  Consent is not “I owe you for dinner”, is not “I changed my mind but now it’s too late”, is not “I feel obligated”.

It sounds easy.  It should be easy.  In theory: easy.

The reality is that I’ve given consent to one person – maybe two.

In practice, it’s hard.  In practice, a boy will take you out for your birthday, for wine and pizza and Shakespeare and forget (‘forget’?) the corkscrew.  In practice, he’ll hint that it’d be a waste to take the whole bottle home himself, that it would be lonely to drink it without you, that he has roommates – so you offer to bring him home with you, to watch a movie.  You won’t know any better, won’t know what that means, won’t know until his hand is up your skirt and you don’t want it there but now it’s too late, you think, to tell him no, to tell him to go home because you’ve both shared a whole bottle of wine and he can’t drive home.  He’ll spend the night in your bed while you chide yourself – you should have known better, should have known that no engineer is going to take an English major out for Shakespeare expecting nothing in return and you should make his time worthwhile because he’ll for wine and he’ll pay for pizza and he’ll pay attention to you, but not quite enough attention to realize you’ll cry when he comes on you and tells you that you better not tell anyone else, your mutual friends – it’ll ruin his reputation.

In practice, another boy will take you out to see Christmas lights and he’ll seem so nice and it’ll seem so innocent that you agree.  It’ll seem polite to take the beers he offers you before you leave, and your hopeless romantic heart will sing when he holds your hand and kisses you under the Christmas tree.  And you’ll have such a nice time that you don’t mind going home with him (“to sober up before you drive home,” he’ll say) and that you won’t mind listening to records and having a few more beers, because you’ll like him for weeks that turn into months and you won’t be able to believe it’s happening.  But you’ll think you’ve learned, you’ll know the warning signs when he asks you not to post anything on social media, you’ll have friends who warn you about him, warn you to stay away from him.  You’ll kiss him, but you’ll tell him “no” when his hands slide up your shirt, tell him “I need to leave” when his hands stroke up your thigh, tell him “I don’t want to” when you try to stand up and he pulls you back down next to him.  He’ll tell you “you can’t drive like this” and “don’t be nervous” and “we don’t have to fuck” and “we can do something else”.  And you won’t know how to protest any further, you’ll choke on your words, you’ll say nothing, you’ll stay up all night and leave at six in the morning, you’ll think it means something and he’ll take another girl to Hawaii two weeks later.

In practice, a boy will text you for weeks.  You’ll like him, but you’ll know he likes your convenience, so when he asks you to drive out to see him, you’ll say no.  No, thank you. No, but I hope you have a nice birthday.  No, I’m busy.  No, sorry.  You’ll feel bad, because he’ll have talked you into sucking him off in the back of a rental car months before and you couldn’t think of a reason to say no so you said yes – you’ll feel bad because he’ll have expectations, because he’ll spend his birthday alone.  You’ll finally agree.  You’ll drive three hours to see him, a sick feeling in your stomach that you won’t quite be able to define as ‘regret’ or ‘excitement’ or ‘anxiety’.  He’ll kiss you when you’re mid-sentence and fuck you with enough time to watch the football game.  He’ll take you out to dinner, ignore you, let you sleep in his bed with enough space between you to fit a small family, offer you a granola bar in the morning before he drops you in the lobby.  You’ll feel dirty, used up.  You’ll take a shower when you get home, scrubbing your skin raw.  You’ll tell yourself you asked for it, you technically agreed.  You’ll make it a joke, a story; you’ll make fun of yourself, you’ll try to make it okay because you asked for it, you drove out there, you didn’t want it but you did it.

In practice, boys will buy you drinks and try to fuck you outside a concert venue because they’ll be taller and bigger and you’ll be too drunk to stand up on your own and you’ll almost let them because you feel guilty they spent money on you.  In practice, boys will press you against the stage at a show, will press their erections against your ass and kiss you before you find the words to say no.  In practice, boys will have their friend pick you up from the airport, will take your bags up to your room, will invite himself in and press you against the counter and ignore you when you tell him to leave.  In practice, boys will be older men who tell you they have connections to the band you just saw, who tell you they’ll drive you home, who tell you he’ll introduce you to the band at the next show but only if you show him how good you are on your knees, who tell you he’ll pick you up and drive you away with him to Dallas, who text you over and over despite how many times you say you’re not interested.  In practice, boys will do that a lot – will text you with propositions that you have to ignore or decline, will text you and text you no matter how many you ignore or decline, until you actively avoid being near those specific boys.  In practice, boys will surround you with their friends in corners of grandstands so that you can’t leave, will ask you for your number, will find you again in the paddock to ask again, will hold your wrist until you kiss him.

It should not be this difficult.

100 Words: #41-42

41. Rise

Wake up.  Count the aches in your body.

One.  Muscles.  The pleasant, full-bodied ache of working out too much, of pushing your body to, and then past, its limits.  Warm burn, tissue ripped apart and stitching back together, stronger.  Calories lost in the process.

Two.  Head.  A steady thump of your heartbeat in your temples, a steady beat rhythm-reminder that you are still alive.  Full to bursting with angry buzzing bees of thought.  Millions of possibilities and potentialities and panoramas that all need to play out before your mind’s eye the moment consciousness returns.

Three.  Stomach.  Not quite physical, but an emotional churning to make you sick, the eye of a black hole centered in your center of mass, angry and violent, spitting grease and vitriol.  The kind of unease that makes you want to stick two fingers into the back of an irritated mouth, to curl over toilets, if only that will make it go away.

Four.  Throat.  Ripped raw, days of body-wracking anguish like an incessantly bad cough.  No spoken words, just malformed attempts at expressing the inexpressible in a language understandable across language boundaries.

Five.  Thighs.  Surface-level.  Cold burn of cold metal digging into skin too soft and pliable, hot burn of hot water washing away lazy shame that won’t stop oozing out in little drops that pool into ruby red rivulets.  Precious stones.  Sleep on your left side, don’t roll too far to the right.

Six.  Eyes.  Crack them open in the dark like dusty coffins containing dead souls and the dusty corpses of lives you dreamed and never lived.  Even in the light, you can no longer see but in blurry smudges of spilled paint.  Rehydrate, resupply.

Seven.  Heart.  Don’t let its pieces fall into the vacuous void of your collapsing star stomach.


42. Weapon

How to teach your daughter that her body is a weapon:

Step one.  Weigh her.  The scale is part of your greeting, a fundamental aspect of your goodbye.  Analyze the numbers critically, and let her know that they are always wrong.  Take notes.  Compare.  If she has gained weight, let her know in scrutinizing gazes and harsh words.  Tell her that her guardian is trying to make her fat.  If she has lost weight, press your fingers into the indentations you must prod to find in her ribs.  Tell her that her guardian is starving her.  This, you say, is evidence.

Step two.  Photograph her.  The scratches, bumps, and bug bites she accumulates on bare skin during excursions in the woods can be misunderstood.  Strip off her layers and collect images of her traumas in neat albums, carefully labeled and dated and annotated with explanation.  This is not your fault.  These are not your wounds.

Step three.  Other her.  She will not tell you when she bleeds out of shame of her difference, so ensure that the disgust in your eyes and the acrobatic dance of your words lets her know she was right in doing so.  Create a show.  Point out the curves of her budding body as horrifyingly different from your own until the flush on her cheeks burns hot and prolonged like trapped coals.  Then laugh.

Step four.  Trap her.  In corners of beds pressed against walls, scorching and desperate and suffocating.  In your arms, her body close, painfully close, to yours only so that it is away from others.  In your home, cut off from outside influence and the life she used to know, from the friends who drift away like expedited continents.  Ask her what she is doing wrong that so many people leave, but assure her that you are the only one she needs.

Step five.  Sever her.  Half of the genes that made her are fundamentally flawed, half of her cells have been tarnished and corrupted.  It is unavoidable that she will never be perfect, inevitable that she will never quite be good enough.  Wield her features as a sword with which you cut off her fingers, one by one, watching her bleed, watching her cry.  

Step six.  Impress her.  Even when she has shed you like an ill-fitting skin, she will never quite be able to separate your words from her own consciousness.  A knife without a hilt, she will never quite sit comfortably in anyone else’s hands.

A Women’s Only Championship is a Bad Idea. Period.

Motorsport is not made for women.


Motorsport is a world run by men, designed only for men to participate.  It is an area that glorifies testosterone and masculine apathy in the face of danger.  In motorsport, we call our cars “she”, and they’re the only ‘women’ allowed to actively participate in an event; all the other real, human women are dolled up and silenced, artfully placed like decorative objects in key places around the circuit.  Seen, not heard.  Men get to attend races unbothered; any women who show up must simply be there as a pretty accoutrement for a passionate boyfriend/husband/brother.  Motorsport is a “gentlemen’s sport”, a “boy’s club”.  Motorsport is not made for women.


And, yet, women are still passionate about it anyway.


And that is exactly why motorsport needs to change.




Rumors of a woman’s F1 championship have been floating around for months now.  Vague hints here and there, but no real plan to enact it – until now.


On November 28, the DailyMail announced that plans are in the works for a potential all-female F1 championship to emerge in 2019, despite public backlash surrounding the idea every single time another rumor leaks out.  The series would consist of six races – five in Europe, one in America – with the ever-so-desirable championship winner to be awarded with… an F1 test drive.


The all-female sport is intended to rival F1 in prestige and significance, they say.


Which is why it only makes sense that women are to be awarded with what is, potentially, the least significant opportunity in Formula One.  They are not offered a chance to race an F1 car – no, they only get to test one.  And, as F1 fans have seen time and time again, talented drivers who are relegated to a test driver role have a hard time being guaranteed a full-season drive if they aren’t specifically contracted to earn one.


If this championship is supposed to be an equal with Formula One, then why is Formula One still ranked higher than them on the motorsport hierarchy?  If two CEOs of a company are considered to hold equal share and sway in that company, one of those CEOs should not still have to strive to reach the level of control of the other.  That is not the definition of equality.


If this championship is supposed to be an equal, why do the women only get six races to F1’s twenty-plus?  Why do they keep calling it equal, and then claiming it would be second only to F1?  Why can’t women just race a goddamn Formula One car?


The Implications


An all-female championship would be historic, and it would be groundbreaking.  But it would still be an Exceptionally Bad Idea, for an exceptional amount of reasons.


This is, above all, an excuse to stop having to strive for diversity within F1.  The Powers That Be are so horrified by the thought of having a woman compete alongside – or beat – a man that they’re willing to hook a woman’s championship up to an IV and pump millions of dollars into it, when it would be far simpler to support women from the ground up (which I’ll detail later).  It is a much more appealing option to cobble together a Frankenstein’s monster of a championship for women than it is to actually just sponsor a woman on her way up to the top, and that is an incredibly disturbing mindset.


Segregation has, historically, never been a Good Thing.  Segregation is the portioning-off of a minority group into a neat little box that can be shoved into the back of the cupboard and forgotten about while the majority gets to enjoy everything else in the pantry.  If the majority is in charge of creating “equality” for the minority, they won’t.  Simple as that.  When America segregated their schools, all the best resources were poured into the white schools, and black students were supposed to be grateful that they even had a school at all.


It is a similar concept here (albeit with much, much less institutionalized violence).  A female-only championship isn’t going to be equal.  It’s going to be a way for the men of F1 to say, “stop complaining, you already have your little championship, so let us have ours”.  It’s a very effective way to never have to worry about being bothered by a woman again.  You just smile when the Ladies’ Champion takes your car out for a test drive in the off-season, maybe a Friday practice, and you never have to worry about them again.


And that is Not Okay.


Motorsport generally and F1 specifically has fallen under criticism in recent years regarding their approach to women.  Calls have been made to end grid girls, to stop using women as podium décor, to make sure women don’t have to endure the very-unsubtly-coded spraying-with-champagne, to end random shots of women in garages on the broadcast, to quit upskirt photos and tit shots and images of rows of butts, to delete albums of Paddock Beauties.  Calls have been made to recognize successful female drivers making their way through the feeder categories, to acknowledge the hard-working women behind the scenes in the paddock, to aim for more equality and less general discrimination against women.


Somehow, that has been a very difficult prospect.  And I see a women’s championship being a very convenient way out for the men who don’t want to have to change.  If women don’t like the sexism they’re seeing in F1, well, they’ve got a whole series where they have exactly what they want, so go watch your little female drivers and let the men ogle underdressed women here in F1.  This thinly-veiled claim of feminism is just enabling the same old bigotry by a different name and a higher moral purpose.


Logistically, there are still many questions to be asked.  With only six races, is the women’s championship going to function as a feeder category, the quaint opening act before the Real Men Go Racing?  Are these women going to be contractually obligated to cater to pretty pink sponsors; will they end up falling victim to oversexualized demands?  It seems as though F1 has a very hard time taking women and their demands seriously.  One must be critical that this pursuit will just be a repetition of the same old patronizing behaviors.


The History


It is, currently, difficult to get women into motor racing because women have been excluded from motor racing for a long time.  The few attempts at women taking part in F1 races were duds; most didn’t qualify, and those that did (like Lella Lombardi) were talented but not given the means to show their mettle.  No woman has ever been a full-time series participant since the introduction of the F1 Championship.


As such, women and their success are unknown variables – at least in F1.  It seems ridiculous to use the logic that, “well, all the F1 champions have been men, not women…” when making a decision on who to sponsor, but the simple fact is that it is easier to justify sponsoring a man knowing that the sport is structured in such a way that he will have more opportunities to succeed than his female counterpart.  She, on the other hand, will face criticism, doubt, scrutiny, and pointed hostility every step of her way, all of which can impact her morale or the opinions of potential other sponsors and thereby mar opportunities for success.


So, it seems easy to argue that women just aren’t as successful.  Maybe there’s a reason they’re not in F1, huh?  Maybe women just aren’t capable of competing with men.


But this narrow-minded view does not consider other forms of motorsport where women are successful.  It does not consider the history of motorsport – of F1 – and the factors that have systematically discouraged women from racing.


Women have found success in NASCAR, IndyCar, sports cars, and drag racing.  While only one of these is technically an open-wheel series, it is still worth investigating what has enabled their participation in these categories as opposed to Formula One.


Danica Patrick is often the first woman who comes to mind when one mentions “female race car driver”.  She is visible and has been quite successful with a professional career spanning nearly two decades.  She holds the IRL record for most consecutive races finished, the only women’s victory in IndyCar, and the highest finish for a woman at the Indy 500 with a third place.  She was the first woman in NASCAR to win a Sprint Cup Series pole.  She has received criticism for her rise to success and for posing in risqué photoshoots for sponsors, thereby illustrating the double standard that women in motorsport have: you have a better chance of gaining a sponsorship if you take off your clothes, but then no one will take you seriously if you do.


Patrick’s path was paved by other brilliant women in American motorsport’s history.  Janet Guthrie was the first woman to compete in both the Daytona 500 and the Indianapolis 500, in a NASCAR race in general, and she is tied with Patrick for the highest NASCAR finish by a woman with a 6th place.  When Guthrie broke into these two sports, the hostility against women was fierce.  Guthrie wasn’t even initially allowed in the pit lane of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway because it was a male-only zone.  But there were people out there willing to give her a chance, who knew that she was a capable driver and tried their best to subvert the gendered norms of racing.  And in doing so, by breaking every masculine rule of motorsport, a path suddenly cleared.  It was no longer so strange to see a woman behind a wheel, to see her being competitive, to see her even outshining the men.


Since Guthrie’s first attempt at the Indy 500 in 1976, there have been ten women to compete in the race; since her entry into NASCAR, there have been an incredible number of women to compete in every aspect of the sport.


In drag racing, women have been a prevalent, dominant force since Shirley Muldowney burst into the scene.  The first woman to receive a racing license from the NHRA, the first woman to win eighteen NHRA national events, and the first person in drag racing to win two – then three – championships.  In 2017 alone, there were nine women competing across four NHRA drag racing championships: more women than in F1, IndyCar, and NASCAR combined.


Women and other minorities have been systematically barred entry to F1 for close to five decades – those that have participated have been given the bare minimum.  There was no historical precedent – but why could some motorsport categories see a breakthrough of women while F1 didn’t?


The big answer here, as pointed out by @NotNamedErik on Twitter, is money, and how that played into the culture of motorsport.


There was a period of time in the history of every motorsport where the point of racing was the cars, and making them go fast.  There was no glamour, no destination races.  If the car looked ugly but it went fast, perfect.  If you wanted to race but could only make it to a local track, then you raced.  This kept the sport affordable for the average person, and you could be competitive if you were willing to spend a little more than your competitors.  Janet Guthrie, for example, raced in the SCCA and was successful in a car that she bought and cared for with her own money.  It was entirely possible to do that.  And, beyond that, black American women raced in the 1940s.  Many women contested Le Mans throughout the 1930s.  


American motorsport retained that grassroots mindset for longer than many European motorsports, long enough for the low-cost do-it-yourself-because-you-have-money-and-no-one-can-tell-you-no racing to meet up with shifting social conventions.  Women contested NASCAR races for years before Guthrie came onto the scene, but it’s no coincidence that her appearance during the midst of the feminist movements of the 1970s played a part in how women were perceived in NASCAR in the future.  Drag racing is still very much about the cars and the racing, and women are more successful there than anywhere else.


Formula One has been a high-cost sport for decades.  While it was still possible to build championship winning cars in a woodshed throughout the 1970s, it was one of the few forms of truly international and intercontinental racing, which raised a whole different set of barriers when F1 solidified into an official championship in 1950; you might be able to build a car, but could you afford to fly it out to South Africa?  Prior to that, in the years of Grand Prix racing, women like Hellé Nice, Elizabeth Junek, and Kay Petre could fund cars and compete on equal grounds to men.  Since their time, the two most successful female F1 drivers were Maria Teresa de Filippis in the late 1950s, and Lella Lombardi in the mid-70s.


The cost barrier has gone hand-in-hand with the social boundaries.  Rich white men who can afford success in a horribly expensive sport are the only ones who can make it into the modern climate of F1, where the emphasis is on glitz and glamour and very, very expensive cars, so that we often even see talented men passed over in favor of those who have more money.  Women, POC, and LGBTQ athletes have a much harder time breaking into that atmosphere, no matter their talent, because these groups have historically endured economic oppression that has not enabled them to set a precedent in Formula One.


The answer to the question of equality, then, is not to ignore historical precedent set by other forms of motorsport, or to pretend as though a segregated series will solve these problems.


The Solution


The answer is, instead, to support women from the ground-up, and to restructure the masculine culture of Formula One.


Here, I believe that a blend of something similar to the Mazda Road to Indy feeder program and MotoGP Talent Cups.


Ryan King alerted me to the existence of the Talent Cups on Twitter.  In this system, riders from underrepresented countries are given a chance to prove themselves.  With age restrictions implemented from 12-20 and all costs of competing covered, all these riders need to worry about is proving their worth.  The top five drivers from each regional Talent Cup are guaranteed a spot in the Moto3 Junior World Championship with the hope of progressing to Moto3 and then up through the ranks to MotoGP.  He argues that the existence of a similar concept but for young women looking to break into European single-seater categories would be a reasonable and very successful competition.  We would still have a woman-only championship, but at a lower rung of the ladder to F1, with F1 still being the ultimate goal for both young men and women with the intention that F1 will become more diverse.  And I think he’s right… to a certain extent.


I 100% agree that the existence of a Talent Cup-style competition would be a great way to specifically showcase female talent and to give them no-holds-barred access to opportunities in the F1 ladder.  But I also do not think that the climate of F1 would enable these young women to find much success past that point.  Which is where I feel the Mazda Road to Indy format could add a guarantee of success.


In the Mazda Road to Indy, drivers who win a championship at a lower level of the ladder to IndyCar are guaranteed a drive in the next level up.  If they win IndyLights – the F2 equivalent of IndyCar – they’re guaranteed to drive in the Indy 500 as well as a certain number of regular season races.  In this way, they have a chance to make it to the highest level of the sport, to go out and show their talent in a professional field, and are guaranteed, at minimum, a chance to make themselves appealing as a full-time driver if they don’t get signed after their last season in IndyLights.


I believe that a scholarship program similar to this would not only be beneficial to women, but also essential.  By giving them a chance to break into the ladder to F1 through a Talent Cup, women drivers will be given more exposure.  But they still need a guarantee that they’ll be able to move up the ladder and not just dropped once their guaranteed season on, say, an F3 team ends.  It would require a restructuring of the way F1 currently conducts itself, but would be well worth the fielding of a few extra cars a few times a year.  If F1 is willing to construct a whole new series just to run six all-female races a year, they should be able to find a way to provide a woman with an extra car a few times a year.


And, finally – we need to stop making F1 so masculine that it becomes inaccessible to women.  It is very difficult for women to be taken seriously in a field where they are predominantly viewed as sex objects or decorations.  We do not need grid girls or photos of breasts.  We don’t need podium girls or shots of the pretty ladies in the garage.  We need to join the rest of the world in the twenty-first century and stop treating women like dolls for men to gain enjoyment from


And most of all, we sure as hell don’t need a separate-but-unequal F1 series just for women.

100 Words: #38-40

38. Rainbow

The rainbow hues of the world drain to black and white when you leave.  It feels wrong, strange.  This is not your space and yet when you leave, the holes in your wake are gaping, as if you’d been there since the beginning.

It’s quiet, uncomfortably and strangely and achingly quiet.  You aren’t there to shift the blankets in bed next to me, to run the shower while I’m in another room, to type away at a laptop while I lay on the couch pretending to read and just listening instead.  

My apartment is small, capable of fitting two but filled with enough to make it suitable for maybe one and a half at most.  Three years to come to terms with the silence of an independent space.  But having you slot into the spaces felt right; never claustrophobic, never overtaxed, just right.  In the span of just a few days, you became as permanent a fixture as the hum of the dehumidifier, or the washing machine that beats out strange rhythms when it gets a little too full.

You fit in so well that it’s easy to forget that you are not designed for this this space, that it is Mine, that you are a Guest, that you have a home and that this is not it.

I had never known what it was like to miss someone, body and soul, with every single atom of my being until I got to hold you here and then had to give you back.  Until I wanted to clean out half of my dresser to make room for you.  Until I wanted one of the empty spaces in the toothbrush holder to be filled by yours.

I had never known what it was like to fall so hard that someone could take colors with them.
39. Self

They say you can’t love someone until you love yourself first, but I’ve found that’s not true.  You can love someone deeply and fiercely, love them with every ounce of your soul and heart, love them with an intensity you’ve never felt toward anything in your life.  You can love them love them love them until the world stops turning and the stars stop shining and the sun dies away, until the universe is dark and cold and warmed with nothing but that love.

They say you can’t love someone until you love yourself, but that’s not true.  You just can’t let them love you back.

40. Humid

It’s hot in Texas.

More accurately, this particular bar in Austin, Texas is hot.  Stifling.  It’s all open air, and sticky humidity is stagnating in the windowpanes, the gentle occasional breeze unable to carve a path through too many bodies packed tightly together in not enough space.  You can feel a bead of sweat trailing down the nape of your neck, and you take a long draught of the cold beer condensating in front of you hoping that it’ll do something.  It doesn’t.

You’re buzzed – not drunk, definitely not drunk enough to mistake your decision for a good idea – but it doesn’t stop you from pushing back your chair abruptly and leaving the bar, dialing an all-too-familiar number and dropping a handful of crumpled bills from your purse next to your half-finished drink as you do.  You’re not drunk, it’s a bad idea, and consciously you know that calling Him from a bar when He hasn’t called you back in weeks is A Bad Choice That You Should Reconsider, but the phone is ringing, it’s ringing, it rings twice, three times, and then, “Hello?”

You had thought that you wouldn’t be affected by the simplest syllables only half-heard through the noise of the bar and the tinniness of of an only-partially-functioning cell phone speaker, but a shiver runs down your spine anyway.  You respond, “Hey.”

“…Do you need something?” And it’s confused.  As confused as you are, honestly.

“So you got a new job?”  You blurt it out without and pretense of small talk, the tip of a knife carving straight to the point.  Get the whole damn thing over with, you tell yourself, as if you weren’t the one who picked up the phone.

“Yeah, I mean.  It’s been good.  Desk job.  We don’t really get that much hands-on stuff anymore, but it’s good.  It’s really good.”  He sounds genuine.  Happy.  He sounds like all the things you could never make him.

You squeeze your eyes shut and lean back against the wall.  Despite the miles of distance separating you, despite the lo-fi quality of a degenerating cell phone, you hear music in the background.

“Are you out?”


“Are you out?  Like, are you at a club?”

“Why?” He laughs.  You can imagine him shifting awkwardly at the question, a smile on his face, a glint of confused defiance hiding in chocolate brown eyes.  “You’re out, too.”

And you can’t say anything, because it’s true.  You don’t know why it bothers you so much to know that He’s out in a club; you’re both independent now, both adults who can do whatever you like.  And without anyone weighing Him down, it’s not like He’s going to spend Saturday night in bed.

“Are you out with anyone?”

“Why?” He asks again.  Trying to laugh like he did before.  But you know that underlying note in it.  A ‘what fucking right do you think you have to ask me that’ tone just a scratch beneath the surface.

“Dunno.  Just.  Wondering.”

It’s dark.  Humid.  Two girls clutching one another teeter by you on a pair of heels too tall and too thin to be anything but a safety hazard, and you’re distracted for a moment by the faint smell of alcohol, by a flood of messy Spanish spilling from red-tinged hips.  You wish you knew how to have fun like them.  Instead, you’re very aware of the silence on the line.  Aware of your sundress clinging to your back.  You sink to the ground.

“Babe, are you okay?”

He stopped calling you that months before he stopped looking at you.


“You’re not out with… with her?”

“…What are you talking about?”

The Spanish girls are waiting for a ride.  You spoke too quickly, not thinking, too busy watching them, too busy listening to the way the words are flowing between them unhindered, too busy wishing your own words flowed like that instead of tumbling out of your gut like mismatched building blocks.  There’s a dam in your throat now, thankfully, and the Spanish girls are cheering for their savior the cab driver, and He’s on the phone demanding, “Answer me.”

“I just- I saw pictures of you two online and-“

“What the fuck?”

“And you just – you never did that before.  With me.  Never took pictures with me like that.”

“You – I  – what – I never could.”  His voice has dropped, so low that you can barely hear him over the sound of music in the background.  “You never let me.”

“Yeah, but.  You could have… you could have…”  You don’t know what He could have done.  You don’t know why you’re so accusing.  You just can’t stop thinking about that picture, about Him, about Him and her, about how it’s not Him and you, about anything and everything and –

“Are you… are you jealous?”  Disbelief.

You don’t answer.  The Spanish girls are making negotiations.  You pick the sweat-damp dress away from your skin like it’ll bring you relief, and it does nothing.


You’re mesmerized by the spinning in your head, by the way the neon lights are painting the sidewalk in myriad colors.

“Babe, you‘re the one who left.”

You swallow.  Your stomach is churning, but not with anticipation, not with excitement.  Mouth dry.  Fingers that won’t stop picking at the hem of the dress.  You want to vomit.  You lick your lips and it takes you two tries to say, “I didn’t-“

“I’m gonna say this one last time, okay?  For good this time.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.


You stop breathing.

Second later: nothing.  Just a dead connection.  A spinning head.  A sick feeling of immeasurable guilt that you wish you could drag out of the pit of your stomach with angry claws.  A dress falling limp and shapeless against a trembling body.  Even the Spanish girls have long since climbed into the cab and are nothing but a pair of taillights fading in the distance.

You don’t move for a long, long time.

It’s too damn hot in Texas.

100 Words: #32-37

32.  Block

There are words stuck in my throat.  My mind spins novels and tales and questions into a tangled mess lodged somewhere in my esophagus.   I can’t swallow, can’t breathe, can’t wheeze out enough of a plea for help for anyone to hear.

I have options.

The skin trapping them is paper-thin and untouched.  It would be easy to sharpen my nails and dig them into the bulging, restrictive flesh to let the contents of my throat spill out alongside the gore.

Harsh?  Cradle the porcelain bowl of a toilet and stick two of those fingers down the aforementioned throat instead.  A familiar sight, it would be all too easy to wash ugly words away like the waste they are.

A high building, just a tiny dot marring the late night city skyline.  A step forward.  Body meets concrete.  If I rattle my bones apart enough, maybe they’ll free a sentence or two.

Or I could write.

But that seems too easy.


33. Inhale

It’s just past three-thirty in the morning and I can’t – no, won’t – sleep.  Won’t sleep.  I won’t sleep.

In an hour when dreams are supposed to be sketching the deepest parts of my subconscious on the back of my eyelids, I’m drawing slow breaths – slow, deep, as silent as possible.  Slow, because I’m lying next to you.  Slow, because I’m still trying to relax my board-stiff body into an unfamiliar mattress.  Slow, because I’m desperately afraid to disturb the deep sleep in-out of your lungs next to me.  Slow, because I don’t want to spoil this moment with myself.

This night has been far from perfect, pointedly unromantic, and I’m sick to my stomach with the knowledge that it’ll be the last one.  Sick and sad and desperate, like all silly little girls with silly little crushes and silly little debilitating self-esteem issues are said to be in times like this.  I’ve imagined it many times – never romanticized, never sentimentalized – except always always always with moon eyes and hearts choking my throat and dreams spilling out from my clasped hands.

You move in your sleep, slightly.  Adjusting a pillow, taking a deep breath that sounds like contentment personified.  And I want to cry, somehow.

When you have less than twenty-four hours, how do you not waste it?  

And so I stay awake.  And I listen to the rhythm of your inhale like the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.  And I bask in the surreality of the turns my life has taken to land me here.  And I pretend that I am okay with my transience and my disposability and my user-friendly manual.  And I listen to you breathe.

35.  Unfinished

I am incomplete.  Fragments of a human strung together with mental maladies and fleeting fantasies.  I can feel ice cold breezes rattle through the bones of my ribcage on winter mornings.  I watch people pass through me like a ghost.

I seek my meaning and definition in others, making patchwork quilts of personalities to drape over myself and hide the gore and marrow of my bones.  Not a human being, but an idea and a concept, cursory and partial.  A skeleton strung up before a classroom, an instruction in the things we want to pretend we don’t conceal within us.

I am not real.  


36. Adore

Love.  Noun.  A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.  A feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection.  Sexual passion or desire.  Love.  Verb.  To need or require; benefit greatly from.  In love.  Idiom.  Infused with or feeling deep affection or passion.

Hopeless romantic, I fall in love indiscriminately and with ardor.  Love disingenuous, love passionate, love enthusiastic, love pretension.  I have always known my particular brand of love as thoroughly as the skin stretched uncomfortably over my bones.  As consequentially inconsequential as the word has become.

I have never known love pure, love authentic.  Given love is disgust, love is being despised.  Given love is cold and love will always hurt you because love is inextricably labyrinthed with hate.  Love is for me to offer, not for me to receive.  I want to love because I do not want to be loved.

I am not sure how to define what I feel now.  It is not ephemeral, it is not unresponsive.  Distant in distance only.  Not a weapon, not quite a cure, but something that spans far beyond the militaristic frame I give my language of love.  It is a need to consume and be consumed, to dig my fingers deep in the fabric of your soul and memorize its patterns and its texture and its scent and its taste; it is wanting you to do the same.  It is a dialect of possession and ownership and jealousy, and a vernacular of unity and selflessness and I-can-do-better.  Not beautiful, not ugly, not pure, not dirty, not anything in between.  It is yearning to mortar my fractures and empty spaces with you, a craving to blur lines between one and the other until two are indistinct.  It is a smile through heartache and not-my-homesickness and anger.  Well-defined and incomprehensible, I want to write odes every time you make me feel something I never knew possible, and I choke on any of the words I could try to find.

I know love, multitudinous and various and unfathomable, so I do not know love.  But I know you, and somehow I think that is enough.


37.  Sphere

When you inhabit two distinct planes of existence, how do you decide who compromises theirs to join the other?