SELL IT SOMEWHERE ELSE, SISTER

In praise of the pinewood derby (Michelle Malkin, January 31, 2003, Townhall.com)

Feminists will howl, but this is the truth: Sometimes, girls are meant to sit on the sidelines.

I came to this un-p.c. conclusion many Kodachrome-colored years ago, as I sat in the family garage, watching with just a twinge of envy as my dad and younger brother prepared for the Cub Scout pinewood derby. This annual ritual, which begins every January in school gymnasiums and American Legion halls, is now a half-century-old. An estimated 40 million dads and sons have participated in the races while their wives and sisters cheered them on.

It's the simplest and purest of bonding experiences: a father, his boy, a kit containing one block of soft pinewood, four nails, and four tires, and their joined imaginations. The objective is to create a little wooden car that will start from an elevated standstill and race down a 32-inch plywood track. The track is an inclined ramp with wood strips down the center to guide the miniature cars.

There may be no fancy electronic gizmos or computer software involved, but the competition is as thrilling as any televised BattleBots match-up. Yes, there are always eager beaver dads who go overboard in an angst-ridden quest to build a winning speed demon. (There are even Internet sites that peddle winning secrets.) But generations of sons hold the warmest memories of the derby and the preparations leading up to it as precious time spent with the most important man in their lives.

It's the designing and building of the car, more than the racing of it, which is at the heart of the tradition.

The Father Judd determined that it would be a valuable learning experience if every bit of my Pinewood Derby racer was my very own work. The end result was this day-glo green cinder block lookin' thing with its wheels glued solid. Meanwhile, our troop had not one but two sons of shop teachers, whose cars could have sold for three digit figures at FAO Schwartz. One son might have helped apply a single decal, though I'll dispute that to this day. Oh yeah, and the Sister Judd didn't cheer; she laughed hysterically. The only consolation was that the car was highly flammable, especially when doused with gasoline. Stupid pinewood freakin' derby. Posted by Orrin Judd at August 13, 2003 7:56 PM