In Praise of the Pinewood Derby
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.
"It was probably
the worst-looking thing, but my memory was that
everything was perfect, because it was something me and
my dad made," Pat Rose told the Virginian-Pilot,
recounting his own Cub Scout memories of the pinewood
derby last week as he helped other fathers and their
children prepare for the 2003 races.
Michael DiSanto
recalled working with his father in 1976 on a patriotic
red, white and blue derby car. "I made it during the
Bicentennial and called it `The Spirit of `76,` " he
told the Chicago Daily Herald. "I truly don`t
remember if it won, but that wasn`t the important
thing."
Amid the chaotic
masculine jumble of coping saws and sandpaper and glue
guns and chisels are valuable lessons to be learned on
friction, gravity, aerodynamics, patience,
collaboration, good sportsmanship, and following the
rules. The specifications are stringent: The car must
weigh no more than five ounces. The width (including
wheels) shall not exceed 2 and three-fourths inches; the
length not more than 7 inches. No springs, no starting
devices, no washers allowed.
Of the 11 rules for
the derby today, eight are the same as they were
originally in 1953 when
Scoutmaster Don Murphy ran the first unofficial race
in Manhattan Beach, Calif. The rule on length was
amended to shorten cars by three-eighths of an inch; two
new rules were added prescribing when the cars must be
built and banning loose objects in or on the vehicles.
Scouting veterans note wryly that the rules for the
pinewood derby have changed about as much as the
U.S. Constitution.
Rigidity and
tradition are no longer fashionable, of course. And it
is probably just a matter of time before the
Boy Scout-bashers and
no-fun feminists start clamoring for
gender equity at the pinewood derby. (Call your
lawyer, Martha Burk!)
This kind of
selfish encroachment into male-only rites of passage
and traditions is a sad and seemingly unstoppable trend.
But it is with unabashed fondness that I look back on
the scene of my father and brother, before they grew up
and apart, puzzling together over a block of pine and
absorbed in a common purpose while my mom and I sat on
the garage steps — letting the boys be boys for a
fleeting moment in time.
Michelle Malkin is author of
Invasion: How America Still Welcomes Terrorists,
Criminals, and Other Foreign Menaces to Our Shores.
Click
here for Peter Brimelow`s review. Click
here for Michelle Malkin`s website.
COPYRIGHT
CREATORS SYNDICATE, INC.


