Model Fathers, Trophy Sons
By Dave George

Oakfield, New York—The Pinewood Derby, in which Cub Scouts make and then race small wooden cars, is a rite of passage for many American boys—and a terror for plenty of fathers.

 

Pinewood Derby families fall into two categories. There are the ones who have trouble figuring out which side of the sandpaper you use. That’s my group. My father and I used a jackknife to shape our Derby car in 1970—not because we were handy with it, but because we didn’t own any other tools—and then spray-painted it. We were pretty proud.

 

Until Derby night. Then we encountered the other class of kids—whose fathers were engineers, with basement wood shops more complete than some factories. They showed up carrying cars with multicolor paint jobs, weighted down with lead, wheels freshly lubed with silicone spray.

 

The first group went into shock at the sight, so they’ve either suppressed all memories or remember in painful, exquisite detail how they lost to precision-engineered machines. This winter, I kept a Pinewood Derby diary—just so the doctors would know what happened if my son or I had a breakdown.

 

December 17: A dark pall descends over what had been a happy holiday season: At his monthly pack meeting, my almost-seven-year-old son Michael received a Pinewood Derby kit. Earlier in the meeting, the pack made Christmas ornaments for needy families. Seeing the mess that Mikey and I made with mere construction paper and glue, I suggested our ornament should go to a blind needy family. Now we are expected to make a raceable car?

 

January 17: Desperate after a month of denial, I do what every geeky modern father does when stumped: I go on line. Finding a treasure trove of Pinewood advice on the Web, Mikey and I slide over to Hobby House Toys. I buy some weights and a tube of graphite lubricant. This month, Mikey finally masters zipping his coat. And he’s supposed to build a racer?

 

February 8: It is time to cut the car. Because Pinewood Derby is supposed to be a father-son project, I have Mikey in the basement with me. He goes to his Little Tykes plastic workbench and grabs some plastic tools. I sketch a sleek aerodynamic design on the block of wood. Lacking a work bench of my own, I tie some old sweat pants as padding around a metal pole in my basement.  Lacking the scrap wood I would have if I were a “real man,” I use some paint-stirring sticks to protect the block of wood as I clamp the mess to the metal pole. Are those the tears of my shop teacher falling from heaven?

 

The wood keeps slipping under my borrowed coping saw (thank goodness for neighbors), resulting in a shape less Porsche-like than I’d imagined. I accidentally dig a big dent into the top of the car with the clamp, and leave behind several errant saw marks.

 

February 14: While Cupid shoots his arrows, I sit here with some 60-grit sandpaper, trying to get my, er, “our” car in better shape.

 

February 28: The car is painted—blue and orange, said Mike—and looking good! I even use our oven to cure the paint.

 

March 2: I spray on two coats of clear sealer. The car looks like glass. Then disaster. I figure if two coats look good, three will be better. Wrong. While curing coat three in the oven, the paint blisters in several places. My wife first cajoled me in from the window ledge, then talked me out of trying to fix the paint job.

 

March 5: We add the wheels! Wheel alignment is critical to Pinewood Derby success. Unfortunately, by the time the car crosses our kitchen floor it has turned 90 degrees.

 

March 17: Derby Day. My first reaction was exactly the one I had 34 years ago: Our car is one of the ugliest and crudest there! Two brothers’ cars looked exactly like a cell phone and a remote control. There were racers with paint jobs better than the one on my real car.

 

Then the cars are raced…and we win each heat! At the end of the night Mikey squares  off for the championship. He wins the first round, and comes in second for the next two, finishing third overall!

 

That night, we put Mikey to bed with his trophy on his dresser. When we looked in on him later, he’d moved it to a shelf right above his pillow. Note to my own dad: We finally got our honor back.

 

When not building cars, Dave George recruits engineers in the Rochester, New York area.