Summer is my favorite season and it's no wonder why. No school. No homework. Sunshine for days upon days. Shorts and bare feet. Cookouts and bonfires. And let's not forget the best part: racing. It's a warm 40 degrees today with a nice breeze and all I can think is today is a prime race day. And while we all know I could talk about racing for days, about the track and the speed and the people, that's not what this is. I've never told you one of my most favorite parts (I do have a lot of favorite parts) of the sport.

Traveling. Now on some days, I just can't wait to get to the track, cannot wait to bound out of the motorhome and nearly get crushed by the trailer door in order to get my race car ready to go. To be honest, heading to the track is always a drag. I just want to be there, just want to hear the roar of engines and smell the fuel drifting through the air. And who wants to go home, when you could be racing? Not me. So you have to be wondering, why is traveling one of my favorite parts when it sounds as though I dread sitting in the motorhome, riding for mile after mile? It's not about the miles per gallon, but the smiles per gallon. And ask my dad, there are a lot of gallons.

I don't remember the miles. They tend to blur together when you're singing at the top of your lungs with your family or when you're talking about what a successful day at the track the team had. I don't remember the price of the gas but cuddling up on the couch with my dog and both of us taking a nap after the long weekend we had. I don't remember the rain hitting the windshield after ruining our day but the cold water that poured down my dad's back from the slide as he drove down the highway. That one was hilarious.

I remember being my dad's servant as he drove, fetching chips and drinks at his request while complaining that sooner or later I was just going to tell him no; although, I never did and I never will. I remember opening the fridge to get him a drink and the pitcher of tea crashing to the floor, spilling over the carpet and soaking my socks. Remember my dad asking "what was that?" as he strained to look over his shoulder and keep us on the road. Remember the dog's excitement as he got to lick up half a gallon of sweet tea. Remember being afraid to open the fridge ever again, while riding, in case I were to make another mess.

I remember trying to play checkers with my sister at the table, only for each of us to make a move before a bump was hit and the checkers went flying. I remember moving onto UNO, only to have the same thing happen with the decks in the middle of the table. I remember my sister getting frustrated and watching as she tossed game after game back into the game box and then shoving it angrily into the box's designated compartment overhead. I remember watching her sleep in awkward positions at the table, sometimes curled into the corner, sometimes her head hanging off the edge of the seat, dangling towards the floor. I remember watching her sing to songs that only she could hear, occasionally showing me her phone so I could know what she was listening to, exchanging mischievous smiles as memories tied to that particular song appeared in our minds' eyes.

I remember talking to my mom, her in the passenger seat, me on the floor. Or sometimes, we would scrunch together in the passenger seat, playing sudoku or a crossword puzzle. Sometimes we would share a blanket, sometimes we would beg Dad to turn on the fan. Sometimes we would have to yell at the dog as he scrambled across our bodies to get on the dash. Sometimes we would call for him to curl up in our laps. Mom would talk about her week at work, tell us about the stupidity and the struggles. I would talk about my week at work, tell her about the guy whose brake lights came on every time he accelerated and vice versa. Dad would chime in with a "right" or a "yeah", only half listening. Then Mom and I would gang up on him, teasing the man about never listening. Which would lead to a playful debate, Candi chiming in every once in a while.

You see, I don't remember the mile markers where these things happened. I don't remember which track we were going to or coming home from. I don't remember if I lost in first round the day Dad got a cold shower in the driver's seat. I don't remember if I was in the Chevelle or the junior when Candi's head bounced casually against the floor as we rode in the motorhome. I just don't remember. But I remember the smiles and the trials, the lessons that taught me not to open the fridge or that we couldn't play cards while the motorhome was moving. Because as I said, it's not about the miles per gallon. It's about the smiles per gallon. And there have been a lot of gallons and there are sure to be many more.