Chris Bradshaw Memories

"It's rally time, dude--time to do what we came here to do." That's what I used to tell Chris when we buckled up our helmets right before we started each special stage.

Thanks to Chris Bradshaw, I have light switches that glow in the dark. Whenever the blackness of the night grows too great, I now can find my way again, my way back to light. I wrote this at 4:30 AM on a Thursday morning, a morning seemingly like any other. For a while then I wandered through my house, counting those switches (21 of them) and reflecting on the day he came over to help with their installation. It's hard to believe that he won't be visiting us anymore.

When I wrote this, the moon was almost full, lighting up the back yard while casting surreal shadows across the normal detritus of daily life. My eyes were drawn to the barbecue, where Chris would occasionally demonstrate his skill at the grill. Shortly after Donna moved to Thousand Oaks, we had a small dinner party. Chris came over as a guest, but quickly took over as chef of the flame and dazzled everyone. He was always helpful, always volunteering his time and energy to help friends and be with family.

Thanks to Chris Bradshaw, there's a Camaro parked in my driveway. When I mentioned to him that Donna's Chevy was stranded up north, he didn't hesitate a moment. He handed us his truck and trailer to use for the long weekend tow, making it possible to retrieve the old car.

Chris had no interest in politics, yet less than a month ago, he even attended a Cal Club board meeting to show support for me during a difficult time. As you've already heard, he was there for his friends. Now, we are here for him and his family in this awful time of loss.

[Remembering Chris Bradshaw] From Turn 1 at Long Beach, to the Corkscrew at Laguna Seca, to Turn 16 at Buttonwillow, Chris was an avid, active race worker. It was my pleasure to work with him on many occasions, in several regions across the country, and you always knew you could trust him to be safe on a corner. His dad told me the other night that Chris was always safety conscious, but the one time he got careless cost us all so very much. Even now, after cutting and pasting and rewriting these words so many times, it's still difficult to accept that this awful outcome could actually be fact.

I learned about the tragedy of Chris's terrible accident Wednesday night when I returned from Arizona after the Prescott rally. Chris had planned to come out and crew for us, but budget constraints kept him away from our sport that weekend. On our return, four somber messages in my e-mail box awaited me, and as I read them I looked up above my computer to see his picture. It was a photo of Chris's first time as a rally driver and my first rally as a co-driver. I've gotta tell ya, we were proud of that race. For the first half of the race we were smokin' the competition! On every stage we were the fastest in class, even with a spin or two in the desert brush.

Of course, everyone who knows Chris knows about his enthusiasm for racing and how he sometimes got over-exuberant. The second half of the rally proved to be our downfall, earning him the sobriquet "Boulder" when we went bounding over a pile of huge rocks. Nonetheless, we managed to finish the race. It wasn't until Gorman two months ago that Chris failed to complete a rally, the first and only time he failed to finish as driver or co-driver after several years of rallying.

It could never be said that he didn't immerse himself totally in what he enjoyed. He faced life with enviable enthusiasm, he enjoyed life with unqualified joy, and he never failed to help his friends. There was no way you could curtail his excitement when rallying, road racing, or even bicycling was involved.

When I think of Chris, I don't know which memory will pop up next--the time he fell asleep upright sitting on the couch while watching a rally video only to awaken when he thumped his head on the wall; the time we drove up to Sears Point in his old diesel minitruck to work the Nascar race, camping at the track because, as we all know, Chris was always on a tight budget; the time we drove to Arizona for a Saturday wedding, then cut north to Las Vegas for at least one day's racing; the time he helped me move into the new house instead of playing hockey; his all-nighter to Phoenix International Raceway with his first race car, Rick Hagen's old Vega, and the one lap he got to run before a piston sprung a leak and let a rod leak out; his trip to the Runoffs with Mark Smith, again in the old pickup, again with a tent; how he offered up bicycle advice; the many times we flagged together; how his family would join him at the track and serve up wonderful home made ice cream. I tell ya, nothing was better than home made Bradshaw ice cream at the end of a long hot day at Willow Springs.

When I was Flag Chief, I knew I could count on Chris in any position, whether as Turn Marshal at a high profile Long Beach corner, or working solo at a critical Buttonwillow Turn.

I'm full of Chris Bradshaw stories, but sadly, all stories come to an end. We won't see him at the house any more; I'll never have another chance to race with him, or against him, at a rally. We'll never again stand together on a racetrack corner, throwing flags and swapping jokes while race cars are whirling around us.

Thanks to Chris Bradshaw, I have light switches that glow in the dark, and perhaps, just perhaps, they are small icons for his life and his memory. While the blackness of our loss enfolds us now, there is still a Bradshaw glow to pull us towards the light again. Chris's life may have been cut short, but his enthusiasm, his excitement, his dedication, his support and encouragement, his unselfish nature, can all be the guiding orange glow we need to keep us going during these dark times. Those memories will not be lost, but will instead help us find our way to happy times again.

Goodbye, my friend. Rally on, dude.

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