You might be a racer if...

You think the primary purpose of wings is to PREVENT flight.

You take your helmet along when you go to buy new eyeglasses or check out cars.

You are happiest when your street car's tires are worn to racing depth and the wear bars are showing.

When something falls off of your car, you wonder how much weight you just saved.

Your email address refers to your race car rather than to you.

You've paid $4.00 a gallon for gas without complaining.

You bought a race car before buying a house.

You bought a race car before buying furniture for the new house.

You're looking for a tow vehicle and still haven't bought furniture!

The requirements you give your real estate agent are (in order of importance):

1) 8 car climate controlled garage with an attached shop.

2) Outside parking for 6 cars, a motor home, a crew cab dually, a 28' enclosed trailer and a 34' 5th wheel.

3) 3 phase 220V outlets in the garage for your welder.

4) A grease pit.

5) Deaf neighbors.

6) Some sort of house with a working toilet & shower on the property - or - hookups for the motor home.

You sit in your race car in a dark garage and make car noises and shift and practice your heel and toe, while waiting for your motor to get back from the machine shop.

You have enough spare parts to build another car.

More than one racer supply store recognizes your voice and greets you by name when you call.

You think the last line of the Star Spangled banner is: "Racers start your engines!"

People know you by your class, car number, and car color.

You astound the clerk at Sears by bringing in a snapped breaker bar every other week or so.

Your family brings the couch into the garage to spend time with you.

A neighbor asks if you have any oil, to which you query, "Synthetic or organic?" and they reply, "Vegetable or corn."

You enjoy driving in the rain on the way to work.

You always want to change something on your street car to make it handle better.

You've tried to convince your wife you needed that flow bench to fix the air filter on her station wagon.

You save broken car parts as "momentous".

You've found your lawnmower runs pretty good on 108 octane gas (but doesn't particularly care for alcohol).

The local police and state highway patrol have a picture of your car taped to their dashboard.

Instead of pictures in your wallet, you have time slips.

You quote your street tire wear life in weeks rather than miles.

After you tell your wife where you'd like to go on vacation she answers: "Why...is there a race there?"

You know at least three 1-800 numbers to aftermarket parts houses by heart.

You are on a first-name basis with owners of every local speed shop.

You want to take apart and rebuild things, even though they are not broken.

You have the monetary equivalent of a lunar rocket invested in it, but your car still won't cut a good light or run the number.

You own a vehicle that has at least 500 horsepower more than when it came out of Detroit.

You look for hi-po cars in the movies and try to guess what engine size, tire size, and whether or not it has nitrous in it.

You are the type of person who goes postal when you have to sit in a traffic jam for more than five minutes, yet you can spend five hours in the staging lanes.

Every stoplight becomes a practice tree to test your ability to tree the guy in the other lane's eyes out.

You wash your car like it was your firstborn child, you tend to its needs like it was your own body, you protect it like it's your family, then you drive it like you stole it.

You understand racing is a way of life, not just a means of transportation...