My name is Allen Martinelli. I'm forty years old and an electrician in Ohio, and until this past January the only thing I knew about soap box derby was that I watched it once as a kid and wanted to do it and never did. This is the page about how my daughter Nicole, who is eleven, built a soap box derby car this spring, raced it at our local race in June, and took second place out of a field of fourteen cars. I am still not over it. She is over it and wants to know when we can start on next year.

Hi! I'm Nicole and I drove Car #14. I'm the one who actually built it, it says so in the rules. Dad helped. Dad held things. SECOND PLACE!! Out of fourteen!!! I lost the final by about half a car and I am going to win next year and go to Akron. You can quote me.

Why We Did It

Last winter Nicole saw a notice at the library about the local derby looking for new drivers. She brought it home and put it on my plate at supper, on top of my meatloaf, so I'd have to read it. That's how she handles most things.

For anybody who doesn't know, here's soap box derby in a nutshell. A kid drives a car that has no motor down a hill. Gravity is the whole engine. The driver steers and works the brake, and that's all a driver does, but it turns out that's plenty. The cars race two at a time down a paved hill and the first one across the line wins the heat. Every local race sends its champions to the All-American Soap Box Derby finals in Akron, Ohio, which have been held there in the summertime since the 1930s, on a hill built just for it. When I was about Nicole's age my dad drove us up to Akron to watch the finals, and I stood on the hill and watched those cars come down and I thought it was about the greatest thing I'd ever seen. Then I got busy being a kid, and then being a grown-up, for about thirty years.

So when the notice landed on my meatloaf, I didn't have a lot of arguments. My wife asked how much it would cost. I told her. She asked again, in case I'd said it wrong. Our sponsor helped there: the shop I work for paid part of the kit, and in return their name is on both sides of the car.

The letters are too big. I said that at the time. Also I wanted to do it because nobody in my class has ever done it and I wanted to do something nobody in my class has ever done. That's the real reason. Dad's reason is the hill in Akron.

Building the Car

Nicole raced in the division for kit cars, which is where most kids start. Everybody gets the same kit, so on race day every car in your division is built from the same parts, and what's different is how carefully it was put together, where the weight sits, and who's driving. The kit came in a pile of boxes: the floorboard, the axles, the steering wheel and cables, the brake, the body pieces, a bag of hardware, and a manual about as thick as the phone book. The wheels are official derby wheels, the same for everybody.

We built it in the garage between March and the end of May, mostly on Saturdays and a couple of weeknights. The whole thing, step by step, with the mistakes left in, is on its own page: How We Built Car #14. Here are the three things that mattered most.

1. The kid does the work.
This is a rule, and it's a good one. The driver builds the car. A grown-up can explain, steady things, and keep fingers out of the drill, but the hands on the wrench are supposed to be the driver's. I'm an electrician. I have spent twenty years being the guy who does it himself because it's faster. Standing in my own garage with my hands in my pockets watching an eleven-year-old take four tries to start a nut was the hardest job I had all spring. But she did it, every bolt, and when she climbed in that car on race day it was her car. I wouldn't trade that for a faster car.

He did NOT always keep his hands in his pockets. One time he reached over and I said "Dad. Rules." and he put them back. I had to say "Dad. Rules." like nine times.

2. Alignment.
A derby car that doesn't go straight is a slow derby car. If the axles aren't square to each other and to the floorboard, the car wants to turn, and the driver has to steer to hold it straight, and every bit of steering costs you. We measured axle to axle, both sides, and corner to corner across the car, more times than I can count, with a steel tape and a pencil and a notebook. Nicole kept the notebook. When the numbers finally matched on both sides she made me write the date on the garage wall.

3. Weight in the right places.
There's a top weight for the car and the driver together, and nobody's allowed over it. A lighter kid makes up the difference with ballast, which is bolted into the car where the rules allow. Nicole is not a big kid, so we had a good bit of ballast to place, and where you put it changes how the car rolls. We read everything we could find, asked the older families at the derby's open house, and moved it around a few times before inspection. I won't pretend we got it perfect. We got it legal and we got it balanced, and the car ran straight and true. The rest is next year.

The paint is mine. Purple with a pink stripe down the middle and a white 14 on the nose and the tail. Dad wanted red. Dad was outvoted 2 to 1 (me and Mom).

Race Day, Heat by Heat

Saturday, June 19, 1999. We were at the hill at 6:30 in the morning for inspection and weigh-in. The inspectors went over every car with a checklist, and the car and driver went on the scale together. Nicole was so nervous she couldn't eat her donut, so I ate it, which was the right thing to do for the team. After inspection the cars are impounded, which means you can't touch them until you race. That's to keep anybody from fiddling, and it also keeps a nervous dad from fiddling, which was probably for the best.

Our race was double elimination: lose twice and you're out. Two cars come down at a time, side by side, and the first one across the line moves on. There were fourteen cars in Nicole's division. I'll give you the whole day, because I have it all written on the back of the program.

I'm going to say this once on the Internet so it's on the record: that was the best day I have had as a father, including the losing part. When she climbed out of the car after the final she didn't cry. She walked over to the girl in the yellow car and shook her hand, and then she came over to me and said, "I looked. I know I looked." And then she cried a little. So did I, a little. Then we went and got ice cream and she ate two scoops, and the second-place trophy rode home on the dashboard.

The girl who won is really nice. It was her third year. I asked her what she does to go so fast and she said she doesn't do anything, that's the trick. I didn't get it then. I get it now. She got to go to Akron this summer, and next year I hope her family moves to Florida.

That last part was a joke. Mostly.

What We'd Do Differently

• Start earlier. The car wasn't ready until the end of May, so we only made it to one practice day. Next year the car is done by the first of May, period, and we spend May on the hill.
• Practice the driving, not just the building. We spent three months on the car and about an hour on the driver. The open practice day was worth more than anything we did in the garage. Head down, eyes just over the front of the car, hands still, and go straight.
• Steer less. Every little correction scrubs off speed. A good derby driver barely moves the wheel. Nicole lost Heat 3 by sawing at it. She knows.
• Don't look at the other car. See Final, above. It doesn't matter where the other car is. Look at the finish line.
• Brake after the line, not before it. She did this right all day, but I watched two kids pull the brake early on their last run because they got scared at the bottom. Practice stopping, so the brake isn't scary.
• Write everything down. The notebook from the alignment was the most useful thing we made all spring. Next year it gets a cover.
• Bring a folding chair, sunscreen and a cooler. Race day is long. Most of it is waiting. The racing part is about half a minute at a time.

Also: do not let your dad eat your donut. I was hungry by Heat 2.

The Road to Akron

Here's the plan. The winner of each division at a local race goes to Akron for the All-American finals. Second place doesn't, which Nicole has explained to me with a good deal of feeling. So the road to Akron goes through our own hill next June, and she has to win it.

The car number will probably change; they hand them out at registration. Nicole says it doesn't matter what's painted on it, it's still Car #14. I agree with her.

If your kid is thinking about soap box derby, my advice is do it. It's not cheap and it's not quick, but you will spend a spring in the garage with your kid working on the same thing, and you'll both learn a lot, and on race day you'll stand at the bottom of a hill and watch them come down it on their own. And if you've got a younger one who isn't old enough to drive yet, Den Leader Mike Ostrowski's Pinewood Derby Workshop, right here on the same street, says the same thing about letting the kid do the work that I'd say, only he says it about a five-ounce block of wood.

See you in Akron!!! (In 2000.) -- Nicole, driver, Car #14