Did you know that race cars are like bowling balls?
Yeah… me neither.
At least not until my race car driver husband casually dropped that little nugget early in our racing days, like it was common knowledge and not something that should immediately make me question all future decisions.
Naturally, I trusted him.
Which is wild, because if you know me at all, trusting someone else’s logic over my own is not my default setting. I’m more of a “let’s pause, analyze, build a spreadsheet, and circle back” kind of girl.
But still… I trusted him.
And somehow, against all odds and physics and everything I vaguely remember about bowling night in 1997… it worked.
Which is irritating.
And also… kind of beautiful.
Marriage will do that to you.
You go from being the CEO, CFO, and Head of Risk Management of your own life… to suddenly co-leading with someone who occasionally compares high-powered race cars to sporting equipment.
And now you’re making decisions together.
Big ones. Small ones. And my personal favorite—surprise risky ones you were not emotionally prepared for.
Sometimes you talk it out. Sometimes you compromise. Sometimes you make a pros-and-cons list so detailed it deserves its own tab in Excel.
And sometimes?
You’re standing there thinking, this feels like a terrible idea,
while your spouse is standing there thinking, this is going to be awesome.
Hi. It’s me. I’m the problem. 🙋♀️
I’m very left-brained—logical, analytical, organized. I like a good plan. I like a backup plan. I like knowing why we’re doing something before we do it.
My husband? Extremely smart. Just… in a different lane. (Apparently, one that curves like a bowling ball.)
He’s instinctive, confident, and very comfortable in moments that make me tighten my jaw and look for a clipboard.
Which sounds like a beautiful balance… until we disagree.
Because my strength—being decisive and analytical—can quickly become “Lori knows best.” (Says Lori.)
And I’ve had to learn—slowly, humbly, occasionally kicking and screaming—that trusting him doesn’t mean I’m less capable.
It just means I’m not doing life alone.
One of those lessons came on a tiny, backwoods track in West Virginia.
Early in our marriage. Early in our racing career. The kind of place where the fans are incredible… and the safety features feel a little more like suggestions.
Bobby did what he always does—walked the track like a man studying for the most stressful exam of his life. Up one side, down the other. Looking at bumps, curves, shutdown space.
Meanwhile, I’m standing there thinking, this looks like two sidewalks and a prayer.
Then a seasoned driver, very helpfully, says:
“Make sure you don’t pull the parachutes before the finish line… or they’ll catch on the guardrail and pull you straight into the wall.”
Oh good. Great note. Love that for us.
I kept my face nice and neutral—because I am nothing if not composed in public—but internally I had already packed the trailer and was halfway home.
The second we were alone, I said what any calm, reasonable wife would say:
“We are not racing here.”
To which he responded, like a man who enjoys danger:
“Yes, we are.”
Impasse.
Then… he hits me with it.
“I’ve figured out that if I drive it like a bowler throws a hook, I can get it down the track.”
Sir.
No.
That is not how this works.
He goes on to explain—very confidently—that he’ll start on the right side of the lane, ease it across, and end up on the left at the finish line.
Like a bowling ball.
Now, let’s just pause.
This was a 2,500-horsepower funny car. It went from 0 to 200 mph in under seven seconds in the quarter mile. There are bumps. There’s another car. There’s grass in between that is approximately the width of my upper thigh.
And he’s describing it like he’s lining up for league night.
So there I am.
At a crossroads.
Do I argue?
Do I shut it down?
Do I remind him that I am, in fact, very smart?
(Tempting.)
But here’s what I knew:
I can’t drive the car.
He can.
He believed in what he was about to do.
And deep down… I believed in him.
So I did something very unnatural.
I got quiet.
I nodded.
And I asked, “What do you need from me?”
Did I like it? Absolutely not.
Did I spend the rest of the day mentally preparing for worst-case scenarios? Yes.
Was there a touch of pouting? Listen. Growth is a process.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I prayed and basically said, God… this one’s Yours.
And then I stood on that starting line…
and watched my husband throw a hook shot down a greasy West Virginia race track.
In a funny car.
And it worked.
I mean… of course it worked.
Because sometimes the lesson isn’t, “See, Lori, you were wrong.”
It’s, “See, Lori… you can trust him.”
(Still annoying. But meaningful.)
That day stuck with me.
Because not every decision in marriage comes with time to analyze, discuss, and color-code.
Some of them look like that track.
Some of them feel like that moment.
And sometimes love looks like loosening your grip just enough to let the other person lead—even when your internal monologue is screaming, this is not OSHA-approved.
I’m still learning that.
Still catching myself when “I’ve got this” quietly turns into “I’ve got this better than you.”
Still realizing that trust isn’t about being right—it’s about choosing each other.
And for the record… that run?
It was fast. Plenty fast. Fast enough to make my heart live somewhere in my throat for a solid seven seconds.
But it was his first year in a funny car. He was still learning, still becoming, still figuring out how to handle that kind of power.
These days?
Let’s just say… what he does now makes that run look like the warm-up lap.
New level of fast. New level of pressure. Same man behind the wheel.
And somehow, the lesson hasn’t changed.
Every now and then, I still find myself on a starting line—different situation, same feeling—watching him do something I wouldn’t, couldn’t, and definitely would’ve overthought.
And I’m reminded…
that trusting him was never just about him.
It was about trusting the One who gave him the ability, steadied his hands, and knew the outcome before I ever let go.
Because race cars and bowling balls might not make sense to me—
but in the hands of someone who knows what he’s doing…
and in a life held by a God who absolutely does—
they’ll get you exactly where you need to go…
even if they curve a little along the way.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.”
—Proverbs 3:5–6
This song has a way of reminding me that two people don’t have to be the same to go the same direction.
Did you find this story to be helpful? You might like this one: How to Have Emotional Safety in a Marriage