I've never been very good at goodbyes. The right words or actions always seem to escape me. Usually, I give an awkward handshake, hug or maybe a pat on the back. Sometimes I try to come up with something eloquent to say, but most of the time it never comes out right. Often I just skip the whole process, as I would rather have my own memories of that person instead of a tearful departure. And so, while it isn't one of my strong points, I should probably take the time to say goodbye now. This is my last issue of Dirt Sports.

Today is Saturday on the Sea of Cortez in Cabo San Lucas. As I write these words, I am sitting at the patio of one of the world's finest resorts, drinking a Pina Colada while overlooking the sparking waters of southern Baja. In truth, I should be laying poolside but, instead, all of the emotions of the past week have actually made me turn on this stupid laptop instead of trying a cheesy pick-up line on the raven-haired hotty lounging to my left.

The summer racing season, where every series goes full-tilt, usually turns me into somewhat of a traveling zombie. Every Friday I unpack my suitcase, repack it, head to the airport, check in, get fondled by security, board the airplane, find my seat and pray I'm not sitting between two fat people.

That old saying, "Variety is the spice of life," holds true for the majority of us. Nobody wants to go through life plodding along, doing the same thing over and over again. Most people need something different now and then to change things up. Unless, of course, you're one those rare creatures of habit that actually enjoys heavy repetition. Then variety is just a distraction among your many little annoying habits.

Like many accomplishments here at Dirt Sports, it happened with little fanfare. There was no ticker-tape parade, no lavish ceremony, congratulatory backslapping or even mention of it around the offices. In fact, I only noticed it during another one of my sleepless nights tidying up my domicile. I was going through a stack of magazines to toss out and there it was: the August 2004 issue of Dirt Sports. My sleep-deprived brain slowly did the math, and I then realized the third anniversary of the birth of Dirt Sports had just past. We had made it three years!

I will admit that growing up in Los Angeles turns you into a bit of a SoCal Snob. Despite the worst freeway congestion in America, ridiculously overpriced real estate, extremely expensive gasoline, high state taxes, crime, plasticy wannabes, horrible attitudes and millions too many people, Southern California is not a bad place to live. Awesome weather, beaches and loads of babes–it's surprisingly easy to get used to the SoCal way of life–even if I will never be able to afford a home and most of those babes will only talk to me if I pretend to be movie producer. (Those fake Perronne Productions business cards sure do come in handy).

I remember summer when it was more than just a season. Back in the glory days of my youth, it was a thing of sheer beauty. Eagerly anticipated all through the school year, once that bell rang on the final day, it was three solid months of no class and little responsibility. There was no homework or annoying teachers for what–at the time–seemed like forever. But if you were a dolt, you had to take summer classes to make up for your failures during the school year.

Is Rock-Crawling Really Dead? Jun 1, 2007 By: Craig Perronne

Over a year ago I wrote an editorial entitled "Rock Crawling is Dead." Many of the slow witted among us instantly freaked out and complained to anybody that would listen, via the Internet or any other medium available, about how I was bashing rock crawling. Those who actually took the time to read the entire piece realized that it was about safety, and the title was a metaphor for what could happen to the sport of rock crawling if we weren't careful.

A Short-Course Sandwich May 1, 2007 By: Marty Fiolka

I spent the first few minutes of the 2007 short-course season with Pro-4 superstar Johnny Greaves. We sat in empty grandstands overlooking the somewhat pitiful looking track CORR had built at the Antelope Valley Fairgrounds, about 50 miles northeast of downtown Los Angeles. Greaves and his brother Kurt were on hand to deliver a new Pro-4 truck to the Terrible Herbst team.