The road less raced: Who needs a race car when you can build the whole damn club?

In middle school, remote control cars were all the rage, and the brand new Team Associated RC-10 was the car to have. My friends and I would go to races on Friday nights. The events were very ad hoc, and—because I grew up in Alaska—held in a school gym. I didn’t have a car of my own because my hobby was computers, specifically Commodore. Growing up in a household of very modest means, I had to choose one hobby or get a job, which I wasn’t old enough to do legally yet (you better believe I did as soon as I turned 14). So, I hung out with my friends, who had all the cool gear, and watched them race.

Everything about the races was lame. The gym floor was super dirty and so slick that racers had to use foam tires coated in silicone just to get any grip. The lights were blinding, the noise was awful, and there was no setup. Racers crowded around the walls wherever they could find an electrical outlet to use for their battery chargers. Coats were scattered everywhere (remember, this was during the winter), and smaller kids ran around while mostly mothers tried to corral them into the corner of the gym that had all the mats. And there was nowhere to sit. Did I mention it was always dirty? In short, these venues sucked.

Still, I really loved the hobby and seeing all the different cars and the technology that made it all work. Since I couldn’t afford a car of my own, I set out to do the next best thing: start a club with a much better track. Palmer, Alaska, the small town I grew up in, didn’t have many options. At first, I tried the brand-new middle school cafeteria, which I thought would deter small children from running around because there was no room or gym mats. The lighting could be more easily reduced, and the sound wasn’t as bad as the gym, but the floors were still a horrible surface to race on.

Around the same time Palmer's one and only clothing store, Laymonts, closed indefinitely. They were the second anchor tenant of our version of a mall—which was really more of a strip mall with an indoor hallway connecting the two larger stores. The other anchor tenant was CARRS, the state’s largest grocery chain. Looking through the security gate and the outdoor windows, the empty retail space was immense. There was more than enough room to set up a track, create space for racers to prep their equipment, and section off a large area for family members and curious onlookers. The best part? Commercial-grade, low-pile carpet. Forget the foam tires with silicone, it was time to burn rubber—so to speak.

My father helped me with the logistics, including going to the property management and pitching our idea. They loved it because it meant we would draw people to the property. CARRS loved it because parents could buy their groceries while their kids were at the track. And the racers loved the proximity to soda, candy, and snacks. It was a win-win-win.

I called my club the Palmer Association of Remote Control Cars, or P.A.R.C.C. for short. I wanted something that had to do with cars, and that was the best I could come up with. Thanks to a lot of word-of-mouth, we opened with a pretty spectacular night of racing. My mother handled the money, collecting the entry fee from the racers.

Within weeks, our numbers doubled and continued to grow until it was bigger than I ever imagined. Our members came from all walks of life, ranging from your typical suburban folks to rough-and-tumble members of a Vietnam vets biker gang. They were some mean dudes, but very kind to me. One night, I met a portly guy who had a super professional setup, with toolboxes and containers on a custom wagon of sorts. He was from Seward, a town three hours away, and had seen an ad I placed in the back of Radio Control Car Action magazine. He complimented what we had built. As our club grew, more adults started to chip in to help build a better track with ramps and such. We got so big that the local paper, The Frontiersman, came by to interview me and others about our club. After the article was published, we even started to draw spectators who came just to watch.

As with many childhood interests, mine started to wane. I felt like I had reached the top of the mountain, and there wasn’t much more to do. So, I decided to leave my club in the hands of some of the adults, who turned it into a non-profit organization. They held a small awards ceremony and gave me a plaque to commemorate the founding of P.A.R.C.C. By the time I left, the club had 150 dues-paying members, including that one guy from three hours away.

I turned 14, got a job, and later that year started high school. While P.A.R.C.C. was my first community, it would not be my last. I went on to start other organizations, culminating in co-founding the Bureau of Digital with communities like Owners Camp and the Digital PM Summit.

Today, I see many folks lamenting the current lack of events to attend. An Event Apart is long gone, XOXO just closed its doors, and Config, like SXSW, is way too big to be meaningful. People aren’t wrong to long for human connection and community, but my advice is to stop waiting for someone else to create it for you. I started Creative Mornings San Francisco because I wanted my city to participate. After reaching out to Tina, I volunteered, and months later we opened the doors on Friday mornings at the Typekit office.

I never got an RC10 or played with a remote control car again. Instead, I have memories and experiences that are second to none. Creating the community you want isn’t as difficult as it seems. Learn what’s important to the people you want to be around, spread the word repetitively, be a good host, and show up consistently. Do those four things, and you’re bound to pull together the community you seek. It’s not always easy, but it’s also not rocket science.