Black Flag (Racing on the Edge)

by Stahl, Shey

  “Sway,” my tone was brusque. “You will pay for that.”

  “Ah sweetie, don’t be like that.” She giggled. “I didn’t mean to get you worked up.”

  I still hadn’t moved an inch because at that point, if anything even rubbed or brushed against me, I’d be changing before driver introductions.

  “I hope you have a good race.” Sway chimed.

  “Yeah...with no thanks to you,”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “I’ll be how I want to be. That was mean.”

  “It was good...mmmm...” she moaned again.

  “All right, you start that again and I’m hanging up.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “You’re right.” I admitted. “I won’t.”

  “What did you have to tell me?”

  “That you better be ready when I get there tonight.”

  “Oh I will be, waiting for you in bed.” She laughed. “That’s what you had to tell me?”

  “No, I needed to tell you that Phillip hired a body guard for you.”

  “Why?” She all but shouted.

  “Just calm down,” Spencer laughed shoving a pop tart in his mouth. “Listen honey, Darrin told Mariah that you were his next target. It’s just for precaution when you’re away from me.”

  Sway was quiet for a moment before she finally agreed. “Okay.”

  “I have to go.” I said softly.

  “I know...I love you. Good luck tonight.”

  “I love you too...but you’re still in trouble when I get there.” We both hung up and my head fell forward against the table again.

  “That bad eh?” Spencer teased.

  “Shut up asshole!”

  “Tough break,” he shook his head.

  Mason, the car chief, and Kyle, my crew chief, came inside for our team meeting. Their laughter at my appearance was not appreciated.

  When we finished our team meeting, the boys left me alone to finish getting ready. Finally, my erection had gone away but the memory hadn’t. She would pay for this.

  Sean, my personal trainer, came inside to tape up my ribs and wrist for the race.

  I mentally prepared myself for a night race by listening to the White Strips Seven Nation Army.

  My collarbone had healed fast. Even my doctor was impressed with how quickly it healed in five weeks. Unfortunately, my wrist was another story. It gave me pain during happy hour yesterday so Sean suggested we tape it up. They kept the pins in and forced me to wear a brace. Apparently, the bone was too weak to remove them. In turn, I couldn’t grip the wheel enough with the brace on.

  When Sean was done, I finished putting my shoes and made my way to the car. It took a half an hour to get to it with all the reporters and fans hounding me, but alas, I made it to the car after introductions.

  A night race a Bristol was one of the most aggressive races on the schedule. You have bumping, banging, no room, and riled up drivers all fighting to stay on the lead lap and snag a much needed victory. With it being my first race back, I knew this was going to be tough.

  The team, waiting for the race to begin, was just as rowdy as any night race tossing insults, chirping at other teams for the fun of it. Not only were the driver’s tense on nights like tonight, but so were the crews. They knew if anything, tonight, they needed to be on their games.

  I tried to focus when I pulled myself inside the car, I really did. But the anxiety I felt, the fear, everything was coming back. Taking in heavy deep breaths, I struggled to keep panic from overwhelming me, telling myself this was just a race, just like any other race. I’ve raced in probably a thousand races but never after such a horrific accident.

  Driving hundreds of miles for hours at a time, at speeds between 160 and 200 mph would be hard enough for most. Now imagine doing it with forty-two other drivers who would like nothing more than to leave you choking on their exhaust. The romanticism of racing is easy to imagine. The reality is that it imposes great physical and mental strains on our bodies. You need incredible stamina and upper-body strength to wrestle the steering wheel for hours on end. You can forget about air-conditioning, even with the fresh air ventilation tube that blows cool air, the temperature inside can easily reach 120°. So imagine all this, and the feeling you get when you wreck, not to mention the possibility of it happening at any moment.

  I clenched my eyes shut and tried to get my breathing under control, feeling the burn in my lungs. The sound of the engine idling provided a soothing hum. I found myself relaxing ever so slightly. What really soothed me was when I pulled off pit road onto the track.

  “You got this, bud. Stay focused. Don’t think about anything else but driving through the windshield and hitting your marks.” Kyle shouted. “We got the best driver; let’s show them what we got!”

  He drank five energy drinks this morning so far. It was going to be interesting today that’s for sure.

  Simplex was partnering with RedBull and dropped off two cases this morning in the paddock for the boys. That was a bad idea for the group of guys on our team.

  Kyle continued to rant about how good we would do as I tried my best to block him out. We ended up qualifying ninth, which was all right. It was better than thirty-ninth where Mike qualified.

  I chuckled to myself at how he thought he was some sort of badass on the track. There was a difference between your local bullring and Winston cup. I found that out my first race. Mike was about to.

  “Okay Jameson,” Aiden said. “You got two laps and then the green flag. You’re at pit road speed now.” His voice was cheerful.

  “Copy, I’m at 4600,”

  I was quiet on the radio after that, concentrating on my marks I laid out to focus on during the race. I always set marks on the track that I would pick out as a focal point. It helped to keep your mind clear and not get distracted during the race.

  Some people have the misconception that NASCAR racing doesn’t require a lot of skill because we simply go in a circle and turn left. In reality, a typical race required a great deal of strategy and an enormous amount of driver skill. Much of the strategy depends on the uniqueness of the track. All tracks have grooves, the part of the track where your car’s tires get the best grip. Some tracks have one groove; others have two grooves, a low and high. On one groove tracks, it’s much more difficult to pass because you must leave the groove and drive on a part of the track that makes the car harder to handle. On two groove tracks, such as Atlanta, it’s much easier to pass because there’s a sweet spot on the track. Either way you look at it though, passing in the most challenging move. Good drivers know how to block or move their cars from side to side to prevent another car from passing but it takes time to learn those techniques. I still hadn’t learned everything but I was leaning.

  “Green, green, green...inside, still there clear. Left side...left rear...there you go. See keep it up two turns, two cars!” Aiden shouted. “Whew!”

  Aiden also had a few RedBulls.

  He was loud and obnoxious with his narrative annotations of events taking place on the track.

  After around lap ninety, I had enough of him and Kyle. I was about ready to rip the goddamn radio out of my helmet and navigate my own way around the track.

  You rely on your spotter to help you. Throughout the race you’re in constant contact with them about accidents, track conditions and the positions of other cars. So to have my spotter, hyped up on RedBull, was a pain in the ass.

  “Aiden—fuck!” I shouted, completely annoyed. “Seriously calm down. I need to be able to understand you.”

  “Sorry.” He mumbled. “But fuck, did you see the eighteen come down on you like that?” his voice rising slightly.

  “Just focus, okay? Ethan, take the drink from him, PLEASE!”

  Ethan let out a chuckle and helped me while Aiden cooled his guns.

  “All right Riley, here you go. Outside at your rear, outside, still there...still there...clear.”

  I was running sixth when the cau
tion came out.

  “Cautions out...forty eight blew the front rear in three,”

  My brakes were hot so I mentioned it to Kyle. We talked about what changes to make on the pit stop and ways to cool the brakes. You’re on them so often at Bristol they are bright red about fifty laps into the race.

  “Turn your rear brake fans on.” Reaching forward, I flipped the switch for the brake fans on. “Should we take four tires or two?”

  “Two,” I told him. “I can work with two if it gets me out ahead of some of these cars. I need clean air.”

  “10-4. Here we go boys, two tires and fuel. Don’t make any other adjustments, just get him out. Keep coming...keep coming...three...two...one.”

  “Gentry, pull the tape off the grill...Brady, make sure the lug nuts are tight.” Mason fired his orders at the crew as I tried to keep myself calm and focused.

  Taking two tires put me third, behind Tate and Bobby when we took the green flag.

  What made this interesting was the lapped traffic in the mix, complete with the number fourteen of Mike Tanner fighting for his lap back.

  My dealings with the number fourteen went back to USAC. Back in the summer of ‘99, I was racing in all three USAC divisions for Bucky Miers, a World of Outlaw driver who owned half the cars that fielded the midget and sprint car divisions in USAC.

  That year, Bucky was not my favorite owner to drive for. It all started with assigning me a number in the silver crown series (non-winged heavier sprint cars). My usual number for racing had always been nine. In every car, even my first go-kart, always nine.

  Well when I raced in silver crowns, Bucky didn’t have a number assigned since it was new for him. USAC assigned ninety-five.

  I ran that way at Terra Haute but by the time Knoxville rolled around, I leaned on old Bucky to change the number because if you added those two numbers together, they equaled fourteen.

  Anyone that knows me understands I’m not superstitious per se but I did not care for the number fourteen. Back when I raced quarter midgets at Williams Grove one year, I wrecked on lap fourteen. It sent me to the hospital with a broken ankle. Then while racing a winged sprint car in the fall of ‘98 at Lernerville, I was bumped by the fourteen of Frank Luther, parasailed into a field only to flip fourteen times and land in a pond a few yards from the track.

  I did not like the number fourteen. My dislike for the number went as far as not pitting in the fourteen stall or setting up in a garage bay with the number fourteen on it. I had restrictions.

  Now Bucky was amused by the dislike for the number, as was my brother. I was not.

  That silver crown car was horrible too. In Dodge City that year, I blew up the engine. In North Wilkesboro, it caught on fire during inspection. In Haubstadt, the right rear tire just fell off during the race. By the time Indianapolis came, the number fourteen was changed to nine because I refused to get in the evil fucking car until it was changed.

  And you know what, a funny thing happened that night in Indy, I won.

  Knowing this, I’m sure you can imagine my enthusiasm for any driver racing the number fourteen. Mike just started on the wrong foot and kept it up. The fact that he was driving Darrin’s car wasn’t the problem. It was the fucking number that I had the biggest problem with.

  “Cole, you copy?” I asked noticing the car in front of me was Tanner.

  “10-4 Riley, what’s up?”

  “Oh just havin’ some fun with Tanner here. Wanna help?”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  With the help of Bobby and Tate, we had Tanner boxed pretty good when I pulled up beside him. In the turns, I’d slide the back end sideways, pushing against his car just about the time Tate leaned on the other side. This caused the air to be taken off the front end, in turn; he had one loose race car on his hands. You could see his hands frantically adjusting the wheel in the turns and overcorrecting it.

  “Jameson,” Kyle warned with a hint of amusement. “NASCAR just reminded me that you are still on probation and to stop fucking around.” Then he laughed, this shit was funny.

  “An official said stop fucking around?”

  “Oh you get my point.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I laughed. “Just having a little fun with him,”

  Mike was sandwiched in between us; there was no way around so when I pushed up into him in turn four, Tate shot forward. Mike pushed up into the marbles, got loose and turned himself sideways on the backstretch.

  Kyle and Ethan started laughing. The child within, flipped him off when we came back around. “Welcome to the cup series Tanner!”

  “All right bud.” Kyle guffawed. “You’ve had your fun, now focus on the race.”

  I did have my fun but my car turned to shit around lap two-hundred when the brakes got so hot they started shredding tires. I couldn’t keep the goddamn thing straight. I was utterly amazed when we finished fifth but satisfied I at least finished my first race back with no real complications from myself. Once I was out of the car, I was feeling the strain on my body but it felt good just to be back. For someone who has raced pretty much non-stop since he was four, it wasn’t a good feeling not racing for close to five weeks.

  After a handful of interviews and a nap on the plane, I was landing in Olympia and driving to Elma.

  When I made my way to Sway’s, Charlie was in the kitchen.

  “Hey Charlie, it’s like three in the morning.” I sat down across from him at the table. “What are you doing up?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” He replied with a shrug. Leaning forward, he poured himself another shot of whiskey. Judging by his appearance, he’d been at this for a while.

  “How are you feeling?” I glanced down at the bottle of whiskey.

  “Okay I guess—could be worse.” He laughed, his eyes glazed. “Everyone says I’m losing my mind but what the fuck do they know.”

  We sat there in silence for a few minutes before he looked up at me. “Sway told me she’s pregnant.”

  Hiding my smirk, I drew in a deep breath, prepared for Charlie to lecture me about knocking up his only daughter. Instead, he surprised me by placing a black box on the table and sliding it toward me—along with the bottle of whiskey and a shot glass.

  “What’s that?” I asked motioning toward the box.

  “It’s a ring.”

  “Are you asking me to marry you, Charlie?” I chuckled at my weak attempt for humor this late.

  “No dumbass,” he rolled his eyes. “it’s for Sway. If you want to marry her,”

  Reaching for the whiskey, a smirk materialized as he poured each of us a shot. After taking the shot, I carefully opened the box revealing a roughly two-carat emerald cut platinum diamond ring surrounded by diamond prongs. Not that I’d given too much thought to the ring or the proposal, I did know I wanted to marry Sway and that ring was exactly what I imagined now.

  “It was Rachel’s, passed on down from her mother.” A small smile ghosted across his lips. “Sway loved that ring, even at six years old. Rachel always wanted her to have it so I hung on to it for her.”

  “And you want me to give it to her?”

  “Well you knocked her up,” he replied wryly. “It’s the least you could do.”

  “I um...shouldn’t I be asking you to marry your daughter not the other way around?”

  “Yes...you should.” he nodded. “Let’s hear it kid, why should I let you marry my daughter?” He crossed his arms over his chest leaning back in his chair. It was an intimidating gesture and I knew it was meant to be perceived that way.

  I wasn’t prepared for this and I had no idea what to say but when I opened my mouth to speak, the words spilled out.

  “All my life, all I’ve ever known is racing. I’ve always been arrogant but deep down I never felt I had what it would take to make it to NASCAR. Until one summer night, I met this beautiful girl who believed in me. She believed that I could do it. She was there for me through it all no matter what I put her through. It took me a while to realize that eve
rything I have ever dreamed of wasn’t just racing anymore. It was Sway. Racing is my career, but without Sway—none of that would be possible. I tried to make it without her but I always felt restless as though I had a flat tire hanging on just to finish the race.” My eyes had remained fixed on the worn wood of the table. Nodding, I looked up at him. “I love your daughter Charlie. I will take care of her and our child...and any future children. I know this lifestyle I have isn’t ideal but I want Sway. I’ve seen firsthand the strain it causes on families but I know Sway and I can make it work.”

  Charlie was quiet for a few minutes before he smiled, his brow raised. “I’m impressed kid.”

  “So am I.” I admitted running my hand across the back of my slick neck reaching for the whiskey with the other.

  “You know why I thought you were using her in the beginning?”

  “Because I was,”

  “Yes, you were.” Charlie poured himself another shot, a contemplative look flashed over his flushed appearance. “You see, I saw right through you. I saw through you because you’re a lot like me. You’ll do anything to make sure Sway is taken care of. I knew you were in love with her from the beginning. But I also knew that you were so hell bent on keeping Sway away from you, that anything you offered her wouldn’t be permanent.”

  He was more perceptive then I gave him credit for.

  “Do you know why I asked you to take over the track rather than an investor?”

  I shook my head.

  “Because I knew it was an opportunity you wouldn’t walk away from. It was an obligation I knew you’d take and in turn, you’d be with Sway.”

  “You wanted us together.” I deduced taking another shot for myself; Charlie did the same. I was so tired and buzzed, I wasn’t sure this conversation was really happening now. Was I dreaming all this?

  “I knew that if you guys were together as much as a track owner and general manager are, you’d see you two are perfect for each other. My daughter’s happiness means everything to me and you are what makes her happy. Even if you ended up not providing her the relationship she wanted, you’d always be there for her with the track.”