Black Flag (Racing on the Edge)

by Stahl, Shey

  Jimi grumbled. “Stop it.”

  Neither one of us said anything. Jimi didn’t need to know what happened out here too and I was sure he felt the same.

  Later that afternoon we left for Darlington, South Carolina. It was a two and an half hour drive from Mooresville so I was surprised to see we took Jameson’s Mustang. Usually he never drove the car anywhere longer than a few miles.

  Darlington Raceway was a 1.36 mile, egg shaped, asphalt track. It’s also known at the Lady in Black or The Track Too Tough to Tame. It’s tricky because both ends of the track are different configurations.

  The race was on Saturday night, which meant the first practice session would be on Wednesday. Jameson’s week was full of sponsorship commitments, doctor appointments, and other various media conferences aside from Friday night.

  While Alley went over Jameson’s schedule with him, the Lucifer twins were trying to convince Andrea and Charlie to take them to some water park they found on Google but Charlie was having no part of it.

  “I don’t think so. You go ahead. I’d rather not be shot out of a tube into a pool full of urine.” He took a drink of his orange juice. “That doesn’t sound like fun to me.”

  Watching the interaction between Jameson and Alley, it was more evident Jameson was distracted.

  He was starting to worry me. He kept acting as though he wanted or was trying to tell me something but never did. Maybe the timing was off or maybe he just didn’t know how to say it.

  I’ve never understood why people don’t just say what they felt. Not that I’m some sort of expert in this. Jameson and I were a perfect example of how I wasn’t an example.

  I think it’s because we’re afraid. I knew the fear well, the feeling, and the gnawing stress as I’d been faced with it many times dealing with Jameson and it never got me anywhere.

  Many of us, including me, put things off because we fear what will happen when we make that decision. Then what? Was it the right one? Can we take it back if the outcome isn’t what we envisioned?

  It may be the fear that’s overpowering your admittance. Rejection, pain, failure, love, it’s all playing a part in the indecisiveness. There’s that gnawing anxiety again.

  For me, I don’t regret anything. I think you have to see for yourself and play the hand you are dealt.

  Grandpa Casten once told me and I remember Jameson quoting this the night he first said I love you. “Remember what you’re giving up because you never know what you’re getting.”

  The conversation originally took place while arguing with Jameson about who got the last Dr. Pepper when we were twelve but I still remember the phrase Casten used to shut us up. It meant nothing to us at twelve but now, it packed a punch.

  I believe we need to make those mistakes in order to learn our own lessons. How else would we learn if not by mistake?

  Just like a child that slams his finger in the door. He doesn’t do it again, unless of course he’s Tommy and does this weekly, because he does.

  When you think about it, a child, other than Tommy, doesn’t know that it hurts to slam your finger in a door until he does it. We don’t know anything is wrong until we have done it once and the outcome wasn’t ideal. Then we have something to go on.

  I’ll be honest with you, it bothered me that my parents kept their illnesses from me but I also understood at the time of mother’s onset of breast cancer, I was young and wouldn’t have understood anyways. You couldn’t expect a 6-year old to understand that.

  With Charlie, I think he kept it from me because as I said, fear of the unknown. He feared my reaction or maybe the lack of reaction and instead the withdrawal.

  There were many times throughout my life that I wish I had my mother around. Like when my first boyfriend, Adam, broke up with me in the third grade because I wouldn’t share my pudding cup with him. I cried for a week and almost sent poor Charlie off the deep end. By the way, I still don’t share pudding cups. Thankfully, Jameson has never asked because yes, I’d have to say no.

  I knew there would be times in my life where I wanted Charlie around; the birth of my child or for him to walk me down the aisle. Despite my wants, I wasn’t so sure Charlie would be around for them. What I focused on though was what I could control, not what I couldn’t, as it was out of my hands.

  Just like a car that was loose, you try to control it more than it wants to be controlled and you’ll end up in the wall. You have to find a balance between what is and what isn’t.

  Now, if only Jameson would tell me what was bothering him.

  Every time I asked, he gave me a pensive shrug dismissing my attempts.

  I don’t know how the media got wind of me being pregnant, but the questions to Jameson and me were relentless in Darlington. It might be that I was now sporting a noticeable baby bump, which I tried to hide.

  My attempts to hide came to an abrupt halt when Spencer, Aiden and I were standing around the garage area and Jameson was on the track for his second practice session Thursday morning.

  Ashley, the whore FOX Sports reporter, made her way over to me. I didn’t care for Ashley Conner. Mostly because she slept with Jameson a few years back and I just didn’t like her.

  “Look at you!” her eyes gave me that gauging once over. “Looks like someone should to cut back on the carbs,” she snarked smiling toward Spencer and Aiden.

  If I didn’t think it’d hurt the baby, I would have pummeled her miniature ass right then. My mind shifted imagining a time when Jameson and her were together in ways we were.

  I almost puked all over her when I thought about Jameson having sex with her.

  “She’s not fat, she’s pr—” I cut Spencer off.

  To prevent being exposed, I reached around in my purse and threw the first thing I could at Spencer’s head to just shut him the fuck up.

  Ashley gasped rather loudly when she looked at what I’d thrown.

  What did I grab from my bag?

  My pregnancy book, with my ultrasound picture taped to the outside. It landed with a thud next to Spencer’s feet. He rubbed the spot on his forehead where the book hit. Four sets of eyes examined it closely.

  By doing this, I just inadvertently told the entire world I was knocked up, with Jameson Riley’s baby.

  Did I say anything in that moment to redeem myself?

  No, instead I took the book from Aiden, who was holding it out with a smirk of amusement, and replied with, “I’m really hoping it has Jameson’s hair.”

  Ashley turned toward me. “Don’t expect him to marry you now.” Her eyes did that gauging-judging-glance again as though she was now imagining what I did with her and Jameson just moments ago. “Jameson will never be faithful to one woman,”

  Again, if I didn’t think it would have harmed my baby, I would have pummeled her.

  Later that afternoon, a portion of my dignity had returned and then left as quickly as it came.

  There we were relaxing and eating ice cream in the motor coach, Jameson, his attention balanced between the television and laptop, he mindlessly flipped through the channels pausing on FOX Sports.

  Distracted, his attention flickered from the points standings to the flat screen television in the corner when they told on me.

  “It appears NASCAR’s Rowdy Riley will be dealing with his own little hothead come March. His girlfriend, Sway Reins, General Manager of Grays Harbor Raceway in Elma Washington, confirmed this afternoon that she is expecting.”

  They then showed the clip of me chucking the book at Spencer and my reply.

  I should have known it was being recorded.

  Jameson glanced from me to the television, to the laptop, and then back again. His eyebrows pulled together in confusion and then arched giving me that what-the-hell-where-you-thinking look.

  “Did you...say that?”

  I shrugged and continued to eat my Chunky Monkey ice cream not letting on to my lack of judgment earlier in the day.

  “Oh this I wanna hear.” His grin wide
ned. “Come on honey. Don’t hold out on me now.”

  After the media shenanigans, I decided shrugging was safer than speaking. I should have had that revelation earlier today. It would have saved me a lot of grief and embarrassment.

  Jameson laughed throwing his arm around me. “I had bets it’d be Spencer that told the media—not you. I just lost two hundred dollars to Alley.”

  8. Shut Down – Sway

  Shut Down – Turning the engine off to avoid mechanical damage. Drivers will shut down the engine to avoid more severe and expensive consequences when an engine is vibrating.

  After qualifying Friday morning, the night was open. Knowing he needed a break from everything surrounding us, Jameson decided it was time he hit the dirt.

  There was something about those cars where when he was in them, nothing else mattered. It was just him, the rumble and eight hundred horsepower in his hands.

  Justin had called on Thursday letting him know he was heading out to race sprint cars at Summerville Speedway, a 4/10 clay dirt track about two hours south of Darlington.

  Around one that afternoon, and after a stop at the local Ford dealer, we found ourselves cruising down Interstate 95 toward Summerville where sweet tea and sunscreen held memories for me.

  For one night, it would be nice to get away from the politics and go back to why Jameson loved racing in the first place—why any of us loved racing. It was for the excitement, the thrill and draws it held.

  Summerville South Carolina, in my mind, might just be the hottest place in the south. Today was no different. And did I mention Jameson’s Mustang didn’t have air conditioning? Well, it didn’t.

  Not only that, but I was pregnant and heat seemed to be something I was producing now. I felt like I was a heater. So you add that, the blistering haze outside, no air conditioning and Jameson touching me too much and I wasn’t real happy by the time we made it to this sauna they called Summerville South Carolina. Oh, and the humidity today was something like 100%.

  Stepping from the car, the heat felt like an inferno. In a state full of mountains, swamps and beaches, all I saw here was heat and clay.

  “At least it doesn’t smell like cow shit.”

  I sniffed and nearly threw up. “And a paper mill is better?”

  “It’s not shit.”

  He had a point. I looked around, reminded of the way it was out here. Just like an old worn country road and overgrown wheat fields, the town was homegrown.

  Lathering myself in ungodly amounts of sunscreen, Jameson reached behind the seat for his bag that held his Simplex driving suit, a few spare t-shirts, his black Puma racing shoes he couldn’t race without, and his helmet.

  His eyes lit up when Justin and Tommy approached. Laughter on the other side of the haulers drew my attention toward a group of girls.

  Pit lizards. They had them here too.

  With a quick kiss, Jameson left me alone and headed toward the registration booth with Justin and Tommy.

  An hour passed as the boys setting up the cars and after a few hot laps I found myself in the pit bleachers waiting for Jameson’s heat race.

  Tommy dropped down beside me. His greeting, “What’s up fat girl?”

  “Nice...” my leg mindlessly kicked his shin. “I see your hair is just as bright as the last time I saw you.”

  “Yeah, well.” He leaned back resting his elbows on the bench behind us before stretching his legs out in front, his boots coated with the thick red clay from the south. “Melanie doesn’t seem to mind my hair.”

  “Oh yeah?” I grinned seeing my opportunity to make fun of him too. “Still seeing pussycat doll, eh? What is that, some kind of dating record for you?”

  His orange eyebrows raised and his forehead resembled a shar pei puppy with wrinkles, “Pussycat doll?”

  “Never mind,”

  “Actually, I only spent one night with her.” Tommy confessed. “It’s not like I’m in Pocono all that often.”

  “Yeah, this lifestyle doesn’t lend well to relationships, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Tommy laughed bringing his water to his mouth. “But I’m not looking for one. I like this, helping Jameson.”

  “He appreciates it.”

  Our attention drifted to the track when the cars roared past for the start of their ten-lap heat. Jameson started in the rear with the inversion, quickly picking off the first two cars by the third lap.

  Tommy sighed. “I can’t believe he can race stock cars the way he does and then come out here and do this like he never left dirt.” His water bottle tipped toward Jameson who broad-sliding past Cody Bowman for second. The cloud of dirt created by the cars shifted our direction along with the breeze of methanol.

  With the amount of sunscreen and sweat on my body, the dirt clung to me like I was one of those lint rollers.

  “So...” Tommy smiled toward me when they threw the checkered flag. Jameson had won his heat with Justin finishing second followed by Tyler and a few local guys. “He knocked you up huh?”

  I shook my head as I stood attempting to rub some of the dirt from my black tank top and jean shorts. “You’re so subtle.”

  Jameson stopped his sprint car in front of the flag stand. The engine ran lean as he ran it out of gas to turn the engine off. Winged spring cars were completely different from a stock car. The biggest difference is their direct drive.

  You don’t just start a sprint car by turning a key. They’re push started to turn the engine over.

  The process, once the driver was inside the tiny cockpit, was simple but complicated to someone who has never been inside one. First, he places the engine in gear with direct cable link called the coupler to the rear end that engages the gear. Then he turns on the fuel, a switch usually located near the steering wheel and he’s pushed off by a push truck. With their high compression ratios, it takes a good push to get the rear tires turning. Being direct driver, once all four wheels are turning the engine can turn over. Once the oil pressure was around 80psi, the driver fires the engine.

  When they shut them off, they take it out of gear and turn the fuel valve off. As the engine runs out of fuel it will run lean causing the revolutions to build before the engine is switched off.

  That was the sound Jameson’s sprint car was making right then.

  I’d always been partial to it as it was a thunderous throaty sound. I’m sure you can appreciate my love for it once you’ve heard it. It’s unlike any other sound. Just the same as a sprint car, there was nothing else like those fire-breathing, high power-to-weight rockets. I think that’s why Jameson enjoyed them so much. They were different; just like him.

  The crowed, some five thousand fans, roared to life when they spotted Jameson approaching the grass in front of the stands. He stood there for a moment, smiling at the announcer who climbed down from his tower to interview Jameson.

  Tommy and I laughed. The women in attendance made their way front and center. Jameson, being the humble version of himself he was around his fans, smiled and waved to them.

  “Do you recognize this kid?” the track announcer spouted off enticing the crowd further. “He’s a super star these days!”

  Jameson shook his head and pulled the microphone to his lips. “I think you have me confused with someone else. You guys can’t possibly be this excited to see a kid from Elma Washington.”

  That did it. It now sounded like a rock concert.

  Most thought that a sprint car racer would be from the Midwest but no, the Riley family was raised in the Northwest. Sure they spent a lot of time traveling but Jimi and Nancy did that by design. They wanted their kids to grow up in a small town.

  Tommy and I got another good chuckle. Back in the day when he used to race here, he got cheers but nothing like this.

  Jameson’s arms hung loosely on his hips as he watched the crowd with curiosity and amusement to their reactions to him; a small town boy made out to be some sort of mythical creature. You could see the sweat pouring from him in his
dark racing suit, the top half-pulled down around his waist.

  “So Jameson Riley...” the crowd screamed again. “You made it out to old Summerville. Is this heat from you?” the announcer taunted the crowd further.

  “Nah,” Jameson smiled toward a group of girls. He knew how to work them when needed. Shit, look at me all knocked up and sweaty. I was proof of that. “It must be the...” he eyed the girls again. “...the homegrown.”

  They went into an absolute frenzy. Like I said, he could work it when needed and I knew that was all he was doing. He meant nothing by the gesture.

  “How are you feeling after that wreck in Pocono?”

  “I feel great.” He wasn’t about to tell him that his wrist aches at night or he can hardly catch his breath from the lung injury, or that he had double vision at times which he refused to tell the doctors or NASCAR about but he was feeling good because he was back.

  We could hardly hear what they were saying with the women surrounding him so we made our way back over to the sprint car hauler. Justin and Tyler huddled around their cars scraping clay and laughing.

  Justin’s girlfriend, Ami, smiled toward me. “How are you feeling?”

  Kicking a few rocks free from my shoes I was forced to wear in the pits, I answered with my usual smile when I thought about the life between Jameson and I growing inside me. “Good.”

  “Morning sickness yet?”

  “Oh yeah, nearly every morning, afternoon and night,”

  Tommy nudged the small amount of cushion that had grown on my sides these past few weeks. “It looks like you’ve been makin’ up for it though.”

  “Ignore him,” Ami kicked Tommy in the ass. He jerked back to dodge her, his feet skidding along with the layer of dirt inside the hauler. “You look beautiful.”

  Ami Lewis was about as sweet as the tea in these parts. With her golden blonde hair, usually in wavy layers, and her eyes were as bright as her personality. I adored her not only because she reminded me of one real full-grown Gerber baby, but she wasn’t in it for the fame with Justin.