Dry Slick – This is a term given to a dirt track when all the moisture is gone, and the track has dried out, creating a condition where the cars are loose. Drivers will describe the sensation as driving on ice.

 

“I want to be a pit lizard.”

“No, Dad, you’ve got that term confused.” My attention drifted back to the track as we watched qualifying for the truck race on Thursday afternoon.

“I don’t? I want to be a groupie and have fun.”

“That’s not a pit lizard. That’s, well, it’s complicated.”

“Well, un-complicate it for me,” he said as he poured whiskey from a flask into his plastic cup of coffee. I had a feeling Grandpa Casten was behind the flask. “What is a pit lizard?”

I explained the difference. He understood, or at least he pretended to, with lots of nodding.

But then he replied, “Well, I’m not that easy, and I won’t follow one of those kids around. But I will follow those Red Bull girls.” He took off in the other direction with whom I never thought I’d see at a NASCAR track, Grandpa Casten.

Right about the time I was going to sneak back to the drivers’ compound and make a sandwich, Spencer rolled up in the golf cart. “Have you seen Jameson?”

I pointed at the track and kept walking. Though the golf carts were nice with how spread out these tracks were, my fat ass needed some exercise.

“Oh, well shit, let’s go squirt.” He motioned with a nod for me to get in with him by patting the seat.

“Where are we going?”

“Food.” Spencer’s eyebrow arched, his blue eyes amused. “Don’t tell me you’re not hungry?”

I couldn’t lie. I was starving.

We planned on grabbing some track food, but when Jameson was done qualifying, Charlie and Grandpa Casten had gotten kicked out of the garage area for wearing sandals and we were all starving. So we left and decided to get dinner in downtown Atlanta.

“Triple header this weekend, Jay?”

Jameson paused by the Expedition when we saw his grandpa smiling at him. “Is Grandpa coming?”

“Yeah, why?” I pushed him forward by kicking his ass with my knee. “Let’s go, I’m hungry!”

“I’m not going if he’s going,” was his immediate response.

“Hey, jerk, I’m standing here.” Casten kicked his shin.

“Is it too late to ask him not to come?”

“Yep.” Casten clapped his hands together with a smile that I recognized as trouble. “You’re stuck with me kid.”

“Great!” Jameson’s final answer was annoyed.

Grandpa Casten wasn’t exactly the best company in a public restaurant, but I was willing to risk it for food at that point. It wasn’t hard to get Jameson in the car once I told him I’d offer a little micro-polishing once back at the track. 

I had a feeling that, after lunch with his grandpa, and on a triple-header weekend, he was going to keep me to my promises.

 

Sway and I didn’t have time to celebrate our proposal, nor did I have much time to focus on anything other than racing the following weekend in Richmond.

Richmond International Raceway was a ¾-mile D-shaped track located in Henrico County, Virginia.

I decided I needed more seat time to get back in the groove of racing, or maybe it was to take my mind off everything. Regardless of the reasoning, I took Tate up on his offer to race his truck in the NASCAR Craftsman truck series on Thursday night, and his Busch car on Friday, followed by the usual cup race on Sunday. I barely had time to breathe.

That weekend was the first time I’d raced a truck, though. They were extremely different from the stock cars in their weight, body style, and horsepower. They weighed 3400 pounds, without driver and fuel, had four-speed manual transmissions, and around 650 to 700 horsepower.

I would probably be begging Tate to get in it again; I had a blast in it.

The only problem I had with the triple header, besides the obvious lack of time with my new fiancée and lack of sleep, was not being around my usual team.

Tate already had a crew for both teams so I was basically a driver for hire. Aiden spotted for me, though. I didn’t know Chris Leddy well enough to trust him when he said, “All clear.”

Every time I turned around that weekend, I was inside a car. For a guy like me, that was awesome, but it was draining, as well.

The truck race went well, and I was impressed to see I finished third.

Then came the Busch race, and it went all right, too, with a second place finish.

But when Sunday rolled around, the shit hit the fan again.

“Caution’s out,” Aiden announced about a hundred laps into the Chevy Rock & Roll 400.

The sun had finally set, leaving the track lit by lights. It was the second night race in the last two weeks, and tempers were flaring. And I wasn’t the only one amped up tonight.

Tate and Andy, two teammates, were battling for the lead when Andy pushed up the track on him. It sent Tate into the wall coming into four. He wasn’t happy, and made that known, which brought out this last caution.

“What changes do you want?” Kyle asked.

I thought for a moment. We qualified eighth for the race, and we were currently running fifth, but something seemed to be missing.

“I’ve got good grip, but it’s loose in three and four at times.”

We ended up taking four tires, a wedge adjustment, and changed the splitter.

“Watch that hose!” Masen called out, gesturing to Ethan in front of the car trying to catch the tire that rolled from Brady Hewbert, our front tire changer.

Brady slipped on the hose and then yanked it backward, slapping the official in our pit with it.

“Shit,” Kyle barked, tossing the clipboard. “Pay attention!” he yelled toward the crew and then gave me the go-ahead.

I battled for position off pit road with Steve Vander and Bobby.

“Come back in,” Kyle told me as the pace car led us down the backstretch. “They called a stop and go on us.”

They nailed us not only for the hose, but a tire violation, too, after Brady rolled the right front to the wall instead of carrying it. That sent us to the rear on the re-start.

Fucking rules.

“Jesus, we can’t catch a break,” was all I said in relation to the call.

I’m sure Kyle didn’t need me adding to the noise already going on between him, Mason, and my dad.

Clearly bothered by the calls being made from our pit, it seemed we could do nothing right after that, and every stop ended with some problem. Lug nuts weren’t tight, too many guys over the wall, another tire slipped away, over the line on the pit box.

All stupid shit, but we were still doing it.

We got to the point where wrecking seemed to be the only mishap that hadn’t happened.

Cautions remained scarce after that as the laps wound down, and it seemed third was the best we were gonna get after the pit road penalty. We were lucky that we got our lap back.

Bobby, who was leading, slipped up the track in three with four laps to go, and I saw my chance with Andy in second, who seemed to back off Bobby at that point.

After bottom feeding most of the night, I went high in turn four and one, but he shot right back up top taking the line.

Fighting for second looked good when I got a nose under Andy Crocket coming to the white flag. We remained door-to-door, Aiden yelling, “At your door, still there, still there,” every so often. All the way around we remained that way, slapping against each other through the final corner. Andy momentarily got out of shape, allowing me to take the position at the line.

After everything, it was good to end out the night with a good finish, but still, those pit stops were pissing me off, and what should have been a good day was overshadowed by shitty calls.

To understand how it felt after a race, imagine speeding all day, fighting traffic with drivers who wanted nothing more than to shove you into the wall. Calculating strategy. Getting on and off a narrow lane with forty-two other drivers in temperatures that are usually only reached in a fucking sauna. Then, when you get out, people are in your face asking what happened, how you felt, and what your car was doing.

Now, could you blame the reactions some of us have?

Yeah, we had bad days, bad races, and bad fucking weeks. We didn’t always reply the way they wanted us to.

A handful of reporters were in my face when I pulled down onto pit road along with that official who called all those penalties on us.

“It’s not personal, kid,” was his response to me.

Not personal?

There’s nothing more to this than it’s me. It was our sweat and hard work. So for someone to say to me, or anyone else on our team, “It’s not personal,” was a slap in our faces.

“Fuck you, it’s not personal.” I told him, shifting my stance away from the reporters.

I didn’t know this official, and already we weren’t starting off on a good note.

Alley stepped in between us as Sway walked over. “NASCAR wants to see you. Now.”

One good thing about this was I could get out of some of the interviews and hopefully get out of any compromising words. Sway followed close behind, I assumed, to keep me in control.

“You’re acting like a child!” was one brave reporter’s response when I denied his interview.

Was I acting like child?

No, I didn’t think so. They didn’t understand any of this if they thought that.

You know, sometimes I wanted to take their hands and place the truth in it. I wanted to give them everything I had. Sometimes, I wanted to act like they treated me and show them how childish I could be. I wanted to give them the weight of everything and let them be the goddamn judge of this shit.

Sometimes I wanted to vent, scream, and give it all away. Here, you take my talent. Take my life you felt the need to criticize every moment of the day. Take everything I have and you deal with the shit. You see what you can make of it since you seemed to think I’m doing so badly.

I wanted them to feel the pressure, the inadequateness, the letdown, all of it. Fucking take it all.

When the local track media asked about the fine and what my thoughts were on the official who fined us, I gave them my thoughts.

When the reporter kept up his chirping, I replied, “You really think I give a goddamn what you think of me?”

“I’ll wait here with Sway.” Alley nodded to the big red hauler. “Jimi’s waiting back at the hauler for you, too, and then you have the contenders’ conference.”

Sway kissed my cheek and offered a reassuring smile. She knew me and understood exactly how much I was bothered by all this.

The NASCAR hauler was the least of my worries after the comment I made to the reporter. In a matter of fifteen minutes, my phrase of “You really think I give a goddamn what you think of me?” was being replayed, with bleeps, on every sports broadcasting station.

My worst fear, my dad.

“Don’t do anything stupid today,” he said to me after our team meeting.

Looking back on that comment, I was sure that didn’t include this. I was positive it didn’t, and he’d see my side.

Turns out, I was wrong. Who knew?

Kyle displayed a grim expression, standing outside the hauler when I returned from the meeting with Gordon a few thousand dollars poorer, due to fines for my language and behavior toward the official.

“Your dad is gonna have your ass and a few choice words.”

My mood hadn’t improved, and I replied, “Fuck you. How’s that for choice words?”

“Always a pleasure,” he chortled, walking out.

I thought Jimi would storm in screaming and blowing a gasket; but no, he said, “Do you want this? I’m not going to keep fighting this battle if I don’t think you’re in it, too?”

“I want what I’ve always wanted.”

And that was all we said to each other.

It was times like this where I missed the days when nothing mattered but the next checkered flag. Now, well, it wasn’t so easy. Every decision held implications.

 

With Jameson, the possibility of verbal shrapnel wasn’t his concern. Racing was his concern. That was the only way I could describe that race in Atlanta.

Once again, I must have bitten off most of my nails waiting for him to come out of the NASCAR hauler.

My pit lizard dad, who’d been kicked out of the garage and then media center, strolled by with his partner-in-crime, Grandpa Casten. They didn’t pay much attention to Alley and me because they were focused on the beer garden.

“What’s with those two?” Alley asked, leaning against the side of the golf cart Kyle pulled up in.

“Charlie wanted to be a pit lizard.” She arched an eyebrow and smiled. “Don’t ask.”

Before I could explain, Jameson came out and tipped his head for us to get inside the golf cart. On the way to the media center for the contenders’ conference, he said nothing until we got out.

Standing outside the large sliding doors, Jameson gathered my hands bringing them to his lips. “Let’s hope I make it out of here alive.”

The adrenaline, the emotion, and the disappointment were hard to control at times. Jameson knew that well. I only wished the media saw that, too.

They asked their standard questions, how the car ran, how the drivers felt about their finishes, everything they usually asked in the post-race press conference of the top three drivers. Then they opened the questions to the other reporters.

That was when the conversations shifted to the fines and Jameson’s remarks to the official and reporter who got in his face. Gordon, the Director of Competition smiled when he sensed the turn. It seemed Gordon had as much hate for Jameson these days as Jameson had for him and enjoyed the feuds, usually fueling them.

No doubt, he was behind the officials’ calls today on pit road.

The silence lengthened as Jameson shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. Oblivious and unforgiving, these people surrounding us were seeing what they wanted to see; a beleaguered rookie’s temper tantrums.

Jameson remained steady. A faraway look angled his features. He didn’t offer the media much information, but he spoke with passion of a sport that consumed his every thought. “I don’t race because it’s my job. I race because it’s my life. So, yeah, I take these fines seriously, and when someone makes a whim call on pit road that can ruin our day out there, yeah, I take that personally.”

“Daddy gonna bail you out of this one, too?” the same reporter who called him a child asked.

The crowd in attendance, including Alley and me, froze and stared at the audacity of the reporter.

Jimi, who was standing next to Tracy Burke, another cup team owner, who’d taken Riley Racing under his wing lately, shook his head in disbelief. His gaze darkened toward the reporter.

Jameson leaned forward, and giving the reporter a hard glance, his brow pulled together. “What was that?”

He followed up this I’m-a-complete-douche-move by saying, “Well... I... uh,” when he removed his foot from his mouth.

Jameson said nothing more, but angled his gaze at the door. The reporter knew he’d crossed the line.

Jameson hadn’t lost that spark of defiance that made him Rowdy Riley, the embodiment of relaxed and aloofness. His eyes gave him away, though.

There was a thin line of what was and wasn’t. Jameson understood that well in this sport, and building a wall around him was the only way he knew how.

Sure, some wanted to understand him, but others only wanted to destroy.

His gaze was long and hard, and even though I wanted to look away, I couldn’t, as I was only focused on this boy fighting for his name in the record books.

The questions shifted back to Jameson saying this was personal.

“So when you shoved the reporter, was that personal? Or when you revved your car attempting to hit the official, was that personal, too?”

Jameson’s expression showed his frustration. “You’re twisting this. I was merely making a statement,” he responded, refusing to make eye contact with them.

“Thank God this is almost over.” Alley sighed, looking over at Jameson as he shook his head again, hiding behind the grass green I knew was raging inside.

 

Soon we were back inside the motor coach getting ready to leave for Mooresville. Jameson stared at the wall regarding the TV, but believing nothing they said as he listened to SPEED news.

And though they had their own theories on his behavior lately, there was one aspect of this they never considered. Jameson would fight them on it until he had nothing left to prove his point. He would never stop—not when he believed in his side of the story. He was like a fire in the rain, refusing to go out.

Jimi saw it, staring at his son now. I’m not sure why, but Jameson always felt the need to carry the burden of the team on his shoulders.

When we left, the official was waiting to apologize to Jameson but, then again, you only got one chance with Jameson.

If you blew it, you better beg because that was your only hope.

“I wasn’t trying to ruin your night. But your crew needs to be more careful about those hoses. That’s the second time this year I got smacked with one.”

“Then move out of the way,” Jameson replied, tossing his bags inside the Expedition that was set to take us to the airport.

I stood beside him, watching their interaction, wishing I wasn’t alone with him. But I think that was the only reason why the official decided to try and make amends with him. If he was around his crew, it might not be so easy.

The official seemed to know he was crossing lines when Jameson stepped toward him. “You don’t know how your calls can ruin this for us. If you’re having a bad night and take it out on us, we suffer, not you. We got fined fifteen thousand this weekend for that shit on pit road.”

“Like I said, I was upset.”

Jameson’s smile was bitter, his jaw clenched as he ripped his eyes from the official. “You were upset,” he repeated, spitting the words. “You fucking son of a bitch!” His knuckles connected with the side of the Expedition, his anger flaring waiting to destroy everything he was working so hard for this season.

The official held his hands up. “I don’t want no beef with you and your team, Riley.”

This guy really wasn’t getting anywhere with this.

“Let’s go,” I interrupted, pushing Jameson toward the front door of the car. “I think we should go. And you, Duane, should leave before you make this worse.”

Thankfully, Duane, the official, listened to me, and I got Jameson inside the car before he smacked the guy.

I can’t say it was right of him to act this way, but I would never try to fix him. I fell in love with all sides so it’s all the same. The fury of his anger was festering, and I had a feeling this sport was about to see just how rowdy he could get.

The media mercilessly exaggerated his faults to the point where the public had this image that wasn’t even close to the man behind the wheel. Harboring weakness and displaying his violent temper tantrums was their goal, and Jameson knew that.

Instead, he was closed off, and his regard for them was pure aggravation.

In many ways, Jameson was a victim, being destroyed by the very people who worshipped him.