Riding a wheel – This refers to wheel-to-wheel action in sprint car racing, usually disastrous when contact is made with another car.
Even though I was a racer and garnered respect from the other drivers at the track. Off the track, I was a normal teenager who, for the most part, thought of ways to get into trouble, hated getting up early and, of course, was infatuated with girls.
Being fourteen, I was hormone challenged as I called it. I had wants and as a teenager, those wants were hormone driven. Being someone who needed to be in control, I was not in control of my hormones so, as you can expect, I did not deal with that as well as I’d hoped for.
Most of the time I was able to push the thoughts aside and focus on the bigger picture: racing. It didn’t stop the occasional fantasy of my best friend and me.
All that aside, I had a mission. I was determined to be the best racer I could be and was putting everything I had into accomplishing that.
The USAC Midget series opened in March of ‘95 in Chico, California. Racing was in full swing come April while I ran two USAC races a month and the weekly midget and sprint races at Elma. I had to be sixteen to compete in the USAC Silver Crown and sprint divisions so this left me racing only at Elma in a winged 360-sprint car.
I ended up catching a few outlaw late model races here and there when a car was available but I mainly stayed in the open wheeled cars.
Remaining focused, I learned everything I could from my dad. We spent many nights together going over set-ups and strategy. He constantly asked me, “Is this what you want?”
Without a fraction of a doubt, it was what I wanted. I never had to think about it.
I understood why he asked though as he had lived this lifestyle his entire life, like me. He began racing at a young age, like me. But, unlike me, he didn’t have the financial support from his dad. Sure, grandpa was financially stable now being a lead manufacturer of sprint car engines. Back in the sixties and early seventies, that wasn’t the case.
I had an endless supply of cars, parts and resources readily available when needed but that wasn’t what I valued. What I cherished most was the time spent learning from him as well as reaping the wisdom of the sport that I loved so much.
To this day, I still remember the first sanctioned race I ran with my dad.
It was May 13, 1995.
He was racing in the World of Outlaws race at Bloomington Speedway in Indiana. I tagged along with the intention of watching and gaining pointers.
Sway came with us, as did my buddy Tommy, and older brother Spencer.
I only intended to just watch, but my dad had other plans.
When we pulled into the pit gate, he stopped at the credentials desk as he usually would.
“Hey, Natalie, how are you?” Dad asked handing his credentials to her. He scribbled his signature over the insurance and release forms before looking back at me in the back seat. “You need to sign this, kid.” He pushed the clipboard at me.
I’m sure the surprised look on my face had something to do with Sway’s sudden outburst of giggles beside me.
“I thought I was watching?” I asked hesitantly. I’ve raced sprint cars before but I had never been in a 410-sprint car.
The World of Outlaws ran 410ci engines in them as opposed to the 360ci engines ran on the Northern Sprint Tour, USAC sprint cars and local tracks.
He thought I was ready.
“If you don’t think you can handle it...” his voice trailed off when I glared.
Suddenly, I was nervous but I wasn’t about to show it.
“I can handle it.”
He laughed, as did everyone else in the truck. I signed the release forms and the liability insurance as well.
When we pulled up to the hauler, Sway reached for my arm before we got out.
I smiled looking over my left shoulder at her. “What’s up?”
“Are you okay?” she returned the smile.
She was always checking on me. She also knew that if there was ever anyone I would admit that to, it was her.
“Yeah,” I nodded.
I was more than okay. Sure, I was a little nervous but I was also humming with excitement at the chance to be behind the wheel of a 410-sprint car with my dad out there with me.
Dad and I had raced together at Elma messing around and on the track out back but never in a sanctioned race before. This was a points race for him and now his son would be out there with him.
I watched him squeeze into the cockpit of his double zero red sprint car, chuckling to myself that my six-foot-three dad was able to fit into these cars. Dad was burly and Spencer seemed to take after him in size. They could both be linebackers for the Pittsburgh Steelers.
Sway and I made our way over to the hauler where I got in my racing suit to take a few hot laps to get the feel of the car. I took four laps to get a feel for it.
The first lap, I took it easy and cruised around. As I came into turn three on my second lap, I threw it hard—sliding with ease through the ruts, feathering the throttle for control. Pushing the car hard through the corners, I ran the high line that I felt comfortable with.
I knew the difference between the cars immediately. They were faster for one, but the extra horsepower pulling me through the tacky clay was nice. Where the 360 sprints tended to get bogged down on the tacky tracks if you didn’t adjust your timing, the 410 glided.
After my few hot laps, I looped back around into the pits to find Sway and Tommy grinning ear to ear.
“What?” I grinned back at them trying to contain my excitement. Useless.
They both laughed.
Before long, time trials were underway. I ended up qualifying for the A-feature behind my dad in the second row. For being my first time in a 410, I was content with that starting position.
This particular race, being a World of Outlaws event was a different format than USAC and the Northern Sprint Tours.
When the World of Outlaws lined up, they lined up four-wide and made a complete lap that way which was called the 4-wide salute to the fans.
I’d see it done many times by my dad and other drivers, but to do it myself, with my dad beside me, was tear worthy.
Here was the man I looked up to my entire life, racing beside me. I had no words for how I felt other than emotional.
Dad revved his engine beside me, jolting him forward a few feet. I did the same as did Bucky and Shey who were beside us.
When the race started, I held back for a few laps, watching my dad make his way to the lead position. I slid past Shey Evans with ease, and knocked off Bucky in the next turn. This left me right behind my dad coming out of turn two.
I think he wanted me to catch him; at least that was my theory. So, when he came out of three and went low, I saw my chance.
He knew it and I knew it.
I threw my car hard like I always did when he shot up and pushed against me, I knew he wouldn’t give the position easily. That wasn’t his style.
When you passed Jimi, you earned it. He could block with the best of them and could slip into a position faster than any other driver, making room where there wasn’t. Other drivers called him “Shimmy Jimi” because one minute there wasn’t room and then there he was in front of you.
The only problem with racing against your dad is that he knows what you do to outsmart the other driver. I also knew what he would do though, I knew where he was strong and I knew where he struggled. Turn four in Bloomington was his weak spot. While he ran high in three, he would swoop down low into four and ride the rail. Then he’d shoot up the track on the front stretch and nearly brush the wall with his right rear before hurling the car sideways high into one and two.
I watched him for about four laps before I decided to make my move. Yet another trait I learned from him over the years: patience in racing is your virtue.
When he guided the car low in four, on impulse, I went high letting my right rear bounce off the cushion. This gave me the extra boost needed to slingshot past him coming out of four.
I knew I wouldn’t pull a slide job on my dad without him coming back for more.
I was schooled.
He shot back down on the inside and slipped past me going into one. This went on for about ten laps, every time I slid past him, he came right back, when the caution came out for a car that flipped on the front stretch.
This left two laps to go when the green dropped. With Bucky and Shey back in the mix, the greatest drivers in sprint car racing surrounded me.
Taking a deep breath, I told myself this was time to make my move.
Don’t second-guess yourself.
When the green dropped, I came off turn four strong and went high into one and two. Dad didn’t get as good of a jump on the restart as I did so this put me in line with him coming into three and four. I went low, he went high and I pushed against him taking his line.
If you could have seen my face under the helmet, you would have seen me grinning ear-to-ear.
I outsmarted the champion.
He didn’t let me go far, he stayed right beside me, taunting me in each turn.
On the last lap, we took three and four again, neck and neck. When we came down the front stretch, my wheels came across the line not more than two inches in from his.
I smiled looking over at him and he raised his arm as much as he could, with the arm straps on, pumping his fist in the air.
I laughed.
Bloomington Speedway was essentially my dad’s home track. He was born in this small mid-west suburb in 1956 and raced here as a kid.
And his kid beat him.
This was pretty fucking cool. Not only would I have some serious bragging rights but I won my first Outlaw race.
Being fourteen, this was the coolest race I’d ever won. I’d won track championships, national and regional championships but to win a World of Outlaws A-Feature event in a 410-sprint car against your legendary father. That was cool.
When we pulled back into the pits, dad was out of his car as quickly as he could, Sway was jumping up and down with Tommy while Spencer offered a head nod, trying to remain cool about it. Being seventeen now, he thought he was a badass but I could see he was proud of me. Returning the head nod, I turned to Sway running to congratulate me.
“You were awesome out there!” she yelled launching herself at me.
“Fuck, yeah!” I screamed pumping my fist in the air when Dad sprayed beer all over us.
He was all smiles.
“Did you let me win?” I asked hesitantly when he pulled me in for a hug.
He pulled back ruffling my beer soaked hair. “Do you honestly think I’d let my overconfident fourteen-year-old son beat me?”
He had a good point.
“No.”
“You earned that one.” His smile said it all. “Remember it.”
And I would remember it. Of all the races I’d ever raced in, all the championships I’d won, that win at that quarter-mile clay track in Bloomington Speedway stands out.
It was the day I grasped the meaning of the bigger picture and what I was capable of.
That was also the night I had my first beer—a well-deserved beer. Underage, yes, but it was a cause for celebration and that we did.
Throwing back beers with my idols was humbling even for a cocky kid like me.
My dad started racing when he was old enough to reach the pedals of his custom mini sprint grandpa designed for him.
My grandpa, Casten Riley, began racing with the moonshiners and rebels of the sport but never had a chance to race in any sanctioned race. When he was twenty-six he wrapped his car around a tree nearly paralyzing him and he never raced again.
Instead, he focused on building sprint cars where his real passion was and, once my dad was born, grandpa had him racing the cars as soon as he could reach the pedals.
Now, CST Engines is one of the leading engine manufacturers in the Midwest for sprint cars.
While Grandpa built the cars from the ground up, dad raced them.
In 1978, he began racing the World of Outlaws series in Knoxville, Ohio. He’d won more championships and races than any other driver in the series.
I was surrounded by renowned greats.
Sitting next to me, Sway smiled while dad and Bucky swapped stories about their early days in the series.
“You’re eating this up, aren’t you?”
I smiled back at her nudging her shoulder with my own. “You have no idea.”
I knew she had an idea of how I felt. She always did.
DURING THE WINTER was the only time of year that our family was together and it was usually only for about two weeks before dad headed off to Tulsa for the Chili Bowl Midget Nationals.
I, for one, was in favor of the off-season that year. I hadn’t realized how unending the season could be until November rolled around.
But just a few weeks into the off-season and I was ready for more. Funny how that worked.
That year I’d raced in nineteen sprint car races, four World of Outlaws feature events, and twenty-three midget races. I also ran the Clay Cup Nationals, Turkey Night, and managed to pull off a track championship at Elma and placed third in the Night Before The 500 at Indianapolis.
I was exhausted.
The winter of ‘95, my parents planned a trip to Jacksonville Beach, Florida, so we spent Thanksgiving there.
Sway usually went on family vacations with us because she was part of the Riley family. Her mother, Rachel, died of breast cancer when Sway was only six and she had no brothers or sisters. Her dad was raising her and managing a track on his own so she needed us.
Between ganging up on Spencer and Emma, my parents had basically told us to get out of the room just a few hours after arriving in Florida. That landed us at the hotel pool.
Wading around, Sway asked, “Do you ever think about what it will be like?”
“What?” My eyes caught a glimpse of girls walking in before I turned to Sway.
“Racing... for a living... do you ever think about it? I mean, you’re good enough. You know that, right?”
“I know and I think about it all the time,” I sighed leaning my chin against the concrete edge of the pool we were swimming in; my fingers traced the cracks watching the water seep into them. “I know I can do it... that’s not a problem but getting everyone, sponsors included, looking at me as Jameson Riley and not Jimi Riley’s son is what’s hard. Every track they constantly compare me to him. You saw how hard it was for me at the Dirt Cup this year.”
Once a year, Skagit Speedway held the Dirt Cup. It wasn’t a point race but a play date but a chance to prove what you had.
I did.
I won the 360-sprint division and the midget main events. After the race, another racer who was on the same circuit as my dad approached me.
It wasn’t unusual for the Outlaw or NASCAR drivers to hang around these events. This year they had Dad, Bucky Miers, Skip Miller, Shey Evans, and Langley O’Neil from the Outlaw division. NASCAR rookie Tate Harris showed up along with Doug Dunham and Austin Yale; all great drivers.
I’d met Skip Miller once, with my dad, before at a race in Eldora, but I had yet to speak to him. I wasn’t impressed once I did.
The conversation started fairly well with him congratulating me and, like always, I appreciated the praise from the drivers I looked up to but Skip had a different approach when he said, “I don’t know that you’ll ever live up to Jimi but you did good.”
I wanted to say, “Hey, thanks asshole,” but I wasn’t raised that way and dad would beat my ass if I disrespected a veteran driver. And, one thing was certain, you don’t piss off Jimi Riley.
The entire night was filled with comments like, “Hey, there’s Jimi’s son,” or “Did you see Jimi Riley’s kid in the last heat?” I wanted to say, “I have a name you know.”
I moved from my place against the side of the pool, kicking my legs out when I kicked Sway by accident and, like I expected, she smacked me.
“Is that such a bad thing?” she asked pushing her hair out of her face. She swam closer resting against the same ledge where I was.
“No... dad is an amazing racer... but I don’t want to try to live up to him. He’s a legend in sprint car racing. He’s won more races than any other driver has on the circuit and won more championships than most people can ever dream about. It’s not about being better than him, it’s about making my own name.”
“That’s understandable.”
I glanced over at her. “It doesn’t sound dumb?”
“No,” she ran her fingers along the dark grouted line in the tile. “I don’t think it sounds dumb. Jimi is good but so are you. It’s natural to want to be your own person.”
I knew how good my dad was.
I came from a long line of racing blood so it was believed that Spencer and I would want to race. It was never expected.
When I took to it, I saw the excitement in their eyes, especially since grandpa’s career had ended so suddenly.
As I said, it was never expected I would race so when I decided that was what I wanted, they were pleased. In turn, I wanted to please them and be the best I could but I also wanted to have my own name in racing history. I didn’t want to be another Riley in racing. I wanted to be Jameson Riley.
I had been on a number of vacations with the Riley family and they all include the same series of events: Emma packs way too much. Spencer fucks with everyone. And Jameson pouted because he wasn’t racing and tried to find a racetrack. And at some point, I would usually end up sneaking alcohol to keep from going crazy.
At some point, Jameson and I would stay up eating Oreo cookies, our drug of choice, until three in the morning.
I’ve always welcomed the time spent with the Riley family if not for the entertainment value but for the chance to drink. I was only fifteen and drinking was unacceptable but it was something I enjoyed.
Who wouldn’t?
I never went for the hard stuff, just beer. This somehow made me feel better about the choice.
“Jesus, Sway,” Emma balked peering down at my legs. “Put some lotion on those lizard legs. They look like sandpaper!”
“It’s just dry skin.” I defended examining them. They did appear a little dry but I hardly thought comparing them to a lizard was necessary.
“It’s disgusting.”
“Not everyone is obsessed with lotion, Em.” Jameson defended stepping from the pool to join us in the lounge chairs. “Her legs look fine.” He glanced down at them and then averted his eyes. “I’ll be right back.”
Girls had been following him all day and now wasn’t any different. He had a constant following of pit lizards on and off the track. A tall brunette without lizard legs walked up to Emma and I when he sauntered to the bathroom.
“Is he your boyfriend?” she gestured to Jameson walking into the men’s restroom.
“He’s my brother.” Emma made a retching sound in the back of her throat.
The girl’s eyes focused on me.
“Me?” I pointed to myself. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”
Not that I would be opposed to that with him but he was my best friend. I didn’t see him in that light.
He was also a moody perfectionist asshole so how anyone could stand him was beyond me, but he was my best friend. If I needed a shoulder to cry on, he was there. He may be working on his race car at the same time but he made sure I had company.
The girl, who looked about sixteen, maybe even seventeen smiled and strutted toward Jameson, who was now approaching us, his shirt slung over his shoulder.
Manhandling sprint cars around a track for years provided him with a honed physique that most men would kill for let alone fifteen-year-old boys.
Jameson smiled at her but his smile faded when she began to speak. I had a feeling the dim-witted brunette didn’t have much going for her besides looks.
It took all of two minutes for him to finally get away from her and, when he did, he glared at me. “Do me a favor,” he huffed throwing himself into the lounge chair next to me. “Tell them you’re my girlfriend.” He kicked his long legs up. “That was ridiculous.”
“So... no date for you tonight?” I snickered.
“No, it’s hard to believe some guys fall for girls like that.” He sighed looking back at her. “She should be embarrassed for herself.”
He ended up laughing with me after a few minutes but it took some convincing. This wasn’t the first time this happened to him and wouldn’t be the last. He’d never showed interest in girls but I also knew he had other priorities.
Jameson was all about racing and nothing else mattered to him.
I admired that about him.
As teenagers we struggled to find our identities and to live up to the expectations that our parents and teachers put upon us.
Jameson didn’t. He knew who he was inside and knew exactly what he wanted. I couldn’t decide on shit and I was lucky if I managed to pick out what CD I was going to listen to that day in under an hour. I also, for the life of me, could never manage to wear matching socks.
EXPECTING ANY OF us to act normal on the plane ride home was downright absurd. Here you had Emma at fourteen, Jameson and me being fifteen, Spencer and his friend Colby at seventeen ... we were hardly in any position to conduct ourselves in a manner that was acceptable for society.
Nancy and Jimi were good sports until around hour three of the six-hour ride when Jameson and I decided it was time to up the larking around.
While most of the trip was spent annoying Emma, we turned to Spencer and Colby when Emma burst into tears because we had replaced her lotion with glue again. No matter how many times we did that, we still found it entertaining and we did this at least once a week. It was funny.
Spencer, being a prankster himself, made it difficult for us to pull one over on him. This took dedication and research. His only weaknesses were girls and food.
We decided to knock off two with one prank.
When he went to the bathroom, we added a few drops of pink food coloring to his Pepsi and then convinced the girl next to us to come on to him. We were succeeding until it all turned on us.
Alley, a tall beautiful blonde, who sat on the other side of Jameson, was our decoy. Alley was awesome, witty, humorous, and could roll out the insults with the best of them. I knew I liked her when Jameson was fidgeting beside us and she turned to him.
“Will you stop fucking moving?”
“You stop moving” —he shot her a glare— “I’m uncomfortable.”
“Well, if you stop jumping around you might be comfortable. You’re moving around so much you’re about to throw your back out.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked her.
“What’s wrong with me? You’re driving me insane!” she exclaimed throwing her magazine at him. “Stop moving. You’re vibrating my seat with all this moving.”
“You enjoying the vibrating?” he teased.
Jameson couldn’t help himself. He had a knack, like Spencer, for turning any conversation dirty if he needed to embarrass you.
“You wish shit head.” She rolled her eyes. “Stop moving.”
I laughed at their silly argument. After that, I befriended her as my cohort in my attacks.
I learned that Alley lived in Olympia, Washington, which was about forty-five minutes from Elma.
“Who’s the ape in front of us with the pink mouth?” Alley asked eventually.
Jameson and I let out a childish giggle. “Spencer, my brother,” he replied.
“Why is his mouth pink?”
“We slipped food coloring into his soda.”
Alley smiled and went in for the kill.
An hour later, Spencer and Alley were chatting and Jameson and I were not pleased. This did not work in our favor.
“That couldn’t have gone any worse,” Jameson finally said, disgusted that Spencer was pulling out all the tricks for this blonde beauty.
I thought it was somewhat cute. Spencer has always been a chick magnet and had scored more than the whole football team with the girls. He was a god at Elma High School and everyone thought Jameson would live up to Spencer’s reputation.
Jameson, on the other hand, could give a flying fuck about girls.
That was a lie. I saw that he looked at girls, particularly the ones at the track but he never showed a real interest in them and he never flirted.
At times, it was hard to tell if he was even interested in the opposite sex at times but after our few exchanges that we’ve had... I’d say he was into the girls. It just had to be the right one.
We did our fair share of messing around because, let’s be real, we were teenagers and we pushed boundaries.
I still remember the first time I saw him kiss another girl and I didn’t like it. I don’t know why, but I didn’t like it.
It was at Elma, after a race he won and the trophy girl, Desy Miller, kissed him. The next thing I knew, the two of them were making out beside his car.
I didn’t like her, but I didn’t know why I didn’t like her. Maybe it was her name?
I can only guess the real reason was because I hated trophy girls and I thought Jameson deserved better than a trophy girl. He needed someone who was stable and, in my book, trophy girls were not. They were clingy gold digging pit lizards and my best friend deserved more than that.
I remember approaching him as he loaded his car, Desy nowhere in sight thank God.
“Nice race,” I said, congratulating him on his win.
Jameson closed the door to the hauler, looking over his shoulder at me before locking the door securely. “Where were you?”
“You were busy so I let you celebrate,” I told him honestly.
He turned around completely and leaned against the doors, crossing his arms over his chest. Still clad in his race suit, he unzipped the top letting it fall from his shoulders and then tied it around his waist. “I was looking for you though.”
“I was looking for you, too,” I offered. “Where’d Desy go?”
He blinked slowly running his right hand across his jaw and then shrugged. “Home... I guess. I didn’t ask.”
“Hmm,” I said, and then walked over to the pit concession stand.
“Wait,” Jameson yelled after me. “I’ll help you lock up.”
“You better, I’m not walking around by myself out here... in the dark.” I insinuated.
“Good idea. You never know what kind of crazy assholes are around here.” He laughed slinging his arm around my shoulder.
Just like that, we were back to normal.
With Jameson and me, nothing was complicated, so we thought, making it easy to be around each other. We never had to work at our friendship.
If he pissed me off, I told him. If he thought I was being a bitch, he didn’t hesitate to tell me either and when you’re struggling as a teenager to find balance and understand your complicated life with the added influence of hormones, uncomplicated is a blessing.
It still didn’t change the fact that I wasn’t keen on the idea of these others girls hounding him all the time because I saw through their cunning behavior. They were only looking for one thing, popularity. While Jameson didn’t play sports and hardly attended any school functions, let alone school, he was popular among the female flock.
This didn’t exactly make my life easy. They saw we were friends and did everything in their power to destroy that.