Grid – The starting order of cars, as determined by qualifying position. The cars line up on pit road prior to the race in qualifying order; this is referred to as the grid.
In racing, I honestly believe there comes a point in your career where everything changes. People stop seeing you for you and start seeing a NASCAR driver. From that point on, nothing is the same and everything you thought you knew about fame, was nothing at all.
That was the feeling I got when I arrived in Rockingham, North Carolina.
And I will say that was also the point when I stopped and thought is this what I wanted?
The answer was absolutely. I had no doubt I wanted this. I wanted to be the best racer I could be and I was on my way to that. I could see the light.
I still had no idea what I wanted out of my personal life but all signs pointed to Sway in some form or another. Telling her would be the hard part and wasn’t something I could do over the phone. When we spoke on the phone, I never led her to believe anything had changed. This wasn’t something you tell someone over the phone or in a text. What would it say, “Oh, and by the way, I love you more than anything. Can we have sex and remain friends because I’m a dumbass and can only offer you that?”
Yeah, I wasn’t about to say that over the phone.
So instead, I focused on what was important, my career. It wasn’t hard to do either, everywhere I looked, someone was pulling me in a different direction.
That week was my second start in a Cup race and I loved the track. Rockingham Raceway is a one-mile oval track with twenty-two degree banking in turns one and two and twenty-five degree banking in turns three and four.
Back in January, we tested for two days here so I knew a little about what to expect but testing is different than a race.
I qualified for the pole and set fast time in both practice sessions. In happy hour, I raced in race-trim and wasn’t surprised that the car was awesome. I could drive in hard and the car wouldn’t slip.
By the time race day arrived, I couldn’t wait for the race but I was a little apprehensive that Doug Dunham was starting on the outside of me.
The pressure put upon drivers to win was crazy and I knew Doug was feeling that. The longer they go without a win, the more rattled they become with shoddy performances and it reflected in their driving. Usually where a driver would say, “Nah, that’s just not worth it,” when trying to make a hole where there isn’t one, Doug made them.
I was confident in the power with my beast that once the green flag dropped, my car was up to the challenge.
You always hear people talk about their first Cup career win. They remember everything about the win to when pit stops were to who they passed and years later, can recount them just the same as they did that day.
I can’t say the same. I was all over the map emotionally in that race. I fought Doug hard to pass him and then Andy Crockett was up in the mix for a while as was Tate and Bobby but, like I said, that car was awesome.
By the time there was ten laps to go I had a two-second lead over Tate and was feeling like I was about to win my first race.
When the checkered flag waved and I did win, I was silent. I didn’t know what to say. I had won my first Winston Cup race, on my second start. Fortunately, for me, I was in the car with a helmet over my face so no one could see the emotion I was feeling.
Not only was there a point when you realize nothing will ever be the same, but there is also a point when you think to yourself, “I can do this.”
You know you’re different.
Every professional anything whether you are a race car driver, basketball player, football player... you realize at some point in your life that you’re different and have something more to offer.
I always knew I could do it and that I had talent when it came to racing, but after Rockingham it became real because not only had I moved from one series to the next but I’d won in different divisions now.
All doubts I had about this being what I was meant to do, vanished with that win. Here I was a dirt track racer from the Northwest and I won a NASCAR Winston Cup race, on my second race. I knew I was different.
I HAD AN understanding for the way things worked with a win and the post-race activities from the Busch series. It was fairly similar with Cup.
By the time I left the track and was able to grab some food, I was exhausted and not up for any company. Alas, Spencer, Aiden and Tommy went with me. I was okay with that but I wasn’t okay with Spencer’s behavior that night.
I wasn’t paying attention to what was going on around me as I was busy texting Sway.
I read her last one before looking up. I’m so proud of you!
Aiden nudged my shoulder. “It was nice meeting Sway last week,” his blush said it all.
Sway and Aiden met in Daytona and Sway’s way of introducing herself to him was asking if his carpet matched the drapes. Aiden had this rich golden blonde hair that you would think belonged on Malibu Barbie, not a country boy from Alabama. Sway also asked Tommy this when she first met him as well. Although back then, we were only thirteen when we met Tommy, it sounded funny coming from a thirteen-year-old girl, but that was Sway. She could make any man blush if needed. It’s an acquired skill and she had it mastered.
Smiling, I took interest in the commotion at the table. As you know, Spencer was into playing practical jokes on everyone. As usual, I was his target this time.
My newfound fame, was also that target. I don’t know how many times we’d walk into a restaurant and we’d be quietly enjoying our meals when my model citizen of a brother would stand up in his chair and shout: “Hey, look, it’s Jameson Riley!”
I just won a race that most of these bystanders had watched. This wasn’t the ideal situation for a number of reasons. I didn’t joy the herding fans, I hated attention, and I was fucking hungry. Leave it to Spencer to ruin my evening.
“Spencer,” I seethed. “You better run for your motherfucking life!”
This did nothing to Spencer, who relished in finding new and innovative ways to annoy me.
AFTER ROCKINGHAM, THE pit lizards multiplied by the thousands. I’ll never understand why pit lizards went to the fanatical extreme ways they did, but I’ll tell you something else, I was not okay with it.
It never failed. I’d walk out of my motor coach and they’d be waiting. How they got into the private compound where the drivers stayed was an entirely different issue I’d be talking to NASCAR about. They card me every time but these girls get free roam because they have tits?
I don’t think so.
And it wasn’t just in the compound that I found these fans hounding me. The garage area was just as bad.
What irritated me to no end were the people who would get mad when I wouldn’t sign something for them when passing through the garage area.
In my defense, would you stop to sign something when you were at work?
Probably not.
When I’m in the garage, walking to my hauler or working on my car, I’m working. My mind is focused on what I’m doing, not on the fans.
Getting an autograph out of any of these drivers in the garage area is slim and depended solely on their moods. We’re working and most forget that.
On my bad days, if a fan wanted an autograph, I wasn’t doing it. They barely got so much as a glance in their direction.
If I was having a good day, they might get a head nod, but still, I was in the garage working on my race car. I wasn’t there for them. And I rarely would sign anything in the garage area.
I’m not there to be their Hollywood star.
To show you the extent these fans would go, one even broke into my motor coach.
After the race in Las Vegas, I entered my motor coach wanting to relax but no, there was a girl inside.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I snapped, slamming the door hoping to startle her.
The girl spun on her heel with excited blue eyes, my harsh tone did nothing.
“It’s really you!” she squealed and launched herself in my direction. She was insane and that’s putting it lightly. I ended up calling the police just to get her to leave and even then she wouldn’t budge.
The police laughed at me, actually laughed that I couldn’t get this girl to leave my motor coach. I was terrified and, if possible, even more disgusted at their lack of concern.
This happened to me more times than I could count but what was unacceptable to me and had me calling the police, was the fact that she felt the need to explore, in my underwear drawer.
“Oh, Jameson, I’m like your biggest fan!” she kept telling me while I yelled at the cops to get her to leave. I didn’t want her to be my biggest fan because frankly, this sounded odd and certainly couldn’t be good at the way she implied “biggest.”
When she finally left with a police escort Spencer had his laughs, as did the rest of my team. Fucking assholes.
I was completely fine until some grinning son of a bitch of a police officer said, “Do you feel violated?”
He was mocking me but I rose above their childlike maturity to this serious criminal offense and refused to comment.
For one, I wasn’t about to give my asshole teammates any ammunition, and two, I was too tired to put any energy into this.
Instead, I turned on my heel and went back in my motor couch, locking the door. I had a feeling this would be happening a lot and was not excited about that.
I called Sway that night before we left to go back to Mooresville and then it was off to Atlanta, a track I absolutely loved.
I still hadn’t led her to believe I loved her. I wanted to tell her every time I spoke to her but I couldn’t.
ANOTHER THING THAT came with winning was rivalry with other drivers. You don’t notice it until you are suddenly competition for them. Competition for guys like Darrin.
The rivalry with Darrin Torres seemed to escalate with each race. By Las Vegas, he’d spun me on pit road for no apparent reason other than just being a dick. Being new to the series, I didn’t want any enemies, so I let it slide.
When Atlanta rolled around the following week and he did it again, I wasn’t as quick to let it slide. As a matter of fact, I was hot after that, partly because my car was smashed and the other was that I hit Bobby in the process.
There was nothing I hated more than ruining an unsuspecting driver’s day. And, more importantly, my teammate’s day.
After I tagged Darrin’s bumper, he knew I was pissed. As did the media and NASCAR. I was tired of his shit of spinning me on pit road and those cheap shots he’d been taking at me lately.
After the race, when I pulled up beside him, he had some hand gestures and I had a few words.
Everyone kept asking us why we hated each other so much but you have to remember our days go all the way back to when we raced in the USAC series.
It didn’t matter what way you looked at it, we weren’t friends and we were never going to be.
This left me having some words with him after that Atlanta race.
Once I was standing in front of him, I had no idea what I wanted to say, only that I was pissed. Unfortunately, before I could tell him exactly what I thought of him, the NASCAR officials were separating us.
I wasn’t going to give up though. He needed to know I wasn’t one of those guys he could push around.
It just so happened that our motor coaches had parked right next to each other so that was when the real fun began.
Again, he got right in my face and I hated confrontation. Sounds ridiculous coming from a guy like me, I know, but you also have to understand I only wanted to race. All this other shit, I could do without in a heartbeat.
“You need to watch where you’re going,” he told me, after a string of profanities I could barely keep up with. “You drive like an asshole out there.” He was also animated while doing this and he looked as though he was an air traffic controller.
Just to ensure I got my point across, I said. “Fuck you!” and intended on leaving it at that.
I felt the need to make my point since he made his when he spun me on pit road, twice.
Once again, NASCAR separated us and I left after that before I got myself in hot water with my dad.
I decided to leave it alone that night and left without saying anything more.
The races seemed to be flying by and every week it was a new track, different city but the same bullshit with Darrin.
Most of the tracks I’d either raced on in the various USAC Divisions or Nationwide Series, but a few like Bristol and Martinsville I’d never been to so that was entertaining to watch, but when you add someone constantly seeking out trouble with you, it makes it difficult to keep track of the bigger picture. The bigger picture being that this was my job now.
Once the series rolled around to Darlington in March, our rivalry didn’t end and he took us both out in the first few laps when he cut down on me going into turn one.
We managed to piece the car back together only to blow a left rear tire with thirty laps to go.
The following weekend in Bristol, he slammed me into the wall on a restart. Well, I had enough and bumped him entering turn three.
It wasn’t my fault he couldn’t correct it, right?
If only NASCAR saw it that way.
Later, as I expected, he came into my hauler. Where I come from, the bullring tracks, you enter someone’s hauler after the race and that meant one thing: You were looking for trouble.
Neither of us acted as we should have, but he did throw the first punch.
The thing about a fight at the track was that NASCAR race was officials were all around. We only got a few punches thrown before they intervened.
After that altercation, the nickname, “Rowdy Riley” was born.
Not that I disagreed that I was “rowdy” but I came to realize that NASCAR fans, and reporters were different from the fans at the bullring tracks. They remembered everything.
Every interview I did from that point on, they asked about the rivalry with Darrin, trying to keep it in everyone’s thoughts.
I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the media and their lack of concern for my privacy so when the FOX Sports reporter asked me after the last ten reporters asked the same thing, I took my frustrations out on him when I slapped his recorder out of his hand and then kicked it under the hauler for good measure. If they wanted Rowdy Riley, they had him.
“You know exactly what happened,” I yelled over my shoulder in response. “Watch the goddamn tapes!”
It wasn’t exactly what I should have said but I was pissed and I said what I felt.
This wasn’t the first time Darrin and I tangled with each other, surely it wouldn’t be the last. But for reporters to constantly instigate it, that was crossing the line.
My dad, as the owner, wasn’t pleased with this relationship I’d formed with Darrin.
“You can’t keep this up,” he would tell me. “I can’t keep compromising with NASCAR and Simplex.” His voice would rise to nearly a shout and then he’d calm down. “I’m a new owner Jameson. A new owner with no clout and you are not helping me.”
I backed off Darrin after that. I didn’t intend to cause problems for my dad. He had enough. He didn’t need his asshole of a son causing more.
I liked to think I backed off completely but still, like any red-blooded, twenty-two-year-old male, I had my moments.
“Jameson, you need to realize that this is not about talent. Yeah, you’ve got that but it’s not just about talent,” my dad told me over dinner after the race in Martinsville. “If you want to be a champion,” he tapped his index finger to the side of his head. “It’s up here. This sport is just as equally challenging mentally.”
I nodded. I didn’t exactly want to argue with anyone at that point.
He continued. “There’s a fine line between aggressive and overly aggressive. Too much one way and you’ll find yourself in the wall ... or in the NASCAR hauler in your case.”
Again, I nodded.
“Have you talked with Sway lately?” he asked picking almonds from his salad and tossing them on my plate.
“Yeah, before we left the track after I met with Gordon.”
Gordon Reynolds, the Director of Competition, was the warden for NASCAR. If you got in trouble, you saw him.
“And, she said?”
“Nothing really,” I shrugged. “She saw the fight on ESPN and wanted to make sure I was all right.” I took a bite of my hamburger.
“Are you?”
“Yeah,” I straightened my posture chewing slowly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re different when she’s not here.”
“How so?”
“You’re just different, almost like you’re running on seven cylinders.”
“I feel like I’m running on seven.”
“Is the pressure getting to you?”
“Yes and no.” Even though I knew how I felt about Sway now, I wasn’t ready to tell anyone. “I guess I wasn’t prepared for how political and commercialized everything is.”
“Kind of makes racing the weekly races appealing, huh?”
I smiled taking a drink of my iced tea in front of me. Pouring ketchup on my plate, I began to dip my French fries in them. “You don’t see how demanding the sport is until you’re in the middle of it.”
“You don’t have to do it. You know that right?”
“I do know that ... but it’s what I want. Even if it comes with all this and more ... I still wouldn’t change anything.”
“You know Simplex said they may be interested in sponsoring your outlaw car. Justin is doing good. Little shit beat me the other night.”
“He is doing good,” I agreed. “So is Tyler. I was thinking—” My phone buzzed just then causing me to jump backward. Jimi laughed when my drink spilled on me. It was Charlie calling me, which was strange. He never called these days.
Worried something was wrong with Sway, I rushed through the rest of dinner and called him in private.
“Charlie?” he answered on the first ring.
“Jameson?” his voice sounded tired and worn, similar to the way I felt.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
He was silent for a moment before speaking. “I need to speak with you, in person.”
I was on the phone with Wes, the pilot of our private jet, to arrange a flight immediately. Charlie wouldn’t ask me to come unless it was important.