Running Light – This refers to a car that is running light on fuel. Most teams qualify with a light load to achieve the maximum speed from their cars.
In between the Richmond race and the Winston Open, I had a bi-week. I thought maybe I’d be able to fly out to see Sway before her graduation and make up for not being there, but no, my conscious took over.
The night after the Pontiac Excitement 400 in Richmond, I was heading to Charlotte for an interview followed by various appearances at a few dealerships and then an appearance for Simplex.
After Tuesday, the rest of the week and the weekend was opening up nicely. Feeling jaunty that I might have some time for myself, I checked my Blackberry. Shaking my head, I wasn’t surprised to see around forty emails, fifteen text messages and a dozen voicemails. Most of them I knew Alley would take care of so I skimmed through a few emails from her letting me know my schedule for the next week. Thursday through Sunday looked open.
Scrolling through the text messages, I noticed a couple from Sway asking me why Tommy didn’t have stuff to do. Without unspoken words, he kept track of her. Not that I thought she needed to be checked up on, I just wanted to ensure she was safe. Tommy did that when he could.
So there I was, getting ready to call Wes when I listened to my voicemails. A few were from my mom, wanting to know if I could attend a charity event for the Children’s Hospital in Nashville next week. The one that caught my attention was from Justin.
“Hey, Jameson... it’s Justin. I wanted to let you know that Ron Walker was killed last night at Williams Grove. I don’t know how it happened but they cancelled the Outlaw race for next weekend to run a memorial race there. You might think about coming.”
Well, shit, there goes my free weekend.
The next voicemail was from dad.
“Call me when you get this. I mean it Jameson, you better call me when you get up. This is important.”
And then one from Emma.
“Hey, asshole. Call me. Like right now. Where are you anyway? You better call or I will just keep calling.”
Time for myself?
Yeah, that ended when I decided to race for a living.
I called dad first knowing damn well if I didn’t he’d take it out of my paycheck somehow. “Hey,” I said, nonchalantly when he picked up. Throwing a few shirts in a bag, I walked into my bathroom to pack a few toiletries knowing that either way I looked at it I wouldn’t be home this weekend.
“It’s noon, why the fuck were you still sleeping?”
Holding the phone with my ear and shoulder, I snorted. “I didn’t get home until four.” I replied on the defense. “That’s why.”
“Oh, well Ron Walker was killed last night at Williams Grove,” his voice was rough and drawn out like he hadn’t slept.
I knew he and Tyler were racing there the other night so I assumed they both saw the accident, if it was an accident.
“What happened?”
“There were a few late models on the track and Ron was out there taking photos when one lost control. Both cars hit the tractor tire he was sitting on.”
As much as it sucked, this wasn’t the first time this had happened. It’s dangerous being out there in the infield when a car is on the track.
“USAC and the Outlaws cancelled Friday and Saturday night races for a memorial race at Williams Grove. Can you make it? Alley said you were free this weekend.”
Do I make the responsible decision here and show respect for a long-time friend of my dad’s, and a track promoter who had a hand in my career?
Ron Walker was not only a well-respected USAC team owner of around ten cars that ran in the different divisions but he acted as a track promoter for not only the USAC divisions but the World of Outlaws and various sprint tours. So, do I show my respect for him or do I blow it off and go see Sway?
“I, uh ... can I think about it for a few minutes?”
“Do whatever you want, Jameson,” he clipped and hung up.
Way to make me feel like an asshole, dad.
Was it so wrong to want some time to myself? And was it wrong the time I wanted, I wanted it to be with Sway?
I felt like I was about to combust if I didn’t get a chance to process everything that had been happening lately.
What happens when you put high-energy fuel (this being me) into a small enclosed space and ignite it? An incredible amount of energy is released is what happens. That energy can be used as the core to your engine. And, it seemed, like my life these days, combined energy with air and the explosion took on another meaning.
I must have sat on the edge of my bed for an hour staring at my phone, pleading with it to make the decision for me.
Racing or Sway?
Another hour passed and I thought of Charlie. What if this was him, would I be there for a memorial race?
In a heartbeat.
I made the decision and I went racing.
I talked to Sway later that night and though she hid it well, I sensed the sadness when I told her I wanted to come see her, but couldn’t.
“Don’t feel bad, Jameson,” she told me after I apologized again. “I would be upset with you if you came here instead of going to that race.”
“You would?”
“Yes, I would. Ron helped you get to where you are now. Pay respect where respect is due.”
She had a point, she always did. “How would I ever survive without you?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t,” she teased. “I’m pretty sure you would combust without me.”
“You’re probably right,” I chuckled at the irony that I was comparing myself to the engines combustion and, here she was, thinking I would combust without her. In reality, I would have already if it wasn’t for her.
I called Emma back after that. Knowing me well she and Alley already had the plane lined up, which meant I left tomorrow afternoon for Pennsylvania.
“RON WALKER PAVED the way for many fresh faces we see today in some of the premier divisions. He had the ability to see talent where most would turn their heads but Ron gave them a chance at greatness.” Mark Derkin’s, track owner of Williams Grove, voice carried throughout the stands and infield prior to the memorial feature.
Standing there beside my fellow racers, fixed gazes on the flag stand where Mark stood, remembering an adherent man who changed the lives of many of us. An eerie silence fell over the mass of fans and drivers, until Justin sneezed beside me.
A few of us chuckled when he apologized.
I’d never faced death before. My uncle Lane died when I was young but I had vague memories of him. Since then, I had yet to see if first-hand. Even now, with Ron, this wasn’t first-hand and though I knew him, I didn’t know him on a personal level. I knew he had a daughter, Jessica who raced sprint cars but, other than that, nothing. I couldn’t have even told you how old he was.
Jessica was standing a few feet from me, watchful of everyone, taking it in. Blinking slowly, her shoulder length black hair swept across her face shielding her tears. This had to be hard for her, losing her dad. Instantly I thought of Sway, flashes of her doing the same when Charlie died, only alone.
Racing never stopped, ever. But when someone within the racing community died, that was when our sport shined. Jessica wasn’t alone today. At Williams Grove, on your average weekly race, you’ll see about forty cars competing for a spot in the main.
That night there were one hundred and sixty cars that showed up to pay respect for Ron Walker.
Sway wouldn’t have the sentry of the racing community. I knew that when Charlie did die, hundreds of racers would flock to Grays Harbor to show their respect just as we were doing tonight, but who would be there for Sway. Who would really be there for her? Could it be me?
Not likely with a ten month schedule followed by two months of testing in the off-season, racing never stopped. It’s a twenty-four hour a day job, 365 days out of the year.
Before the feature, Jessica made a slow pace lap in honor of him then the twenty-seven car field merged in before creating a 4-wide salute. Usually a feature only had twenty-three sprint cars but twenty-seven was the number of years Ron had been involved in race promoting, so we ran twenty-seven cars.
You’d think being a memorial race, no points, no money, just laid back racing, we would have simply raced and took it easy.
No, hell no. We are all stubbornly aggressive but guess who won?
Jessica Walker.
A number of us could have taken that win at the end but we all knew what that win would mean to a girl like Jessica having lost her father. It would have meant everything, and it did.
She approached me after the race while Justin, my dad, Ryder and I threw back a few beers. I only met her a few times before, so when she hugged me, I was a little taken aback.
“Thanks for coming. I know you have a busy schedule but my dad was proud of you and you guys,” she gestured to Ryder and Justin as well. “Thanks.”
I smiled kindly returning the hug.
“You’re welcome,” pulling back to look at her, blue gray watery eyes focused on mine. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
Not sure what else to say, I left with those words, walking toward the haulers to load up the cars. Justin nudged my shoulder.
“Given any thought to adding another driver?”
For the past few months I’d be humming it over with Justin and my dad about adding another car to my sprint car team in the World of Outlaws. Not that I needed my dad’s approval to add another car to my team, but I looked to him for any business endeavor I made.
“I have,” I told him.
“Who’s the new wheelman?”
“Either Ryder or Tyler. Though I think Ryder’s contract with Donco won’t allow him to race Outlaws while he’s racing in the USAC divisions.”
“It won’t. We talked about it last week.”
By now we made it back to the hauler where Tommy was already loading the cars with the help of Spencer and Aiden. Not that I would have ever asked them to, but as soon as my team found out I was racing here for Ron, they dropped all their vacation plans for the weekend and followed me. Goes back to the tight knit racing community thing I talked about. They’d do anything for you, anytime.
Loading up the last few tools and tires, I watched Tyler sign a few autographs as he strode toward us. With the humidity resiliently suffocating, his racing suit was pulled down to his waist, revealing his bare chest.
Even being around midnight by now, it was still at least ninety degrees outside and a hundred percent humidity. I was moments away from taking my own shirt off.
“Are you auditioning for Chip and Dales later?” Ryder teased walking past him.
Tyler chuckled and continued signing. He was becoming a popular driver admired and talented, among the dirt world and exactly who I wanted racing my other car.
Not that I wouldn’t have chosen Ryder. No doubt he had the skill but unlike Tyler and Justin, Ryder preferred USAC. Since he returned to racing after the accident in Williams Grove, he enjoyed the ability to run all three divisions each season and his full-ride sponsor in all of them, Donco, allowed him to do that.
Tyler, on the other hand, was running a limited USAC schedule and any Outlaw race he could make with the help of Ron Walker. Now that Ron had passed away, Walker Racing was an unknown.
When negotiating business, my black or white personality worked well. Nothing like the cagey personality I displayed with Sway, I knew what I wanted professionally and had no problem asking for it.
“Will you drive my other car on the Outlaw tour next week?”
“Next week?” Tyler asked perplexed. “You already have another one built?”
“Yeah, it’s ready to go. CST dropped the engine off last week. Tommy got everything ready.”
My Grandpa Casten and CST Engines, still one of the largest manufactures of 410-sprint car engines, provided all the engines for my team.
“Sure, why not. Don’t think I’m doing this for free though,” he added with a smile.
Tyler wasn’t a large guy, at barely five-foot-nine, and I was able to knock him to the ground with one shove.
“Sixty percent of your winnings—travel’s paid for.”
“Now we’re talking.” Tyler nodded hoisting himself from the dirt. He brushed rocks and a few leaves from his legs before smiling again. “Are you serious?”
“Have you ever known me to joke about racing?”
“Nope,”
“There’s your answer.” I squeezed his shoulder. “You and Justin fly out Tuesday for Grand Rapids.”
Later that night, after flying home to Mooresville, it was around two in the morning when I finally reached my room. Fully clothed, I threw myself on my bed, yearning for sleep I knew wouldn’t come. Racing always left me rather amped.
Vacillating between not calling and calling, I opted to text her. My thoughts had been centered on her all night and I couldn’t sleep without the connection.
To my amazement, she texted me back.
S: How was the race?
Instead of texting her, I called. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, to get through the day, I needed her. For someone who was so blatantly focused to make his own path in the world, I was sure reliant on her.
“Are you all right, Jameson?” I knew right then she was looking for the honest answer, not the standard, “Yeah, I’m fine,” I gave to everyone else.
“I just ... I don’t know, honey. I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days.”
“You’re in a stressful position,” she said mellifluously. “It’s understandable.”
Closing my eyes, I listened to her voice, tranquilly soothing. “Are you ready for graduation?”
She laughed, a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “It couldn’t come soon enough. I hate these assholes here.”
“Who’s an asshole?”
“Don’t get mad.”
“You know me better than that,” I warned. “Never start a conversation with don’t get mad.”
“Fine, I won’t tell you then.”
“Don’t do that,” I snapped.
“Blake kissed me,” she blurted out. “I kicked him in the balls and Tommy rescued me.”
You could have heard a pin drop. My voice, failed. My throat felt like someone had dumped sand down it. Gasping for air, I replied with, “What?” at the same time.
“I, uh—”
“I heard you the first time.”
“Oh, you said—”
“Nope, heard you,” coughing, I tried to relieve the dry sensation rolling up my throat.
We were both silent for a moment, me concentrating on breathing, her with hesitation in fear I was going to snap. Finally she stuttered out. “Jameson?”
“I’m here,” my answer was quick. “Just thinking,”
“About?”
“Killing Blake,”
“That’s a little harsh. I already kicked him.”
“It’s not good enough.” My voice was even again, surprisingly controlled.
“You focus on your career ... not unwanted kisses.”
“Unwanted?”
“Yes, unwanted. I never had feelings for Blake.”
“Good?”
“Yes, good. I don’t want you kissing guys.”
For the love of God! What the fuck? Do I say something else?
“I don’t want to be kissing other guys,” she offered. And don’t think I didn’t catch the “other” part. I held onto the word as though it was a gravitational pull.
Sway’s alarm sounding changed our conversation to her final she was taking today. Soon, we ended the phone call with a plan to talk later today after I got some sleep.
The problem was, I couldn’t.
Part of me was focused on Sway saying other guys, the other part, the obsessively selfish side, wanted to kill Blake. Any guy who flouted a women’s rejection, deserved to be knocked around. Though I wanted to do it myself, I knew I couldn’t. I planned to be in Grand Rapids for the Outlaw race there on Tuesday before flying out to Charlotte on Wednesday.
One rash decision later, I was calling Spencer.
“This better be an emergency?” he said groggily. He couldn’t have had much sleep yet, my alarm clock beside the bed flashed 3:45am.
“It is ... well, not really ... no it is an emergency.”
Trying to figure out how it was really an emergency, I thought for a second.
“I’m waiting,” he pressed impatiently.
“A guy named Blake McCoy is giving Sway trouble at school.”
“Blake McCoy?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
And that was that. I knew by “taking care of it” he’d have his police officer friend, Josh Keller, scare him a little.
It took me a good few hours to calm down from the kissing incident but eventually I did and was able to get a couple hours of sleep before I headed to the race shop.
SUNDAY AND MONDAY I spent preparing both the sprint cars for Grand Rapids. Every track had a different set of rules so we had to make a few changes to the cars, check all the bolt-on parts, and safety equipment before Tommy came by to check setups.
“You know, you should have told me,” were my first words to him.
Tommy backed away toward the door. This might have had something to do with the fact that I was holding a wrench in one hand.
“Uh... told you about what?” his eyes shifted around me.
He knew damn well what I was referring to.
“Blake,” I clarified, my inquiring scowl probed for answers.
“Oh, that.” He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Well, I was going to but she asked me not to.”
“And you listened to her?”
“Like I told her, you scare me. Like hell I was going to tell you another guy had his hands all over her.”
“She said he kissed her. She didn’t say anything about hands.”
“See...” he sighed heavily opening the door to the fridge in the shop. He retrieved two beers before closing the door and handing me one. I waited for him to answer but it seemed he was taking his time.
“See what?” I pressed opening the beer and taking a drink.
“I don’t like getting in the middle of this shit.”
He was right, but I would be asking Sway about the touching later. Bile rose inside me thinking of another man touching her. Touching what I wanted badly.
I wasn’t mad at Tommy, I was mad at myself for not being there for her. She didn’t deserve to be molested by that douche. No, she deserved to have a man around who would take care of her and not let things like this happen. She deserved someone to worship her in all the ways I did inside. I wanted to be that guy. God, did I want to be him.
“When will you two wake up?”
“Probably never,” I answered without thinking.
“She is so in love with you that it’s revolting to be around.”
I smiled. “Nothing about her could be revolting.”
“Give me that wrench.” Tommy reached for the wrench as I held it above his head.
“Why?”
“So I can smack your pussy-whipped ass.”
“I’m almost certain the term ‘pussy whipped’ ensures you are getting pussy. That’s not happening.”
Conversation changed to sprint cars after that which was fine by me. Tommy and I ended up changing the weight around in both cars before loading them onto the hauler so Greg, Justin’s cousin could drive the truck to Grand Rapids.
“Did you get the new sponsor?” Tommy asked handing Greg and Rusty, one of the mechanics for the team, the directions to the track.
“Yeah, got Ayers as primary sponsor for the No. 19 car.”
“The one Tyler is driving?”
“Yeah.”
“Look at you, business man,” Tommy teased, the guys laughed. “Raking in the sponsors left and right.”
“They see the name, Tommy. It has nothing to do with me.”
It was true. My name had become somewhat of a household name in a matter of months. I now had sponsors approaching me.
WHEN WEDNESDAY ROLLED around, it was time to head for Charlotte for the Winston Open. Usually when I flew out to a track, most of the team was already there. Since this race was only thirty minutes from our shop in Mooresville, we all had an extra day. All but me, I had to be there for hospitality events. Simplex Shocks and Springs’ headquarters was located in Charlotte so any time we raced there, I was jammed full of commitments for them. When a primary sponsor shells out close $12 million dollars for an entire season, you don’t ask questions.
If Melissa, the rep for Simplex, told Alley I would be somewhere, I had better be at that somewhere if we wanted to keep our sponsor.
Puppet strings sound familiar?
All that aside, I don’t forget what those strings allow me to accomplish. Racing. So many drivers fight their entire careers to make it to where I am and I’m here living the dream. Controlled to the point that my life right now wasn’t even mine, but still, I was able to race.
The Winston (changes names depending on sponsorship) was an All-Star type race prior to the Coca-Cola 600 that consisted of past winners as well as current winners, plus the past five winners of the regular season championship, similar to the Budweiser Shootout before the Daytona 500. Drivers were also eligible if you qualified for it in the 40-lap qualifying run called the Winston Open.
The Winston, as you can guess was held in the heart of NASCAR, Charlotte, North Carolina, at Lowes Motor Speedway. With the nature of the race, much like the Shootout, no points were at stake so the drivers made crazy reckless moves that usually resulted in usually only a few cars finishing the race. On top of that, the winner receives a million dollars. If that doesn’t tempt you to lay it all on the line, I don’t know what will.
The race, like the shootout, has a different format and changed every year. This year they had a 90-lap segment with elimination. I think they watched a little too much of Survivor and came up with this one. This year they ran only past race winners from the previous year, and all former Cup titleholders from the past five years, plus the winner of the qualifying races.
The first segment was forty-laps followed by a mandatory four-tire green flag stop between laps 10-30. Only the top twenty cars advanced to the next segment. The second segment was thirty-laps, only twelve cars advanced to the final 20-lap shootout to determine the winner. And, to make it interesting, they implemented a full-field inversion.
Most of my time there in Charlotte that week was spent with sponsorship obligations.
On Wednesday night, I had a meet and greet at the Ford dealership in downtown Charlotte that Alley attended with me. Being my publicist, we rarely spent much time apart. We both hated this by the way. She couldn’t stand me and I personally thought she was a fucking bitch.
The meet and greet had the usual crowd of garage groupies, the girls who were in their early teens and wore enough make-up to appear almost twenty. Then there were the pit lizards with their tits hanging out of their tops and jeans so tight I was sure the seam popped their cherries, and finally there were the older ladies who followed me faithfully to every race and applauded my every move regardless if I called another driver an “asshole” on national television.
Then you had the corporate assholes who hung around for the free tickets to the races and a chance at taking home a pit lizard. They were almost harder to stomach than the actual pit lizards because they thought they were my best friend.
Walking toward the table, the lights seemed brighter than before, the crowd appearing larger. When they introduced me and I stepped forward to sit in front of them, the room erupted in cheers and clapping.
Putting on my game face, I smiled politely for them, taking time to sign everything they pushed toward me, speaking melodiously to the women.
I’ll tell you something about this, not that I agreed with it but flirting with them did wonders for merchandise and product sales.
And who pushed merchandise/product sale?
Sponsors.
They paid me to be available to sell their product so this meant selling myself. As wrong as it felt, it was another part of the puppet game.
I knew encouraging them was wrong because I had absolutely no intention of playing along with whatever ideas they had concocted, but sometimes it was easier to go along and smile. If anything, it made the sponsor happy if let’s say that one girl who I spent a few minutes talking to, left and bought a few T-shirts and then her boyfriend, pressured by her, bought shocks from Simplex. That was what Simplex provided the sponsorship for.
So even though I had no intentions with them, it was just business.
Even with all these women throwing themselves at me, I had no desire to leave with them.
It had been since last April that I’d been with a woman physically and though the need was there, the desire simply wasn’t. I didn’t find them interesting any more. Some peeked my interest, yes, because these pit lizards ran around the track dressed in barely anything, but that was as far as it went. Why did I feel this way? I can only assume because Sway is what I wanted. When I looked at other women, I pictured what Sway looked like.
Even with all those frivolous one-night stands, I can’t remember one of them.
I remember every touch and every kiss with Sway. For a long time I felt like a line had been drawn in the sand between us, telling myself: “No way you’re crossing that.”
But as determined as I was to keep from crossing it, the destructive combers curtly toppling over my line, swallowing my will from beneath me.
I was left with my tenacious side just as equally determined to say: “What line?”
I WAS UP earlier than I needed to be, a consequence of both traveling and nervous excitement of the Winston Open. I loved races like this when I could let loose and race.
Normally on a race weekend, you wouldn’t find me in the garage area any other time apart from qualifying and practice runs. Usually I had too many other engagements. Not today, it was Friday, the day before the Winston and I had nothing for the morning or afternoon. Wanting to burn some energy, I went for a run around the track and then headed to the garage.
A few teams were in there but it was mostly calm. Nowhere near what it was like during practice sessions.
Sitting down on a pair of scuffs, I examined the new springs we were testing out. I have no idea how long I stared at those springs, clearly I was thinking about the spring rates or weight distribution, as I should be. My mind was a maelstrom of questions, thoughts and observations. Eventually, my attention was grabbed by my mom opening the door to the garage.
I don’t know if my mom is similar to everyone else’s but she had this way of always knowing if something was wrong with me, like right now.
“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe she feels the same way?”
“She doesn’t,” I was only lying to myself. I knew she felt that way.
“Have you ever asked her?”
“No.”
“Well, then you don’t know.”
She was right. I didn’t know for sure that she did or didn’t feel that way. But now, with Charlie being sick, that changed everything. It didn’t matter any longer. All that mattered was ... well, I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell you. That was what had me so confused.
“You can’t change your situation, Jameson, or hers. But you can change how each of you are dealing with it. That’s within your power and always has been.”
We eventually started walking back to my motor coach when I caved. “I can’t breathe,” I told her falling against the couch. My hands in my hair, my eyes falling closed at the admission.
“I know. I’ve seen this coming for years,” she said amiably rubbing my back with slow strokes as she did when I was younger to calm me. “You need to tell her how you feel.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“For a boy who was tenaciously forthright as a child, it’s hard to imagine you can’t tell her.”
She had a point, but with Sway, everything was different. “I don’t ... what if she doesn’t you know ... feel the same way?”
“She does. You know she feels the same way but you’re scared she’ll break your heart.”
No matter how many people told me that, I never believed them. Why didn’t I? That was simple, I refused to believe it. I knew she loved me, I saw, clear as day.
But I couldn’t, for the fucking sake of my sanity, say it out loud.
Why this was so goddamn hard was what I wanted to know. When would the timing be right to tell her? Or would it ever?
Do you wonder how important timing is?
In racing, it’s everything as well as in life. People think you’re lucky when you win or you were just in the right place at the right time. At least that was what I’d come to believe. You never knew when your time was right or when lady luck would shine down on you.
I remember when I first met Sway’s that summer night at Grays Harbor, that was timing. You could call it fate or destiny but really it was timing. That night we were meant to cross paths and we did. Now here we were, eleven years later, still hanging on so perilously to each other refusing to admit where all that timing had led us.
My mom sat there as I poured my heart out to her. I told her how I felt and that I was scared. But the thing was, even if she told me Sway felt the same way, it didn’t change anything. Even if Sway told me, it didn’t change anything.
Knowing myself, I knew it would take more than words to prove this to me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to believe it either, like I said, I knew she felt that way, but I was scared. Scared of hurting her and scared of her hurting me. For someone who has never been in love with anyone or anything besides racing, you can sense my hesitation here.
“Why do you love her?” she asked finally. I thought she knew but I don’t know if I’d told anyone. Up until that point, I had yet to say the words out-loud.
“I love her ...” My voice failed for a moment. Clearing my throat, I tried again. “I love her because when she looks at me she doesn’t see a famous race car driver or the son of Jimi Riley ... she has always just seen me. She sees the stalwartly but jaded side that can only think of racing, yet she is still there for me whenever I need her.”
Mom offered the only advice she had, which seemed easy but wasn’t.
“Follow your heart, honey. Fate has a funny way of sorting itself out.”
When the door to my motor coach closed behind her, I fell back against the couch again, left alone with my thoughts.
If only I could escape them, too.
I was beginning to hate myself for the simple fact that this moody, over-analytical asshole wouldn’t shut the fuck up.
I didn’t pay a lot of attention in school because it didn’t hold my interest. No car, I paid no mind. I did, however, enjoy mythology and remember the story of Fortuna, the goddess of fortune and personification of luck in Roman religion and the goddess of fate. Presently life’s capriciousness, she would be represented as either veiled or blind as in the modern depictions of Justice. Representing good or evil, fortune or misfortune, basically, fucked, or not.
I tend to believe you make your own fortune and your own fate. It’s on you, not others. Too bad I couldn’t listen to my own advice.
Later that day, before the drivers’ meeting and introductions, a few girls hunted me down when my team and I were having lunch at my motor coach.
Usually I never conversed while signing autographs other than simple greetings, but these girls tried hard, so I chatted for a moment hoping they’d leave and I could finish eating before the race.
“How are you guys?” I tried not to look at them, both dressed in barely anything, I didn’t want them thinking I was checking them out. “Enjoying the pre-race activities?”
“Now that we met you, yes,” they both replied with enthusiasm.
Spencer and Aiden started laughing from behind me as the girls clung to each one of my arms, snapping photos.
I thought maybe that would be the end of it after a few pictures were taken but they didn’t leave. They hung around at my motor coach as if they were part of the team, mingling with my crew.
“Listen, I signed your autographs but this is my only place to escape,” I bit harshly when they sat next to me. If my tone didn’t set the mood for them, my glare did.
Let me tell you something. I’m an asshole. I know this for an absolute fact. Always have been. Believe me when I say it’s been a point brought up every day by all my family members. So given my permanent status on the asshole bench, I’m never sure when I am being one, but it seemed that way now.
“We just wanted to have a little fun with you,” the brunette told me meekly. “You don’t have to be mean about it.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose before my hand slammed down on the table next to me, glasses and silverware shook on the wooden table. “I’m trying to enjoy a meal. I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.”
Some people think drivers should be available all the time. And if you’re thinking to yourself, they’re NASCAR drivers, not rock stars, how bad can it be?
Let me tell you something here, it is that bad. At the track, and keep in mind this is my first season in Cup and only my second season in NASCAR all together, I cannot walk from my team hauler to the garage without a swarm of fans following me hounding me for an autograph. It never fails that someone is always there wanting me to sign their shirt, talk to me, or get a picture.
So it comes down to where does a line get drawn?
I’m not sure it ever gets drawn.
Emma, who had remained quiet sitting across from me, jumped up knowing I was moments away from throwing something.
“Do you two even have passes to be back here?”
They both looked dumbfounded. Apparently they didn’t have passes.
Within minutes, Emma had them escorted away.
“Thanks,” I said, when she returned.
“They were even annoying me,” she moaned. “You have a meeting with Simplex and Donco in about twenty minutes.”
And just like that, my only chance at alone time was now gone.
“Of course I do,” I replied standing. “God forbid I have a moment to myself.”
For so long I tried not to let any of this break me but whether you want them to or not, pieces of you are broken away, falling away like ash from a fire.
Everyone wanted a piece of me, but I’ll tell you something, there was a piece of me they’d never reach. They’d never have that defiant side that was persistently focused on what he wanted, took over to be a champion in the highest-level racing had to offer me, the NASCAR Winston Cup.