ONE
REGAN
Sweat rolls down my back,tickling my skin as I rev the engine, diving deep into the first turn of Bristol Motor Speedway for my qualifying run for tomorrow’s race. The roar of the engine thundering underneath my body pulls me into my happy place. There’s nothing like the smells and the sounds of the racetrack. The scent of fuel and tire rubber burns itself into my nose. This is where I feel the most at home—at peace.
“Alright, this is your last chance to beat your last lap time to get that pole position,” my crew chief calls into my ear through the radio.
“I’ll give it all I’ve got, Dad,” I respond.
I push my car to its absolute limits. To the point where I can feel the car wanting to lose control, but I hang on as tight as I can. I cross the start/finish line and slow down to come back into the pits.
“Good enough for second. Good run, Reg,” Dad says as I come to a stop.
I climb out through the window of the car. Once my feet are firmly on the ground, I start to remove my gear. I take off my helmet, HANS device—Head and Neck Supportdevice—and place everything back into the hauler that carried the car and all of our equipment that we need for each race weekend.
My dad is Karsen Brady, two-time Cup Series champion and racing legend. He is considered to be one of the greats in racing. Usually following names like Dale Earnhardt and Richard Petty, and even if you’re not a follower of racing, you’ve probably at least heard of those names before.
Since I could reach a set of pedals, I’ve been racing. I’ve always wanted to be out on the track proving that I can kick everyone’s asses.
Most of the time, I do.
I started racing karts and dirt cars, and now I’m in the Stock Car Outlaw Racing Series, or SCORS. It’s a step below the big leagues, the Cup Series. Anyone who is anyone in racing wants to end up there—to be able to race among the “big guns.”
Racing is everything to me. The track has been my home away from home since my mom passed away from cancer when I was ten. I do my best to try not to think about what happened to her, and try to only remember the times before she got sick. It’s been eleven years since her passing, but it’s still too hard to fully think about.
Especially her last days in the hospital. She was so thin and frail. Everyone always says how much I look like Dad. Except my eyes. I have Mom’s beautiful hazel eyes. I see her every time I look in the mirror.
They tried every treatment possible, but the cancer was too advanced, and I think eventually, she accepted what was happening to her. She had gripped my hand tight, told me that she loved me, and that she would always be with me. I cried so hard when Dad told me she was gone. I knew he was hurting, too, and I was so mad and sad, and every other emotion under the sun.
Dad still goes to her grave, every birthday, holiday, the anniversary of her passing. I used to go with him, but after awhile, I just couldn’t go anymore. I hate seeing Dad’s face fall every time I tell him I’m not going, but it just hurts too much.
Ever since then, it’s been just me and Dad. I used to stay home with Mom during the racing season in my hometown just outside of Charlotte, but when she got sick, we all joined Dad on the road. After she passed, I stayed with him. I did home-school online until I finished high school, and from there, I started racing full time.
Now, here I am, my third year in SCORS, still trying to make a name for myself that doesn’t include my dad. I’m taking my low ponytail down when Dad comes into the hauler.
“Great run there, kiddo,” he says with a big smile. The one that he and I share.
“Thanks. Sucks we didn’t get that pole position,” I say.
“It’s not where you start, but where you finish. You did a great job.”
He always knows what to say to make me feel better. I always put a lot of pressure on myself, but this year, the pressure is extra high. One spot has opened up in the Cup Series, and it’s ready and waiting for next season. This year’s SCORS champion claims that open spot—it has to be mine. I haven’t put in all this work for all these years for it not to happen.
I’m not saying that other drivers don’t put in the work.
They do.
But not only am I a woman in a male dominated sport, fighting like hell to show that I belong here, I feel like I have to prove that I’m more thanKarsen Brady’s daughter.That I’m not just another spoiled rich kid riding off their parent’s name. Something that happens frequently in this sport.
I’m nothing like that. I’m one of the few drivers who’s in the shop all week, working with the team, getting their hands dirty. A good portion of the drivers just let their crew do the work to set up the cars before each race.
Not me.
I like knowing everything about my car before climbing into it. I want to fully understand how everything works so that on race day, as we make adjustments, I can give Dad better feedback to improve the handling.
Every season since I was a rookie, the other drivers would make snide comments about my abilities and knowledge of the car. What irritates me the most is when they assume that I’m only successful because of who my dad is, that if it weren’t for my last name and my dad owning the race team, I wouldn’t have made it this far.
More than once, I’ve been told that a woman will never be a top contender. And I’m here to prove them all wrong.
