Right?
FOUR
DEAN
Short track racingis about to begin here at Bristol, where the miles are short and the tempers are even shorter. With all the beating and banging this track is known for, I’m sure things are about to get wild.
This week’s gem on my arm is a smoking hot, tall model that slid into my DMs when she learned that this week’s race was close to her photoshoot location. What’s her name again? Starts with an N, I think. Natalie? Nicole? Natasha?
Does it really matter, though?
Having a smoke-show be with me all race weekend is always an ego boost. It’s become my reputation around the garage. I’m fortunate enough where I usually have an inbox full of grid girls waiting for me to pick them to be with me at the next race.
After my confrontation with Brady yesterday, having the extra boost is great. She just knows how to get under my skin. And I fucking hate it. I need to keep calm and focus on the goal for this race: to keep gaining as many points as possible.
Unfortunately, I wrecked the car in practice and had to go with a backup car. Now, I’m starting in the rear of the field instead of my qualified position. This is why we bring abackup car, but traffic during this race is going to be the main battle.
I trust my crew chief, Steve Lansing, who sits on top of the toolbox on pit road, and my spotter, who has a bird’s eye view of the track to monitor the conditions and help spy openings for me to pass, as well as avoid any accidents along the way.
Steve is known for keeping new talent in line and making sure that they don’t get too big for their britches, as people tend to say about rookies. That’s what he has been doing for me since I started in SCORS. He does well with keeping my temper in check and prevents me from acting out of anger—most of the time, anyway. There have been a few times when I’ve lost control and my anger boiled over, but he does his best to not let it get to that point.
Once opening ceremonies are complete, I’m strapped into my car and pulling the harness down and tight over my shoulders, pushing me into my seat and ready to fire the engine. Steve is already coming in over the radio through my earpiece.
“Be smart, take your time, and don’t let your temper take control of you.”
“Let’s get it done today, boys,” I reply, keeping my tone light.
Rolling out onto the track behind the pace car, everyone in the field lines up, following it around the track as we wait for the green flag to wave to signal the start of the race. As soon as the field picks up speed, I’m immediately able to start passing cars to gain as many positions as I can.
As the beginning laps fall into a steady rhythm, the handling of my car starts to fade, and I’m struggling to pass more cars. We have to wait until the next scheduled stop under green flag conditions, or hope for a yellow caution flag. Luckily, the yellow lights illuminate around the trackindicating the caution has come out, and the field slows down behind the pace car once again.
My radio comes to life with Steve in my ear. “A car in the back spun. How’s she handling?” he asks so he can make the appropriate adjustments.
“I’m super loose,” I call. “Need to tighten it up. I’m not able to gain any ground.”
“Alright. Adjustments, fuel, and four tires coming your way.”
Being loose is not ideal, meaning the rear end of the car is trying to kick out to the side as I go into a turn, and risk spinning out or hitting the wall. On the opposite end, being too tight isn’t great, either. That reduces the ability to turn, and it could send the car straight up into the wall at almost full speed. The key is working with the car and the track conditions to find the perfect balance.
His voice is calm and collected, which keeps me calm and collected. I know he can do his job, and he knows I can do mine. I come down pit road with a gaggle of other cars. It’s a busy place with cars dipping in and out of their assigned stalls, and crews jumping over the wall with tires, air guns, and large fuel cans.
I come to a stop as my pit crew rushes around my car, changing tires, adding fuel, and making adjustments, all within a few seconds. It’s my favorite kind of choreographed dance. As soon as the jack operator drops the jack, that’s my signal to leave my pit stall and get back out on the racetrack.
We make it out a few spots ahead of where we came in, so I will call that a successful stop. With a good pit stop, you should be able to get in, get your services, and get out either in the same position you came in at or better. The race restarts and I can finally start moving through traffic again. I’m in the top twelve, and my spotter tells me that Brady is in the top five.
There is still plenty of time for me to catch her, and with the new adjustments, I think it’s possible.
The race is back in a nice rhythm until I see smoke ahead of me. My spotter comes over the radio to tell me where to go since now, I can’t see a fucking thing.
“Stay high. The cars in front of you are coming down the track,” he says. I move up the track to do as I’m told, and I’m fortunate enough to miss them. “Good job. Looks like Taylor got swept up in that one.”
It’s been a while since that first caution, so pit road will once again become hectic. After everyone does their stops, I move up to eighth, and Brady is still in the top five.
The laps are winding down quickly now, and I’ve been able to catch up to Brady—finally. I follow her line as best I can to ensure that I don’t lose her.
I’m so focused on Brady that I almost don’t notice that Ian Hicks has become much larger in my rearview mirror. Once I see him, I’m so focused on keeping him behind me, I enter a corner too fast and run myself up the racetrack toward the wall. I regain control of my car without hitting it, but that causes Hicks to get by me.
“Shit!” I yell.
