Page 208 of Trading Paint
Another hundred laps into the race, we were coming up on a pack of lapped cars. “You’ve got company ahead, hold your lines.” Aiden told me.
It literally felt like I’d been inside the car for eight hours, I was exhausted, mentally and physically. Sometime after lap 350, I was mumbling to myself and still leading.
Jesus Christ, where is the checked flag when you need it.I’d even settle for a caution right now.
Soon the caution did come out but the crew fucked it up again and I ended up seventh, yes— seventh!
I kept my cool on that one but when I made it to the lead again—and then fell back to third on the next stop—I lost it. My screaming into the radio even rung in my ears but honestly, I had a right to be upset. You cannot win these races without all aspects of your team lining up. You need to be on your game, the spotter needs to be paying attention, the crew chief needs to make the right calls and the pit crew; they needed to be perfect.
This time, it was harder getting to the front, with a few laps remaining, every driver steps it up. A move you could hustle in the beginning of the race suddenly wasn’t an option and could potentially take you out of the race all together. You had to concentrate and look ahead, anticipating what the other driver was going to do. That was every driver but the No. 14 of Darrin Torres—no one could anticipate him.
“I’m bottoming out in three and four.” I told Kyle after the last stop. I was trying desperately to get around Bobby but couldn’t once the green flag dropped again. I only had two laps.
Right now though, I had a bigger problem to worry about. My right rear was slipping on exit and Darrin was getting away. That combined with the dragging in three and four, I was losing ground.
“It’s the coil-bind. It lowers the ride height so you can get more power but it rubs on the splitter. That’s what you’re feeling.”
“10-4,”
When I made it to Darrin on the last lap, flashes of the Winston finish unnerved me. That was unadulterated sacrilege. You don’t fuck with me like that on the track and get away with it and I refused to let him get away. I wanted this win.
“Go for itbud!” Kyle said when the white flagged waved.
My confidence in my car was there so I pushed as hard as I could. Coming out of four, I held my breath and hung on, praying to fucking god I could catch him in time. I think I may have even closed my eyes but I saw we both crossed the line together.
“Who won?”
Please tell me I won!
Darrin pulled ahead of me on the track, slowing his speed, the radio stayed quiet, so I asked again. “Who won?”
“You did bud. Nice racing!” Kyle answered with enthusiasm.
“Yeah!”I screamed. I don’t think I’d ever been so excited to win a race in front of my entire family. Nope, this was the best one, so far, not the Chili Bowl or the Triple Crown,nothing, until tonight. Of all the tracks I raced at, I wanted to win at Charlotte. And it wasn’t just the Winstonrace,I wanted to win the Coca-Cola 600.
Why?
Because that’s the heart of NASCAR racing, always would be. The biggest event was the Daytona 500 but to me, winning at a track that most of the pure bread NASCAR guys called home; that meant something to me. I could do this. Here I was a dirt track racer, showing these asphalt guys a thing or two about talent.
“Not bad from a dirt track racer from Washington, fuck yeah!” I pumped my fist out the window doing a burnout on the grass and then the front stretch in front of the section where my family was. This was for them.
Reaching for the checkered flag, I could see the grandstands and everyone was on their feet cheering.
Stopping on pit road several times, other drivers, officials, crewmembers from other teams, everyone clapped for me. A few said “congratulations” where others just smiled widely.
Tate stopped me and stuck his head in the car. “I’m soproudof you kid!” his hand reached to slap my helmet.
His words held meaning and more implication than he probably understood. A lump formed in my throat, impeding my speech. I simply nodded with a heartfelt smile, trying to control tears from streaming down my face. Once I pulled my car into victory lane, the battle over the tears was harder. My Nana was there jumping up and down, at seventy-two she was jumping. GrandpaCastenwho only smiled when he had a flask in his hand, was clapping. My parents were hugging one another, smiling. Sway, Emma, and Alley, who had Lane, were jumping around with Nana.
My entire family was there waiting. Never in all the racesI’dever won, hadallmy family been there to witness it.
Taking my time to remove my helmet, I detached the hoses connected to me and fought the tears back with a smile.
To most, the emotion swelling to the surface could have gone unnoticed, except to my family.
They knew.
I hadn’t cried for as long as I could remember, not since Spencer smacked me in the junk with a tire iron when I was fourteen. But now—I was losing the battle, one word could have probably set me off. I prayed my dad wouldn’t say anything until I was more controlled. Hearing anything he had to say would have probably sent me over the edge.
