Page 49 of Trading Paint
This was most certainly not going to go over well with my parents and I felt relieved when I pulled down the circle driveway to see dad’s truck was gone. I snuck out back pulling his car Aston Martin into the race shop so I could fix the dent Emma put in the door.
I felt pretty good walking into the house. Not only had I successfully boosted my first car and raced my sprint car around the city but Spencer had been arrested. This pleased me.
When I rounded the corner, Jimi yelled, his face turning red, “You kids are assholes! I can’t believe this shit. One kid wrecks my car, the other breaks into the impound lot after taking his fucking race car for a joy ride around town and the other...Christ,” he glanced around the room. “Where the fuck did Spencer go?”
“Jail,” I answered sheepishly securing a position against the wall a good distance away from him in case he decided to throw something at me.
“Jail?”Mom asked looking over at me.“Like in prison?”
“Well no, not like prison. Like in the county jail,” I clarified with a chuckle. “The sheriff picked him up.”
At that moment, if possible, dad had steam coming out his ears when I held my hands up. “It was a total misunderstanding.” I added.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Sway walked in, not knowing my parents were standing in the living room.
“That was a close one but Idon’tthink—” she sighed when she saw my parents. “Shit.”
I hid my head in my hands.
Not that my parents or Charlie ever got terribly upset about the shit we did around town but they weren’t happy about this one. It was classified as a breaking and enteringandstealing a vehicle.
Seventeen and we already had a B & E and boosting on our records, awesome.
It’s not like that was our first run-in with the law and I doubted it would be our last. The next day, it was all over the paper that the Riley kids terrorized the town the night before graduation.
We got a kick out of it. Parents did not.
8.Loading – Jameson
Loading – Loading refers to the weight at a given tire position on a car due to aerodynamics, vehicle weight and lateral G-forces in a turn.
Graduation day finally arrived.
My only thought was that I would be free. No more wondering when I could leave this shady Northwest town and pursue my dreams, this was it. I would be able to do what I’ve been working for all these years whichisto run all three series in the USAC divisions.
I decided I was going to race Bucky’s car for him in the USAC Midget Series and then I would get seat time in both the USAC Silver Crown and Sprint Car divisions with the car dad gave me with the sponsorship help from Bowman Oil.
This wouldn’t pay for everything but it helped. Dad agreed to provide the cars but I had to pay for what sponsorship didn’t cover.
I had money saved up from my winnings over the years in the various races and of course, mom deposited money in my checking account, which I hated, but to make this dream come true, you needed money. Racingain’tcheap.
My dad provided a few cars and a hauler for us to use but everything else I had to take care of.
Even with my dad’s help, it’s impossible to do this on your own so this left me searching for more sponsorship; sponsorship he could help me find.
Once we found sponsorship to help us then this goes back to exposure for the sponsor.
How much exposure could I provide them?
You have to sell the product for them. You need to show positive publicity and win. The more you win, the more exposure they get, in turn this promotes sales for them.
Here’s the thing though. When you’re seventeen, you don’t care about any of that. You just want to race. You don’t give a shit about the tremendous expectations they put on you—the glaring spotlight from the media—or the harsh criticism that stings each time you have a bad night at the track.
You’re there to race and that’s all that matters.
But that’s not all that matters when you find sponsorship. Suddenly it becomes a job. Something you did for fun becomes your means of income and something you’re expected to do and do well.
You’re a puppet for them.
