Page 63 of Trading Paint
“That asshole shot me with a staple gun!” she wailed holding her thigh and pointing to Tommy. Her thigh was in fact bleeding.
I turned toward Tommy. “Where the fuck did you find a staple gun?”
He shrugged moving me in front of him as a shield.
“Does it matter?” he asked frantically tugging at my racing suit.
“Apparently it does,” I gestured toSway. “She’s about to kill you.” I told him laughing and moved out of the way.
By the looks of Tommy sprinting through the pits with Sway hot on his ass, I was on my own for the set-up during the next race. There was never a dull moment when Tommy and Sway were at it.
Dad caught me when the horn sounded for the drivers to get to their cars.
“Hey,” he greeted with a smile. He’d been in non-stop hospitality events since he arrived. “How’dyado in your heat?”
“Second,” I told him.
“Did Tommy set back the timing? It’s changing out there.” He looked over his shoulder at the track.
You could see the black shinny spots forming on the front-stretch which meant the trackwasdrying out and resembled asphalt.
When the track turned black like that, the surface had become hard with very little loose material. The moisture evaporated off the first inch of dirt creatingless grip. When that happened, you wanted a softer setup while the track was in that phase reversing the split in the front springs. You could move the weight up to the right of your car and that provided you with more bite where you needed it.
“You should soften the right rear sprint too. It will help.”
I nodded. “I think Tommy and Rick did...but Tommy was also being chased with a hammer so...” I shrugged. “He might have forgotten.”
“A hammer; like an actual hammer?”
“Yes—a hammer,”
“By who?”
“Sway,”
He smiled and reached inside my car to check the ignition timing. Sure enough, Tommy had.
“Well, good luck kid. Hope you get a good finish.” He patted my shoulder; his chin came up arrogantly as he smiled.
“You mean, I hope you finishbutbehind me?” I laughed sliding into my car.
“Somethinglikethat.”
Just when you think that you have a handle on the ways of racing and you begin to think to yourself, “Hey, I can do this.” You race with Jimi Riley, the King of the World of Outlaws and he quickly shows you that you know nothing.
He had been racing in this series for twenty years and some seventeen-year old kid wasn’t going to pull one over on him more than once. I was able to in Bloomington when I was fourteen but I knew I’d need to up my game if I thought I could tonight.
I know I’ve said this before but sprint cars are violent cars. It takes extreme technique and throttle control to get these beasts to maneuver the way you want and one slip and it is over. But in the same sense, you push the car to the edge of control where they hover on out of control and that’s where they will handle the best.
Ten laps into the A-Feature and the track turned into that tire-shredding monster I talked about.
There were more cautions thrown that night than in any other race I’d been in and you couldn’t see shit, just a dirt cloud.
Shey Evans flipped on the backstretch and took out five other cars. A rookie in the series, Dale Weeks, blew a tire and ended up in the guardrail after collecting Justin West, and me, in the same corner. The feature event was taken by the only driver who finished...Jimi Riley.
“What’s the matter...couldn’t stay out of the guardrail?” dad teased when I tossed my broken top wing inside the hauler.
He kissed his trophy just to rub it in some more.
