Page 8 of Trading Paint
When we pulled back into the pits, dad was out of his car as quickly as he could, Sway was jumping up and down with Tommy while Spencer offered a head nod, trying to remain cool about it. Being seventeen now, he thought he was a badass but I could see he was proud of me. Returning the head nod, I turned toSwayrunning to congratulate me.
“You were awesome out there!” she yelled launching herself at me.
“Fuck yeah!” I screamed pumping my fist in the air when dad sprayed beer all over us.
He was all smiles.
“Did you let me win?” I asked hesitantly when he pulled me in for a hug.
He pulled back ruffling my beer soaked hair. “Do you honestly think I’d let my overconfident fourteen-year old son beat me?”
He had a good point.
“No.”
“You earned that one. Remember it.”
And I would remember it. Of all the races I’d ever raced in, all the championships I’d wonthatwin at that quarter mile clay track in Bloomington Speedway stands out.
It was the day I grasped the meaning of the bigger picture and what I was capable of.
That was also the night I had my first beer—a well-deserved beer. Underage yes, but it was a cause for celebration and that we did.
Throwing back beers with my idols was humbling even for a cocky kid like me.
My dad started racing when he was old enough to reach the pedals of his custom mini sprint grandpa designed for him.
My grandpa, Casten Riley, began racing with the moonshiners and rebels of the sport but never had a chance to race in any sanctioned race. When he was twenty-six he wrapped his car around a tree nearly paralyzing him and he never raced again.
Instead, he focused on building sprint cars where his real passion was and once my dad was born grandpa had him racing the cars as soon as he could reach the pedals.
Now, CST Engines is one of leading engine manufacturers in the mid-west for sprint cars.
While grandpa built the cars from the ground up, dad raced them.
In 1978, he began racing the World of Outlaws series in Knoxville, Ohio. He’d won more championships and races than any other driver in the series had.
I was surrounded by renowned greats.
Sitting next to me, Sway smiled while dad and Bucky swapped stories about their early days in the series.
“You’re eating this up, aren’t you?”
I smiled back at her nudging her shoulder with my own. “You have no idea.”
I knew she had an idea of how I felt. She always did.
During the winter was the only time of year that our family was together and it was usually only for about two weeks before dad headed off to Tulsa for the Chili Bowl Midget Nationals.
I, for one, was in favor of the off-season this year. You don’t realize how unending these seasons can be until November rolls around and you start counting down the time until you get a break.
A few weeks into the off-season and I was ready for more.
This last year I’d raced in nineteen sprint car races, four World of Outlaw feature events, and twenty-three midget races. I also ran the Clay Cup Nationals, Turkey Night, and managed to pull off a track championship at Elma and placed third in the Night before the 500 at Indianapolis.
I was exhausted.
The winter of ‘95, my parents planned a trip to Jacksonville Beach in Florida so we spent Thanksgiving there.
