Page 98 of The Champion
“I really am sorry but I need to get going.” I began towalk away when I heard the guy lean over to his friend and mutter,“What ajerk.”
That type of snide comment irritated me to no end. Iwanted to turn around and say, “Fuck you!” but didn’t. I had just stood theresigning autograph after autograph for these fans and when I finally need todraw a line to the madness they act as though I blew them off. You can’t winwith it and I began to realize I shouldn’t care.
These fans blow us up to be these heroes. We’re people,we’re racers where nothing else matters but the noise and I think at times,they forget we’re actual people with lives outside of the tracks too. Some fallvictim to the fame and become the image created for them, no longer knowingthemselves because god forbid they should be disappointingly normal. We’repeople though and the fans and media forget that from time to time.
“Daddy, what I do?” Axel asked me putting his helmet overhis untidy mess of rusty curls.
I smiled watching his excited eyes.
I still remember the first time I sat in one of thosecars and my first race, which was at this very track. I was so amped up Ihardly listened to my dad’s advice but thought I should give Axel the same.
“All right this is similar to what you see Grandpa anddaddy do in sprint cars. Tommy is going to push start you, okay?”
Axel nodded with enthusiasm, his helmet visor flippingshut. He knew race talk.
I had to chuckle. “Get comfortable with the speed before yougo throwing it into the corners okay?” he nodded again. It wasn’t that thesecars exceeded twenty but still, he was four. “This weighs slightly more thanthe go-kart you had so get use to that first. Once you’re in that spinningdrift, that’s not the time to second-guess the speed. You drive it in too hardand you’ll end up in the wall. What happens then?”
“Momma yells at you.” He grinned.
“Exactly,” I patted his helmet and pulled on his beltsbefore Tommy pushed him off. As I expected, he knew exactly what do to and thelittle red Honda fired to life.
“It’s hard to believe he’s big enough to be doingthis.” Van said linking his fingers in the chain link fence we leaned against.
“I know. It’s seems like just yesterday Sway gave birthto him.”
Van laughed when Axel, who’d been pushing up the trackwith each lap, bounced the right rear off the outside cushions like I alwaysdid, as did my dad. It’s a feeling every dirt-tracker knows and is comfortablewith but once that right rear hits the outside cushions, it jolts your carforward giving you that added boost needed to pass when slower cars get buncheddown on the rails.
Axel made another five laps before I walked back downonto the front stretch where he stopped when he saw me. Like I told him, hepulled it out of gear before flipping his visor up. I watched him rub his eyesjust as I always did. I’m still amazed at how much he picks up from me just bywatching.
“I do good?” his eyes held hesitation.
“You did great little man.” I told him. “That last lap wasfaster than mine when I was your age.
The hesitation vanished. “Mama will be proud of me.”
He tried so hard to make everyone proud of him, whenreally, just having him around was enough for us. I don’t know where he evergot that he needed to make us proud of him but it didn’t stop him from trying.
“Can I go again?”
“Sure buddy. This is for you. Let me know when you’redone.” I leaned in closer. “Do you want me to track your lap times?”
He nodded. “Yeah,”
I kept track of everything I could for him; from laptimes to tire pressure and technique. It wasn’t like I needed to do that with aquarter midget but it made him feel special and that’s what today was about.
Growing up around the track, Axel already knew the basicsin dirt track racing. He spent countless hours asking questions of me, Justin,Tyler, and my dad on how to race on dirt.
I managed to get him buckled in the car on the way to thebirthday party before he started with his questions.
“How come,” this was how all his questions began, “when Ihit toes holey things...I not steer verygood.” His adorable voice had me smiling. He reminded me of Lane at this agewhen he frequently missed words when talking.
“Those are called ruts buddy.” I started telling him moreabout the ruts and didn’t leave anything out. I also talked to him as though hewas another adult. My dad always did that to me and I always felt that helpedmy career more than the opportunities he provided me did. “The ruts are causedfrom wheelspin. You’d think the track would be nice and smooth but it’s rough,huh?” He nodded, listening closely as we pulled out of the pits. “Tracks with alot of moisture, like Elma, can form ruts and if your car isn’t set up to rollover the ruts, the consequence is often a crash. Normally when your car hitsthe ruts you want it to ride over it but if the tire catches the rut, all thecar’s weight is then transferred to the right rear causing the car to rollover. It’s worse in sprint cars because of the staggered tires.”
“Why are they stammered?”
“Staggered,” I corrected him. “They’re staggered for anumber of reasons. For one, it helps the car turn left. Essentially this willwork in your favor but sometimes it won’t. The rear tires are the only onesstaggered meaning the left rear is smaller than the right rear.”
“Why?”
