The Champion (Racing on the Edge)

by Stahl, Shey

  I was always in a shitty mood when I had to get up early but when I was away from my family, it was worse.

  Once I was surrounded by the obligations of the day, I was grumpy and that was never a good thing. Just ask Emma who was currently shoving posters in my face while I glared at her.

  “How many more these do you have?”

  “Just sign them asshole.” She replied with a smile handing over another.

  Standing outside my hauler, I looked down the row of eighteen-wheelers lined up along the paddock. It was nice not to have to walk as far this year.

  All the haulers in the paddock were lined up by the previous season’s points. This meant I was now first in line instead of last like I was last year. Made for less walking that’s for sure.

  I had some time to kill after my interview with ESPN before the race started so I sent Sway a text message, which she didn’t return. It just made me miss her even more because I imagined she was incredibly busy with Axel and it made me want to be there for them.

  Speedweek flew by just the same as it did last year. The Budweiser shootout seemed to blur right into the Duel 125’s with all the sponsorship commitments I had along with the unending amount of press. I was never alone these past few weeks and if I was, I was sleeping, alone.

  Sway couldn’t bring Axel to the race so she stayed home, which was incredibly frustrating but I knew I needed to get used to it.

  I think I’ve said this before but each season, rules changed, drivers changed, owners changed and sponsors changed. The beginning of the season was a time for change.

  Even the name of the series had changed sponsorship.

  Since 1972, the cup series had always been referred to as Winston Cup. Now it was being called the Nextel Cup series.

  The new season brought with it new rookies needing to prove themselves. I went easy on them because not only was I in their shoes last year, but I was trying to be the better man this season and not be such a hothead.

  That newfound optimism ended when I had a run-in with Gibson Racing’s new driver, Colin Shuman.

  His first remark to me when we met at the drivers meeting was, “So you’re the chump that couldn’t stand up against Darrin?”

  “Don’t pay him any mind.” Bobby Cole, my teammate with Riley Racing, told me.

  Not only was I appalled by the irreverence of Colin Shuman, I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach at the mention of Darrin’s name, and reacted as such.

  “Shut the fuck up.” I told him as I took a few steps in his direction. Bobby and Tate had to grab me by the arms. “You have no idea what happened so I suggest you keep your goddamn mouth shut.”

  Kyle was by my side in an instance along with Mason, Aiden and Spencer.

  Immediately, I was thinking that this season would be a repeat of the shit I went through last season with Darrin but it wouldn’t be...I refused to let it be.

  The reporters were relentless with the questions about Darrin, and how I’d dealt with it over the off-season. The questions also swirled around my personal life and marriage with Sway, all of which I answered with the same answer.

  “It’s great.”

  As far as I was concerned, that was all they needed to know.

  Before long, I found myself inside the car waiting for the green flag.

  “Let’s have a good day out here bud. We are the defending champions. Let’s show them what we’re made of and start this season off right.” Kyle, my crew chief, said as I finished adjusting my belts.

  “10-4,”

  “Pull your belts tight. It’s a long race. We’ve got five hundred miles so take your time.”

  Envisioning the race in my head as I always did, my thoughts drifted to Sway and the baby. I wondered what they were doing right about now and frustrated that I wasn’t able to hear her voice this morning.

  Last season during my rookie year, I had something to prove to everyone coming into the Daytona 500. Though that hadn’t changed, it was a different kind of establishment. It was showing everyone I was a champion.

  I wasn’t optimistic and I certainly wasn’t hopeful as you can’t be in racing. Instead, I was sure.

  When you think about it, as a race car driver—your education never ends. Other drivers would school you any chance they got so you always had to be on your game. Every race, every track, every turn was a test of endurance, skill and disposition, a chance for you to demonstrate how much you knew and how much you have left to learn.

  On tracks like Daytona and Talladega, you would run wide-open, holding the throttle down the entire lap. The only way for you to go faster was by drafting. The lead car will cut a hole in the air while the other cars draft behind. You can either ride the free air all day—using less fuel—or you can use it as a passing tool.

  If you’re passing, when you’ve gotten momentum, you can swing out and pass. Sounds simple but it’s not. Drafting is mysterious game. You either know it or you don’t. It takes practice to learn how the air moves over the cars and the feeling of the way the car moves through that air. Some never figure it out just like some never figure out the grooves in dirt racing. It’s a talent or an art if you will. There are times when you think you’ve got it figured out and one wrong move of just an inch and you’ve been schooled by the superspeedway. You know nothing.

  Kyle and Mason talking strategy interrupted my thoughts during the warm up laps.

  “Stick with Cole and Harris. It’s our best chance at getting to the front.”

  “Green flag this time by,” Kyle told me. “Push Harris in front of you, line up behind him.”

  Once the green flag dropped, I was on a mission. Tate and I worked together to move to the front. Daytona was a track that required drafting. If you fell out of line, you were hung out to dry.

  I was running third, behind Shuman within a few laps and I’m not all that surprised we went from our nineteenth starting spot to third in twenty laps. My car was awesome and I was ready for him. He was too obvious with his movements so I could tell he was going to block me high. His movements were jerky and predictable, he was nervous being his first cup race and he knew I was faster.

  Tate, who was lined up behind me, tapped into my frequency, “I’m with you when you go,”

  I could feel beads of sweat trickling down my face under my helmet, even with my cool air system; I was sweating like crazy. My entire body felt like it was on fire.

  “Outside at your door,” Aiden announced, “Middle two. The ten and the ninety are with you,”

  I could see Austin Kennedy in my periphery but I was just a fraction of a second quicker and that was all I needed to pull in front of him going into turn two.

  Austin darted in behind Cole two positions back in the draft leaving Shuman out to dry.

  Every muscle was burning from the exertion of racing at Daytona as I fought each second not to fall out of line.

  “Fourteen coming strong behind you,” Aiden said.

  Have I ever mentioned how much I hate seeing that number fourteen again? I’m sure with my dislike for the actual number, you can gather me and Colin would never be friends.

  Some five laps later, I was not expecting Shuman to take the air off me some and send me into the wall with his kamikaze drafting.

  “Fourteen never lifted. Hit the wall in turn four, right side flat.” Aiden told the crew. “Twenty-nine outside...clear...keep it low.”

  Way to start the season!

  I immediately thought to myself. Nothing was worse than spending the entire off-season preparing for the new season only to wreck the first race out.

  Of course, this pissed me off. I flashed a few hand gestures and pushed against him when the caution came out with my mangled car. I was amazed I was able to drive it away after that.

  “Motherfucker!” I yelled and bumped him once more, he pushed back offering his own hand gestures.

  It wasn’t a friendly hello.

  I was almost positive this would result in som
e words with NASCAR after the race and possibly some words with Shuman, which I’d be ready for after his earlier comments.

  Kyle came over the radio as I pulled onto pit road, “Calm down bud, we can still pull through with a decent finish here.”

  Aiden was also yelling something about me being out of control that I couldn’t make out because of all the commentary on my behavior my dad was now contributing to the conversation.

  “I wonder if I could drive without the radio?” I asked myself during the pit stop.

  “You copy Riley?” Cole asked once I made it back up front after pitting twice to repair the damage.

  “Fourteen at your door...clear.” Aiden interrupted.

  “10-4, I think we should hold up.” I said to Bobby. “The track’s changing out here,”

  “I agree. I was tight and now I’m loose. If we could get some momentum we could stretch it out.”

  “Stay with me, I think we can make it to the front if we stick together.”

  Kyle kept yelling for me to keep myself in check because I was extraordinarily aggressive the rest of the race, as were Cole and Harris. I couldn’t help it and neither could they. First race of the season and this Shuman asshole was already trying to take me out like Darrin.

  Cole and Harris, well after last season, were protective of me on the track. It explained their aggression on the track.

  Anytime you add a new driver into the Cup series, they earned that rookie strip to be taken off their car. At this rate, Shuman wasn’t earning his.

  Gibson Racing really knew how to pick drivers.

  Cole, Harris and I made it to the front but it wasn’t enough to compete with Paul Leighty.

  “Good job bud. Way to pull through with a good finish.” Kyle said as we crossed the finish line.

  We managed to snag a fourth place finish and just as I expected, NASCAR officials along with Tate, Bobby and Colin Shuman immediately surrounded me.

  I knew I was driving like an asshole. I was all over other drivers being intentionally antagonistic so I was not at all surprised when I parked the car after that and Colin started mouthing off.

  Tate shook his head next to me knowing what my reaction would be to this.

  I flashed a quick smile at him and pulled myself from the car, all the while Shuman wouldn’t shut up. Like I said, Gibson knows how to pick em’.

  “I see marriage hasn’t calmed you down.” he smarted off. “Looks like your girl needs to put out for you, relieve some of that pressure so you don’t drive like an asshole all the time.”

  I didn’t say anything, just walked toward Tate as a NASCAR official followed close behind me. I knew I’d get myself in trouble if I said anything. I don’t know why he would feel the need to bring my wife into this but the mere thought of it had me seeing red and worse was the fact that this eighteen-year old kid didn’t seem to realize I was about to kick the shit out of him if he didn’t shut his mouth.

  “Don’t tell me she stopped putting out already?” he snorted as he smiled cockily following me.

  The red overruled and I stopped thinking and started acting. I ripped my gloves and helmet off and started throwing punches at him. This kid was clearly an asshole and needed to be put in his place, I felt the need to do that with my fists just to show him how much I appreciate his commentary and thoughts on my private life.

  I was only trying to teach him a lesson, school him off the track.

  Tate did nothing but stand-back and watch while an official pulled me off him. When I looked back at him, I realized I did some pretty decent damage too. I’m sure I’d broken his nose with the amount of blood coming from it and maybe bruised his ribs a little. I was hoping I had cracked a couple after his comment about my wife putting out.

  Along with the ever present reporters, the NASCAR official was in my face instantly, threatening to suspend me, which then caused me to start yelling back at him because, goddamn it, he was standing there the entire time. He was close enough to hear him taunting me.

  Apparently, in NASCAR’s rules, taunting doesn’t equal as ass kicking, who knew. I guess I didn’t read that section of the rulebook. It must be under detrimental to the sport, but taunting was not. But I’ll tell you what. That detrimental to the sport shit was sure beneficial for them as the screaming fans still in their seats right now watching this will attest.

  Kyle and Spencer pulled me away from the official who I was about to show the same lesson to. It took both of them to pull me away, forcing me toward the NASCAR Hauler.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Kyle snapped pushing me forward.

  “He...that...he was saying shit...and I...fuck!” I couldn’t even string a damn sentence together and I noticed that most of my words were coming out in the form of profanity. I’d lost it once again. Just when you think you have control over yourself and everything you learned had taught you something you realize once again, you’re no different than any other animal and always fighting for survival.

  “Stop this shit!” Kyle said incredulously, yelling in my face. “I thought you would have learned with Darrin!”

  Kyle knew better than to get in my face, or maybe he didn’t. Either way, it just riled me up even further.

  The fact that I was away from Sway, that it was the first race of the season and some kid tried to fuck with me by talking shit about my wife, had me in somewhat of an emotional, hormonal, testosterone and adrenaline mess.

  “Don’t ever mention his name around me again, Kyle.” I warned jerking my arm away from him.

  “Calm down,” he huffed and stalked inside the hauler.

  After a few deep breaths, I headed inside to face the fire.

  Shuman was leaving just as I walked inside. We exchanged a heated glare but other than that, he avoided me and for good reason.

  I chuckled to myself that he was holding a towel to his face.

  After a few minutes there fuming with Kyle, Lisa opened the door and motioned for me to come in. Kyle waited as she didn’t want to see him yet.

  “It’s good to see you Lisa.” I kicked my feet up on her desk after I took a seat in the leather chair to the left of her desk.

  “Feet down Riley,” She snapped but smiled despite her clipped tone.

  I was surprised to see I was joking around considering my shit-tacular mood.

  “First of all...congratulations on the baby,” she smiled. “I hear he’s cute.”

  “Pft...look at his dad...why wouldn’t he be cute?”

  She smiled and clicked her pen obsessively. “I see fatherhood hasn’t calmed the Rowdy Riley down, has it?”

  “Oh please, that fucker was asking for it.”

  “Regardless, just because you’re a champion, doesn’t mean you can go around starting fights. You need to act like a champion. Going out there and roughing up the rookies is not the way to conduct yourself. Especially after last season.”

  Of course she would refer to last year.

  Everyone seemed to like to remind me of what happened as though I forgot. Fuck no I didn’t forget. Every single time I looked at my wife, I was reminded. Every time I looked at my son, I was reminded. And every time I looked at the championship trophy, I was reminded of how I got past it. Why they thought that reminding me would be beneficial to me, when I constantly reminded myself, was stupid.

  I stood immediately, my temper rising again.

  “I didn’t start it!”

  “Sit down.” Her glare had me sitting. “I know you didn’t start it but I’m not going to put up with shit this season. Act like an adult. Walk away for once.”

  I had no comeback for that one because when I thought about what I just said, I was acting like a child. I only nodded after that as she told me I was being fined but she wouldn’t issue a probation if I kept out of trouble.

  I left after that, only to be stopped by my dad.

  “Where have you been?” he asked following in step beside me.

  “Uh...bathroom?”

&nb
sp; “Bullshit.” His eyes narrowed. “You were in the NASCAR Hauler, weren’t you?”

  My eyes flickered to his but I kept looking straight ahead while a group of fans approached us. I shrugged once. “I just wanted to say hello to Lisa.”

  “Yeah...I’m sure.” He replied and signed a few autographs beside me.

  “You wanna catch some dinner before I fly home?”

  I hadn’t had seen much of my dad since New Year’s. He left right after the holiday to prepare for the World of Outlaws season. Their series actually started in late January as opposed to mine that started in February. Being the owner of the team I raced for, he must have thought his presence was needed at the first race.

  The fans around us distracted him so I asked again. “Dinner?”

  “Sure.” He agreed with a nod. “How’re Sway and Axel?”

  I felt a huge smile graze my lips.

  “Good. I can’t wait to see them.” Smiling even wider when I saw she was calling me. I hadn’t seen her and Axel in nearly three weeks and I couldn’t wait to get home tonight.

  “I’ll bet.” My dad smiled and shook his head as I answered my phone.

  5. Blister – Sway

  Blister – An overheating of the tread compound resulting in bubbles on the tire surface.

  “I’ve had a good forty-two years, Sway.” Charlie said randomly, his breathing labored as he lounged around my family room. “I’ve done everything I wanted to do.”

  “Don’t talk like that, dad.” I told him throwing a cookie his direction. “I don’t want to think about it.”

  I knew by his appearance it was any time now but just as I have always done, I denied it. Avoided it. I’d perfected denial to the point where it worked well for me.

  Emma had flown in this morning so when Charlie started talking about dying, she was bawling. “Stop it.” I whispered throwing a cookie at her as well.

  “I’m trying...it’s just that...” she burst into tears again and shoved another cookie in her mouth.