by Stahl, Shey
Justin was strong but so was Jameson. He couldn’t pull away and slowly, Jameson began taking his line. One slip by either of them and the third place of Bobby Cole would be ready. They raced each other clean but they also never lifted. They both wanted the win just as bad.
Every time Justin came off three, his car would sputter. After two laps Jameson had the exact moment his car did that and passed him on inside. One thing about Jameson was he never passed on this inside, I don’t know why, he just didn’t. Jimi had just pulled his car to the infield and sat on the roll cage watching, by now with one lap to go he was standing on it waving his arms in the air.
Grandpa Casten, who appeared out of nowhere, leaned into my shoulder. “He looks like a fucking idiot out there.”
I assumed he was referring to Jimi at least I hoped because Jameson looked far from an idiot. Every move was smooth and control.
Justin didn’t give up though, stayed right on his outside but when they came out of four, Justin’s tire hit the cushion on the outside. And once again, Jameson was on it and pushed past him just enough to get his front tires over the finish line before Justin.
Jameson won the Chili Bowl Midget Nationals by less than a foot.
The crowd was in an uproar around me but I just sat there staring at him as he spun his midget around in front of turn three where we were all sitting.
Leaving his helmet on, he pulled himself from the car, stood through the top roll bars and pumped his fists in the air while Jimi ran over to him, as did Justin. They all knew how much a win like this meant to Jameson.
The sports announcers swarmed over to them after that and Jameson was still showing an extreme amount of excitement for his win, as was Spencer and Tommy beside me...Grandpa Casten...well, he was busy watching the RedBull girls at the other end of the bleachers to care.
“Jimi,” the announcer tried to push his microphone in his face but he and Jameson were still hugging. It was sweet to see them so happy together. “Jimi,” he tried again. Finally, Jimi turned toward the announcer. “Did you give him advice?”
Jimi laughed.
“If he wants it, I give it.” he looked at Jameson tucked under his arm. “There’s not much I can tell him he doesn’t already know though. He’s been around racing since he was born. He knew what he was doing tonight.” Jimi looked around and motioned to the track. “Obviously,”
“Jameson,” the announcer turned the microphone toward him. Jameson wiped sweat from his face before nodding for him to continue. “How close was Justin to winning or did you have it all along?”
“He’s was pretty damn close! I didn’t think I had it until I saw his struggle coming out of three and saw my opening.”
“How does it feel to win your first Chili Bowl?”
“I don’t know...ask me tomorrow when I’ve calmed down...right now, I’m just in shock!”
Victory Lane was a mad house and I could barely see Jameson once we arrived. There were other drivers, reporters, crewmembers, sponsors, car manufactures...there were people everywhere.
Being a little over five feet tall, I couldn’t get close enough to see him when Tommy picked me up and carried me toward Jameson.
“I’m following orders,” he grunted and hoisted me over his shoulder.
I wasn’t amused.
He set me down in front of Jameson and then before I could move Jameson wrapped his sweaty arms of steel and pulled me tight against him chest.
“Can you believe this?” his voice was breathless and incredibly sexy.
“You did great out there.” I replied pulling back to look at him, his eyes focused on my lips for a second before looking into my eyes. I felt like he wanted to say something, I wanted to say something but we didn’t.
After a moment, he tipped his head in Tate’s direction.
“He wants to introduce me to someone.”
I wasn’t surprised. Tate had big-time sponsors in the Cup series and had been watching Jameson’s every move this week.
Without a doubt, Jameson had rocked the Chili Bowl Midget Nationals. He was like a possessed man on the track racing with consummate skill and showing his immense talent and intelligence for racing.
He was making a name for himself and everyone was seeing that.
They were seeing him as Jameson Riley.
17. Catch Can – Jameson
Catch Can – A small can with a spout that is used to collect the over-spill or run-off from the fuel overflow port when a race car is fueled up during a pit stop. Its use is designed to keep the highly flammable 110-octane gasoline from spilling on the back of the car and ground, which would create a fire hazard. The catch can also allows the air in the tank to escape or vent faster than normal. This is critical for a fast pit stop.
Coming off my Chili Bowl Midget National win, I was in pretty good spirits. I had won against 250 of the best midget racers in the world. Even better news—I was introduced to one of the leading shock manufacturing sponsors in racing—Simplex Shocks and Springs. They sponsored guys like Tate Harris, Adam Parson, and Langley O’Neil. The list was endless and now, I had a chance at landing them as a sponsor.
If this was a relationship, we were in the friend stage, which meant there was a possibility but it wasn’t for sure. I still had to prove myself worthy of a prestigious sponsorship.
Well into my ‘01 season, I was running like a mule. Half way through the new agreement with Bowman Oil and Bucky, I began to feel like some sort of monkey. It was a different track—different city every day. I’d been on the road for the last seven weeks straight and looking at the schedule in front of me, I was sure I wouldn’t see home any time soon. I didn’t do anything besides race, in anything I could. I was running another full season of USAC sprints and midgets along with the World of Outlaws in one of my dad’s cars.
Usually when I got any free time, I’d sneak up to Bellingham and see Sway but these days that was just a far-fetched dream. I hadn’t seen free time in months.
I raced the big events like the Copper Classic, The Hut Hundred, anything to get my name out there, which lead me to the Night before the 500 again that June. I was racing Bucky’s midget that night with the help of Leo Gardner.
Every year on Memorial Day weekend right before the Indianapolis 500, the USAC Divisions held races at Indianapolis Motor speedway called the Night before the 500. Much like the Chili Bowl or The Hut Hundred, all the best attend. So far, I have won this event the last three years in a row. I was feeling pretty good about my chances again.
I will say that racing for Leo was a little strange. I had a feeling that no one ever told him he was no longer in the army. I’m not kidding. I felt as though he was going to make me do push-ups or something. Spencer was not impressed with him either. Apparently he had his sense of humor removed in 1987 but kept the mullet.
He kept yelling things at me all night like, “What the fuck was that?” or “Have you any respect?”
Most of the time I blew him off but I felt like some imbecile around him.
Though I was frustrated throughout the entire race all because of Leo, I managed to pull off my fourth victory in a row and swore I’d never race for Leo Gardner again.
The win wasn’t what surprised me, the fans were. Leo, he yelled at me the majority of the night showed his excitement by yelling in my face as though he was my drill sergeant. Did I mention I hated things on my skin? Yeah well, Leo’s spit in my face wasn’t any different.
Aside from the spit, I hadn’t thought about how popular of a driver I was becoming but by the screams of the fans that night, I’d say I was liked.
Standing there in victory lane, I was missing Sway.
For as long as I could remember, she was there at these types of events, supporting me, keeping me going and now, well I had to rely on text messages and the occasional late night calls.
After the Chili Bowl, we went back to Elma and then she headed off for Bellingham. A few days later, I headed to Florida. I hadn’t seen her since then and i
t was now June...I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d make it without seeing her smiling face. You don’t know how many times I tried to rearrange my schedule to go see her but nothing ever lined up and left an opening.
After Indianapolis, I was on my way to Lernerville for an Outlaw race and then it was off to Milwaukie. Judging by my schedule, it was going to be much longer before I saw Sway again.
I stopped off at a diner outside of Sarver to grab some dinner before my flight to Milwaukie. Sitting in the back of the restaurant in an open booth, I began looking over the menu, my phone ringing non-stop. The waitress noticed and said, “Your phone is ringing.”
“It’s always ringing.” I mumbled checking the number to make sure it wasn’t Sway.
It wasn’t, it was Bucky. He was probably calling to ask why I’d missed the flight to Knoxville last week. These days I was traveling alone. Spencer and Alley came to the majority of the races as did Emma but with the new contract I had for USAC—everything was funded. All I did was show up, drive and collect my sixty percent.
With the World of Outlaw team with my dad, Spencer helped work on the car, Alley did all my scheduling and public relations that I wasn’t allowed to do and Emma was there to annoy me, at least that was my theory. I’m sure she had an actual title but you couldn’t prove that by me.
I checked my message from Bucky, sure enough—he wasn’t pleased about the flight.
I was constantly missing the flights he booked for me. If I was being honest with you, I really did think ten minutes was plenty of time to navigate my way through the airport. I failed to realize there would be other people slowing down the process.
“Say,” the waitress began leaning against the table. She was attractive and I’d be in denial if I didn’t say so but I was trying to get away from the meaningless sexual encounters. For the last three months, I’d managed to stay away from all women. “You’re Jimi Riley’s son...Jameson, aren’t you?”
I didn’t look up but answered. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Wow, I saw your dad in here a couple months ago.” I glanced up at her to see her smiling as if she’d just won the lottery. “He’s really nice.”
I only nodded and handed the menu back to her. “I’ll take the bacon and eggs, scrambled,” was my response.
She smiled again and went about her job. While texting Sway, I noticed the waitress watching me carefully.
Eventually she made her way back to my table as I was leaving, wearing her street clothes.
“So Jameson, you got plans for the rest of the evening?”
I drew in a deep breath—glancing down at my phone to check the time. “I was just leaving. I have to catch a flight in a few hours.”
“Well you could crash at my place for a little while, it’s late and I know you’d probably like to relax.”
I had a feeling she did this sort of thing a lot and I could tell by the twinkle in her eyes what type of relaxing she had in mind and yet I didn’t stop her or myself.
I knew these women I’d been with recently wanted nothing from me and as I was letting myself out of her apartment a few hours later, she summed things up when I overheard her on her cell phone.
“You wouldn’t believe who was just in my bed!” she said to her friend I assumed.
“No...Jameson Riley as in the USAC Sprint Car driver...yeah the one that won the triple crown a couple years ago....I know...I can’t believe it either.”
The door slammed behind me.
I managed to catch my plane to Milwaukie on time. Spencer met me at the airport and told me about his time at home. Sway had been there for the weekend visiting Charlie so he and Alley had lunch with her. This put me in a bad mood the remainder of the flight.
The pain of not having Sway here was becoming unbearable. If I knew anything, it was that the pain wouldn’t go away unless you healed the wound causing the pain. Start from the source right, but what was the source? I knew the source but refused to look for it, just like the blow engine. I seemed to be mastering avoidance and the ability to patch the hole. Sooner or later, just like the engine, I would run out patches.
A few days after my twenty-first birthday that year, my dad asked me to meet him in Charlotte, so I did. I showed up at Lowe’s International Speedway not exactly sure what I should be expecting.
For a few years now, Jimi had been contemplating starting a race team. Having already owned an Outlaw team for about four years now, he looked into a USAC team like Bucky had but the big teams were in NASCAR these days.
Why?
NASCAR had the ultimate exposure. How many people outside of the mid-west know what USAC is or even the World of Outlaws?
Not many. But nearly every red blooded American citizen knew what NASCAR was and sponsors wanted exposure so where do you think they dumped most of their money?
NASCAR.
It was early when I got there, probably around seven in the morning and I wasn’t sure if I was just tired or hallucinating when I saw a stock car parked beside him on pit lane.
Harry Sampson, a mechanic/engine specialist I’d heard a lot about these days, was leaning against the side of the car. He wrenched for guys like Bobby Cole, Tate Harris and Adam Parson and now here he was looking at my dad and me as though I was just a waste of his time.
You have to keep in mind at that point, I had no idea why I was asked to come to Charlotte. Other than the dirt late models I’d driven in the past, I’d never been in a stock car on asphalt and now I was staring at one with Harry Sampson beside it.
“What’s all this?” I motioned to the car and then toward Harry, who was still staring at me.
“Well,” Jimi took a drink of his coffee. I highly doubted it was straight coffee by the way. “I need to know if you can even drive this thing first.” He gestured with a tip of his head at the car.
Five minutes later, I was strapping myself into a stock car.
I would like to say I wasn’t nervous, but I was. What if I couldn’t drive it?
Sure, I could drive it but could I push these cars like I did with sprints. I felt at ease muscling around sprints but stock cars, I wasn’t so sure.
“You know how to operate this, right?” Harry asked tugging on my belts.
I didn’t answer and gave him a blank expression.
“Great,” Harry muttered to himself. “Listen up then. These beasts are much simpler than those sprint cars you’re used to. Aside from the direct drive transmission in sprints these are just like any other car with a manual transmission.”
I smiled, firing up the engine and easily shifting into first gear.
“Kidding,” I told him, laughing.
You could literally see the anxiety drain from his face. “Jesus, I nearly had a fucking heart attack kid.”
Sprint cars were different in the sense that Sprint cars were simple to me. These stock cars had switches, knobs, tacks, roll bars—they had shit everywhere. When you looked inside of a Sprint car, all you saw was a bar to engage the coupler, steering box, fuel pump, power steering pump and inside of the torch tube was the driveline. Then you had the steering wheel and a seat. That’s it.
Getting them running is similar. Cup cars, you flick a switch.
Being direct drive, sprint cars have no clutch, transmission or starter. There’s a coupler that connects the drive shaft to the rear end but the engine has to be shut off before you can engage it. Once you engage the coupler, the car is pushed with a truck to get it started. Then to shut the sprint car off, you have to disengage the coupler, turn off the fuel valve and run it out of fuel.
Sprint cars are complicated to some, but there’s no other car like them with the unique design and setups. They were half the weight and size of the car I was in, but the same amount of horsepower. It would take some getting used to.
I took it for a spin, made something like twenty-five laps and then brought it back it.
Harry smiled. “Looks like you knew what you were doing.”
Dad la
ughed beside him but didn’t say anything.
We left after that and my dad indicated he was thinking of starting a NASCAR Busch team first and then he’d look at the Winston Cup series. We never talked about me being the driver but I had a feeling that’s what he was hinting at when he had me testing out that stock car.
I wasn’t sure what to make of all of it so before heading to Terre Haute that night I called the one person I always called when I needed advice, Sway.
As luck would have it these days, she wasn’t home.
That night in Terre Haute was horrible when a lifter broke in my sprint car and to make matters worse, I left with the first woman who asked.
That wasn’t the worst part though, the next night was. Terre Haute was running a double feature and I should have known better than to take a girl back to the hotel with me.
She caught up with me the next night and I had some explaining to do, which is why I preferred to never see these women again. I didn’t like explaining myself.
I tried not to on all accounts because really, what would I say?
“I’m an asshole with extreme commitment issues, oh, and by the way, I’m falling for my best friend and refuse to admit it so that’s why I was with you last night.”
That’s not exactly what women want to hear, could be wrong, but I was almost certain that wouldn’t go over well.
“Hey you,” she smiled while I loaded my bag to catch my flight to Tri-State Speedway where I was meeting up with Spencer and Tommy. “Where did you go last night?” I gave her a blank stare so she continued. “I thought you would have stayed last night.”
“Oh, uh,” I mumbled, I looked down at my cell phone that was ringing, again. I silently wondered if it ever stopped. “I don’t do that sort of thing.” I finally said.
“Sleep?”
“No, stay with women,” I slipped my phone inside my jeans and adjusted my bag on my shoulder.
“Oh...I see...wow...okay.” Her eyes focused on mine before darting to her feet, ashamed.