Trading Paint

by Shey Stahl

  Racing on the Edge

  Trading Paint

  To understand where you’re going you need to know where you’ve been.

  A novel by Shey Stahl

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, sponsors, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, dead or living, is coincidental.

  The opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of NASCAR, its employees, or its representatives, teams, and drivers within the series. The car numbers used within this book are not representing those drivers who use those numbers either past or present in any NASCAR series, USAC or The World of Outlaw Series and are used for the purpose of this fiction story only. The author does not endorse any product, driver, or other material racing in NASCAR, USAC or The World of Outlaw Series. The opinions in this work of fiction are simply that, opinions and should not be held liable for any product purchase, and or effect of any racing series based on those opinions.

  Trading Paint

  To understand where you’re going you need to know where you’ve been.

  Copyright © 2012 by Shey Stahl

  Published in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Shey Stahl.

  Warning: This book contains adult content, explicit language, and sexual situations.

  Cover Art and Interior Design: Shey Stahl Productions

  Editing and Proof Reading: Linda Knight

  http://sheystahl.blogspot.com/

  Twitter: @SheyStahl

  Facebook: Shey Stahl

  Racing on the Edge site:

  http://www.facebook.com/RacingOnTheEdge

  Foreword by Author:

  Originally, I never planned to release this book. It was more of a I-had-to-know book. For me, I wanted to know where these characters had come from. So I wrote Trading Paint after I finished Black Flag. That’s when I realized just how important Trading Paint was to the development of not only Sway and Jameson, but their love for a sport that consumes their lives both on and off the track. And it was then that I knew to appreciate all the books in the series, this one needed to be released as well. And without the you-need-to-do-this pushing from my friends Linda, Callie and Daina, it might never have been in print. So thank them!

  A special thank you to my husband, honey girl, my parents, my siblings who tolerate me, my friends and my readers for making it possible for me to write.

  This book is dedicated to my dad, PJ. Without your knowledge of racing, stories of Republic and changing engines on the freeway, this wouldn’t have been written. Thank you.

  A man is a product of this thoughts what he thinks, he becomes.

  ~Gandhi

  Prelude

  Magnuflux – Jameson

  Magnuflux – Short for “magnetic particle inspection.” A procedure for checking all ferrous (steel) parts - suspension pieces, connecting rods, cylinder heads, etc. - for cracks and other defects utilizing a solution of metal particles, fluorescent dye and a black light. Surface cracks will appear as red lines.

  I had commitments now as well as obligations, fans, sponsors...the list endless.

  If I thought it would get easier, I was in complete denial.

  So when would I ever get a chance for me?

  Sure, I loved what I did. This was what I always wanted and had worked so hard for. Racing was my life—my passion.

  Somewhere between leaving home to chase this dream, and now, I felt something missing. Her. The one that changed everything I thought I knew with one look.

  For the longest time, I avoided the fact that I was in love with Sway for one simple reason. What if she loved me back?

  If I didn’t want to lose her, how long would I let this go on? I have only ever had physical encounters. So how could I have more?

  Just simply being my friend came with a price tag—imagine if she were more? How would that affect her life and how could I do that to her?

  I knew my life would never be normal but I wasn’t about to take any sense of normalcy that she had away from her. How could I? Sway never had a say in anything and Charlie proved that.

  Was it fair that she would soon have responsibilities that no twenty-two year old should have?

  No. The difference between her and me was that I asked for this. I knew the sacrifices I would have to make and was prepared for them from the beginning. She wasn’t.

  She had no idea of the pressure or opinionated populace that was out there. Being pessimistically jaded, I didn’t want her to know that side of the world but I soon wouldn’t have a choice and neither would she.

  Consequently, I knew my decision was wrong but I also knew that if nothing in life was free, then I was ready and willing to pay anything for her happiness.

  1. Bear Grease – Jameson

  Bear Grease – Slang term used to describe any patching material used to fill cracks and holes or smooth bumps on a track’s surface. Bear grease can also be used as a sealer on the track.

  “Can I please race? I mean, dad...I’ve been racing quarter midgets for years and now midgets. I’ve already raced in about a hundred USAC races.” I whined. “I just—I think I’m ready.”

  I didn’t just think I was ready, I knew I was ready.

  I’d been racing midgets in the USAC (United States Auto Club), a sanctioning body for midgets, sprint cars, and silver crown cars; for far too long and I couldn’t wait to race full sized sprint cars.

  From the time I was little, they were the cars that caught my attention. They were loud and the fastest cars on dirt with their high power to weight ratio.

  The sound produced by twenty sprint cars lined up on a track, revving their engines is definitely something you will never forget, especially when you’re a kid. The sound shook the ground and the air filled with the sweet aroma of methanol. Sprint cars broad sliding their way around dirt tracks was enough to catch the eye of any kid but when you see one doing wheel stands inches away from concrete walls.

  Briefly, his eyes focused on me.

  “You’re not ready,” my dad said and walked into the race shop that housed his sprint cars.

  I smiled following closely stepping over the tires and tools scattered around the concrete floor.

  “Are you scared I’ll smoke you?”

  His head whipped around, his blue eyes narrowed. “You’re an arrogant little shit. But no, I’m afraid of your mother.”

  “I can handle that.” I told him confidently heading for the house. My mom was a push over for me and I knew it, as did she.

  You hear people talk about when their career started for them or when they saw their first race but I honestly can’t remember when that was. Racing has always been there, ingrained into my life in every way. My dad was racing before I was born so it’s all I’d ever known. I’d been playing in the dirt of the pits since before I could walk.

  I do remember when I got my first set of wheels.

  I believe I was three, or just turned four. Sure, I had a badass big wheel that I’d perfected slide jobs on but I remember my first beast with an engine.

  For my birthday that year, my parents gave me a cherry red 150cc Honda go-kart. That, combined with the perfect paved circle driveway, made my four-year old world. My only rule for riding it was stay on the pavement.

  Growing up with a dad who raced on dirt and that being all you had been subjected to was tall order
s for a four-year old wanting to be just like his dad.

  I had the quickest route around the circle panned out within the first day I got it and soon began broad sliding through the corners when I pitched it hard enough.

  That red beast became my prize possession and if you didn’t hear the humming from the engine, you knew something was up. Soon after they bought mine, my older brother Spencer got one and before long, we were holding races in our driveway and tearing up my mom’s flowers while our little sister Emma acted as the flagger. We must have torn up every plant, every tree and every blade of grass in that yard before the summer was out.

  The following year, once the weather had turned warm enough, we were back to doing the same thing.

  That’s when I decided some adjustments needed to be made to the kart.

  Like adjusting the rev limiter to enable it to exceed its standard speed that clearly wasn’t fast enough and ending up cutting the break line instead. Yeah, at four I thought I was some kind of mechanic. It was evident by the gaping hole in the side of our house where my kart flew threw it that I was no mechanic.

  After a while, the “Keep in on the Pavement” rule was out the window and I pretty much raced on any surface.

  The following spring, just before I turned five, my dad took me with him to his race in Knoxville, Ohio where he was racing on the World of Outlaw Tour; the premier division for winged sprint car racing.

  That same weekend, Bucky Miers, my dad’s long-time friend, let me tear it up in his son’s quarter midget.

  Two weeks later, we had one sitting in our driveway when we returned. Before long we outgrown the driveway and my mom had no landscaping left so dad hauled in a few truckloads of clay and made a quarter mile dirt track in our backyard.

  Naturally, I never got out of the car or off the track. Some nights I even fell asleep out there.

  Originally, I was supposed to share the car with Spencer but once Spencer found girls and football he didn’t care about racing like I did.

  You could say my career started right there in my back yard in that quarter midget.

  My racing teeth were eventually cut at our home track in Elma, Washington at Gray’s Harbor Raceway on June 18, 1985, a few days shy of my fifth birthday, as I made my first start in a quarter midget race.

  Elma is a 3/10 mile semi-banked clay oval track located off Highway 8 and it was fast—incredibly fast.

  I still remember shaking from the adrenaline I experienced racing with kids twice my age as well as the sick but energized feeling in the pit of my stomach when I took the green flag.

  By the time I was eight, I was running competitively and had won two USAC Regional Quarter Midget Championships, three track championships at Grays Harbor Raceway, and had won the Deming Speedway Clay Cup Nationals.

  At the time, racing quarter midgets contained me and I soon became extremely comfortable in them but that also meant, in my mind, that I was ready for more.

  I moved to full size midgets at nine and now, at eleven, I was ready for something more and which meant full-sized winged sprint cars.

  The problem was convincing the parental units.

  Most tracks were beginning to enforce age restrictions on full-sized sprint cars so I knew that parental consent was necessary.

  It was time for the art of persuasion that I adroitly mastered.

  “Mom...” I cooed in my best compelling voice when I entered the kitchen. I had perfected it over the years for moments like this. “Dad said to ask you but I was wondering if it’d be okay if I raced tonight...dad will be there.” I offered.

  She ran her hands through my mess of my rusty colored hair tilting my head to look up at her. Her fingers looped around the curls at the ends. “Honey...I don’t know about that.” She said continuing to do dishes while leaving me with soapy hair. “You know you have to be sixteen to race full-sized sprints.”

  “But mom...” I whined brushing the bubbles from my hair. “I’ve been racing since I was five. I’m eleven now, almost twelve, it’s time I broadened my horizons.” I grinned when she arched an eyebrow at me. “Besides, Charlie knows us and he said if dad signed a waiver he’d let me race.”

  “Jameson, sweetie, I don’t want you to get hurt. Sprints are a lot different from the quarter midgets or even those mini sprints and full size midgets. Try tripling the weight, not to mention the speed.”

  She was right.

  Sprint cars pushed 120 mph at Elma some nights but I didn’t care about that.

  “I know that but I’ve been racing them out back for months now. My lap times are faster than dad’s.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself—you’re smaller than him. Basic laws of gravity, son.”

  I had nothing left. I broke down into childish whining to prove my point which was somewhat revolting from a bystander’s perspective and I may or may not have resorted to the eye blinking that she loved so much.

  Racing was my life and I knew that if I wanted to make a future in it—it was time to race with the big boys; at least that was my eleven-year old logic.

  After a good ten minutes of sucking up, Spencer, my older brother walked in when I plopped down in a chair at the table.

  “Just let the little shit race mom...he’s annoying when he doesn’t get his way.” He chuckled and shoved a cookie in his mouth. “Besides...I’d like to see him get his ass handed to him out there.”

  Mom slapped the back of his head as he walked by. “Spencer, watch your language.”

  Spencer, now fourteen, thought he was god’s gift to girls and football.

  I had other ideas.

  I threw a cookie from the plate in front of me at him, smacking him in the forehead. Although somewhat satisfying, it did result in a gladiator style wrestling match between the two of us that mom had to break up with the hose from the sink.

  “Stop it—both of you get up!” she yelled slipping sideways in the water. “Spencer; clean up this mess. Jameson, go talk to your dad about racing tonight,” She held up her hand to stop me from running into the race shop. “If you wreck, you’re done.”

  “Uh-huh,” I yelled over my shoulder as I ran to the race shop.

  I told my dad that mom had said it was okay. He wasn’t convinced and had an hour-long talk with her about it.

  In the end, I was allowed with a few stipulations.

  I was only allowed to race two races a month and I worked in the shop when I wasn’t in school. I didn’t care. I probably would have agreed to just about anything to get them to say yes. I wouldn’t be allowed to race sprint cars at other tracks until I turned sixteen but only being allowed to race at Elma would be sufficient.

  Later that night, I found myself at the track.

  “All right kid, get in.” I slid easily into the narrow cockpit. His head bent down near mine. “Remember—don’t drive too deep into the corners. It’ll flip ya’ in a heartbeat. Find your lift point and feather the throttle accelerating through the turn. You’ll have more control that way since the track is tacky.”

  Once I was on the track during qualifying and hot laps, I realized how different sprints were from midgets. With being heavier, the wheelspin and changes throughout the race, I was amazed at the differences.

  Having spent every afternoon on our quarter-mile track practicing, I knew I was ready and I showed them.

  I appeared confident on the outside but on the inside I was one scared shitless kid as my dad explained the rules to me after the drivers meeting.

  “Pay attention Jameson. This is different from racing midgets.” He told me after time trials were finished.

  I only nodded. I was overwhelmed but I wasn’t letting on.

  I didn’t want to hear the words I told you so, which by the smirk on his hard face, he was ready to say at the first sign of weakness.

  Here we stood in the pits getting ready for the heat races. Pulling my racing suit over my shoulders, I looked up at him.

  “All right,” he began. “The top eighteen quali
fiers will be split into heat one and heat two. You made fast time so you’re in heat two. The top two in heat one, will move to the rear of heat two.” He nudged my shoulder. “You following me, kid?”

  Again, I only nodded. Dad had made it clear early on when I began racing that in order to race, I needed to understand everything; not just how to race. At times, it was overwhelming for a kid.

  I had to know set-ups—the handling, engines, and how to drive the car. He wouldn’t let me slide with climbing in the car and driving. I had to know what to do if I broke it and how to fix it myself.

  “The top eight cars from heat two will run the feature.” He told me as I fastened my arm straps. I then pulled my helmet on and engaged the coupler.

  It was show time.

  When it came time for the feature event, the nervousness hit me like a ton of bricks.

  Remaining moderately calm throughout the heat races, I presumed the rest of the night would be the same but when twenty other cars pulled onto the track with me, I briefly contemplated backing out. That being said, there’s also nothing like merging onto the track with the rumbling parade of twenty sprint cars and my anxiety instantly vanished.

  I did the only thing I knew when I got on the track with the other cars; I raced. There was a calm that washed over me and I blocked out everything like I always did inside the car and raced. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to run the top with the fast guys but when it came time to make a pass, I had no choice but to run the top.

  With my heart pounding rapidly, I pulled a “Jimi move” as I called it and slid past three or four cars in each turn using the high side where the grip was.

  Much to my surprise and probably everyone else at the track, I won. If you’re surprised that an eleven-year-old kid could beat men who’d been racing for years and had ten and twenty years on me, imagine my amazement.