I roll my eyes again. “Oh! And according to the office gossip, he has, like, a new girl at every track, so he probably has something Ajax won’t take off!”
Brooke instantly chokes on her margarita and snorts. “Please, I got something that works way better than Ajax!”
And we erupt in a fit of girlish giggles, clinking our margarita glasses.
Chapter 6
My plane touches down in Detroit around eight o’clock on Saturday night. I have begged Brooke to come with me because, frankly, I am terrified, but she is stuck working on a huge case for her firm. I have never really traveled anywhere, much less alone. I mean…I know I won’t technically be alone once I get to the track, but it would have been nice to have a travel companion.
I have to stay at the Detroit Metro Marriott at the airport. I check into my room, which is surprisingly comfy. After a quick shower, I change into my pj’s. I pull out my iPad to review tomorrow’s activities at the track. A race courier will pick me up in the morning to deliver me to the track in Brooklyn. The track is sixty or so odd miles west of Detroit. I check and double check my schedule to make sure I have everything together. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I fall asleep.
I wake up to intense sunlight flooding my room. Oh no! I sit up in the bed quickly to get my bearings. I fell asleep without setting the alarm. Shit! I fumble around for my iPhone. I steal a glance at the time once I get my hands on it. It’s 9:00 a.m. I am so late!
I scramble around as I throw on a pair of khaki pants, GCR logo polo shirt, and my Asics tennis shoes. My cell phone starts to ring. I grab it and don’t recognize the number.
“Hello!” I say, exasperated.
The voice on the other end sounds just as annoyed. “This is MIS Courier Service, and I have been waiting on you for over an hour. I am instructed to take you to the speedway. Are you ready to go?”
“Yes,” I exclaim. “I am sorry, but I overslept. I am on my way down.” I can tell the courier is less than thrilled by my confession.
I throw my belongings into my overnight bag and basically run down to the lobby. I find the driver waiting outside by the curb, and I jump into the car. A young black guy, about twenty, rolls his eyes at me as I slide into the backseat.
“I am so sorry!” I profusely apologize, but I can tell my driver is not interested in hearing it. He slams the car into drive, and we pull away from the hotel with rapid speed.
It is a beautiful day, about eighty degrees. The scenery en route to the track is breathtaking as we roll through the Irish Hills of Southeast Michigan. As we drive, I try in vain to work my hair into submission with my brush. I finally give up and secure it back in a ponytail. Then, I apply a few light makeup touches. There, that will have to do, I say to myself as I snap my compact closed. Thank God for the drive into Brooklyn, or I would have been a walking hot mess for the rest of the day.
As we make the last curve on Highway 12, I look up, and the Michigan International Speedway looms like the Titanic on the horizon. “Wow!” I say audibly.
My driver eyes me in the rearview mirror. “Have you never been to MIS?”
I shake my head. “This is my first NASCAR event ever!”
As we approach the enormous structure, we pass acres and acres of parking areas, fans, and shopping villages that have been erected for the race weekend. There are people everywhere. All of a sudden, I am extremely nervous. I was too busy being late to be anxious, but now the floodgates are open. My heart begins to race as we enter a tunnel.
“Where are we going?” I ask nervously.
“This is the infield tunnel. It takes you into the center of the speedway, where the drivers, teams, and headquarters are located. It is where you need to go.”
I nod my head at him and look down at my phone. I am exactly one hour and thirty minutes late. I wonder vaguely if I should text Jerri to let her know, but then, I don’t want her to worry or question my abilities either. I decide against it and put my phone in my pocket.
Sunlight fills the car as we enter the raceway infield area. I try to take a deep breath, but anxiety takes over. “I need to go to the drivers’ meeting. Do you know where that is?” I ask the driver, who is a little friendlier now.
“Sure, I will drop you off at the end of the lane that takes you right to the building.”
“Great!” I say as the driver puts the car in park. I grab my bag and exit the car, but not before I apologize for my tardiness again.
OK, I say to myself. Get it together!
I start down the lane toward the main facility of the racetrack. I make it to the door, and there is absolutely no one even milling around outside. I steal a glance at my phone for the time. I have completely missed the sponsor breakfast, and I am now thirty minutes late for the drivers’ meeting. Damn it!
I open the door slowly to peer into the building, to make sure that I am, in fact, in the right place. As I look into the meeting hall, I meet the eyes of about a hundred people who turn cautiously to see who has dared enter the mandatory drivers’ meeting late! Oh my God! Sheer mortification sets in, and I jump through the door like a scared cat.
The moderator of the meeting continues to discuss safety precautions, weather, and pit road regulations. Luckily, there is standing room only, and I am able to disappear behind a group of guys who are standing at the door. My face is flushed with hot embarrassment. I feel like I am going to throw up.
I look around the room to spot Ryan. It is easy to spot him because he is in the second row scowling back at me. My stomach drops through my knees. I mouth to him, “So sorry!” He gives me a cold stare and then turns his attention back to the gentleman who is giving details about pit road speeds and extra safety measures that have been put into place since the new track configuration. It is like Greek to me. I have no idea what this man is talking about or if it applies to me.
As soon as the moderator answers a few questions from drivers, the meeting is adjourned. Everyone quickly disperses and lines up to head out the door. I stand by the door to wait for Ryan. I don’t make eye contact with anyone because I am just so embarrassed by this point. Jeezus!
Ryan strides past me with only a look of sheer disgust. I don’t even get a “Hey,” “Bye,” “Kiss my ass,” or anything from him. Bastard! I throw my overnight bag over my shoulder and fall in line behind him and the other drivers.
As we walk, I hear Ryan say, “That will be my new fucking babysitter!”
Ugh! I don’t miss a beat and say just loud enough for him to hear me, “When you stop acting like a child, you won’t need a babysitter, will you?”
Ryan angles his head back in acknowledgment of my statement, but doesn’t say anything.
“Yes, I do hope you heard me,” I mutter under my breath. I keep up the pace as we walk swiftly and quietly through the infield area. It is a zoo.
As we enter the driver introduction platform, I notice a few members of security who fall into line with us—and thankfully, just at the right time. A throng of fans descend on Ryan. Sweet Jesus! They are all clamoring for his attention, autograph, and photographs. I get pushed around in the crowd, but I stand my ground and follow Ryan’s lead.
This is madness, but I can tell Ryan loves it. As the fans push and shove us to get his attention, Ryan takes his time and care with each one. I notice as we continue to push through the crowd that he turns back and steals a quick glance at me, but I am not sure why. The look on his face is very out of character for him. It’s almost as though he is concerned for me. As our eyes lock, I feel my pulse quicken. It puts me at ease, though, it is fleeting.
Ryan sails through driver introductions effortlessly. The crowd goes wild when he is presented to the audience and saunters across the stage. I fall back into line with him as we walk to a last-minute fan meet and greet in the Nationwide hospitality tent. He continues to ignore me. I have no choice, but to follow Ryan’s lead because I have absolutely no idea where to go or what to do.
We enter the Nation
wide suite, and Ryan stops abruptly in his tracks. “What the fuck is he doing in here?” he exclaims, turning back to face me with fevered rage across his face.
What now?
“Who?” I ask, because I don’t immediately see who he is referring to.
“Colton!” Ryan snaps.
I look across the room and spy Colton Johnson, another dashing stock car driver, who is Ryan’s teammate. I guess good looks are a prerequisite for NASCAR drivers.
“Oh, the meet and greet was with the entire team since it is a shared sponsorship,” I say matter-of-factly, like I have been handling this for years.
Ryan immediately jerks me out of my confidence. “We need to get a few things straight!” He explodes into a fit of rage as the entire tent turns to witness his meltdown. “Colton and I may be teammates, but that is it. I don’t do press with him. I don’t do interviews with him. Are we clear?”
Whoa! This is news to me! I am so embarrassed that I don’t even have a sassy comeback. And I keep my mouth shut to avoid any further mortification.
“Yes,” I mutter quietly. “I am sorry, Ryan!” I add an apology in hopes he will calm down. My face must be seven shades of purple, and I suddenly can’t breathe. Ryan must notice my vulnerability because he doesn’t miss a beat.
“This is exactly why I was against you taking this position, not to mention the fact that you were over an hour late this morning! But that’s fine because if I have anything to say about it, this will be your first and your last race.”
He accents those last words with utter contempt for me. Tears spring to my eyes. I look down so he can’t see them.
Ryan turns on his heel and vacates the Nationwide venue without even meeting the contest winner. I am so upset and embarrassed that I am livid. I cannot even think straight. I walk over to where Colton is talking with the fan to apologize.
Colton smiles at me sympathetically on my approach. I begin to profusely apologize for Ryan’s behavior and for my errors. Colton immediately puts me at ease.
“Whitney, that is typical Ryan Carter. There is no need for you to apologize!”
I smile at him and let out a huge breath that I didn’t know that I was holding. I hold out my hand to him. “We haven’t officially met, but as you know now, I am Whitney Parker.”
Colton smiles a gorgeous smile that lights up his green eyes, and he extends his hand to firmly grip mine. “The pleasure is all mine,” he says smoothly.
He is beautiful. He has the most vibrant olive skin, which lets me know that he must have some Italian heritage. I want to reach out and caress his face. Cool it, Whitney! Colton is the kind of handsome that Ryan could be if he didn’t act like such an ass. The total package. Why do all these drivers have to be so freaking hot?
Colton leads me out of the tent. “We had better head back to pit road. It will be time for opening ceremonies soon.” I gladly take his lead. Colton guides me through the infield area, into the pit area. He gives me a brief tour of his pit box and shows me where I should sit over Ryan’s pit. “Ryan qualified behind me, so he is further down the lane.” Colton turns my body to face the back as he points out the #62 flag that represents Ryan’s race team.
“Huh?” I exclaim with my best southern drawl.
Colton laughs, “Each driver has to qualify their car before each race. The starting race lineup is determined by who has the fastest car. We line up based on those results. And your buddy is almost at the back. I think he is thirty-first or so.” Colton laughs with a tsk-tsk.
I don’t give a shit about Ryan right now. I am enjoying this time with Colton. He is actually taking the time to show me around and to get me acclimated to this new world in which I am now gainfully employed. It is amazing how nice he is. He is the polar opposite of Ryan, not at all arrogant. However, I do suspect that he has those tendencies. I am sure in this sport, it is a requirement.
I turn back to smile at Colton. “I really appreciate you taking the time to do this because I would have been clueless. Honestly, I walked into all this blindly, and I should have known better or have been better prepared.”
Colton smiles again. “Listen, you will be fine. Ryan’s a jerk. Plus, the only way to learn is to actually get out and do it. Next week, you will be a professional.”
I laugh out loud. “It doesn’t look like there will be a next week for me, according to Mr. Carter. Speaking of which, I better get back over there now!” I say to Colton as I roll my eyes.
As I turn to go, my iPhone falls out of my front pocket. Colton leans over to retrieve it from the ground. Before he returns it to me, I notice that he swipes into the home screen and quickly taps something into it with his thumbs.
I open my mouth to ask him what he is doing, but I am interrupted by the sound of my name: “Whitney!”
I turn back to see who is calling me. It’s Ryan. My face immediately falls. It is evident that he is pissed off again. Great!
I turn to Colton as Ryan strides up to us. “Gotta go!” I turn to leave, and Ryan blocks my path.
“What the fuck!” Ryan explodes again. “Where the hell have you been?”
I don’t even dignify his question with an answer. As I stride away from Ryan, I hear Colton call out to me, “See you after the race, Whitney!” And he playfully tosses my phone back to me.
What? I am momentarily confused as I reach out to grab it, and then it hits me. Colton is trying to aggravate Ryan by making him think we have something planned after the checkered flag falls. I laugh out loud. I do really like Colton.
Ryan calls after me again, “Whitney!”
I continue to ignore him as I waltz into the pit area and scale the ladder up into the pit box like I have been doing it for years. I look down at Ryan, who is regarding me intently, roll my eyes, and take a seat. As it gets closer to race time, several other team members join me on top of the pit box that overlooks pit road. “Whitney, I assume? An older gentleman in his midfifties reaches out to introduce himself.
I nod my head. “Yes, sir.”
“I am Ben, Ryan’s road manager. I hear he is giving you a rough time so far.”
I smile. “Yes, sir, but it isn’t anything I can’t handle.”
Ben laughs heartily. “Well, from what I hear, you are already giving him a run for his money!”
I laugh out loud at his confession. “I guess we will see about that!”
Ben starts to speak again, but is interrupted by the beginning of the opening ceremonies. He motions for me to stand up with him. The national anthem is sung by a well-known country music artist. Then another person takes the stage, who exclaims, “Gentlemen, start your engines!”
With that command, forty-something race car engines roar to life. It is like a shotgun to my heart. Really, it scares the shit out of me, and I jump instinctively. It is so loud.
Ben laughs, but quickly retreats. “I should have warned you about that!”
I take a deep breath as I try to regain my composure. I can’t even manage a word as the blood sears through my veins. I feel like I have literally been shot. My face flushes from embarrassment again.
Ben hands me a radio with a headset. “Here…take this. You can listen to communications between Ryan’s spotter and crew chief.” I must have a look of ambiguity on my face because Ben begins to explain. “Ryan’s spotter, Mike, helps him from the tower up there.” He points to a large building over the front straightaway. “Mike helps Ryan to see through his blind spots.”
I nod my head as I take in the information.
“Bobby, Ryan’s crew chief”—he points out a man standing below in the pit area who looks to be in his fifties, too—“he oversees Ryan’s car and any adjustments or repairs that need to be made to it during the race. Throughout the race, Ryan will have to bring the car into pit for gas and new tires. And sometimes any other adjustments the car may need. So, you can hear what is going on between these three major components.” Ben smiles as he completes my mini NASCAR lesson.
Whe
n I finally catch my breath, I take the headset, place it over my ears, and adjust the volume. The radio crackles to life, and I can hear Ryan going through a serious of checks with his crew chief, Bobby, as forty-four cars make their way down pit road and onto the track. As the green flag falls, the cars roar to life again. I can feel a slight anxiety build up in my chest, or maybe it is nervousness. Whatever this feeling is, it is foreign to me.
The laps go quickly as the cars speed around the track at upward of 195 miles per hour. Watching the race in person is a hell of a lot different than watching it on television. This is actually exciting, watching the cars sweep into the curves and fire down long straightaways. The speeds alone are thrilling. I listen as Bobby calls the lap speeds out to Ryan. Into the last corner, Ryan accelerated to 210 miles per hour. Wow!
Halfway through the race, Ryan radios into Bobby. “There is a problem with the car since the last pit stop,” he says anxiously.
“What?” Bobby spouts back.
“The car is good through the straightaways, but it is really tight in the corners. I am having a hard time holding it down.”
I look down into the pit area to watch Bobby as he responds, “Well…fight it until a caution comes up or until the next stop! We can’t lose track position.”
Ryan comes unglued. “What? The next caution will be courtesy of me slamming into the wall!”
I watch as Bobby throws his hands in the air. “Well…I guess you are going to have to work for it today. I will make a track bar adjustment when you come in! Stop whining and concentrate, Goddamn it!”
I wince at Bobby’s harsh expletive. It must have taken Ryan by surprise, too, because he doesn’t say another word.
The track conditions are excellent, as is the weather. The laps start to count down. I keep waiting for an accident as the stock cars battle for position. The cars go three, sometimes four, wide through the back straightway. After the last pit stop, Ryan has not complained about the car being tight; however, he has been unable to get good track position thanks to an accident mid field. I can tell from his actions on the track that he is trying desperately to gain positions. Ryan chases the eighth-place car into turn four in an attempt to gain another position, but he eventually runs out of racetrack. He manages to pull his car across the finish line and take the checkered flag in ninth position.
Smokin' & Spinnin' Page 4