Smokin' & Spinnin'

by Miller, Andrea

  Ryan gives me a reassuring look and takes my hand again to lead me to our seats “Come on.”

  I follow behind him. I can’t look up or make eye contact with anyone. Ryan and I are under intense scrutiny, and I am well aware that going public with our relationship doesn’t help matters.

  Pre-race activities fly by, and before I know it, Jason Luke, country music superstar, gives the starting engine call. I stand by Ryan’s #62 Chevrolet as long as I can. I clasp my hand firmly over his through the window of his race car. Throughout the ceremony, I hear cameras snapping and flashing. Each pop feels like a bullet in my back. I can’t even imagine how the headlines will read in the morning.

  Far too soon, Ryan pulls his hand away to secure his window net. He gives me his signature bad-boy wink as he slides the eye guard down on his helmet, and I desperately want to crawl into the car with him to get away from all these prying eyes. Lucky bastard!

  Forty-three stock cars proceed down pit road for the starting laps as I make my way to my seat next to Ben on top of our team’s pit box. Ben smiles to me knowingly as I sit down, but doesn’t offer up anything. I know he witnessed the moment between Ryan and me in the drivers’ meeting, but he doesn’t acknowledge it or ask me any questions. Thank God!

  Ryan will have to make 267 laps around the mile-and-a-half intermediate speedway today. As the cars take the green flag, I whisper a silent prayer for Ryan, a prayer for safety and a clear determination to finish. With everything that has gone on these last few months, it is clear that we all need a higher power to get through this race, races to come, and our daily lives. I raise my head from my prayer as Ryan’s car roars down the front stretch.

  The laps tick off one by one in an uneventful manner. Ryan maintains his qualifying position and runs in the middle of the pack. I notice that his racing style is significantly different today. He is not as aggressive or impatient. Ryan’s car must be good and accurate because his radio frequency is eerily quiet, too. The only words that come through are Mike’s commands from the spotter’s tower. He keeps to his line and is driving the car safe, keeping his nose clean, literally.

  With fifty laps to go, the lead lap cars come in for a final pit stop. Ryan’s car roars into his pit box and comes to an abrupt stop. His pit crew hops over the wall to crank out a mind-blowing pit stop, including fresh tires and a full tank of gas. No other adjustments are needed. Ryan pulls out of his box in what seems like a whirlwind. The crew is super excited and fist pumping the air as Ryan advances ten spots thanks to the awesome pit stop. I can feel the excitement and adrenaline begin to flow through my body again. Thank God!

  Banter among Ryan, Bobby, and Mike has picked up significantly since Ryan has considerably advanced his position on the track. He is now running in twelfth position with forty-odd laps to go.

  I can hear the excitement in Ryan’s voice as he fires down the backstretch into turn four. “Awesome job, guys!”

  Ryan negotiates turn four and picks up another position as he crosses the start/finish line. “Watch your line, Ryan. Don’t screw this up at the last minute now,” I hear Mike say through the radio.

  Screw what up? I wonder.

  Next, Bobby comes through. “Is the car OK since the last stop? How are the tires?”

  I hear the squawk of the radio as Ryan fires back, “Car is fine. Let me concentrate!” Whoa!

  Suddenly, I realize from the arrogance in his voice that Ryan is back to his old self in the race car. I study the monitor closely as he speeds around the track and begins to pick off more positions. According to the race commentators, Ryan’s car is the fastest on the track at 143.5 miles per hour; however, we are down to fewer than twenty-five laps to go.

  I start to get anxious and shift nervously in my seat. In fact, the adrenaline gets to be so much that I stand up. My blood is roaring through my veins. It is the same rush I get when Ryan and I are alone together. I can’t get enough of it. I feel like I am about to burst from my skin. I want to scream from the intensity. And at the same time, I am so thankful these feelings were not lost after all Ryan and I have been through.

  Ben looks at over me with the same trepidation and rises from his seat, too. We stand together in silence. I watch the monitor as Ryan continues to stealthily pick off drivers on the track. He gracefully fires through turn three and picks up another position, sliding past a Ford stock car. Ryan is now up to eighth.

  There are fifteen laps to go. I know a win is not possible, because Ryan is running out of racetrack. There are not enough laps left for him to negotiate to first position. Hell, I’m just proud of a top-ten finish. Ryan just has to hold on. I repeat that mantra in my mind. Hold on, Ryan. Hold on. Anything can change with at a second’s notice in this sport. We all know that.

  The radio crackles again, and I hear Ryan’s voice. “I feel him. He is with me in this car.”

  I know exactly what he means, and I realize within a moment what Ryan is doing. I choke back a sob in my throat and grasp my mouth with my hands. Overnight, he has adopted Garrett’s style of racing. He has played it cool throughout the race and now is making his move. A move for the win.

  Neither Mike nor Bobby responds to Ryan’s comment. No doubt they are choked up like me. Finally, Mike speaks in a strained voice. “Hold your line. You have a lapped car to pass. You’re clear.” Then he shouts with excitement, “Go! Go!”

  Excitement, tension, and adrenaline are all radiating through our pit area. Bobby talks over the radio. “You got this, Ryan…Hold tight, buddy. Hold tight.”

  My thoughts exactly. I begin to pace the pit box. Ryan fires back around turn three and accelerates down the backstretch with eight more laps to go. Through turn four, he easily picks up another spot. Clearly, he has the fastest car because he is picking off drivers left and right. Down the backstretch, a stock car in fourth position blows a tire and slams into the wall off turn one. NASCAR immediately throws a caution flag. Damn!

  Ryan slows the car to caution speed as the pace car takes to the track to lead the drivers. After the car involved in the accident is cleared, it takes Ryan up to fifth position. Thankfully, the track is cleared of debris quickly, and the caution is limited to only one lap with six laps left to go. The pace car drops off the track back to pit road, and the cars accelerate full throttle. My heart pounds with each drop of the hammer. Ryan picks off two cars from the restart. He is up to third, but is running out of time.

  Despite the cool, fall breeze; I am sweating as I pick up my pace on top of the pit box. I steal a glance at Ben, who is intently watching the monitor. I turn up the radio frequency in my ear. It is quiet as Ryan rounds turn four and pushes through, remaining in third position. He runs the car mercilessly past the start/finish line with five laps to go.

  I can’t take it anymore. I jump down off the pit box and rush over to Bobby’s side. He smiles nervously at me but doesn’t say a word. Neither do I. I continue to listen intently to the radio banter and watch the coverage monitor. I feel like my heart is going to implode as Ryan easily rolls through turn two and pushes out onto the backstretch.

  I can see on the monitor that Ryan is attempting to pass, but the driver is not making it easy. Mike squeaks through the radio, “Clear high,” as Ryan is making an attempt to pass the second-place car.

  Ryan approaches the right side of the #34 Dodge and attempts to pass. However, the driver blocks him. He can’t get by. Damn! Ryan holds down the throttle, and they go two wide out of turn three, then back through turn four and down across the start/finish line. Four laps to go.

  Into turn one again, Ryan successfully completes the pass on the #34 stock car and gains second position. I can’t breathe. Then, suddenly, it hits me. This is what he was so uptight about. He and Bobby had a plan this whole time. A sneak attack, just like Garrett was famous for. He must have been anxious, wondering if he could pull it off. And he has almost successfully followed it through. I steal a glance at Bobby, hoping for some clues, but he watches the monitor, stoc
k-still, giving nothing away.

  Two more laps to go. The first-place car isn’t going to give up easily to Ryan. They battle into each turn as Ryan fights to take the top position from the #17 Chevrolet. Ryan gets a nose on him in turn two, but is blocked by the driver. They roar, two wide, down the backstretch, neck and neck.

  Ryan pulls down dangerously low on the apron close to black flag territory. If he crosses that boundary line, NASCAR will send him down pit road, which will put him a lap down. My heart catches in my throat as Ryan pulls past the #17 stock car and into first place. He slides past the car as the flagman throws out the white flag and crosses the start/finish line with only one more lap to go.

  I scream. The pit crew roars out! Ben jumps down from the pit box to join us. We all stand together, united in shocked silence, as Ryan pulls the car into turn one.

  Mike speaks dryly into Ryan’s ear. “You got him. Hold your line. Only two more turns.”

  I can’t believe this. Ryan is going to…No. Don’t say it! I watch the monitor as he successfully negotiates turn two and fires down the backstretch.

  Mike sounds off again to Ryan. “Steady…You walked off on him. You have the strongest car. Just hold on.”

  I jump up and down as I will him. Come on! Come on! I lock arms with Bobby and Ben as Ryan takes the last turn into four and smoothly guides his car through the corner. I look up, and the flagman begins waving the checkered flag as Ryan crosses the start/finish for the last time—in first place. Oh my God! He won!

  An explosion of cheers go up from the seventy-five-thousand-plus crowd in attendance as tears stream down my face. Whether you love Ryan or hate him, today of all days, you couldn’t be anything but happy that he won, especially after the death of his father. I can’t believe what’s happened. What a week!

  The remaining cars on the lead lap slow through the finish line and head back to pit road. Ryan is yelling over his radio, but I can’t understand him for all the commotion. Our pit box is mass hysteria. I take off the headset and flip my eyes back to the monitor. Ryan brings his car back across the start/finish line in a celebratory burnout typical of most drivers. What a happy day! After Ryan burns out what is left of his tires, he roars his car across the infield and turns up the grass. We all watch, so excited for him and for our team.

  The entire pit crew rushes out to congratulate him right where his car comes to rest in the infield. I hobble along with them. Ryan climbs out of his car, stands on the window opening, and fist pumps the air in front of the crowd. He turns around to acknowledge us when we all arrive and jumps down into a sea of pit crew members, media, and NASCAR officials. I watch as he pushes through the crowd with purpose-driven force effectively ignoring the mob. He looks angry. I don’t understand why.

  As we make eye contact, Ryan strides up to me with vehemence and says, “Your ass is fired!”

  I laugh out loud, taking his statement as a joke. What is this about?

  “No…I’m serious. I don’t want you to be my public relations manager anymore.”

  My heart flip-flops in my chest. More people and camera crews rush out to our place in the infield. My face burns with embarrassment because I know this could all be on live TV. I glance around at them nervously, not sure where this conversation is going. I am shocked at Ryan’s declaration. The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak.

  “Why?” I ask simply. What could I have possibly done?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Ryan sticks his hand up to catch a small object that is tossed to him from behind me. Our eyes are locked in a heated stare, but Ryan doesn’t break it. He grabs the object, drops to one knee, and proudly says, “Because…I want you to be my wife instead.”

  The air rushes out of my lungs, and I feel like I am going to throw up as the world around me stops. Very slowly, I look down, trying to make sense of what is happening in the midst of all this commotion. Could he be serious? Did I hear him right?

  I look down at Ryan as he slowly opens the pale blue Tiffany box. Then, in front of God and everybody, he says, “Marry me!”

  Another loud round of cheers goes up from the crowd around us and from the grandstands. I hear the snap of cameras and commentary from journalists crackling in the background. I look around, stunned, trying to assimilate the situation.

  Ryan takes my hand to garner my attention. “Whitney, you know that I love you, and I never want to be away from you again!”

  Suddenly, tears flood my eyes unexpectedly. I never want to be away from him either, but this means I must make another choice. I quickly think back through the last three months, which is a very short amount of time to be with someone, especially after we spent six weeks apart. I made some bad decisions trying to do the right thing, trying to get my life back on track; however, all those decisions led me to Ryan, to this moment. I love him. I would do anything for him—not only him, but for this sport, which is now my life. The adrenaline, the addiction, it all flows through my veins. This dangerous combination of Ryan and racing is what I need, and I never want to be without either one of them. Suddenly, this decision seems not so hard after all.

  I look into Ryan’s eyes, which causes a look of sheer panic to come across his face, no doubt because I have yet to give him an answer. I nod and smile through my tears.

  Ryan’s lips quirk up in a half smile. “Say it then!”

  “Yes!” I exclaim as another loud roar goes up from the crowd.

  “No,” Ryan chastises me. “Yes, what?”

  I throw my head back laughing. “Yes, I will marry you!”

  Ryan leaps from the ground and sweeps me off my feet, cradling me in his arms. He twirls me around the infield as I become insanely aware of the media speculation we are causing. I hear the audacious and prying cameras snap and pop. Oh, who cares?

  Ryan sets me down to the ground and slides an incredibly gorgeous and large diamond ring on my left hand. After he secures the sparkler on my finger, he runs his hand up my neck and into my hair, in his way, then softly places his lips against mine.

  Despite the thousands of people in attendance, and millions most likely watching on television, I feel like Ryan and I are the only two people on this planet. He pulls back all too soon and slowly turns me around to face the crowd that stands behind us. I am dazed, but I manage to look out and into the eyes of my parents, Laura, and Brooke, who are huddled together!

  “Oh!” I gasp, and the tears flow again. I look back to Ryan and instantly put everything together. This is the reason he was so quiet and troubled. He pulls me into his chest, embracing me from behind and nuzzles my neck, “Surprise.”

  He smiles and whispers, “I love you,” into my ear. I know that whatever consequences this decision may lead to will be worth every second that I spend wrapped up in Ryan and the adrenaline and excitement that is NASCAR. I will gladly slam into the wall, smoking and spinning, if it means spending the rest of my life with him.