The Champion (Racing on the Edge) (9 page)

Once I got hit in the face, I lost my composure.

“I warned you once.” I told him carrying him kicking and
screaming up the stairs. I set him on the bed where they were going to be
sleeping in. “Now
...
go to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.” He countered and sprung to his feet.

“Well I suggest you get tired.” I closed the door behind
me praying that Axel never acted like them. If he did, I would be sending the
little asshole to boarding school as soon as permitted.

When I finally made it to bed that night, Sway was fast
asleep with Axel. He was snuggled up against her chest in our bed, nuzzling his
foodbags. I couldn’t blame him. I wished I was doing the same.

Mentally I was preparing myself for racing again but
emotionally I wanted to be here, with my family. This off-season had brought
with it another reason for me wanting to be home with my family. Axel.

I laid there awake, watching my son and wife sleep
remembering these last few weeks with them. Between testing and being pulled in
every direction possible by my sponsor, I was still able to find time here and
there to be with Sway and him.

I couldn’t tell you how attached I was to them now. Not a
minute went by that they weren’t both in the back of my mind.

As careful as I could, I wrapped both arms around them
and was asleep before I knew it.

There was the most annoying sound in the world
infiltrating my sleep and it wasn’t stopping.

I opened my eyes and blinked steadily into the darkness
of the motor coach only to see my phone was blinking on the nightstand.

Back to reality.

Once I arrived in Daytona, I was in race form once again.
Though I missed my family, I loved racing and there was no denying that when I
was at the track. It was in my blood and would be forever.

What I didn’t love was the newfound fascination everyone
had with my personal life and me.

It seemed everywhere I turned people were asking how my
married life was, or how my son was. I wouldn’t mind telling them but I also
knew my words were never my words. Everything I said these days was
misconstrued into something else entirely. So I kept my mouth shut.

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 some 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.