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“Five long, one on your left. Gaining.”
They’re using air to gain speed.
“Decrease throttle,” says Mike. “You only need one to get loose.”
Shit. “Throttle to 40,” I say.
“38 losing it,” Derek says, his voice rising. “The 38 going loose on the turn. The 9 is out.”
“Throttle to 10,” Mike barks. “Now.”
“9 going. Dammit,” says Derek.
Something slams into my back left, and my body jerks. Arms cross my chest, and I count the spins. “One. Two. Three. Four.”
My car stops. How far did I travel? I’m on the green, near the 19.
Six laps. Six fucking laps.
“I guess that’s it then,” I say, reminding myself to smile. “It was a good run.”
Mike ignores me. “Can you drive it?”
“She’s running. See you in a minute.”
I limp my car back to its pit box and climb out.
Six. Fucking. Laps.
∞∞∞
Chris Williamson is waiting as I exit the medical center. “We have Jake Knowles here, driver of the 24, just coming out of the medical center. How are you feeling, Jake?” Chris is a long-time NASCAR fan and reporter. In his way, he’s as big a legend as Tom Rivers or Robert Deere.
“Pretty darn good. Doctors looked me over and sent me on my way.” My smile is warm. Unlike me, some drivers need to work on the PR aspect of the job. The public matters to what I want, which means getting them on my side.
“Do you have any thoughts on today’s wreck you want to share?” Chris asks. His bald spot shines under the sun’s glare.
“Well, honestly, I’m not sure what happened,” I start. After climbing out, Mike let me know the accident wrecked eight cars. “I saw a snake forming, six cars drafting for speed. I don’t know the strategy, but they probably wanted to gain spots on the straightaway. Someone got loose. You might know more about it.”
“The 38 got loose,” Chris says. I already guessed that, but stay silent. “Will you be speaking to him later?”
“There’s nothing to say. It’s racing. You make a move; sometimes it works out, but sometimes it doesn’t. I’ll see what’s on the tape.”
That’s not true. Alec McAllister drives the 38. What little skill he has is due to a considerable amount of money. His record includes a single win and one of the highest DNF rates for all active drivers. I bust ass to keep sponsors happy while his family name provides him with one.
The only difference between him and Boone Rivers is that Boone has skill and works at his craft. Daddy’s last name takes care of the rest.
“Well, I’m sure your fans feel disappointed about the early exit,” Chris says.
I chuckle, wanting to make light while appreciating his mention of fans. Sure, it’s my race, but none of it matters without them. “I’m sorry too, but hey, it happens. It’s the season’s start, and that means more racing. I have a great pit crew. Engineering has done amazing work to make this car the best it can be. Despite this early finish, I’m proud of what we did today, and looking forward to Atlanta.” I smile to let him know my speech is done.
“Thanks so much for your time, Jake. We’re all glad to hear it wasn’t anything more serious.” I return the thanks and walk away, listening to Chris’ voice fade behind me. “That was Jake Knowles, sharing his experience at Daytona today.”
Everything I said was true, but it was not the entire story. Six laps are a heck of a start, and not in a good way. My plan to speak with Bert is postponed for at least another week.
It’s one week, one race. There are over thirty races to go, which means a lot of points, wins, and plans.
With my smile back where it belongs, I walk back to my RV to watch the rest of the race.
