Speedway Girl

"Loud and clear," I replied. I had insisted that he take the mic from my crew chief, the two sitting side by side looking at the track, but mostly the monitor that my dedicated camera crew and software guy broadcast to. "Good to have you back in my ear again, Bolt."

"Just be safe out there, JJ. I'm going to do my best to talk you home."

*

I gritted my teeth, hating the short tracks like this. It was a one mile oval that meant the track was as crowded as a Los Angeles freeway at 5:00 PM on a Friday. Dad had a good time trial and was third position off the pole, Jeffy 8th, and I made 10th, all of which would have been great on a 2 or 2.5 mile oval, but on this little fishbowl, I was jammed. For the first hundred laps, we were all packed in like sardines. Even after pitting under green, I had to find room to merge like it was an onramp to a busy highway. Ugghh.

Talbot talked me through it and I was glad he was there. Dad, I learned, had pulled away from the pack with a few other veteran drivers and were duking it out well ahead. I needed to get up there too, even better if I could pull Jeffy with me who was drafting me close behind, him needing another adjustment at his next pit stop for being 'loose'. I just needed to break out of this shit.

"Bolt, get me out of here," I said into the headset.

He didn't get to properly reply, "Go low, go low. NOW!"

I instantly saw what he was looking at, numerous cars up at the wall at the front of the bunch were suddenly not facing forward, one was in the air even. A multi car crash was going to run through the pack like tipping dominos but I was thankfully already at the inside of the track and separated myself from the mayhem instinctively from Talbot's warning. Jeffy was right behind me.

The red flag came out and the race stopped. It took 45 minutes for the wreckage to be cleared, but in the meantime, I was parked on the pavement unsure of where my position landed as it all had to be sorted out. Later I would look at the race footage and it would resemble something like after a kid had dumped an armload of Matchbox toy cars on the floor.

All I could think about was Talbot. The wreck had to have triggered him.

"Bolt. You OK?" I asked into my headset.

"No," was all I got back.

"Hey, you saved me once again. Thank you."

I didn't hear from him for a while. My crew chief jumped in through my headset, "Sorry, Jess. Um, I'm sure he'll be right back." I found out later he had jumped out of his elevated chair and puked his guts out right there in the pit. I had guessed it was something like that anyway.

It was only a few minutes but seemed like ages, he was back. "Sorry, JJ. Um. How's the car?"

Good. Back to business. I hoped he was somehow OK underneath his attempt at sounding put together. I suddenly wanted to kiss him again. "It's a little loose. Probably saved me from that wreck, it put me on the inside."

"Yeah, OK. When they lift the red, you're all going to pit, so we'll adjust that. At least it's going to be a much smaller field when you get back in."

*

I'm sure all the other drivers, parked neatly on the far side of the track waiting for the restart, were thinking about strategy, where they were positioned, and how they might or might not win the race. Not me. I was thinking about that kiss. It wasn't the first time I had kissed him.

In fact, he was my very first kiss.

We were 16 and there was a lot of drinking going on in the infield clubhouse after my father had scored some milestone win, like 150 or 200 or something obscene like that. We giggled when we stole a bottle of Kentucky bourbon from the party, I think we were at a racetrack in Alabama or someplace like that. I don't know about him, but I pretended to like it as we hid out behind the infield mechanic's shop and drank.

Well, he drank. I hated the stuff so mostly poured it out in the dirt next to me while he drank and proceeded to get plowed. The label said 'bourbon' but it should have said 'truth serum'.

He told me I was beautiful, he told me he loved me, and he kissed me. Awkward at first but then he pulled away and looked me in the eyes. He said he loved me again and I knew he meant it. Then he kissed me again and all the awkwardness was gone.

The next day, he was super hung over. He didn't remember any of it. I just stupidly let it be. I was in no hurry, he wasn't going anywhere, right? Our futures were locked in concrete. He was going to be with me forever. That's just the way it was going to be. Fuck.

*

After the restart we did all pit and my crew adjusted my spring pressure, correcting my oversteer perfectly. Bolt radio'd me that Jeffy got corrected too and we screamed out of pit row and found a good line on the track. Dad hung in third place several car lengths behind the leaders who were dramatically exchanging the lead every two to three laps. I labored and slowly moved up in the rank until I was right behind Dad, Jeffy right behind me and a long tail of cars behind him. All the cars on the lead lap now running single file.

Through the radio, it was decided that on this day and after his adjustment, Jeffy was the strongest of the three in my team and the only one with a chance of challenging the leaders for the win. I slingshot Jeffy ahead of me and then Dad did the same two laps later. There was not a lot of race left.

Jeffy valiantly got close, going three wide with the leaders, missing 2nd place by only a half car length and missing first by one full length. Dad finished fourth and I maintained fifth, only by outmaneuvering a strong challenge from behind in a series of blocking moves. Talbot was surely going to give me shit later for that.

*

I'm sure the sponsor would have preferred we finish 1-2-3, but they had to have been thrilled at the photographs of our cars at high speed, drafting each other tightly with their logos prominently showing, while in an actual race and not a photo session at low speed. It was not lost on me how the logos were distributed. Dad got the best selling but cheap, crappy, mass produced 'working-man's' beer plastered all over his car and the merchandise sold to fans at the races. Jeffy got the light-beer version, while I got the hard seltzer, because our sponsor was brewing that to target women. I actually thought all three tasted like piss, though it was all well liked in our shop, we had an unlimited supply on hand at all times.

Even though we finished 3-4-5, our entire team was invited to the mandatory press conference following the race, sitting next to each other, which was a new experience even for Dad.

In the few moments I had before the start of it, I tried to clean myself up, having helmet hair despite racing with it in a tight braid. Beth was working on Dad a little to get him ready too, but caught one look at me, and then armed with a brush and determination, tamed my hair and made me presentable. She did nice things like that. Damnit.

The press conference, as typical, had a long table in the infield press room with the top 5 racers sitting in order of the finish. The interview started with the winner, and went in order. That meant I would go last.

When I was in Jr's, I'd get my picture taken after a win, and a reporter would ask me a few questions which I was rarely quoted with my responses. In Class 2, I'd get a video camera shoved in my face about ten feet from the Winner's Circle, and if I came in second place, nobody would even talk to me. Now in the top tier, even coming in 5th, I was going to be part of the national broadcast on the network TV post-race show.

Not that I was nervous, I've been around cameras and the press my whole life. Born into it really. Because I was always the first thing Dad wanted to see after he finished a race, so I was always by his side when the cameras came out, and since I was there, the network liked to be cutesy and ask the little girl what she thought of her father's race.

The winner was Stuart 'Stew' Garrison, and he was a gracious winner in my eyes. Before the barrage of questions, in his heavy southern drawl, he was given time to tell of the race from his point of view, complimented the competition, thanked God and thanked his wife for her support. I always liked Stew, he was a pretty good guy and when he was younger, gave Dad a run for his money in the later years that Dad was still on top.

The guy that came in second, Gus Stillman, is just a grade-A asshole. About my age, he had been trying to get in my fire suit forever. Talbot had to chase him off several times when we were teens, but after Talbot went AWOL, I had to brush Gus off myself and the guy made my skin crawl. Don't know why he was interested in me, I saw him with the Barbie doll race groupies all the time, so he probably just wanted to bang the Outlaw's daughter for bragging rights. True to form, his part of the press conference was all about how great he was and if he had had one more lap in the race, he would have won. Ignoring what everyone else saw, that if there was one more lap in the race, Jeffy would have been the come-from-behind winner.

Jeffy was just Jeffy. As gracious as Stew, well spoken, and didn't bad mouth anyone. He thanked my father for the years of support, and he complimented me for the slingshot to move him forward and to my surprise, told the world that someday soon, I would be sitting at the head of this table. Then he thanked his mechanics, engineers, pit crew, and everybody else, stopping short of only the hot dog vendor.

Dad was fourth, but for the slew of reporters and cameras, he was the main event. And my father was good at this, the best part being that he was always just himself. He spoke calmly, intelligently, but with a command for respect that didn't come from looking down on anyone. When he was younger, he was the guy to beat and everyone tuned in to see if he'd finally get unseated, but now he's like America's favorite uncle and his fans were thrilled to hear him tell his story.

Dad did not disappoint. It was his first top 5 finish in two years and he acknowledged he was getting older, but was grateful he could still race competitively and not just go through the motions to rack up counting race starts. I knew better though. At 52, he was counting the number of races until he turned 54, planning on retiring at the same age that Richard Petty did.

When it came to my time I tried my best to be like Dad and Jeffy, consciously telling myself to not be fake. I threw out all the usuals; happy to be here, lucky to be doing what I love, and thanking the fans, my father, my sponsor, and even the syndicate. It was the Q&A that made me lose my mind.

The first question, a reporter from ESPN, "You were seen kissing Dr. Talbot Jones, a professor from San Salamon CSU before the race. Are you two an item and how does your dad feel about that?" They knew who Talbot was already. That tripped me up. I responded without really saying too much, mainly just gibberish about us being old friends.

The next question from the Racing Channel, "Do you think you would be racing at all at this level if it wasn't for your father being who he is." I replied that I was grateful for my father recruiting me to his team and instilling the love of racing, but that I earned being here. I pointed out my dominance in Class 2 but I came off sounding whiny. I was ready for this to be over.

After that I was asked if I thought that the only reason I was racing at this level was because I was a woman and that the syndicate was trying to recruit more women viewers. It was followed up with another question about if I was only allowed racing at this level so the syndicate could not look like a sexist men's club.

Then it got even more ridiculous. I was asked how I felt that I was in Men's Mag's list of top 50 most beautiful women in sports.

The final slug was when I was asked if I'd pose for Playboy magazine if they asked me to.

Not one single fucking question was asked about the race. It was all about my sex, my father, and the kiss, but mainly about my sex. They painted me as an entitled, feminist bitch who was only racing to prove a point.

I was dizzy when leaving the press room. Dad did his best, knowing I was upset, trying to steer me away from the crowd until he got peeled off by some official from the syndicate and I wandered out of the building alone. Not before Gus walked by me and said as he passed, "At least now I know you aren't officially a lesbian."

"Fuck you," I responded.

"Not me you aren't, not while you're fucking that weirdo, Talbot."

I balled my hands into fists, wishing a tire iron was in one of them.

Someone grabbed my shoulder and said, "Hey." I knew that voice to be Talbot.

I turned and looked at him. "Did you see that?! Did you hear the questions they asked me?"

I was seething. Trembling. He steered me away and took me behind one of the merchandise vendor's setup where no one could see us and he hugged me. Tightly.

"I'm not going to cry," I told him, but I let out a sniffle, so I said it again with more conviction, "I am not going to cry."

*

Not counting the driver, it was just Talbot and I on the RV heading home the next morning. Dad, Beth, Pop, Jeffy, and his wife took the team jet home while the rest of the crew were packing up the cars and equipment to go to the next city on the racing schedule, a long drive to Dallas ahead of them. I wasn't sure if Talbot knew there was room on the jet for us too, but I wanted us to be alone for the 8-hour drive home. We had a lot of catching up to do.

For the first hour I lectured him about all the reasons he needed to make my car faster. First, I wanted to win. I wanted him to be real clear on that. Then I articulated why I wanted to win. I wasn't very clear on that, but he knew me too well and I didn't need to be as succinct on that point. There were also the side benefits, "I don't want one more motherfucking insinuation that my sex has anything to do with the outcome of a race. I want to win because I'm the best driver, with the fastest car. Period." I took a deep breath. "I race because I love to."

He mostly just nodded his head through my dissertation. When he felt there was enough pause that I was finally finished, he said calmly, "I'm building you a car, I made a promise. It will be faster. I don't have to like it."

I finished that final sentence in my head, 'because I still love you.' I did my best to suppress a grin.

I don't know how, but he read that thought. "Listen, JJ, you're right. It's not complicated. But... but..." He gave an exasperated kind of argh, and then started over. "I teach this engineering course and there's this subject in my curriculum that I get to, and dread getting to it every semester because it makes me think about you. It's about risk vs. reward, and I warn my students that when they become engineers, every decision they make will go through such an analysis."

He wasn't sure I was following so he added, "You make those decisions on the racetrack for 400 miles. The risk you take when you attempt a difficult pass is that you fall behind or could wreck the car and maybe even get killed, the reward would be that you move up and maybe even win." OK, that I understood.

He continued, "I try to impress on my students that some risks, when they include a human life, are so great that the reward isn't worth it."

"Come on, Bolt," I defended, "That's bullshit. I'm risking my life every time I race, whether I'm a little faster or a little slower. How many racers got wiped out yesterday because the lead guy of that pack got into the wall and the cars behind it couldn't get out of the way? Those are just the breaks."

He refused to say anything, just sat there glaring at his cup of coffee in front of him.

"OK," I said in a calmer tone, "Let's not go there this morning. I'm not your student, and you're not my professor. You are my friend. Your very best friend."

He looked up at me and I could see the tension free itself of his face a little bit.

So I continued with a smile, "And a very good kisser."

He rolled his eyes, but I caught his grin. Then he said, "Yeah, you took a risk there, look what it got you in the press conference."

"Hey," I responded with mirth, "Look at the reward. I had my best finish of the season. I think I'm going to start every race with one of those."

He laughed, "OK, but we might find a more private place for it, right?"

Glad we had turned the corner, so to speak, I pulled out the deck of cards that was on the little table we were sitting at and dealt us each a hand. He let me know that we weren't playing for money, he can't afford to compete with a world famous race car driver on a professor's salary. I mock laughed and told him it was either nickels and dimes or strip poker, and that he could choose. He replied that it would have to be nickels and dimes, his underwear had holes in them because he couldn't buy new underwear on his salary. We both laughed and it felt like old times.

We were a few hands in when I knew his concentration on the cards would make it easy to bring up a subject I had to know. There was a method to my madness, after all. "So, tell me about your love life since you left me. Are you seeing anyone?"

He looked up at me from his cards, "Um. Not really. I was seeing this teacher in a different department for a few years, off and on really, but you know how boring I am. She lost interest and I did too when I realized that I just couldn't ever make her laugh."

That made me laugh for real. "Of course you couldn't. I'm the only one who ever laughed at your stupid sense of humor."

"Exactly," he said, almost under his breath while his eyes were locked in on his cards.

I pushed, "So you aren't dating then?"

"Nope."

"Aww. That's kind of sad."

Now he laughed, "You are so funny."

"Why? What's so funny about that?"

That's when I knew he had read me again, "Are you dating, JJ?"

Shit, he's turning it around on me. I replied honestly, "No."

"Why not?"

"Because men are pigs, that's why not." I gave him a glare.

He raised his eyebrows in sympathy, "Not every guy is a Gus Stillman."

What I said and what I thought were two different things. What I said out loud was, "Maybe not, but there is definitely a shit load of them, and they're the only ones I seem to attract." What I thought was, "Not every guy is you, Bolt, and that's all I ever really wanted."

He was watching me when I said what I said, and I knew in an instant he had read the other thing. I had to change where this was going. For now.

"Well, if you did have a girlfriend, you wouldn't anymore. Our kiss went viral on Twitter."

*

The next six weeks were just more organized chaos. The races were bouncing around the south east, the cars not getting even close to California. They were worked on at a satellite shop the team owned outside of Atlanta, so we could work, rework, and rebuild whatever our equipment broke or exhausted on the previous race. With Pop and his team continuously trying to improve performance.

Talbot mainly stayed in California but would fly out the Friday night before race weekend wherever it happened to be and fly back after the race. When we were on opposite sides of the continent, we would video-call every night on our tablets.

Except for the most recent race, he was in my ear for every lap and I think it helped keep me grounded, just like old times. I looked forward to my kiss before every race and he didn't hesitate.

There was no longer any doubt in my mind that he loved me. I could feel it. I just knew it. Nevertheless, the resistance was there. He was fighting it in his head, and the more time we spent together was going to make it harder for him to leave. So I spent every possible minute I could with him.