The Legend (69 page)

“This is
for you dad,” and held the trophy in the air.

I kept it
simple, just like him. I didn’t say anything else to the camera’s, just that. I
didn’t go over my strategy or how I saved fuel or what pit call led the win. It
was simple. It was for him, the legend who made this all possible for me.

My life
was hundreds of races, fragments of action. Some leading nowhere, most leading
nowhere. But then when least expected a race comes together and swings your
way. Those were the moments that made those fragments worth it.

That very
last race would be a memory that I would hold with me forever as a race was
never just a race. To some, it was more.

Everyone
sees a race in a different light. The outcome is the same, but everyone at the
race takes away something different.

The fans,
crowded tightly into the metal bleachers all cheering their favorite driver on.
And maybe I was their favorite driver, but either way, the experience was
different from let’s say the NASCAR official watching out for lapped traffic,
debris, and even track conditions at times. He calls the start of the race,
waves the yellow and restarts the race. And then, after five hundred miles, he
waves the checkered flag. More than likely, he remains indifferent as to who
won but that race meant something different to those fans standing behind him
or me.

It meant
something different to the spotters perched high above the track with drivers
putting their faith in them and their judgment. There were the crew chiefs calling
the shots on the box or the crew members turning out twelve second pit stops.
Also the wives, crossing their fingers, biting their nails and the owners,
wanting their drivers to win and give a good showing to the sponsors who
provided the opportunity.

Each
person took something else away each Sunday and it meant something completely
different.

That fan,
maybe it was bragging rights with their friends that their driver won.

That
spotter, who his driver had put complete faith into him, he got him through
five hundred miles to pull off a win and that’s not easy to do.

That crew
chief, he made the right calls. The crew members, they performed pit stops to
perfection and got the driver the jump he need on forty-two other drivers.

The wife
she took pride in knowing that her prayers and nail biting got him through it
and safely in her arms again.

That
owner, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he built a winning team.

But to
that driver, the one that watched the race enfold behind the wheel and was the
first to see that checkered flag after five hundred miles battling inches from
other cars at nearly two hundred miles per hour and scrapped for every
position, fought for every inch and put his trust into others, he had the
comfort of knowing that he did what forty-two other guys did not.

He won.

A win may
be just a win in the record books but it meant so many different emotions from
everyone that witnessed it whether it from the fence line to the wheel.

To me, and
my family, words couldn’t describe what this win meant to us.

A turn, a
yellow line,
a banking
, a straightaway, all that moves
together creating a shape that becomes a race, a lifestyle, but a race is never
just a race. Why risk it all for just a race?

That
night, after my last race, I stayed up until the better part of the morning
celebrating with my family in Jacksonville. My favorite part was being with my
wife.

Her hands
traced the tired lines, seeing every imperfection I had. Suddenly growing old
didn’t feel so hard. It didn’t with her.

It was
times like this, wrapped together that her words, her touch; that her presence
hung on the walls of my heart, assuring me this was right.

“I never
thought we would be here.” I said referring to me now being retired.

“I think
that this played out the way it was meant to.” Her hand touched my heart. “You
are capable of more than you know.”

It may not
seem like very much, but it was what I needed.

Undeniably,
I wish that it had played out a little differently. I wished my dad was here. I
wish that he saw it. Saw the dedication I put into coming back, the end to a
story he helped scripted.

It was
times like this that it felt good for people to say that you’re the best. I
won’t sit here and say it didn’t feel good to be accepted into a sport that was
so tight because it did. Feeling as though you are a polarizing figure in a
sport that’s so highly scrutinized is a numbing sensation.

The
shirts, the trading cards, and those kids who wanted to race my number. The being
respected, the smiles of adulation, unending autographs was all I knew for the
last twenty years. That has a huge impact on your life whether you want it to
or not.

What I
couldn’t understand was that we were living out an image that wasn’t real. Whether
it was a nervous forget-my-own-name smile, feeling encircled and trapped, I
played my part to an image that wasn’t me.

Maybe
someday I would be me and remembered for who I was and what I did for the
sport, not my image or an angle created. Or maybe I’ll be just a common name
passing in conversation? Until then, my image, my name reported by countless
reporters, gossiped about and carried to overpowering levels, reach me and
those around me whether we wanted it to or not.

Either
way, I chose a line and stuck with it. Image or not, revolving door or not, it
led me here.

Inside Line – Sway

At the
last championship banquet, NASCAR invited Jameson even though he wasn’t in the
top twelve in points. They had a special recognition they wanted to do for him.
This left our family all going with us to Vegas for the ceremony.

Spencer
looked at me as we rode in the elevator the night of the banquet to the hall.
“Remember when we got stuck in the elevator?”

“I try not
to.” I replied sourly applying some lips gloss. “Not only was I eight months
pregnant, but you were trying to get me to take my clothes off.”

“I’ll ask
again if—”

I punched
his stomach. “Don’t be that guy Spencer.”

When we
got downstairs, I found Jameson waiting for me and we walked their red carpet together.
Hundreds of people were here tonight just to hear him speak and what they had
planned for Jimi.

Laughter
broke out beside us when Brody and Bobby started joking with Jameson. I wasn’t
sure how he would take Brody joking with him but he surprised me.

Jameson
smiled and the mood broke, surprised laughter echoed. Turning, he looked back
at me briefly and then regarded the crowd again.

The thing
was, the majority of these people were here tonight, aside from the
championship contenders and their team, to pay respect to Jimi and show Jameson
their support.

They were
waiting for him to speak the truth, something he always did. They were waiting
for a glimpse into his soul wanting to know the man behind the wheel.

When the
ceremonies began, I watched the video, clips of Jameson over the years. My boy
was there, goofy, energetic Jameson full of life. They showed clips of his
career and highlighted his last season right down to that last win in
Homestead.

It didn’t
matter who your favorite driver was or what you believed in. That night Jameson
won in Homestead, there wasn’t a dry eye in the place when he took that
checkered flag for the last time.

Unlike
most banquets when we were seated on stage, since Jameson hadn’t won the
championship we were seated at a table in the audience to the right of the
stage.

Casten sat
beside me. “Tommy stuffed a sandwich in his pocket and walked over to the beer.
What’s not to love about him?”

I laughed
looking at my son dressed in a tuxedo. He noticed immediately and nodded a little
too arrogantly. “That’s right mama, I look good.” Looking around the room, his
eyes caught with a young blonde two table away. “Damn, looks like Paul’s
daughter is growing up.”

Casten
left after that.

Jameson
approached the table again only to be asked by a host to come back stage again.

Watching
him now, I always knew just how great Jameson was. But that weekend, and the
night of the awards banquet that year, it became real as I listened to some of
the greatest icons in auto racing talk about my husband as though he was god.

I felt
Jameson’s hand squeeze mine when a photograph of him winning his first NASCAR
race in Rockingham came on the screen. It wasn’t just of him though, Jimi was
right next to him in the photo smiling at his son.

That’s
when Russ Campbell walked on stage as the only light shined on him dressed in
his black tuxedo. “As many know, we lost a part of our family this year at the
Frost Nationals and nearly lost one of the greatest drivers this sport has
seen. But first, I think we should talk a little about the man who made this
possible for him, Jimi.”

It was
weird to me that they were talking about him like he wasn’t here and then it
really dawned on me, Jimi wasn’t here any longer. I reached for Jameson’s hand
again. It was clammy and trembling as they spoke of his father.

This had
to be hard.

“Jimi
Riley was born in 1956 in Bloomington, Indiana to Casten Sr. and Elle Riley and
that’s where he made his name. Casten Riley Sr. built sprint cars from the ground
up and then raced them down at Bloomington Speedway. After a while, Jimi took
interest and in that small town in the Midwest is where his love was formed
with dirt racing. Jimi won his first World of Outlaws championship the very
first season it was started in 1978. From there he went on to thirty more and
raked in three thousand and forty feature wins in his forty-five season career.

“You see
it all the time, NHRA, NFL Coaches, Actors, various people in sports
broadcasting all taking an interest in NASCAR. Some just simply watch where
others try their hand at team ownership. Jimi wasn’t any different. He just
decided one day, “
Hey, I think I’ll start a NASCAR team
.” And he did.
But his greatest decision was pairing a rookie driver and Bobby Cole together.”

The crowd
chuckled as Larry, the broadcasting announcer for the banquet, took over the
speech smiling. “No one touched Jameson’s records he set back in 2003 with his
twelve wins, twenty-two top five’s and thirty top ten finishes in the
thirty-six race schedule.

“Well he
broke that record that record year after year. But no one else has. Tate Harris
tried but couldn’t quite reach Jameson’s record number of wins in a season he
set in 2013 of twenty-three. Throughout his twenty seasons in the Cup Series,
he started eight hundred and sixteen races, snagged two hundred and twelve
poles, one hundred and eighty one top five’s and two hundred and forty seven
wins with fifteen championships. No other driver in the history of the sport
has ever accomplished those numbers.  The same one they called Rowdy Riley
for his temper on and off the track. The same kid who shoved reporters out of
his way and had his name embroidered in the Big Red Trailer,” Larry shook his
head looking over at Jameson with a smile. “Jameson Riley was undoubtedly a
polarizing figure in NASCAR racing. And no one knows this better than the man
who took a chance on him back then, ladies and gentleman, fourteen-time NASCAR
Cup Champion
...
Tate Harris.”

I looked
over at Jameson when Tate took the stage and his head was bowed as if he
actually looked up, he might cry.

Inside Line – Jameson

I wasn’t
comfortable being praised upon. That’s not why I raced. It was never about that
attention but it was inescapable on a night like tonight. As a racer, you know
there’s a destiny there, a romance to the sport that draws you in but the lines
between are hard to distinguish. I felt it, the sweat of the triumph if you
will. I understood what people saw but I felt none of it. I couldn’t get
outside of it enough and see my life for what others witnessed. Instead, I
remembered enough along the way to know my own boundaries and imagine the
romance for what it was. Personally, that was me and always had been.

Tate
smiled toward me and winked. He leaned against the podium appearing relaxed as
though he was talking to a group of friends outside his transporter. And
really, he was. “Here’s a kid that given how disposed he is to rattle other
drivers, he’s the first to make sure you’ve walked away from a crash. He prompted
a chorus of alleluias by winning, always has.” Tate said. “That’s what really
set him apart from the drivers at the Chili Bowl the year I met him. It wasn’t
just that he won; it was
how
he won.

 “And
he continued to win that way. I’ve witnessed him at his best and I’ve been
there with him when it’s all fallen apart for him. In 2003, he proved just how
great he is. That year snapshot still stands out because it captured Jameson at
his absolute bedeviling best. A driver who just wouldn’t quit and could incite
fans to rush the catch fence each time he pulled off another victory. He was a
god out there and he knew it. It was riveting to watch, the intersection of
greatness emerge just off the loathing he fed from that year. I honestly
believe this kid has revolutionized the sport to what it is today. No one could
touch him that year and probably never will, I know I tried.” He smiled with a
low chuckle. “I’ve thought about coming back and seeing if I could go after
number fifteen, just for the record books.” His smile turned wicked. “But I
also know Jameson
...
he’d come out of
retirement too and then we’d constantly be battling it out each week just
trying to one up the other.”