Trading Paint (Racing on the Edge) (3 page)

I couldn’t lose Sway. Just her presence relaxed me in a way I’d never had before. And best of all, she believed in me. I came to depend on her in a vital way.

Before that sprint race at Elma, I was usually only allowed to race twice a month. This was supposed to keep me focused on my schoolwork and not as much on racing.

During the summers I was allowed to race every weekend if I wanted to so that’s when I began to shine.  

The summer of ‘92, I again won the Clay Cup Nationals in Deming, the Northwest Regional Midget Championship and the Midget Championship at Grays Harbor Raceway.

By competing in a number of Western District Qualifiers, I was able to attend the Quarter Midget Nationals: The Battle at the Brickyard.

We went and my first time there, we won.

Right then, standing there being awarded the trophy, I realized this dream might be reality some day and became my only focus.

The deal with my dad worked well until being a teenager became a factor. I found myself partaking in the occasional act of mischief at school and around town but racing was always number one to me.

As twelve turned to thirteen and thirteen turned to fourteen my life became complicated and suddenly I had other interests knocking at the door.

Hormones were a factor but the drive to become a professional racer was still present and ruled over everything. I wanted more than anything to race and nothing else mattered. Not school, not friends, nothing. I wasn’t living the normal childhood that’s for sure.

While Spencer and Emma did, I didn’t and had no desire to. I raced whenever possible. If I wasn’t racing, I was learning everything I could from my dad and working on his cars in the shop. At times, I guess I wanted to have a normal childhood life but I also knew this dream of mine wasn’t something I could put aside. If I wanted to be the best, it would take dedication and hard work.

I remember when reality hit and dad forced me to decide, or at least he made the decision for me when he threatened to sell my car.

Sometime around fourteen, he left for Grand Rapids, Michigan one Tuesday evening. My only chores were taking out the garbage and mowing the lawn. The rest of the time I was allowed to race on the track and do whatever I wanted.

Naturally, I didn’t mow the lawn and the garbage made it to right outside the door.

I spent every night racing out there from dawn to dust. The only reason I stopped was from the lack of light. Don’t get me wrong, I tried to convince my dad to install lights but he knew that would only result in me never leaving the track.

When the flashlights that Sway and I taped to the wings of my sprint car fell off, we called it a night and watched movies.

My parents returned Sunday afternoon to find me lying in bed eating Captain Crunch with a pile of garbage outside the door and a field of grass.

Let’s just say my dad turned our house into something similar to what you’d see in the Civil War after he threatened to sell my car. I was not okay with that. I had a hard time drawing the line between racing and working. I knew I had to work around the shop but it was difficult to get out of the car and having unlimited access like I did, made it tough.

After a while, I understood that in order to race, I needed to show my dad I was responsible enough to handle a demanding schedule and put everything I had into it. What I wanted didn’t come easy. To be the best you had to battle the best and to battle the best, you had to work for it.

I couldn’t show up and race expecting to win. To win these races everything had to line up, track conditions, set-ups, positions, and then the wheelman needed to be on his game. That’s where my roughshod attitude to be the best came into play.

Eventually everything else began to slip away—the only things that mattered was working at the shop and racing on Saturday nights. I lost friends, gained some and then lost them once they saw I never made time for anything but racing.

One friend remained the same though; Sway. She was always there and if I decided to go racing instead of to the movies, she was there. If I decided to change my shocks out on Friday night instead of partying with the rest of our classmates, she was there handing me tools.

I never understood why she did it, but I was thankful she did. Every time I thought about giving up and living the normal teenage life, she was there to remind me why I was doing this in the first place. I began to realize that what I was lacking that she had—Sway believed in me. I wouldn’t say that I didn’t believe in myself because I did, but for the first time other than my parents, someone else believed I could do it and that was the push I needed.

She saw the potential and never let me forget it. She was my rock. She was dependable, supportive, not judgmental, and everything I wasn’t for her.

I tried to be but there was also that line again. I had a hard time drawing a line between racing and everything else.

The older I got, the harder it got.

2.
    
Riding a wheel – Jameson

Riding a wheel – This refers to wheel-to-wheel action in sprint car racing, usually disastrous when contact is made with another car.

Even though I was a racer and on the track, I garnered respect from the other drivers. Off the track, I was a normal teenager who, for the most part, thought of ways to get into trouble, hated getting up early and of course, was infatuated with girls.

Being fourteen, I was hormone challenged as I called it. I had wants and as a teenager; those wants were hormone driven. Being someone who needed to be in control, I was not in control of my hormones so as you can expect, I did not deal with that as well as I’d hoped for.

Most of the time I was able to push the thoughts aside and focus on the bigger picture, racing. It didn’t stop the occasional fantasy of my best friend and me.

All that aside, I had a mission. I was determined to be the best racer I could be and was putting everything I had into accomplishing that.

The USAC Midget series opened in March of ‘95 in Chico, California. Racing was in full swing come April while I ran two USAC races a month and the weekly midget and sprint races at Elma. I had to be sixteen to compete in the USAC Silver Crown and sprint divisions so this left me racing only at Elma in a winged 360-sprint car.

I ended up catching a few outlaw late model races here and there when a car was available but I mainly stayed in the open wheeled cars.

Remaining focused, I learned everything I could from my dad. We spent many nights together going over set-ups and strategy. He constantly asked me, “Is this what you want?”

Without a fraction of a doubt, it was what I wanted. I never had to think about it.

I understood why he asked though as he had lived this lifestyle his entire life, like me. He began racing at a young age, like me. But unlike me, he didn’t have the financial support from his dad. Sure, grandpa was financially stable now being a lead manufacturer of sprint car engines. Back in the sixties and early seventies, that wasn’t the case.

I had an endless supply of cars, parts and resources readily available when needed but that wasn’t what I valued. What I cherished most was the time spent learning from him as well as reaping the wisdom of the sport that I loved so much.

To this day, I still remember the first sanctioned race I ran with my dad.

It was May 13, 1995. He was racing in the World of Outlaw race at Bloomington Speedway in Indiana. I tagged along with the intention of watching and gaining pointers.

Sway came with us, as did my buddy Tommy and older brother Spencer.

I only intended to
just
watch, but, my dad had other plans.

When we pulled into the pit gate, he stopped at the credentials desk as he usually would.

“Hey Natalie, how are you?” Dad said handing his credentials to her. He scribbled his signature over the insurance and release forms before looking back at me in the back seat. “You need to sign this kid.” He pushed the clipboard at me.

I’m sure the surprised look on my face had something to do with Sway’s sudden outburst of giggles beside me.

“I thought I was watching?” I asked hesitantly. I’ve raced sprint cars before but I had never been in a 410-sprint car.

The World of Outlaws ran 410ci engines in them as opposed to the 360ci engines ran on the Northern Sprint Tour, USAC sprint cars and local tracks.

Apparently
...
he thought I was ready.

“If you don’t think you can handle it
...
” his voice trailed off when I glared.

Suddenly I was nervous but I wasn’t about to show it.

“I can handle it.” I stated signing my name on the waiver.

He laughed, as did everyone else in the truck. I signed the release forms and the liability insurance as well.

When we pulled up to the hauler, Sway reached for my arm before we got out.

I smiled looking over my left shoulder at her. “What’s up?”

“Are you okay?” she returned the smile.

“Yeah,” I nodded.

I was more than okay. Sure, I was harboring some nerves but I was also humming with excitement at the chance to be behind the wheel of a 410-sprint car with my dad out there with me.

Dad and I had raced together at Elma messing around and on the track out back but never in a sanctioned race before. This was a
points
race for him and now his son would be out there with him.

I watched him squeeze into the cockpit of his double zero red sprint
car
, chuckling to myself that my six foot three dad was able to fit into these cars. Dad was burly and Spencer seemed to take after him in size. They could both be linebackers for the Pittsburg Stealers.

Sway and I made our way over to the hauler where I got in my racing suit to take a few hot laps to get the feel of the car. I took four laps to get a feel for it.

The first lap, I took it easy and cruised around. As I came into turn three on my second lap, I threw it hard—sliding with ease through the ruts, feathering the throttle for control. Pushing the car hard through the corners, I ran the high line that I felt comfortable with.

I could easily feel the difference between the cars, they were faster for one but the feel of the extra horsepower pulling me through the tacky clay was nice. The 360 sprints tend to get bogged down on the tacky tracks if you don’t adjust your timing whereas the 410 glided.

After my few hot laps, I looped back around into the pits to find Sway and Tommy grinning ear to ear.

“What?” I grinned back at them trying to conceal my excitement in any way I could.

They both laughed as time trials got underway. I ended up qualifying for the A-feature behind my dad in the second row. For being my first time in a 410, I was content with that starting position.

This particular race, being a World of Outlaw event was a different format than USAC and the Northern Sprint Tours.

When the World of Outlaws lined up, they lined up four-wide and made a complete lap that way which was called the 4-wide salute to the fans.

I’d see it done many times by my dad and other drivers but to do it myself, with my dad beside me, was tear worthy.

Here was the man I looked up to my entire life, racing beside me. I had no words for how I felt other than emotional.

Dad revved his engine beside me, jolting him forward a few feet. I did the same as did Bucky and Shey who were beside us.

When the race started, I held back for a few laps, watching my dad make his way to the lead position. I slid past Shey Evans with ease, and knocked off Bucky in the next turn. This left me right behind my dad coming out of turn two.

I think he wanted me to catch him; at least that was my theory. So when he came out of three and went low, I saw my chance.

He knew it and I knew it.

I threw my car hard like I always did when he shot up and pushed against me, I knew he wouldn’t give the position easily. That wasn’t his style.

When you passed Jimi, you earned it. He could block with the best of them and could slip into a position faster than any other driver, making room where there wasn’t. Other drivers called him “Shimmy Jimi” because one minute there wasn’t room and then there he was in front of you.

The only problem with racing against your dad is that he knows what you do to outsmart the other driver. I also knew what he would do though, I knew where he was strong and I knew where he struggled. Turn four in Bloomington was his weak spot. While he ran high in three, he would swoop down low into four and ride the rail. Then he’d shoot up the track on the front stretch and nearly brush the wall with his right rear before hurling the car sideways high into one and two.

I watched him for about four laps before I decided to make my move. Yet another trait I learned from him over the years: patience in racing is your virtue.