Page 196 of Trading Paint

Not bad, I thought. Qualifying in the middle was good, got a good amount of rubber down on the track and you also had the advantage of seeing what line was fastest.

I nodded while Aiden and I walked to the hauler. Spencer and Mason pushed the car toward the grid.

The qualifying order for a NASCAR race is similar to what you’d see at a local dirt track, aside from NASCAR using a Bingo parlor set-up whereas dirt tracks just keep it simple and draw pills with numbers on them to determine your qualifying spot. It’s a tradition with them.

Each team sends a representative to the draw; we usually send Aiden. With his personality, it’s entertaining to watch him wait for a number.

Can you understand why we love this so much? He usually spends the entire time trying to foresee the future so when he comes back, it takes him a good hour to calm down.

When qualifying begins on Friday before the Sunday race, one car at a time goes out on the track. We start on pit road, have less than a lap to get up to speed then make two laps. They take the best time out of those two laps to determine your starting spot.

If there is a tie in the time between two drivers, the owner with the highest points gets the draw.

Only two things can send you to the back of the field after qualifying, missing a drivers meeting or making significant changes to your car such as an engine change or switching to a back-up car.

“You ready?” Aiden asked reaching for his headset. Since last year, NASCAR has required a spotter when your car is on the track. The spotter not only serves as your eyes in the sky but they monitor track conditions, talk to other teams about positions and oddly enough, calm you down when needed. As you can imagine, Aiden did this a lot.

Entertaining enough, he could make quick decisions on the track but couldn’t decide on what socks to wear in the morning.

Pulling out my headphones, I smiled slipping my iPod inside my suit.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

And I was. Throughout the week, I was able to relax and focus on the bigger picture, winning the championship. If I could win the Triple Crown, Chili Bowl and numerous track championships—I could win this as well.

I’d like to think I was relaxed but after snagging the pole, happy hour was a different story. Suddenly I thought my car needed something more, or maybe it was me?

The night before the Coca-Cola 600 was my only free night.

What did I do with my one free evening for the week?

Yeah, you guessed it. I raced at the local dirt track. It just so happened that the Outlaw Showdown was only twenty minutes away in Concord. So Tate, Bobby, Spencer, Aiden and I piled into a mini-van and zipped over to Concord after I had dinner with my parents. Being a team owner now, I had a car ready.

“Why are you adding weight?”

“Because Skip said we were light.”

Tommy looked over at Rusty, our mechanic, scratching his orange hair with a wrench. “Take the floor plate out and replace it with a steel plate. Let me know how much weight we’re off then.”

Rusty and his little helper, his brother, began tearing out the floor plate.

After weighing in again, we were still off by fifty pounds with my car so I had them add a lead to the Nerf bar on the left side—it seemed to take care of it.

It was a blazing hot day and even with the sun setting as day turned to evening, the track turned dry and slick. Anytime the track crew tried to moisten it up, the sun had it dried out before the water truck had pulled off.

Some of the drivers were packing their suits with ice packs, while others dealt with it. Being used to the high temperatures, I just dealt with.

It was nothing like the race in Texas earlier in the year when the inside of my car was close to 135°.

Before the heat races, I made my way over to the flag stand for an interview with one of their announcers.

Simplex asked that I come, since they were sponsoring the Outlaw Showdown this year. This meant I had a little sweet-talking to do.

Standing there, I had my suit wrapped around my waist with a wet t-shirt clinging to my body. It probably didn’t look appropriate but if you’ve never been on the East Coast during the summer with 103° temperatures and highhumidity, you’re not missing anything. Nor would you understand why I was standing in front of around five thousand fans sporting a wet see-through t-shirt.

I let out a small chuckle as they recapped my career.

“This young man standing here beside me...” Richard’s hand grasped my shoulder shaking me slightly. I smiled wider and the cheering from the crowd intensified. “He started racing at four. By the time he was six, he had won two Regional Quarter Midget Nationals, moved onto the Deming Speedway Clay Nationals at nine...then the Triple Crown, dozens of track championships...Chili Bowl...the list could take up an hour of our time here but what you all want to know if who this kid is...right?”

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