Page 198 of Trading Paint

“Yeah,” He grinned widely. “I saw her about a month ago when I made it out to Elma for that Modified Nationals with Tate.”

“So are you guys...”

“Not sure...but she’s here...that has to be agoodsign, right?”

“Clearly, you’re asking the wrong guy on that.” I chuckled adjusting my hat. “Have you not seen me around Sway?”

“Oh I have.” Justin nodded. “But you didn’t fuck up the way I did. I broke her heart and now...well...I couldn’t live with myself if I did it again.”

“Don’t then.” I ventured.

He snorted as we filed in beside the stage they set up for us to walk across. “Nice advice.”

I didn’t get a chance before the roar of the fans and fireworks drowned us out.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, you wanted the best you’ve gotem’ here. Let’s introduce your starting line-up for the Outlaw Showdown, the heavy hitters of the World of Outlaws!” the announcer drew out in a deep enthusiastic voice. “Starting on the inside of row one, we have the King, your very own, fourteen time champion...Jimi Riley!”

“Starting on the outside...the son of the King and NASCAR’s Rowdy Riley, none other than Jameson Riley!”

Tipping my head at the crowd, I smiled when they roared to life. Dad turned around, glaring. I’d clearly gotten more cheers than him. He threw his hands up in the air at the crowd before they admired their champion.

Laughing, he pulled me into a headlock.

Like I said, it was nice to be around my dirt buddies. I considered them my family, yes my dad technically was, but Justin, Tyler, Ryder, Tommy...they were all my family in some way.

“How’d the carfeel?” Tommy asked sometime after the heat races. He was running around making sure all of us had the right setups.

“When I lift, I got instant stick, maybe too much.”

Tommy went right to work on the adjustments.

When we finally started the feature, dad was all business. He was leading the series with Justin a close nine points behind him. He had no room for mistakes and I almost felt bad about being in the mix with the point leaders but I also knew if any of them had the chance to race cup and compete at those levels I had been, they wouldn’t question it.

So why should I?

Engaging the coupler, I signaled to the driver, letting him know I would be taking off. The car roared to life. The sound is absolutely addicting. Nothing sounds like or feels the way a sprint car does.

Even my cup car was nowhere near the consoling meditation that a sprint car provided. I think the best part was the feeling I got just being out here, around the dirt track again. It was exactly what I needed. The dirt, the methanol, even the sunscreen worn by the women, all reminded me of a time Sway was with me, a time when everything was so much simpler, though I’d never taken the time to appreciate just how simple it was.

That was until around lap thirty something of the feature and I ended up tangling with Tyler on a re-start. He blew a right rear tire and took me with him.

It was no one’s fault—he didn’t make it blow. Sprint cars are so temperamental that the tiniest change in that stagger I’ve talked about sends them flying without a moment of warning.

Being upside down was the least of my worries. I was more concerned about the methanol pouring onto me. The problem with methanol burning is that it burns invisible, no flame or smoke. If a fire happens, you can’t see it to put it out. But you can feel it burning you.

I started thinking of all the ways it could catch on fire. Certainly, it could reach a spark but that wasn’t my concern because the engine wasn’t idling. My fear was the 800° headers it was pouring onto as well as my racing suit. So while there was no obvious spark for it to come in contact with, the headers were another story. Methanol has a flash point of 385° so the 800° headers were starting to concern me.

Safety crews were scrambling around me, searching for injuries and frantically asking me if I was all right.

“Riley, are you okay?” they repeated that a few times before I could answer.

I nodded and gave them a wave. It wasn’t like they could hear me with all the cars running past. Even on pace laps, they produced quite the sound.

Motioning toward the fuel tank behind me, I said. “The fuel is pouring on to me. Can you get me turned over?”

That got them going. The wreck happened right in front of the pit bleachers so both Tommy and Spencer were there to help get the car turned back over. My skin was burning from the methanol that soaked through my fire-resistant suit. It may not have ignited but it was still something you didn’t want on your skin.

Knowing me, what kind of mood do you think I was in having a substance on my skin?

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