Once Around the Track (30 page)

Badger was not a chatty driver. Very seldom did his voice come over the headset, except in answer to a question from Tuggle, but if Sark, the novice at racing, had been allowed to tune into Badger’s thoughts as he raced at Darlington, their telepathic dialogue might have gone like this:

A lot of times at Darlington a car will look loose on the back end…that’s bad…if your car’s nose won’t turn, you’re out of control, so you’ll probably be getting a Darlington stripe. You know…scrape the wall, maybe wreck, even…

So you’re saying that if the nose is not turned properly, the car will wreck?

Right. You go straight when you get on the gas…Here at Darlington you’ve got four apexes to contend with, instead of the usual two…You use a diamond maneuver…. You go straight into the corner, and you exit on a straight edge the same way.

But what is an apex?

I’m coming into one now. It’s the turn at the bottom of the banking…You let the car drift up to the wall and ease on the throttle at the top of the corner…you enter—Stay on it…. Stay on it…

On it? The throttle?

“Stay on it” means to stay on the throttle as long as your butt can stand it. Usually the pucker factor controls this issue….

Until it scares the shit out of you?

Yeah, so stay on it as long as you can…. You’re right on the wall, as you’re going straight. Then you let off the gas; turn to the bottom of the groove…. If the nose is wrong, the car is still gonna slide…If the nose is pointed and you are
not
sliding, then you work up to the top groove, aiming for as close to the wall as you can get….

Why?

Because the traction is at the top part of the track. As you enter the corner, you apply the throttle. See, I’m going up the hill…

She sees him going down the front stretch wide open. As he sets himself up for Turn One, he dives low near the white line, backs off the gas, grabs a little brake, drifts the car up the banking until it is almost touching the wall.
(This is called “walking up the track.”)
Then as he comes off Turn Two, right where the wall wants to reach out and grab him, he eases the car a little to the left and points the nose down the backstretch.

I’m at the top of the hill now…full throttle…There is a bad dip at the top of Turns One and Two. If the car is not pointed straight, the back end will come around. You got a
push-loose condition…

Which is?

When the damn car is so tight in the front end that I have to turn the wheel so far left that it makes the back end of the car want to turn around on me. Sometimes the car is so tight that I have to put so much wheel into it when I get back to the gas that I lose the back end, and because of the car not being straight, I end up chasing the car up the hill.

So you fight your way through the Turn Two apex, balancing the turning of the wheel against back end’s tendency to slide, so that you don’t skid into the wall…. Then what?

Now the track gets really narrow, coming out off Turn Two…I’m going downhill…easing out of the throttle…Then I hit the apex. I’d not keep it out. I aimed right for it.

Early apex. Use bottom groove to make your car turn left.

Another big bump off of Turn Two the whole back end squats down…going into Turn Three—a lot of guys would stay up high. I’d go down to the bottom, drive in really deep, and for the most part straight.

Heavy braking until you hit the apex, then ease off the brake…Then a second or two later, I apply the brake again just to slow the momentum. Now the car is walking up the track.

And that means…Drifting up the bank toward the wall, right?

Uh-huh. So you ease back on it, next to the wall. When the car is almost straight, go to full throttle…twenty or thirty yards on full throttle…Sharp turn…Ease up a little…then full throttle again…Oh, and the braking technique is used more in Turn Three than in Turn One.

Good to know.

Aggressive on entry…aggressive all the way around…if the car is set up right, you are sitting wasting time if you’re not aggressive. Burning daylight.

Okay. Okay. I get it.

When the car is right, just before the middle of the corner, I go to the throttle hard…Also, when the car is right, you throttle up and go to the inside to pass…

On the inside? Why?

The inside is the preferred groove there. Because everybody else is running close to the wall, so most of the passing is done on the inside.

And the other cars have to get out of your way?

Look, Darlington is hell on tires. After about twenty laps the good cars shine. If the set-up is right it cuts down on tire wear. When your car is not right, every lap can feel like an eternity; but when the set-up is perfect, the other cars just become obstacles in your way. When I’m running good, I can average passing one car per lap. Do you get it now?

Well, no. You might as well be saying the Lord’s Prayer in Comanche. But I’ll take your word for it. Aim for the wall and miss.

But
only
if your race car is perfectly set up, and only if you have the reflexes of a tiger, the courage of a teenaged rhinoceros, and the focusing ability of an electron microscope.

Badger Jenkins was a superb driver—better than his win-loss record would have showed, because he had always driven on underfunded one-car teams, where talent was almost the only weapon he had against the corporate giants of the sport. He may have been hell on owners, sponsors, and people who loved him, but he drove like an angel of light. For 367 laps at Darlington that day, he etched his diamonds, double apexed his turns, aided by augmented shock absorbers that didn’t overheat, and his engine held up, while he dodged the wrecks and lucked out on the caution flags, which always came just as he was in need of fresh tires or more fuel. The pit crew was in top form at last—hopeful, confident, and comfortable in their roles in the intricate ballet that was a thirteen-second pit stop.

Sometimes the universe simply aligns itself in such a way that things go absolutely right for one person, and this was Badger Jenkins’s day. Two of the superstars had engine trouble, and another one lost a lap on a tire blowout. Another golden boy got caught up in somebody else’s wreck, damaging his car so badly that he was out of contention. What it all boiled down to was the fact that everybody who could have beaten Badger had a bad day, while he had a phenomenally good one.

By the time the race had wound down to a ten-lap shoot-out between Badger and the driver that the pit crew referred to as the “Prairie Dog,” the 86 team was hovering between elation and the fear that even taking a deep breath could break the spell.
Eight laps
…Badger was holding his own, diving into every corner as if he were going to plow straight through the wall, and then at the last second cutting the diamond in the opposite direction, blasting down the straightaway, and then repeating the maneuver at the next turn.
Five laps
…He was keeping a one-second lead over the Prairie Dog, which didn’t sound like much, until you consider that races can be won by thousandths of a second.
Three laps
…The Prairie Dog scrapes the wall in Turn Two, which costs him a fraction of a second.

“Prairie Dog’s shocks are going,” said Tuggle. “Yours are holding, though, right?”

“Doin’ fine,” said Badger. “I think we may be gonna win this sum bitch.”

“Bring it home, boy,” said Tuggle, trying to keep the catch out of her voice.

And he did.

Some of the younger drivers these days mark their wins in theatrical ways. The affable Carl Edwards does a backflip off the hood of his car. Two-time Cup champion Tony Stewart climbs the fence to collect the checkered flag from the official on the tower. Many drivers celebrate by cutting doughnuts in the infield or doing burnouts on the track. But Badger was an old-school driver, and mostly the old-timers did not believe in showing off.

So Badger’s victory was celebrated in the restrained tradition of his predecessors. He let down the window net, collected the checkered flag, and took his Victory Lap, while the pit crew sprinted off to Victory Lane to join in the celebration, which was as much theirs as his. He couldn’t have done it without them.

He drove the car into Victory Lane, climbed out the window, and hugged whoever was closest to the car. Tuggle. Christine. Sigur. Reve. Sark.

With microphones and television cameras thrust in his face, Badger managed a grin, and launched into a carefully worded sound bite: “Like to thank my crew, and all the folks at Team Vagenya. We had a really good car, and they really came through for me out there. They’ve all worked hard to get this team up to speed, and I’m glad I didn’t let them down today.”

A simple speech. A variation of what everybody else said, week after week, from one Victory Lane to the next. But if the one who says it this week is your driver, and if it is you that he is thanking, then the words are more eloquent than Shakespeare.

Shortly after he exited the car, Badger was given something to drink—never mind what he wanted. He would be given the officially sanctioned beverage, whose makers have paid dearly for their product to be the one approved drink to be imbibed in Victory Lane.

As team publicist, Sark finally had the chance to assist for real in the Victory Lane ritual called The Hat Dance. The winning driver is photographed over and over in the aftermath of the race, and each of the team’s sponsors wants a shot of the driver wearing their insignia. The purple and white Vagenya hat went first.
Pose. Smile. Click.
And then he swapped the first hat for another sponsor’s cap.
Pose. Smile. Click.
On and on.

Then he posed with the trophy. The last time Badger had won at Darlington, the trophy had featured a crystal globe, but the track had recently rethought that design, and now they presented the winning driver with a layout of the Darlington Raceway mounted flat on a small pedestal. Badger hoisted the trophy over his head, while the team crowded around him, trying not to look astonished that they had won.

Most of the time the pit crew figured only as a jubilant crowd in the background of the celebration, but because the 86 team was a novelty—all female—they got more attention than Badger did. No one said anything more profound than his simple thank-you speech, but for almost exactly fifteen minutes, they were famous. And on Tuesday morning, “Littlebit” Baird would receive Badger’s racing helmet, signed by the entire 86 team as thanks for her part in the victory.

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“Y
ou got a lotta sand,” said Badger.

Instinctively, Taran reached down to brush off her jeans, before she realized that this expression was Badger-speak for possessing gumption and courage. “Thank you,” she said meekly.

Badger grinned. “Bouncing around in the car back at Bristol. And you didn’t scream once.” He patted her arm. “Good job.”

Wednesday night in Mooresville: Taran had been the last one left in the garage. She was working late because Tony had asked her to check out the wiring on the fans for his Late Model Stock race car to see if she could figure out why they weren’t working. When Badger stopped by about eight on his way back from dinner, just to see what was going on, or to refute the accusation that he was never around between races, he had found her there alone at the workbench, peering at a tangle of colored wires.

She wasn’t finished, but when Badger snared a blue Gatorade out of the refrigerator
(Taran herself made sure they never ran out)
and started to leave, Taran had walked outside with him. It was a clear, cool night with a quarter moon and the usual measly complement of stars visible in the haze of greater Charlotte. Taran’s heart was pounding to the beat of
“I am alone with Badger Jenkins.”
Unfortunately, it is difficult to think up any small talk when you have to keep reminding yourself to breathe.

“Thank you for paying my fine,” she said.

He smiled. “You’ve already thanked me about six times for that, sweetie. Are you gonna thank me one time for every dollar of the fine?”

“It was so kind of you to do it, though,” she said. “I’m so glad you turned out to be a nice guy. Before I joined the team, I was a Badger Jenkins fan.”

He tilted his head back and peered at her, surprised.
“Was?”

“Oh, I still am. It’s just that sometimes I forget that you’re
him.
”

She could see his face in the glow of the shop’s outdoor security light. Badger looked bewildered, and Taran thought,
I may never have another chance to tell him. Let me just say it and hope I can make him understand. Nobody should be loved so much and not know it.

Aloud, she said, “Do you know why I went to work on this team, Badger? Because I loved you.” She waved away whatever reply he had been about to make. “Oh, not
you,
really, Badger. I didn’t even know
you.
But I once stood in line for an hour in the hot sun at Atlanta to have you scrawl your name across a tee shirt, and you barely looked up when you signed it. It didn’t matter, though. I loved you so much. Do you guys understand that? How much we care about you? That we cry when you wreck? That we know your dog’s name. That every October there are birthday parties in your honor that you don’t even know about, given by people you’ve never even heard of—celebrating
your
birthday.”

Badger looked embarrassed. “Wa-all, thank you,” he said softly.

She sighed. “No. Don’t
thank
me. I didn’t do it on purpose—care about you, I mean. One day I was watching NASCAR races without particularly caring who won, and the next moment
you
were all that mattered.”

He tilted his head back and narrowed his eyes, the way he did when he was paying closer attention. “Which win was that?” he asked.

“You didn’t win that day. You
wrecked.
Fourteen cars slammed into you broadside at Talladega, and I started crying, and after that I guess I never stopped, because you were having one lousy season that year. I was so scared that you were hurt, and I stayed scared for every single race after that. Sometimes I’d start crying during the National Anthem.

“But don’t
thank
me, Badger. If I could have fallen in love with Tony Stewart, believe me, I would have. He had a great year, and being his fan would have been a much less painful experience, but fandom doesn’t work that way. It just
happens.
” She shrugged. “It’s like a cross between falling in love and typhoid fever. We can’t help it. Do you understand?”

Badger shook his head. “It’s just me,” he said. “There’s the firesuit and the dark sunglasses, so I guess I look different, but underneath all that, it’s just
me
.”

She looked at him appraisingly, marveling as she always did at the difference between Badger Jenkins in person and the Dark Angel who turned up on every autograph card, tee shirt, and coffee mug that featured him. “No,” she said at last. “I don’t think you are
just you
when you’re out there. Not to your fans, anyhow.” She managed a misty smile. “For one thing, you’re taller.”

“Well, those pictures make me look good, I guess. Better than I really look.”

“It’s more than that, Badger. It’s as if ten thousand strangers loved you so much—loved the idea of you, anyhow—that they built you a soul, and the force of that collective belief made
him
more real than you are. If reality is a consensus of opinion, then he
is
more real than you are. How many friends do you have? A dozen, maybe? Well, there are ten thousand women who would sleep with him if he simply nodded in their direction. And a thousand people would die for him.”

He shivered. “That doesn’t have anything to do with me,” he said. “Not really.”

“No, I suppose not, but people like their dreams to be tangible, and so three hundred people wait in line to shake
your
hand…and they take
your
picture…and trembling women hug
you
…because it’s the closest that any of us can come to touching
him
.”

“I try to be nice to people,” he said simply. “I’m not anything special. I was just lucky.”

She stared at him as if he were a stranger. It was like having a conversation about some absent third person. “I loved you so much,” she said, wonderingly, as if she couldn’t quite remember why. “Do you know why I took this job on your pit crew?”

He shifted uneasily, as if he expected her to lunge at him. Women did, sometimes, and this whole line of discussion was making him sweat. “Uh…To get to know me?”

“No. To
protect
you. I just couldn’t sit there staring at a TV screen any longer, worrying about whether your tires were bad, or if your safety harness had been fastened right. So I decided to join the team for my own peace of mind, because I figured it was better to do something than to sit home and worry.”

“Oh, I’ll be all right,” he said, giving her his aw-shucks grin. “Never been hurt bad out there.”

She opened her mouth to say something and then thought better of it. At last she murmured, “It only takes once.”

There didn’t seem to be any point in saying what she had been thinking:
But you have been hurt out there. Lots of times. Bruises, sore muscles, cracked ribs—a whole catalogue of minor injuries, but I wonder if someday they’ll come back to haunt you in the form of arthritis. That isn’t the worst of it, though. It’s the concussions I worry about. All the times you slammed into the wall and lost an hour or a day, and walked around for two weeks afterward with a splitting headache and a tiny chunk of your life missing. Sometimes you even got past the doctors by pretending you were all right, and they let you drive a few days later. What’s that going to cost you down the road? Parkinson’s? Dementia? Nobody knows what repeated head injuries do long term. When you’re old. When you’re not famous anymore. When all those people who loved
him
have forgotten about
you
. Who will take care of you then?

She didn’t say any of it, though, and as much as she wanted to hug him, she didn’t do that, either. He was too immured in his own fame—
sometimes he even mistook himself for the Dark Angel,
she thought. Badger would have thought she was hitting on him, and she’d have had to let him think that, because she couldn’t bear to tell him that she was simply afraid for him, that someday it was all going to come crashing down, and she didn’t know what would become of him after that.
Anyhow,
she told herself,
holding someone doesn’t really protect him from anything, no matter how much you wish it could.

Suddenly, and with a look of infinite sadness, Badger held out his arms, and Taran stumbled forward and put her head on his shoulder. She wouldn’t exactly remember this embrace, because it lasted only a few seconds, while the duration of all her fantasies of hugging Badger Jenkins added up to hours and hours. There wasn’t much similarity between the fantasy and the reality. For starters, it wasn’t a passionate embrace. It was the sort of hug you would get from your grandfather if you fell off your bike. And she had to bend her knees a little in order to rest her head on his shoulder, which certainly hadn’t happened in any of the thousand scenarios in her head. He felt as bony and insubstantial as a bird, she thought. Somehow she had assumed that underneath the firesuit his body would be muscular and solid, but now through the thin tee shirt she thought she might be able to count his ribs. He wasn’t the Dark Angel, not even close. She had known that intellectually, of course, but now she could even
feel
it.

What was odd was what she
didn’t
feel. In the thousand practice laps in her head, this moment would be the starting point….
And then I tilt my head up and kiss him…. And then I put one hand in the small of his back, and the other hand on his…

But she didn’t feel like doing any of that. It was like hugging your brother.
He’s just being kind,
she thought. She barely had time to register these observations before he gently released her and stepped back peering at her with that earnest Badger expression that people called his “retriever look.”

“You’re a great teammate, sweetie,” he said. “You try real hard, and I thank you for all the worrying you do about me. I know about all that luck stuff you’ve been puttin’ on the car, and you’re a sweet girl. But don’t put me on a pedestal.”

Taran blinked at him. “What?”

“I’m just an ordinary guy. I’m not perfect. I’m not special. I’m just real good at driving a car. Don’t make too much of that. Don’t believe I’m more than I am.”

Taran opened her mouth to remind him that she already knew all that. Hadn’t she just said so? But before she could utter a word, her brain registered two salient points: he had barely heard a word of what she’d just said, and this speech of his sounded very well-rehearsed. As if he had said it hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. To the starlets and stewardesses who wanted to bag a race car driver. To all the adoring fans who thought they loved him when they didn’t even know him. To the pit lizards.

“I won’t,” she said in a hoarse whisper, which was all she could manage.

“That’s good. You take care now, and I’ll see you tomorrow at practice.”

She never thought she’d be glad to see Badger Jenkins walk away, but she was. She wanted to make sure he was out of earshot before she started to cry.

Fifteen minutes later, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the garage throwing lug nuts into a coffee can when Rosalind Manning found her. She had come back to see if she’d left her cell phone on the workbench, but one look at Taran’s blotched and puffy face made her temporarily abandon that errand. Rosalind had seen Badger’s Crossfire pulling out of the parking lot as she was coming in, so she knew that Taran’s current emotional state had to do with him.

Inwardly, Rosalind cursed herself for being the one to find her. She avoided people whenever she could, and she hated emotional scenes. This had been a cataclysm waiting to happen. Everybody knew it. Little Taran with her Gatorade shrine for Badger and her magic amulets to protect him out there. Taran made her think of those paintings of the Virgin Mary that depicted her with her heart on the outside of her dress. That was Taran, all right. Everybody knew it—even Badger, thanks to Kathy Erwin, who, being a slightly malicious Good Samaritan, had made sure that Badger noticed. Kathy had told him, “You know, you ought to take care of Taran. She’s dying for it, Badger. Hell, you could nail her and she’d pay for the room.”

A spectrum of emotions—none of them good—had passed over Badger’s handsome face like clouds across a landscape, but finally he settled on mournful sincerity. “I can’t do it,” he said. “She’s what the guys call a scary girl. She wouldn’t look twice at anybody else in the world, but I could have her if I snapped my fingers. Thing is, though, then she’d
never go away.
Yeah. The Scary Girl. You don’t ever want to mess with
her.
”

When she told the story to some of the team, Kathy had ended it with,
“
And then just because he is an arrogant, spoiled typical male
jerk,
he had to add,
‘Besides, she’s not all that hot, anyhow.’”
But nobody was ever going to tell Taran he’d said that. They all took a solemn vow. And she was pretty sure that Badger would never tell her, either, because he might be a jerk in sexual matters, but there was a gentle side to him, too, which Rosalind had never expected to find in a race car driver. Go figure. Oh, she wouldn’t have wanted him if his kisses cured cancer, but at least she could still manage a grudging respect for him.

Now what was she going to say to poor Taran, crying her eyes out for somebody who didn’t exactly exist?

Rosalind decided to go with the one recurring image she’d been having about the two of them. She sat down on the workbench next to Taran, and without preamble, she said, “Do you know anything about horses?”