Trading Paint (Racing on the Edge) (55 page)

Getting an autograph out of
any
of these drivers in the garage area is slim and depended solely on their moods, just like at any job.
We’re are
working, something they forget most of the time.

If I’m having a bad day and a fan wanted an autograph, they weren’t getting me to sign shit. If I’m having a good day, they may get a head nod but still, I’m working. I’m not there to be their Hollywood star.

To show you the extent these fans would go, one even broke into my motor coach.

After the race in Las Vegas, I entered my motor coach just wanting to relax but no, there was a girl inside my motor coach.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I snapped and slammed the door hoping to startle her.

The girl spun on her heel with excited blue eyes, my harsh tone did nothing.

“It’s really you!” she squealed and launched herself in my direction. She was insane and that’s putting it lightly. I ended up calling the police just to get her to leave and even then, she wouldn’t.

The police laughed at me, actually laughed that I couldn’t get this girl to leave me motor coach. I was terrified and if possible, even more disgusted at their lack of concern.

This happened to me more times than I could count but what was unacceptable to me and had me calling the police, was the fact that she felt the need to explore, with my underwear drawer.

“Oh Jameson, I’m like you
biggest
fan!” she kept telling me while I yelled at the cops to get her to leave. I didn’t want her to be my biggest fan because frankly, this sounded odd and certainly couldn’t be good at the way she implied “biggest”.

When she finally left with a police escorted Spencer had his laughs, as did the rest of my team.
Fucking assholes.

I was completely fine until some grinning son of a bitch of a police officer said, “Do you feel violated?”

He was mocking me but I rose above their childlike maturity to this serious criminal offence and refused to comment.

For one, I wasn’t about to give my asshole teammates
any
ammunition and two, I was too tired to put any energy into this.

Instead, I turned on my heel and went back in my motor couch, locking the door. I had a feeling this would be happening a lot and was not excited about that.

I called Sway that night before we left to go back to Mooresville and then it was off to Atlanta, a track I absolutely loved.

I still hadn’t led her to believe I loved her. I wanted to tell her every time I spoke to her but I couldn’t.

Another thing that came with winning was rivalry with other drivers. You don’t notice it until you are suddenly competition for them. The rivalry with Darrin Torres seemed to escalate with each race. By Las Vegas, he’d spun me on pit road. Being new to the series, I didn’t want any enemies so I let it slide.

When Atlanta rolled around the following week and he did it again, I wasn’t as quick to let it slide. I was hot after that, partly because my car was smashed and the other was that I hit Bobby in the process. There was nothing I hated more than ruining an unsuspecting driver’s day.

After I tagged his bumper, he knew I was pissed, as did the media and NASCAR. I was tired of his shit of spinning me on pit road and those cheap shots he’d been taking at me lately.

When I pulled up beside him after the race, he had some hand gestures and I had a few words.

Everyone asked us why we hated each other so much but you have to remember our days go all the way back to when we raced in the USAC series. Either way you look at it, we are
not
friends and
never
would be.

Once I was standing in front of him after that race in Atlanta, I had no idea what I wanted to say, only that I was pissed and had a few more words to throw at him. Before we could act on our anger, the officials were once again separating us. But I wasn’t giving up on this one. Not again.

It just so happened that our motor coaches had parked right next to each other so that’s when the real fun began.

Again, he got right in my face. I hated confrontation, sounds unlikely I know but I only wanted to race. All this other shit, I could do without in a heartbeat.

“You need to watch where you’re going.” He told me, after a string of profanities. “You drive like an asshole out there.” He was also animated while doing this and he looked as though he was an air traffic controller.

Just to ensure I got my point across, I said. “Fuck you!”

I felt the need to make my point since he made when he spun me on pit road, twice.

Once again, NASCAR separated us and I left after that before I got myself in hot water with my dad.

After watching the replay where Darrin has said I came down on him, I wasn’t so sure he was right. He had a few inches; maybe a foot on me and was claiming that was position. So yeah, I did come down on him but I didn’t think that was position. Maybe it was but I sure as shit was going to be giving him the same respect he showed me next time around.

The races seemed to be flying by and every week it was a new track, different city but the same bullshit with Darrin.

Most of the tracks I’d either raced on in the various USAC Divisions or Nationwide Series but a few like Bristol and Martinsville I’d never been to so that was entertaining to watch but when you add someone constantly seeking out trouble with you, it makes it difficult to keep track of the bigger picture. The bigger picture being, this was my job now.

Once the series rolled around to Darlington in March, our rivalry didn’t end and he took us both out in the first few laps when he cut down on me going into turn one.

We managed to piece the car back together only to blow a left rear tire with thirty laps to go.

The following weekend in Bristol, he slammed me into the wall on a restart. With the “same respect” policy I was going by, I bumped him entering turn three. It wasn’t my fault he couldn’t correct it, right?

If only NASCAR saw it that way.

Later, as I expected he came into my hauler. Where I come from, you enter someone’s hauler after the race and that meant one thing: You were looking for trouble.

Neither of us acted as we should but he did throw the first punch.

The thing about a fight at the track was that NASCAR race was officials were all around. We only got a few punches thrown before they intervened.

After that altercation, the phrase, “Rowdy Riley” came about.

Not that I disagreed that I was “rowdy” but I came to realize that NASCAR fans, and reporters were different from the fans at the bullring tracks. Sure, I’d gotten into it with other drivers racing dirt tracks. Hell, I’d gotten into more pit brawls then most hockey players. But the good ole boys back home forgot about that the next weekend.

Not NASCAR. Every interview I did from that point on, they asked about the rivalry with Darrin, trying to keep it in everyone’s thoughts.

I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the media and their lack of concern for my privacy so when the FOX Sports reporter asked me after the last ten reporters asked the same thing, I took my frustrations out on him when I slapped his recorder out of his hand and then kicked it under the hauler for good measure. If they wanted Rowdy Riley, they had him.

“You know exactly what happened. Watch the goddamn tapes!” I yelled over my shoulder in response.

It wasn’t exactly what I should have said but I was pissed and I said what I felt.

This wasn’t the first time Darrin and I tangled with each other, surely it wouldn’t be the last. But for reporters to constantly instigate it. That was crossing the line.

My dad, as the owner, wasn’t pleased with this relationship I’d formed with Darrin.

“You can’t keep this up!” He would tell me. “I can’t keep compromising with NASCAR and Simplex.” He voice would rise to nearly a shout and then he’d calm down. “I’m a new owner Jameson. A new owner with no clout and you are not helping me.”

I backed off Darrin after that. I didn’t intend to cause problems for my dad. He had enough. He didn’t need his asshole of a son causing more.

I liked to think I backed off completely but still, like any red-blooded twenty-two year old male: I had my moments.

 “Jameson, you need to realize that this is not just about talent. Yeah, you’ve got that but it’s not
just
about talent.” My dad told me over dinner after the race in Martinsville. “If you want to be a champion,” he tapped his index finger to the side of his head. “It’s up here. This sport is just as equally challenging mentally.”

I nodded. I didn’t exactly want to argue with anyone at that point.

He continued. “There’s a fine line between aggressive and overly aggressive. Too much one way and you’ll find yourself in the wall
...
or in the NASCAR hauler in your case.”

Again, I nodded.

“Have you talked with Sway lately?” he asked picking almonds from his salad and tossing them on my plate.

“Yeah, just before we left the track after I met with Gordon.”

Gordon Reynolds, the Director of Competition, was the warden for NASCAR. If you got in trouble, you saw him.

“And she said?”

“Nothing really,” I shrugged. “She saw the fight on ESPN and wanted to make sure I was all right.” I took a bite of my hamburger.

“Are you?”

“Yeah,” I straightened my posture chewing slowly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re different when she’s not here.”

“How so?”

“You’re just different, almost like you’re running on seven cylinders.”

“I feel like I’m running on seven.”

“Is the pressure getting to you?”

“Yes and no.” Even though I knew how I felt about Sway now, I wasn’t ready to tell anyone. “I guess I wasn’t prepared for how political and commercialized everything is.”

“Kind of makes racing the weekly races appealing huh?”

I smiled taking a drink of my iced tea in front of me. Pouring ketchup on my plate, I began to dip my French fries in them. “You don’t see how demanding the sport is until you’re in the middle of it.”

“You don’t have to do it. You know that right?”

“I do know that
...
but it’s what I want. Even if it comes with all this and more
...
I still wouldn’t change anything.”

“You know Simplex said they may be interested in sponsoring your outlaw car. Justin is doing
good
. Little shit beat me the other night.”

“He is doing
good
.” I agreed. “So is Tyler. I was thinking—” My phone buzzed just then causing me to jump backward. Jimi laughed when my drink spilled on me. It was Charlie calling me, which was strange. He never called these days.

Worried something was wrong with
Sway,
I rushed through the rest of dinner and called him in private.

“Charlie?” he answered on the first ring.

“Jameson?” his voice sounded tired and worn, similar to the way I felt.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He was silent for a moment before speaking. “I need to speak with you, in person.”

I was on the phone with Wes, the pilot of our private jet, to arrange a flight immediately. Charlie wouldn’t ask me to come unless it was important.

24.
      
Tear offs – Jameson

Tear offs – A plastic cellophane strip attached to the visor of helmets designed to improve vision when racing on dirt. When vision is obscured the driver can yank the tear-off, providing a clear view. During a feature event
it’s
common for a driver to use around 20 tear-offs.

        The afternoon light streamed in through the windows of their living room, the rays of light reflecting off the glass in front of me as I sat there in their living room and though it was familiar to me, it was different. It was different because I wasn’t with Sway and different because Charlie needed me. Hell-bent on keeping me away from Sway for the last few years, now he wanted me to take over ownership of his track, which would mean always being around Sway.

“Why do you want me to take over?” I asked.

I couldn’t understand why he would offer up something like this. Grays Harbor Raceway meant everything to him. He turned a struggling track into a thriving business that drew hefty crowds each week.

Charlie was only forty-one so how could he possibly be thinking of retirement? My next thought was why me? Why not Jimi or hell, even Mark, who ultimately contributed
to
much of the track’s success. Either man would be better, so again, why me?

He hesitated for a moment, selecting his words carefully.

“I have brain cancer.” He paused as his eyes met mine. “They’re treating it aggressively but
...
it’s
cancer. Metastatic brain cancer and there’s not a lot of hope right now.”