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Authors: Steven Manchester

Tags: #Adult, #Contemporary, #FICTION/Family Life

Twelve Months (9 page)

BOOK: Twelve Months
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“I'll make her,” Riley teased.

Bella nodded. “I'll learn.”

At that very moment, a sense of urgency that came from somewhere deep inside of me – even deeper than the cancer – rose to the surface and screamed to be free.
Okay
, I thought,
it's time to get moving!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Late that night after everyone had gone home, I sat down with a pen and paper. I gave some serious thought to the five things I would most want to do. It might sound ridiculous, but as a child my fantasy was to be a cowboy. As an adult, I dreamed of being a professional racecar driver. I fantasized about shagging fly balls in the outfield at Fenway Park. I even thought about trying to write a book, but quickly decided there were more important ways to spend my time. In the end, my no regrets
list wasn't all that hard to draft. In no particular order, I listed:

No Regrets
(1) Take a Cup car 150 mph around a super speedway
(2) Herd cattle on a real drive, cowboy boots and hat included
(3) Get paid as a newspaper reporter
(4) See the country from the tinted windows of an RV
(5) Land a 40 lb. striped bass

I read the list over a few times and told Bella, “Maybe I can get it done?”

She plucked it out of my hand, read it over and smiled. “I have no doubt,” she said. With a black magic marker, she wrote the words “HONEY DO” at the top of the page, posted it on the refrigerator and gave me a kiss. To Bella, it was going to be as easy as that.

I kissed her back. “Thank you,” I said.

Chapter 7

I was looking forward to our weekly visit from Riley and the kids, and made my way to the dining room table to prepare. Though Bella cringed, our dining room table had been converted into the puzzle table where the family gathered to figure out which pieces fit where. For years, it was the center attraction and home to one puzzle after the next. And for years, Bella complained we could have found a more suitable location.

I remembered Riley and I sitting for hours, talking and working on puzzles. Now, it was with my grandkids, bringing the legacy full circle for me. I couldn't think of a better way to bond with them.

With little time left to accomplish a lifetime of dreams, I quickly jumped on the Internet to research what it would take to make one of those dreams come true. Just as soon as the Checkered Flag Racing School website
popped up on the screen, my body tingled with anticipation. Even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't have wiped the smile from my face as I read:

Checkered Flag Racing School will fill your need for adventure, excitement and most importantly – speed! We have assembled the finest and most authentic equipment available to most closely duplicate a true racing environment. Forget skydiving, bungee jumping, or scaling Everest. This is the ultimate stockcar driving experience, taking you to the edge of Nextel Cup racing most people only dream about. Whether you're looking for the ride of your life or want to test your nerves behind the wheel, we've got a package to fit most sizes, egos and budgets. No matter where you start, this full-throttle adventure is guaranteed to fuel your passion for speed!

The pitch definitely got my heart pumping. I read on to find that the instructors had thirty combined years of racing experience. They used NASCAR Winston Late Model stockcars. Skill levels ranged from novice to intermediate.

There was a package available for any budget. They had The Qualifier for one hundred twenty-five dollars. This included a passenger seat ride at 170 mph.
I'm all set with that
, I thought. The Season Opener cost a few hundred more. It included a thirty-minute classroom orientation, placement in a passenger seat for a ride and then ten laps behind the wheel at 165 mph. There was also The Rookie Adventure, Happy Hour and The Advanced Stock Car Adventure – each package increasing in price, as well as in time spent on the track. And then there was the dream package: The Championship Shootout. This was the most advanced Nextel Cup driving experience available. It included all the programs listed above, but you also experienced driving two car groups side-by-side at two car lengths apart. The final session of the program also simulated a ten-lap race. The three-day experience came to a grand total of two thousand nine hundred ninety-five dollars.

I was excited about the possibility, no doubt, but I'd always been hesitant about spending money on myself. I read on:

The school's emphasis is on spending as much time as possible at the wheel. The three-day racing programs feature lots of track time in the racecars. The longer the course, the greater the speeds you'll reach and the more variety of exercises you'll experience.

I took note of the school's number and grabbed for my wallet.
What the hell
, I thought,
you only live once.

I hated credit cards. Only in America could people buy things they couldn't afford, adding twenty percent interest on top of it – as if everyone expected to hit the lottery. I used them from time-to-time, but never charged anything I couldn't pay off at the end of the month.

The receptionist booked my reservation. “We look forward to seeing you on the 11th, Mr. DiMarco,” she said and hung up. That's when it hit me.
I'm going racing!

Just as I stood, the phone rang. It was Riley. “I'm going racing!” I yelled. “I just got off the phone from booking it.”

There was a pause. “That's great, Dad,” she said, her voice melancholy.

Ice water coursed through my veins. “I won't go then,” I blurted.

“No,” she sniffled, “you have to. And that's the point, isn't it?”

“It'll be okay,” I whispered, but that wasn't completely true. The hourglass was emptying and there were no words powerful enough to freeze time. “It'll be okay, sweetheart.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rather than wait for me alone in some motel for three days, Bella insisted it would be better if she sat out this adventure at home. “You don't want me beating you on that track, anyway,” she said. “It would be embarrassing.”

I packed, swung by the pharmacy to pick up two refills Dr. Rice had called in, and headed home to try to get at least some sleep.

I awoke even earlier than usual. I didn't want to waste a moment.

On the flight, I reminisced about growing up feeding my need for speed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

We were fourteen years old when Dewey and I took the old man's Cadillac. It was supposed to be a joy ride; only a childhood prank, but it turned into a nightmare.

With me behind the wheel, we headed down the road and took a right toward a private lane that ran the length of the pond. I punched the gas, squealing the tires, throwing up rocks and barreling down the narrow lane. As we turned around, we saw that a mob of unhappy neighbors had gathered at the beginning of the road to meet us. “Oh, crap!” I said, but drove back to face the jury.

I rolled the window down a bit. A man with bulging eyes approached. Although his anger was understandable, the rage in his voice seemed inappropriate. I was terrified, but stayed calm. The man placed both of his massive hands into the window. “Get out of the car…NOW!” he barked. “We're going to call the police.”

“Go ahead and call,” I told him, “but we're not getting out.”

The man freaked out, screaming, “GET OUT!” His huge hands pulled on the window, trying to break it in half.

I punched the gas, but the man never let go. We dragged him over several bushes before he was thrown from the car. I panicked, took a quick right and started for his back yard. We looked back. By now, he was up and running. “The whole neighborhood's after us!” Dewey screamed.

I had my foot to the floor when we hit the soft lawn and began to sink. As the car began carving a tank trench into the angry man's yard, grass and mud flew up from the rear wheels. Just when it looked like we were goners, the car swayed right, then left, then right again until it bucked itself free. I aimed for the road.

The mob was now screaming for blood. Dewey yelled “ROCK!” and took cover. A small boulder crashed through the rear window and landed on the back seat. We looked up. The giant was smiling.
He could have competed at shot put in the Olympics
, I thought.

We got to the end of the road, bailed out and ran for home. For once, my dad's snarling face, or even a talk with the police, seemed like child's play. We needed protection.

From the look on my dad's face after he saw the rock sitting on the Cadillac's back seat, I suspected my punishment was nothing compared to what he'd dole out to Mr. Bulging Eyes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One freezing November afternoon, my speed addiction also found Dewey and me out in a cornfield. It was an old Chevy and I was trying my hand at the art of the reverse donut. Essentially, I'd drive the car as fast as I could in reverse. Just before I lost control, I'd spin the wheel hard and go for the ride. As we rode the amusement park ride for the price of a gallon of gas, Dewey yelled in delight, watching the trees whip by his window. It was all about the thrill of feeling out of control.

On our last spin down the field, I put my foot to the floor. The car swayed to and fro, threatening to unhand the reins from me before I made the decision to give them up. At the last second, I turned the wheel and the car whipped into a violent spin. Suddenly, the driver's side door flew open. It felt like some invisible force plucked me from the interior of the vehicle, my foot still wedged under the dashboard. As gravity summoned us in the opposite direction, Dewey struggled to the window on the driver's side. He was just in time to see my body being dragged, while the front wheel missed my head by inches. My eyes were open, but I wasn't enjoying the ride. Shock had set in. Dewey finally grabbed the wheel and straightened out the car, managing his foot onto the brake. He waited to hear my groan and then burst into laughter.

I wiggled my foot free and gradually got to my feet. I felt sick. Without a word, I reclaimed my seat, slammed the door and turned the car around. “Let's try that again,” I told him and tried to slam my foot right through the floor. Dewey held on. It was one of those ‘back on the horse' kind-of-things.

As frightening as it was, it was still easier than staying home with Dad and Joseph.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After a long flight delay and a lively discussion with an arrogant customer service representative at the rental car desk, it was nearly dusk by the time I reached Charlotte, North Carolina. Right away, the southern heat smacked me and reminded me of Vietnam. Instinctively, I waited for the heart palpitations and shortness of breath that always came with such reminders, but they never came. My body felt calm. I was completely relaxed.
I really have healed
, I finally decided,
and I have Bella to thank for it!

Grateful and exhilarated, I checked into the motel and made a call home. I told Bella about my recent revelation and she was thrilled to hear it. She then silenced my guilt of being away from the family, saying, “You've put everyone before yourself for years. Right now…this time is about
you
. Now go enjoy it!”

I thanked her, hung up and took the rental car over to Lowe's Motor Speedway just off of Highway 29 in Harrisburg. The first class wasn't scheduled to start until the morning, but I couldn't wait to see it.

With the majority of NASCAR teams located within a short drive from Charlotte, Lowe's served as a home track for many of the stars. This 1.5-mile quad-oval was the showpiece of the Speedway Motor sports portfolio. It was also the annual site of NASCAR's longest race, the Coca-Cola 600 hosted on Memorial Day weekend, holding a capacity crowd of one hundred thousand screaming fans. With turns banked at twenty-four degrees and the straightaways banked at five degrees, Lowe's was one of the faster super-speedways.

As I circled the place in the dying light, I noticed there were rows of condominiums perched above Turn 1, the best place to watch the action.
What a cool place to live
, I thought.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I was up with the birds. I ate a banana and some granola, swallowed two pills, and took my time getting to the track. When I arrived, I was surprised to find a heavyset guy with sandy blonde hair and a pair of brown eyes already waiting. I extended my hand. “Mornin,' I'm Don DiMarco.”

“Billy Hutchins,” he said and shook my hand. “Good mornin'.” He looked me over a few times. “So how long you been teaching us speed addicts?”

“Not all that long,” I answered and laughed. “I'm a student.”

He did a quick double take. “I'm sorry, you looked…”

“Old?”

He shrugged. “Nah…like a teacher.”

We spent the next few minutes getting acquainted. Billy Hutchins was from Huntersville, North Carolina, and was wise beyond his years. He'd raced short tracks throughout the south where he won Pro Stock Rookie of the Year and the coveted Sportsmanship Trophy. As more people joined our circle, Billy greeted his friend before introducing us. He said, “Ev, this is Teacher.” He then looked at me and smiled. “Teacher, this is my buddy, Evan Jacobs.”

I shook the kid's hand and laughed at the new nickname. He wiped his brow and said, “It's hotter than two mice going at it in a wool sock in August.”

I laughed even harder. But he was right. The air was already so thick that I was covered in a film of sweat that wouldn't evaporate. It was definitely climbing into the 90's, humid, with no relief in sight. “I just got back from Vietnam,” I told them. “It was hotter than Hades over there.”

“I bet,” Evan said and looked up to find Maia Julius, the only female student in the class, signing in. “Damn,” he muttered, “a girl.”

I chuckled again. “Good for her,” I said.

We were greeted by an enthusiastic crew of three men; a student to instructor ratio of five to one. Jeff Bolduc, the head instructor, was no more than twenty-five years old – which down south equated to more than fifteen years of racing experience. He was squared-away, much like an army drill instructor, but with a more friendly temperament. “Our mission here at Checkered Flag Racing is to give you the individual attention you need,” he began. “When racing, you will be in constant radio communication with your instructors, allowing us to correct mistakes as they happen, give advice and offer encouragement. I promise you'll get maximum seat time and obtain faster speeds each time out.”

We were escorted into a classroom located a stone's throw from the pit lane area. Registration took place first, waivers were signed and we were invited to purchase a photo package produced by the photographer on site for the day. Bella would have been ticked had she known, but I passed and took a seat at the front of the classroom.

Once Maia and the other thirteen students settled in, Jeff got started. “The first thing we're going to learn at Checkered Flag is to look ahead,” he said. “It's all about paying attention to the track ahead, which isn't easy when you're inches away from another car or a concrete wall, traveling at one hundred fifty miles per hour or more. Believe me, there's little a driver can do about things that happen within a hundred feet of the car and nothing he can do within fifty feet. The trick is to develop a constant scanning pattern, using your peripheral vision to note what's happening on the sides of your car, while constantly scanning your mirrors, the car's instruments and the track in front of you.”

BOOK: Twelve Months
7.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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