An All American Teenage Sex Life II Sophomore SeasonChapter 13
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FRIDAY, JUNE 28, 1991
After the playoff loss and public dumping, we skipped any kind of celebratory meal and headed home.
I lugged my heavy bag of baseball gear into the house for the final time of the season. I didn’t even have time to strip and get my uniform into a soak before the phone rang.
A tiny part of me wondered if Deedee had changed her mind.
“Hello?”
“Why didn’t you call me?” The feminine voice at the other end of the line was insistent and accusatory all at once.
“I just walked through the door. I haven’t even changed out of my baseball uniform.”
“But would you have called me right away?”
“Of course, Shelby, I would have called you eventually.”
“Not good enough!” she admonished me. “You need to call me right away!”
“Well you seem to know everything already. Good lord news travels fast.”
“It does when Jake Parker is back on the market. So tell me, was she mean about it?”
“OK, first, how do you already know?”
“Oh, someone called me like 15 minutes ago,” Shelby admitted.
“Who?”
“Don’t worry about who.”
I figured I might as well take the phone into my room, and made my usual move to slip the cord under the door and slide down to sit on the floor.
“Shelby?”
“Yes?”
“I think it was harder on her than it is on me.”
“Really?”
“Yep,” I admitted with a sigh. “She was bawling. I even gave her a little hug. I felt bad for her.”
“So I’m not going to have to come over there and console you?”
“Not at all,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Well, wow, OK then,” she blurted out.
“I’m gonna be fine, I think,” I said a little more confidently. “I’m not sure why, but it’s like I saw it coming anyway.”
“But you were starting to have feelings for her?”
“Sure, yeah I was,” I admitted. “But in the back of my mind.”
“You knew Lexie could make it fall apart at any time.”
“And it did,” I finished for her.
“Well, from the sounds of things, Lexie was more than tired of Mitch and apparently has caught the eye of older boys.”
“Ah, well that makes sense. And, she’s out of my hair.”
“Will she really ever be out of our hair?” Shelby asked with doubt.
“College,” I said flatly.
“If we can make it that long...” Shelby agreed.
At the lull in the conversation, she pounced.
“So, what are you doing this weekend, almost Birthday Boy?”
“Uh, hadn’t thought about anything beyond working on the racecar tomorrow,” I said honestly. “This is the last weekend to get everything squared away before we race. Wow, that’s next weekend already!”
“And your birthday is this week. So what are you doing?”
“I have no plans,” I admitted. “I don’t even have tutoring this week. Betsy is on vacation.”
“If you don’t have plans Sunday, would you go riding with me?” Shelby asked shyly.
“My kind of Mustang of yours?” I teased.
“Mine, this time,” she giggled. “Be at your grandparents at 11 Sunday. I’ll have Doc saddled for you, and I’ll bring a picnic lunch.”
“Oh yay,” I said sarcastically. “Lucky me.”
“Hey!” she barked at me. “You get a free riding lesson.”
“I don’t need any lessons, Little Britches. I know how to ride.”
“We’ll just see about that Sunday, Farm Boy.”
“Yes we will,” I teased back.
“So, you’re really OK?” she asked quietly. “You’d tell me if you weren’t OK, right?”
“I would. I am.”
“Good night, Dork.”
“Good night, Little Britches.”
SATURDAY, JUNE 29, 1991
Mom didn’t want to let me take the chance of driving myself to the race shop just days before I could legally. She dropped me off at 9 a.m.
A long white aluminum enclosed trailer was parked in front of the shop. Clearly, the letter 12 had been removed from the rear panels. Grandpa had purchased our race hauler, and with only a week to spare.
“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked instead of a ‘good morning,’ in his uniquely gravelly voice.
“Nice,” I said. Looks big.”
“Thirty-two footer,” he nodded. “I got a deal on it too. Already has space for a generator, and an air compressor and they left the tire racks in it.”
I stepped up the rear door, which folded down into a ramp, held up by long cables that retracted into the trailer. The interior was painted lightly gray over thin wood panels. Grandpa had been working on setting up the small tool bench in the front.
“Plenty of room for the car and spare parts. A spare wing, even.”
I could tell grandpa was pretty pleased with himself.
“And the best part is, the car rolls in easy when you replace the right rear with a left rear tire. You pull the pins on the rear wing mounts and lay it flat and it rolls right in.”
Grandpa had already loaded some big rear tires into the racks lining the walls near the ceiling. When full with a car and spares, this was still going to be a tight fit.
I had hardly noticed the car, which was parked deeper in the shop as grandpa worked on the trailer. I could tell instantly he’d been busy in another way.
“Where did all these sponsor decals come from?”
“Oh, mostly friends of mine. People I do business with. Everyone was in for at least 500 bucks.”
My mouth dropped open in awe. Grandpa’s business was any kind of concrete work. He’d do anything from footings to basement walls to driveways, and then he could do any kind of street or parking lot work as well.
The car started with Ross Racing Engines and Grandpa’s business, now I counted new stickers from Russell Framing, Townsend Homes, R-J Ready Mix, Behr Plumbing, Reginald Heating & Cooling, Brennick Drywall and Prime Time Electric.
“Holy crap, grandpa!”
He laughed easily at my surprise.
The inside and outside of the wing panels were full.
I had somehow hoped to show up at the track with a minimally sponsored car, with low expectations and sort of fly under the radar for the season. This car was now festooned with sponsors, and there’d be expectations.
“They don’t even know me?”
“Oh, they know you. They remember you from when you were little. We used to have race parties out at the shop here. Almost all these guys used to sponsor my cars way back when. Prime Time is new. They only wanted on because Behr Plumbing got on. They’re friends, but they’re competitive.”
“But they’ll all expect me to win races!”
“You will in time. Don’t worry, they all know you’re young. Most of them did it as a business write-off anyway. It’s advertising.”
The sudden increase in pressure, figurative pressure, was giving me a headache. But if grandpa wasn’t worried, I had to take what solace I could in that.
We went to work on the trailer. He had me grabbing parts from the shop and hiding them in little bins. We grabbed an extra front axle and mounted it in a nifty purpose-built set of brackets to hold it on a wall. There was another for a rear axle, but we didn’t have a spare.
Small boxes of extra quick change gears were stashed in our rolling pit cart, along with tools and other bits and pieces, bolt kits and a small air tank.
Grandpa taught me how to adjust and maintain bleeders. These ingenious devices would attach to the rear wheels and regulate the air pressure inside the tires. Without them, the tires would balloon up and the car would lose traction.
“We start the night with four pounds of pressure in the left wheel, and eight in the right.”
“That’s it?” I asked incredulously.
“That’s it,” he nodded. “These tires have soft sides, and they only take a few pounds of pressure to be just right. You want the tire to wrinkle up at speed, and make as much contact with the ground as possible. Those top fuel drag cars use even less pressure.”
I was astounded. These rear tires were huge, and held the car up on just a few pounds of pressure.
Next, he rummaged through a small plastic kit that contained fuel “pills.” I could see why they were called pills. They were tiny metal donuts the size of a pill.
“These each have a different size hole in millimeters,” grandpa instructed me. “The problem is, Louie and I don’t have good eyes anymore. So you have to tell us how big they are.”
I laughed and looked at the little pill grandpa was holding up.
“That’s a 10,” I shrugged.
“That’s the only one I can see,” grandpa admitted.
Grandpa showed me how they were used in a quick-release spot on the fuel lines. These pills adjusted the amount of fuel sent to the engine. Humidity would be a factor for these and Louie was the expert at fueling the motor. I just had to lend him my eyes.
The “pills” were packed in a little circular container you could dial to an opening. We put those away in the pit cart.
We worked through the morning, and the trailer was getting more full as the shop got more empty. I started to wonder how much of this stuff had to be lugged in and out before and after every race.
“Oh, just the car and probably any tires we have to remount. You’ll wash the car Sundays, and we’ll do some maintenance. Then we’ll prep it again each Saturday,” grandpa answered my concern.
“I need to buy one more thing before next weekend,” grandpa admitted.
“What’s that?”
“A lighter weight jack,” he admitted, pointing to the old steel floor jack we’d been shoving around the floor for a couple of months. “That one won’t do at the track.”
I was all for it. That thing was heavy as hell.
“What else?” I asked, looking around the quickly-emptying shop.
“Lunch,” grandpa grinned.
We closed up the shop and the trailer and grandpa drove us to the diner. He had a burger and fries, and I knocked out a chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and corn.
“Where do you put all that?” grandpa laughed.
“Growing boy,” I shrugged with a grin.
“That you are,” he chuckled. “Just don’t outgrow the racecar.”
We loaded everything we thought we might need for the races the following weekend into the trailer and closed it up.
“Works for me,” grandpa said with an air of satisfaction. “Now, let’s unload it again.”
I gave a little exasperated sigh and he laughed at me.
We rolled the car back out and into the shop. We pulled just a few small items back out of the trailer and closed it up. We locked the shop knowing we’d be fully ready to go racing in a week. I was starting to get pretty excited for it.
The thrill grew that night at the races. Grandpa and I brazenly walked up to the pit gate early and signed in. I should not have been allowed into the pits until I was 15, but we weren’t hassled about it. It was still a sunny late afternoon as crews pulled into the puts to unload their cars and equipment in the small infield. There were roughly 25 410 sprints and 18 limited sprints, along with a couple dozen late model stock cars.
Grandpa did his usual walk and talk with several teams and people he knew, and he knew practically everybody. Push truck drivers and officials would greet him. Drivers even asked for bits of advice, which he freely gave. However, he was mostly there to let everyone know he’d have a car there next week and that his grandson was going to be wheeling it.
By the time hot laps were starting, grandpa led me to a spot in turn three where he liked to stand, just inside the infield safety fence to watch the action.
First the late models helped run in the wet track, packing the mud down with their relatively narrow tires. Then the flag man turned them loose with a green flag practice session. Even these heavy fendered cars would pitch sideways into the turn, giving me the illusion that they were headed right for me as they slid into the turn, taking a sharp left with their front wheels turned to the right.
Next on the track were the limited sprints. I wanted to watch closely as this would be my competition next week. There would be two sets of hot laps, and it was a time to feel out the car for problems, and try to tune the suspension to the track conditions, provided that didn’t change too much before the heat races.
Nine limited sprints rolled around the track, only the smaller top wing providing the clue that these were more of an entry-level car. Drivers seemed to spread out to give themselves some room and the flag man let them loose with a wave of the green flag. All nine cars roared to life, the sound deafening this close to the track. The hair on the back of my neck stood stiff and goosebumps covered my arms. We had a terrific vantage of each car as each one exited turn two and charged down the backstretch. I watched each driver as he worked the car into turn three, whether trying to run the top or bottom of the track. It seemed to me from the beginning that the more the driver pitched the car sideways, the slower he took the turn. The best strategy seemed to be keeping the car as straight as possible.
Of note, some drivers attacked the corner in turn three harder than others. That might make them wash up the track as the car powered through into turn four. Others charged the corner more slowly and exited turn four at full throttle. It was a lot to think about, and I’d have my hands full of it in a week.
A checkered flag signaled the end of that session. Another session was soon pushed off with the other half of the field taking to the track.
Through the chain link fence, the black and silver #33 caught my eye. This was Troy Ward, the current points leader. He already had four wins on the year to his credit.
I watched him closely, turning in the dirt to follow him around the track. I could see only the top of his wing as he headed down the front chute and whipped his charge into turn one. He blasted through turn two and roared down the backstretch. It was like watching in slow motion as he let the car enter the turn. As he passed me, I could see his left rear tire spinning, throwing mud up at the catch fence, and just as grandpa had said, wrinkling the sidewall as it gripped the track.
For lack of a better explanation, that guy looked like he was hooked up and happy. He was bad fast.
That session wound down with the checkered flag again.
Grandpa took a moment in the relative quiet between sessions to quiz me.
“Which car looked fastest?”
“The 33, and it wasn’t even close.”
“Good eye,” grandpa nodded. “Why was he fastest?”
I gave it a moment of thought before I had an answer.
“A few things, but I think mostly that he was smooth and let the car roll through the turn.”
“Excellent!” grandpa cheered. “The car will almost never be perfectly set up, but if you fight the car, you’ll never get the most out of it. If it wants to run up top -- run up top. If it only goes fast on the bottom -- run the bottom. If it’s comfortable all over the track, well then, you have something.”
Grandpa finished his thought as the first set of 410 hot laps began. A little louder. A lot faster, these guys all had the same look that #33 car had. High speed at all times. It was fun watching these guys go at it, and they were on another level. The goosebumps were back for me.
These drivers were really hauling the mail down the backstretch and they’d just let the right rear bump up against a growing mound of dirt that circled the top of the track. That little strip of dirt provided a cushion for them to drive around. Others tested the moist bottom of the track, slowing down more in the corners, but absolutely shooting down the stretches as they rolled back into the throttle.
The racing program paused for the national anthem, then qualifying for the 410s. Those impossibly loud, dirt-throwing monsters were back out, only one at a time for two laps against the clock. This was a three-eights of a mile track, and a time around eleven seconds would be very good. We watched three cars clock in at just under 11 seconds, not far off from a track record.
“The air is good tonight,” grandpa intoned.
I took his word for it, but what he meant was that a lack of humidity in the air provided better fueling to the engines, which was improving lap times. I was discovering that this rather primitive form of racing certainly had a lot of science and engineering behind it.
As late afternoon turned to early evening, heat races were ran without much incident, then an intermission.
Grandpa walked around a few pit stalls, talking to crews and drivers. We stopped at the infield concession stand for a loose meat sandwich and a Pepsi.
Back in our spot in turn three, we watched a boring street stock feature that didn’t seem to want to end. Several limited sprint drivers were strapped into their cars and ready to race as we watched spinout after spinout from these fendered cars.
That feature ended mercifully, and we were ready for sprint cars as the sun disappeared entirely from the sky.
“What changed out on the track?” grandpa asked while there was a lull in the action for the late model trophy presentation.
I took a look out on the track. Some drivers were out there walking the track, looking at it closely. One crew member stuck a screwdriver in the surface and pulled it back out.
“It was sticky before the stock cars went out there. Now it’s smooth, less grip I assume?”
“Exactly,” grandpa nodded. “It’s still got a lot of grip, but it’s not sticky anymore. There’ll be more passin’ in the limited sprint feature, and I guarantee it will slick off before it’s over. We’ll see a good 410 feature too.
I could see some of those same crew members who were walking the track now making frantic last-second changes to their cars, hoping to stay ahead of the ever-changing dirt track conditions.
After the halt in the action, push trucks groaned and strained to shove limited sprints into motion. One after one fired off, belching fire from the exhaust as they came to life. The vibe and the tension in the air elevated by the dark of night. Swarms of summer insects buzzed around the light poles.
Each driver throttled up at some point on the tack, testing the grip and heating up the rear tires, before falling in line behind the pace car, with its amber lights flashing.
The lineup seemed correct as the cars got into formation in two lines, bumper to push bar and wheel to wheel. The tension in the air was electric as the cars rolled down the backstretch and the pace car veered back into the pits.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention once again as the cars filed by us in formation.
In an instant, the flagman waved the green flag and the signal lights around the fences turned green. Eighteen cars roared to life and zipped down the front stretch, fanning out and sliding into turn one. From our vantage point we couldn’t see much, other than the top wings, but the first car to come ripping down the backstretch was the yellow #15. I knew he was a younger driver. Behind him, the jockeying for position was fierce, as cars slid under or simply cut off the cars around them. It was mayhem in turn three, but no one touched as much as a wheel, as the dance continued into turn four.
That #15 shot down the front stretch again, extending his lead. I knew I wanted to check on the #33, and I found him. He had started near the back, and was already racing cars mid-pack.
Things started to settle out as the faster cars disposed of the slower, and the race to the front picked up steam.
With about ten laps in the books, Troy Ward in that black #33 was up to third. In just three laps, he buzzed around the top of turns one and two, then skillfully slipped under the second place car heading into turn three. It was a breathtaking move from up close as he let the car slide up in front of second place car, then left him literally in his dust.
The #15 had nearly a half lap lead, but he was struggling to get through lapped traffic. This was going to be a good one before it was over.
Ward clipped off a few very fast laps before he was on the tail tank of the #15. With four to go, the battle was on. Ward drove right up behind the #15 on the bottom of turn one as both tried to duck under a lapped car. Neither could make it work, but Ward sharply split the difference on the backstretch in a move that had me jumping up and down in excitement. Who would back off in turn three? Three cars were wheel to wheel down the backstretch and there was only room for two in the corners.
Both the #15 and the lapped car folded their hand, and backed off at the last moment, leaving Ward to power around the corner and take a commanding lead down the front chute. In two more laps, it was over.
“Who made the smart move in turn three?” grandpa asked when the deafening roar of the cars settled down.
“Ward,” I said without hesitation. “That was incredible!”
“We’re racing for 800 dollars in this class,” grandpa drawled. “He about wadded up sixty grand in race cars over 800 dollars. The other two were the smart ones.”
Grandpa was probably right, but no one was going to remember who finished second that night.
“Now, come on out on the track for a minute with me.”
Grandpa led me out onto the racing surface, which was muddy when we first walked into the pits that afternoon, then tacky from wheel packing. It had a bit of grip left after the street stock races, but now it was slick from bottom to top.
“You see the shine?”
“Yeah, it’s slick,” I replied, kicking my tennis shoe on it like a basketball court.
“It might take rubber tonight,” he mused. “If you see that shiny surface turn dark gray, it’s taking rubber. When it takes rubber, you drive this like you’re on asphalt. They call it ‘rubberdown.’”
“Rubberdown,” I parroted.
“Hard to pass then, but the first guy who finds the rubber stops sliding and spinning around and goes right to the front. Remember that.”
We hustled back off the racing surface as the pace truck started rolling around the track for the 410 feature.
Push trucks were firing off 410-cubic-inch sprint cars now. The big-winged cars rolled slowly around the track in a menacing way, passing cars to get into formation, each driver holding down the brake and ripping the tires loose in a quick burst of rage from the engine. A few actually brought the front tires off the ground slightly. The power to weight ratio on these cars was insane.
Two-by-two the cars formed up behind the pace truck, with the #10 of Mack Davis in the third row on the outside. He’d set quick time and was the prohibitive favorite to win. Starting sixth, he had his work cut out for him.
As with the limited sprints, the pace truck veered off the back stretch and into the pits when the lineup was correct. The electricity was palpable in the air as two dozen incredibly loud cars roared to life in unison at the drop of the green flag.
Only this time it was different. I could see the difference in speed. Each driver was holding back some, going slower to go faster. No one was at full throttle. The slick track simply didn’t allow for it.
The pack shot down the front chute in a rising cloud of thin dust and slipped into turn one. I held my breath as the cars slid out of turn two and rocketed down the backstretch, drivers sliding around early into the turn to jockey for position.
Mack Davis, in that white #10, was already in third place. I cursed our vantage point because I had no idea how he already got there. By the time he hit the frontstretch, I had a good idea of how he did it.
Davis ran the very top of the track, sliding the car up nearly against the wall as he slid past a car below him. He was in second at the flag stand and on the hunt for the leader already.
We watched the leader run up against the wall on the backstretch, then dive low into turn three. That left the top open for Davis, who took it and ran with it, taking the lead coming out of turn four.
Then he seemed to take off in earnest, setting a blistering pace around the small track. I noticed some of the crowd already headed for the exits, with the race over in their minds.
I couldn’t take my eyes off that #10 car as he sliced and diced through lapped traffic, putting on quite a display of skill.
When it was over, I had to ask grandpa the questions.
“Who was that?”
“Oh, Davis has been around. He’s in his late twenties. He raced a season or two with the World of Outlaws, out in California and some in Pennsylvania. He’s good, but he’ll tear up equipment when he’s not winning.”
The night had gone without a single car getting upside down, and I had high hopes for the same next week, when I’d be making my debut.
Grandpa and I milled about, with grandpa accepting a beer from a crew he knew well. Fans streamed into the pits for autographs, and to talk to drivers and friends. Little kids were seeking T-shirts and drivers to sign them.
I took it all in, wondering what would be in store for me next week.
SUNDAY, JUNE 30, 1991
I woke up wishing I had taken a quick shower before bed. My ears held enough dirt for a proper potato crop and my poor pillow looked like it had a brown halo on it.
I tossed my sheets in the wash, hoping to help mom out a bit and avoid admonishment for not showering after a night at the races.
My ears weren’t just dirty. They were ringing from the decibels of high-horsepower cars 15 feet away from me with no mufflers. I decided I better start using some ear protection at the races, lest my hearing get as bad as grandpa’s.
I had the house to myself, with mom dad and Josh at church. I made myself a simple breakfast of toast and jam, six slices, with milk and orange juice.
A new Speed Sport News had arrived in the mail the day before. I perused it with closer attention than usual, having been bitten much harder by the racing bug. The end of baseball season, and the end of my relationship with Deedee, sure had put racing in focus for me.
I read up on sprint car results from around the country the week before, learning about dirt tracks like William’s Grove in Pennsylvania, and Silver Dollar Speedway in Chico, California. The World of Outlaws, of course, roamed the country, making stops at those famous facilities and even at my home track.
The buzz of the washer alerted me, and I ran downstairs to swap out my sheets for drying. When I came back upstairs, I noticed it was 10 already.
‘What was I supposed to be doing today?’
Oh yes, I had agreed to go for a ride with Shelby over at grandma and grandpa Parker’s ranch, just over the fence from the Ray Ranch.
I looked down at my shirtless form, still needing a shower, and decided to hurry up and get wet.
After my shower, I rummaged around my dresser drawers, looking for the jeans I hadn’t worn in nearly a month. I’d been exclusively in shorts for the summer, just as God had intended it.
It wouldn’t do to wear shorts for horseback riding with Shelby, so I found jeans and added a blue T-shirt and my favorite Cubs hat.
I grabbed my wallet and keys and put older tennis shoes on in the garage. Shelby would bristle at my choice in footwear, but I wasn’t going to wear dairy boots, and I didn’t own cowboy boots. Nor would I.
I headed out to my garage, squinting in the sun on what was a surprisingly nice day and opened the double doors, exposing my covered car to the sunlight.
I rolled the cover off quickly and stowed it on a shelf, then got in and started her up. The Mustang fired to life on the first try. I let her warm up just for a handful of seconds, then slipped it into reverse and slowly backed out of the little garage.
The sunlight was practically blinding from the shiny hood. I rolled the window down as I turned the car toward the end of the driveway, feeling the mild heat of a glorious summer day on my skin. It wasn’t too hot. It wasn’t too humid. This would be a very nice day. I looked almost longingly at our hammock as I drove away from the house. Today would have been heaven on the hammock.
I tried to put it out of my mind as I head off for a day of riding with my best friend.
As promised, Shelby was at my grandparents already, even as I was a little early. Both of my grandparents were out talking to her, and her horses Destiny and Doc were getting reacquainted with grandpa’s horses through the fence as they shared the waterer. Their dog, Klink was milling about, but the horses didn’t seem to mind him. I greeted the big dog with a scratch behind his ears and a pat of his flanks.
“That sure is a pretty car, Jacob,” my grandma said.
“Thanks, grandma,” I blushed and gave her a side hug, much to her delight. “But I’m stuck riding this kind of pony today,” I teased, indicating Doc, a big and older tan stallion without a lot of fire.
Destiny, Shelby’s prized horse and partner in barrel riding, seemed to snort at my joke and throw her head.
“Shhhh!” Shelby warned the horse. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Shelby gave me a sassy grin under her black cowboy hat. I rolled my eyes. Shelby was in jeans and boots, with a sleeveless red blouse. Her skin had taken on a decent tan this summer as well. Her sharp blue eyes were highlighted under the shade of her hat.
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