An All-American Teenage Sex LifeChapter 31 free porn video

SATURDAY, JULY 6, 1991

‘Breathe, just remember to breathe.’

The heat, the humidity. Oppressive. Harsh lights shining down on me. Mercifully, my Nomex head sock is soaking up the sweat from my head, keeping the stinging drips out of my eyes. My helmet feels a little suspiciously loose on my head, but the chinstrap is tight. All is almost silent here in the cockpit. I flip my visor up as my breathing is creating a little fog under the lense, with more than two dozen tear offs piled on top.

It will be a miracle if I don’t screw this up.

I feel a tapping on top of my helmet as a push truck comes up and bumps meaningfully against my push bar.

“Jake,” mom catches my attention at the left side of the car.

“Yeah?”

“In order to finish first, you must first finish.”

I give mom a quizzical look and she gives me a nervous smile back.

“OK, Mrs. Miyagi...”

She steps away from the car as the push truck shoves me inexorably forward.

The day had started early for me. I couldn’t sleep, and it wasn’t girls on my mind keeping me up. It was Saturday, and we would go racing for the first time. Well, I would drive for the first time. Everyone else involved had done it for years.

I got up early, packed up my big duffle bag with my safety gear and headed to the shop, a couple of hastily toasted and buttered pieces of bread in my hands.

At grandpa’s, the truck and trailer were already backed up to the shop, with the ramp down. Lights were already shining inside the shop.

I wasn’t the only one up early. He was sitting on a tire, having a cup coffee. Probably not his first.

“Mornin’, Jake.”

“Good morning.”

“Get any sleep?”

“Not a whole lot,” I admitted.

“Well, I suppose that’s natural, given the day ahead,” grandpa chuckled.

I absently looked around the shop and noticed the car was sitting on jackstands, the wheels removed.

I pointed at the car with my head cocked to grandpa.

“Oh, I did one last set of measurements on the car and decided to move a couple of things around,” he chuckled. “We should roll off the trailer with a decent setup for hot laps, and we’ll adjust from there.”

I nodded in understanding. He had me put the front tires back on, then I put two smaller left rears on both rear corners, making the car easier to roll around and get into the trailer without us fighting the stagger of a larger right rear.

Every bolt. Every nut. Every dzus tab. I checked them. I rechecked them. We loaded up the trailer with the tool cart, a brand new aluminum jack grandpa had picked up that week, spare wheels, with mounted tires, six 5-gallon jugs of methanol and some odds and ends.

It seemed anticlimactic, but we rolled the racecar into the trailer and latched it down well before noon, having nothing more to accomplish for the day, other than get to the track.

Grandpa and I chatted quietly until around 11:30. He called grandma to let her know we’d head to the cafe for lunch.

We both hopped in his old Chevy, leaving the big F-350 from his company fleet attached to the race trailer.

At the cafe, someone familiar to grandpa stopped by to chat, and actually asked when he was going to get back into racing.

“Tonight,” grandpa casually replied.

“No shit?” the older man asked incredulously. “Who’s drivin’ for you.”

Grandpa nodded my way.

“You shittin’ me?” the older man laughed. “He can’t be older than 17.”

“I turned 15 this week,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Well, I might just have to get to the races tonight. Been a while since a 15-year-old raced out there.”

Our meals arrived, and grandpa and I shook hands with the older man.

“Who was that?” I asked as the daily special was set in front of me, a curl of steam rising from a big hunk of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

“Oh, that was Kenny Carlson. He used to race back in the day, and he owned a car off and on. Off right now, I think.”

I nodded as I tore into a piece of the hot meatloaf, swirling a little mashed potatoes into it and then blew lightly over the hot forkful.

“Still not sure where you put all that,” grandpa chuckled from behind his BLT.

From our booth, I could see an old photo from the early 80s on the wall, and recognized nearly everyone in the shot.

“Did you give them that picture?”

Grandpa turned to look at it, even knowing he knew it well. “We had an extra copy. That was your uncle’s last win, and track championship,” he said with pride. “We had a lot of bad luck the next year, tore up three cars and decided to focus more on the business. It did pay off, but we all missed racing.”

“Expensive hobby,” I said knowingly.

My uncle Tim Miller was at the center of the photo, the flagman to his left and a pretty trophy queen in a bikini to his right. Grandpa stood behind the trophy queen, and dad stood behind him.

“Who are the other guys next to the flagman?”

Grandpa squinted at the photo from behind his BLT. “Well, that’s Rossy and Jim Townsend.”

“Rossy has aged a lot!” I said in surprise, although I should have remembered him from that time period. I was about Josh’s age at the time.

“He has,” grandpa nodded. “We all have.”

“And Townsend is a sponsor on the car again?”

“Ah, yep,” grandpa nodded. “He always loved racing, and we still work together all the time. I do all the concrete work on his housing developments. We met through racing, and it all just worked out for both of us. He does well. The sponsorship money he sent our way is a small drop of what he could do if he wanted. All of our sponsors could go in bigger if we went bigger.”

That was surprising. Maybe the sky was the limit for this racing team? I had no idea.

“But first, we gotta go racin’ tonight and hopefully roll the car back into the trailer in one piece,” grandpa mused with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.

“I don’t plan to wad the car up tonight,” I said flatly.

“No one ever does,” grandpa laughed. “Just remember what I’ve shown you before and the advice you get.”

I nodded, with a lot to think about hours before race time.

“What time do we need to be at the track?”

“Pit gate opens at four,” grandpa said nonchalantly. He knew I wanted to be there early.

Grandpa paid for lunch and we headed back to the shop. There was little to do, so I took advantage of the clear floor space and swept it all out. The little race shop had come a long way since Shelby and I had first cleaned it out. It was looking like a proper shop now, with wheels, tires, parts and the car in place. Grandpa had even cleaned up most of the shelf space, returning the shop to its original purpose and glory.

He leaned on a counter while I swept, pouring a fresh cup of coffee out of his old green thermos. It still held steaming coffee, hours after he must have first filled it.

The afternoon heat and humidity was building. Grandpa could perhaps sense my unease hours before the race, and suggest we just head inside for the afternoon.

We made small talk with grandma and she suggested I catch a nap on the couch and they would wake me when it was time to go. She said uncle Tim used to nap before the races all the time.

It sounded like good advice to me. I put my head down and was asleep in minutes.

It was a little after 3 p.m. when grandma gently shook me awake. I had slept hard, even drooling a bit on a guest pillow. Grandma laughed and said I better get ready. Mom would be there with Josh in a few minutes. She would ride with us to the track, while Josh would wait with grandma and sit in the stands later.

As promised, mom showed up just a few minutes later with a surprise. Dad had done chores early and was along for the night.

Grandpa and dad climbed into the front of the 4-door dually F-350 and mom and I hopped into the back. We made one last mental check of our inventory, noting that my safety gear bag was in the trailer, and we headed off to the track.

We caused a slowdown and a minor commotion at the pit gate. My driver’s permit, mom’s license and several signatures were required to let me race. I think it started to dawn on mom when all that was going on, that she was signing my life away to a dangerous sport she’d been around since childhood. She forced a smile when it was all done, and we each had wristbands to show we belonged in the pits.

We got back in the truck and rolled into the inside of the small track, sliding down a wet backstretch that was being worked in with a water truck as we rolled through. Grandpa found an open pit and pulled through, leaving room to roll out our equipment and the car.

Once parked, we quickly pulled the tailgate down on the trailer and rolled the car out. We rolled the tool cart out, along with several inflated tires ready for the night. My gear bag and a small air tank were perched on top of the tool cart, and we rolled out the new aluminum jack last, sliding that under the rear of the car. I could not have imagined bringing the heavy floor jack from the shop here. This thing was a dream to move around.

Grandpa, dad and I worked through the heat while mom started sorting out my gear, making sure everything was there. Dad picked up where he left off in the pits years ago, running around, getting dirty, and outworking everyone in sight. When everything was in place, grandpa got back into the truck and drove back out to park behind the facility.

It wasn’t long before mom complained that she needed some sort of collapsible table and a few folding chairs. I thought that was probably a good idea and said we should get that for the next week.

We had pitted next to a white and orange #47. It wasn’t long before Nelson Hill and his wife introduced themselves to us. Of course, they knew grandpa and remembered mom and dad. I had been “yay tall” last time they had seen me. Nelson was a balding older guy, probably close to 60, who sort of looked like Arnold Palmer. His smile was ever present. While dad mounted a new right rear on the car, Nelson and his wife battered me with questions about everything from school to sports. I hardly noticed when a man in his 40s, with slicked back hair and a pair of old-school sunglasses walked up and said hello to Nelson. He was carrying a clipboard, and asked if I was Jake Parker.

“I am. Nice to meet you.”

“Dan Savage,” the man said in a deep baritone as he shook my hand firmly. “I’m the announcer here.”

I recognized the voice from the stands, but I hadn’t seen him before.

“I hear you’re only 15? Is that right?”

“Just turned 15 on the fourth,” I nodded.

“That’s amazing!” he gushed. “Do you know the last driver to race here at 15?”

“I guess I don’t,” I said shaking my head.

“Jeff Gordon showed up here in the mid-80s when he was 15. Have you heard of him?”

Luckily I’d been reading my Speed Sport issues, and recognized the name as a young up-and-comer in the NASCAR Busch series.

“I have heard of him,” I admitted. “He’s making some noise in NASCAR. I’ll just be happy to get the car started properly tonight and get it back into the trailer in one piece.”

“I was going to ask you if you had any goals for the night. Is this your first night in the car?” He asked as he scribbled a few notes down.

“Yes, I’ve started it, but this will be the first time on the track.”

“Do you have any other experience. Did you come up in carts?”

“Nope,” I had to admit. “This will be my first time competing on the track.”

“Well you appear to have some good equipment and a legendary car owner,” Dan said, trying to get me to say more.

“Yes, Gabe is my grandpa. I think he’s been wanting to get back into racing for a while, but this winter we got more serious about it. I’ve been working on the car and the shop and trailer on Saturdays for a long time. We hope all that work is worth it tonight and in the future.”

Dan paused from his note-taking and smiled at me. “You’re about a foot taller than Jeff Gordon was, but if you drive as well as you answer the media questions, you’ll be chasing him in no time.”

I smiled at the compliment, but wouldn’t take the bait.

“That’s a long way off. I’m a student first, and an athlete and driver second,” I said to a small smile from my mom.

“Well,” Dan said with a big smile. “Let me mark down your sponsors so I can use them when I introduce you on the PA.”

Grandpa had come back and shook Dan’s hand, walking him around the car to point out sponsors.

“Pretty well done,” Mom smiled. “You handled that well.”

“I wasn’t expecting an interrogation,” I shrugged.

“After the races, there will probably be someone here with a TV camera to interview you. There’s at least one TV station here every week, and they need something new to talk about. I’m pretty sure it will be you.”

I stared at mom with wide eyes.

“TV?”

Mom laughed and shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Only a couple hundred thousand people will see it.”

Mom was not helping me calm down. Dad was quickly moving around the car with a set of wrenches, rechecking the bolts on every suspension piece.

“Hey, I already did all that today.”

“Can’t be too careful,” dad shrugged, re-tightening another bolt.

We had been early birds, but the pit stalls were filling up quickly. I was glad we did so much prep work early, because it was stiflingly hot, oppressively humid and the white concrete walls around the track seemed to intensify the bright sunshine.

Several people walked into our pit to greet grandpa. He’d talk, and at some point in the conversation point my way as his driver. I’d nod in acknowledgement. No doubt, more than one driver had his eye on my ride. No doubt, if I didn’t have what it took to race, they might get their shot.

Trying to find something to do, I caught up with mom. She was sorting out my armguards; a short set of straps that would go around my biceps and buckle into the safety harness. The idea was to keep your arms inside the car as it flipped mercilessly down the track in a hard crash, saving your limbs. She was also admiring the finishing touches I’d added to the helmet.

“Where did you get the Howling Pack stickers for the helmet?”

“Our athletic director was happy to donate them,” I said proudly.

My helmet was white, with the same logos our football helmets had. I even added a 42 to the back of the helmet. The final product was pretty impressive. I’d also added one last pack sticker to the left side of the cowling on the car, just under my name. It was a nice touch.

The next person in our pit stall was a short man with red hair and red beard, wearing an official track uniform. He was the pit steward, and wanted to walk me around the infield and explain a few things. I did so willingly, letting him show me the push off lane, all the entry points into the pits if I had a problem in the car.

“If you finish in the top three in the feature, we want all three cars on the front stretch.”

“I doubt you’ll see me up there tonight,” I chuckled.

He was dead serious when he replied.

“You’re driving good equipment and racing is in your family DNA. You’ll be up front before the end of the year.”

“Thanks, I guess,” I shrugged. His expectations were out ahead of mine.

He also showed me where lineups would be displayed and where to come for the driver’s meeting, which would be in a half hour.

“You can fire the car and put heat in the engine right after the driver’s meeting, then hot laps, heats and features.”

“Got it,” I told the man who was clearly taking his job seriously.

“One last thing,” he said abruptly. “Keep the speed way down when you get into the pits. It’s very dangerous with people milling around.”

“Got it.”

I ambled back to our pit stall, and mom intercepted me.

“You better go change into your firesuit before the driver’s meeting. You’ll have to fire the car right after that.”

I had just enough time to nod as mom pressed my bag into my arms and sent me off to the only permanent structure in the pits, the bathrooms. I changed into a full set of Nomex underwear, then slipped my new firesuit on. There was a small mirror in each changing room, and I thought I looked pretty dapper in the uniform. It was a nice nod to my football uniform, and looked sporty for racing as well. I got back to the pit stall just as the call for the driver’s meeting came over the infield PA.

Mom hustled there with me. We stood near the back of the meeting as it commenced. The track owner thanked us all for being there and said the weather was expected to be clear, but hot tonight and a good crowd was expected. He hoped for a good clean and safe night of racing.

The head flagman talked strictly about the order of the evening and how it would play out. Street stocks would pack the track right after the driver’s meeting, then have their hot lap sessions. Then our 360 sprint class would take two hot lap sessions. There were a few extra 410 class cars this week, so they would have three sessions, then time trials. With that, we were dismissed.

Mom and I headed back to the car. Mom told grandpa what was shared in the meeting, then he motioned for me to start the car.

I gathered my helmet and gloves and pulled the steering wheel off and set it aside to climb into the cockpit. I strapped up my five-point harness and settled in. I reset the pin in the steering wheel. Mom handed me my helmet and I slid the chin strap through the rings and secured it in place. Gloves were last to go on. Mom, dad and grandpa pushed the car back and I gut the steering wheel to the right so that a push truck could send me to the push off lane to get it fired up.

In just a few seconds, a push truck nestled up against my push bar. I put my left hand out the side of the car and motioned for him to give me a shove, and he sent me forward. I realized again how difficult it was to steer the car without power and I muscled it around the inside of turn four and down half the front stretch to the infield push lane where we came to a stop. Street stocks were taking their muddy laps around the wet track, spinning tires and making a sloppy mess of things.

The pit steward was waiting at the start of the push lane as I prepared to start the car. I fidgeted with the formerly sticky shift lever and felt confident the quick change gears were engaged.

Now it was a matter of getting a push and lighting the fire. I poked a left hand out of the car again and gave a thumbs up. The pit steward nodded my way and motioned for my push truck to go. Once again, the car was moving forward but the wheels were not turning. The infield was not creating enough friction for the tires to turn the engine over. I had been shoved nearly 40 before the tires started spinning as the pickup truck pushing me gained speed. I checked the oil pressure gauge and saw it spike up. That was my que. I flipped the “on” toggle up and turned the fuel on.

I realized I’d been holding my breath through this whole process until the engine fired. I didn’t even have a foot on the throttle as the car lurched forward under its own power. I pushed down lightly on the pedal and hovered my left foot over the brake. I lurched forward again, the car idling along and in my control. I was pretty pleased with myself, getting it right, but I knew getting it out of gear could be an issue again. I had already rolled all the way down the inside lane on the back stretch and would have to ride all the way around the inside safety lane of the track once more, to enter on the backstretch as I had been instructed to do.

I took the slow lap in stride, thinking about doing this at full speed soon enough. I yanked the shift lever to the open position as I turned in on the backstretch. Mercifully, the rear end had disengaged, and I was rolling freely toward my pit stall with the engine still running, the entire point of this exercise.

I rolled gently into the pit to smiles from my crew, plus one. Old Louie Ross had shown up just in time to see to the motor.

Grandpa came to the left side of the car, reaching in to grab the throttle cable so I could get out of the car. The idling beast wasn’t burning all of the fuel being fed to it, and the strong smell of methanol was burning my eyes once again.

I handed mom my helmet and the steering wheel and climbed out in haste.

I got claps on the back from mom, dad and uncle Tim, who said even his first few times he failed to start the car correctly.

At grandpa’s hand signals only dad seemed to understand, my father was taking the hood off the car. Rossy had taken over for grandpa, in turn idling and revving the motor a little. Over the next five minutes, he’d check the oil pressure, water temperate and the tachometer. When he was satisfied, he gave the aggressive-sounding engine a few deafening blasts of fuel, turning the tachometer to over 8,000 RPM. The entire car would move as the engine tried to twist its was free from the chassis. Fire belched out of the header pipes as unburnt fuel caught fire in them.

Then all was nearly silent as Rossy shut the motor down. I could once again hear street stocks spinning their way through the turns, trying to pack the track in.

“Decent air tonight,” Rossy said to everyone around. “A little humid.”

Grandpa and Louie conferred for a short while, talking about the conditions and the competition. Grandpa said he thought it might stay pretty wet tonight, as if the extra few cars had spurred the track promotor to call for more water to the track.

Louie thought it might dry up anyway due to the heat and those extra cars taking qualifying laps. A winged sprint car, with big wide tires, could pull a lot of moisture out of a track.

That stocky pit steward stopped by our pit just then.

“You’ll be in the second set of hot laps, and watch that speed coming into the pits,” he chided me.

I shrugged.

Grandpa shook his head. “You were fine. Don’t worry about him.”

Dad had busied himself putting the hood back on the car, and flicking away what few clods of mud I’d collected on the car. Mom was already busy re-checking my helmet and tear offs. I hadn’t used any starting the car.

“Should I get in the car for hot laps?” I asked grandpa.

“Wouldn’t hurt,” he said with a wink.

I gathered all but my helmet and climbed back into the car. I was buckling in when mom arrived with my helmet and a screwdriver. As I pulled my straps tight, she ran the screwdriver through the tightening loops and yanked down even harder, tightening the belts to an uncomfortable level.

I gave her a bulging-eyed look, but she would have none of it.

“You’ll be in there tight for me. I promise you.”

The belts were practically cutting into my collarbone and chest and I was just happy she couldn’t find a way to get that screwdriver into the sub belt that ran between my legs. It was plenty snug already, thanks.

Then she unceremoniously handed me my helmet, with head sock and gloves inside. I set the gloves aside and pulled the head sock over my head, adjusting so I could see out of the eye slits. I slid the helmet over my melon and clasped the chin strap once again. Mom latched the steering wheel into place, and I made sure the pin was in place.

I put my gloves on, and waited.

And waited.

The street stocks cleared off the track in a noisy rumble, heading to the other end of the pit area. In the next stall over, Nels had been backed up and pushed up the push off lane. He was one of the first cars I recognized as he rolled through turn three. When half the 360 field was on the track, my crew pushed me back once again, awaiting a push truck. We had one there in a few moments, and he bumped into my push bar to let me know he was there. I waved my hand forward and I was shoved forward once again, rolling silently to the infield front stretch.

I stopped us in order just behind another push truck. I slipped the car into gear once more, and watched what I could of the first session of hot laps.

It looked very slick out there still. Everyone seemed to be working to get as far apart from each other as they could. Then idling engines put up a few revs, impatient drivers waiting for a green flag to unleash the practice session.

Then, as if in unison, lights around the track went green and nine cars roared to life, kicking up fresh black mud and charging the corners sideways. I was a little nervous, thinking my first laps at speed in the car were going to be in slick conditions, but about four laps into the session, the track seemed to take on a gray color, and cars starting staying straighter through the corners. I was feeling much better as the sound and fury of the first hot lap session came to a close, yellow lights blinking around the track.

A cloying sense of raw panic struck me from nowhere.

‘This is it,’ I thought. ‘Try not to fuck this up.’

A firm hand suddenly on my shoulder brought me out of my moment of terror.

“Try maybe half throttle,” grandpa yelled with a face of concern. “Still pretty slick out there.”

I nodded in understanding, hoping he couldn’t see how white I assumed my face had turned moments earlier.

‘Breathe, idiot.’

I was holding my breath again as the push truck in front of me lurched forward. I needed to concentrate again. The car was in gear, I could feel that as I was shoved forward, the tires chattering against the ground, not turning again. I fought with the wheel as the push truck gained steam, shoving me forward faster. I felt the car break loose as the wheels began to turn. A quick peek at the oil gauge showed signs of life inside the engine. I flipped the toggle up and turned the fuel valve wide open again.

A moment that seemed to last a month passed before the race engine belched to life, spilling fire out of the header pipes. I had gotten clear of the push truck and was under my own power once again, feeling free in a powerful vehicle. I peeked to my right just to see if the track was clear, then turned that way, prowling onto the racing surface for the first time.

It felt very different. The track that seemed like a mud bog just moments earlier was a sticky mess now, throwing chunks of mud up to stick to the underside of the big wing over my head. I moved up the track a bit, riding right at the middle of the track through turn three and four.

A couple of other drivers must have spotted me, and wisely zipped around me, lest they be stuck behind a slow car in their only hot lap session. I wondered how long it would take before we got a green flag as I spotted grandpa and Rossy in turn two, giving me a small wave. Dad would be in turn three near our pit and mom would stay in the pit.

The driver in front of me was revving his engine up, spinning a bit of mud up. I tested the same idea, for the first time aggressively pressing down on the throttle pedal.

‘Wow!’

The car twisted, seemingly of its own will, to my aggressive movement. I was barely over the first expression of joy when the lights around the track went green.

‘Game on!’

As grandpa had told me, I pressed down on the pedal to halfway. The car tore down the front stretch faster than I could comprehend. I lifted, entirely too much, upsetting the car as I turned into the first corner. Realizing my mistake, I quickly punched down on the pedal again to halfway. The car spun aggressively, the right rear sliding out to the right as I tore into the corner, bouncing due to the poor job I was doing at the wheel.

I resisted the urge to lift out of the throttle again, and was rewarded by the car settling down coming out of turn two. I had lost sight of the car in front of me, but I rolled into the throttle, just like grandpa had taught me, and roared down the backstretch, even taking a moment to rip off my first tear-off, rolling much more gently out of the the throttle as I made my turn into the corner. This time the car sailed gently through the turns, as I kept the throttle at about a quarter power, leaving the corner I gently rolled into it again as a car roared past me to my left.

‘What the?’

He was gone before I could even read the tail tank number. No matter, I was nearly into the next corner when another car slid under me and then up in front of me, peppering me with a blast of mud to the car, the rock screen in front of me, and loading my helmet with a punch of heavy mud. I could hardly see, and lifted out of the throttle too much again, upsetting the car. I rolled out of the turn at a quarter throttle and gently pressed down with my foot again, gaining incredible speed down the backstretch. I reached up to the side of my helmet to clear another tear off, but could feel nothing there. I quickly took a swipe at my viser with my glove to clear some mud and rolled into the corner realizing that somehow all my tear offs were gone.

‘Fuck!’

Another car roared under me for a pass, and I took the brunt of the mud clod spray right in the left side of the cockpit. I was covered. I could feel it as I rolled back into the throttle down the front stretch, the car barreling into turn one. This time I kept my foot at the halfway mark and was rewarded with a fairly smooth run through turns one and two. I ran right through the middle of the corners, the car rocketed down the backstretch, MUCH faster than the first few times. I took a quick moment to wipe my visor again, then held on at half throttle for another run through turns three and four. The car seemed to find a rut coming out of turn four on the inside lane, pushing my front end to the right, and toward the front stretch wall. I lifted a bit and got the car all out of shape again. I had to work to straighten it out before I could step on the throttle again, and was halfway down the front stretch before I could. At least three cars whipped past me on the outside before I got into the throttle again, entirely too late in the corner and this time just about spun the thing out. I rolled through the bottom of turns one and two, practically at idle, before stabbing the throttle once again on the way into the backstretch. I gave it all the courage I could muster after such a disastrous practice session, my foot nearly at the floor before lifting a little coming into turn three.