Life In High Gear

We spend a year waiting for the glory of 500 laps.  Sitting in the garage, it seems like a lifetime because I was built for speed.  I eagerly await the command that boils my blood and sets me free.  I agree with Jenni Thompson of frontstretch.com when she said, “The life of a racecar is not movie lights and glory,” but for me running wide open at Bristol is enough.

         I have been painted, tuned and decaled for this race this weekend.  They roll me from my second home, the dark, cold confines of the hauler.  I am the realization of the dream of everyone at Richard Childress Racing, Inc.  The sunlight gleams on my silver and black body as they roll me toward check-in at the infield hotel.  Once I’m tucked in my room, my crew brings in my luggage consisting of Craftsman tool boxes, spare parts, cases of oil and coolant.  My crew chief appears and runs his hands lovingly over my hood and roof, talking gently to me.  He urges me to do my best and to give our driver whatever he needs to win.  If he would just give me power by flipping my ignition switch, I would purr in agreement.  He gives me one final pat as the rest of the team arrives.  They roll me to my pit stall where they check my tire pressure and tinker under my hood.  Then, they turn me over to the care of my driver, so he can take me out for testing.  I’m back in my hotel room in an hour where my crew gives me fresh oil and water.  They check my spark plugs, carburetor and other parts of my engine before tucking me in for the night because tomorrow we qualify.  If I perform well, they will keep me for the next short track.

         My waiting is over; it’s qualifying day.  Later on, my driver and I will be zipping around the track.  Qualifying gives us the opportunity to race the track and the clock.  I am pushed from my room and into the line with my fellow competitors.  We are weighed, measured, and inspected by NASCAR Officials; then we are rolled into a line on pit road.  He straps in and flips my switch.  My heart rumbles to life and my blood sings.  I feel the gritty, hot asphalt under my wheels.  My crew pushes me forward so I can conserve my strength.  We are at the head of the line, finally.  He eases down the gas pedal and my blood begins to boil.  We pull onto the track and the gritty asphalt gives way to dusty concrete.  The dust swirls into my grill and small pebbles of rubber pelt my hood.  I feel the rush of the wind across my roof flaps.  Before I can gather my speed, I am tipped onto my left side by the high banks.  I straighten out and fly.  The black and white checkered stripe disappears under my nose.  We are on the clock now, so I push myself harder, faster.  I’m on my side again, we straighten out.  We tip sideways again, and I feel the pressure building on my left side.  We straighten out, so I respond to the increased pressure on the gas pedal.  One more lap and my crew will relieve this pressure.  We cross the line, and I sigh because now I can rest.  We worked hard, yet there is no rest for the fastest of the fast.  We got the pole!  He unstraps, hoists himself onto my window and pounds my roof.  Cameras flash, and for a moment, I bask in the glory of doing my very best.  They roll me back to the inspection tent and NASCAR Officials reinspect me, then my crew pushes me back to my hotel room where they dismantle my engine and clean it.  I am now race ready.

         From the time I awake, I long for the checkered flag to drop.  My staff awakens me with the sun.  They rub the grit and grime from my body making me look fabrication new.  My driver pokes his head into the garage to check on me; then, he’s off again.  He does the interviews, but it’s me everyone comes to see.  It’s my image on all those tee-shirts in the stands.  Finally, the sun casts long shadows over the track, and I feel the tension building all the way to my springs.  My team pushes me into place behind the pace car.  I hear the thunderous applause of the crowd as my driver is introduced.  He climbs into my seat as the national anthem begins to swell around us.  We become one.  I feel the tension explode in the full fury of a storm at the command, “Gentlemen, start your engines.”  We follow the pace car off pit road and onto the concrete track.  The dust and old tire rubber grinds into my fresh, clean tires, so we weave from side to side to put some heat into them and clean them off.  The pace car disappears; we explode forward.  Cameras flash like lightening, but we forty-three cars are the thunder. I respond to my driver’s slightest command.  He works me into spaces that would terrify a normal car.  We fight for every inch of concrete and to stay off the wall.  At the end of the race, we are there; however, we just can’t catch the Rubbermaid car.  My engine is just too tired and my tires are worn out.

         The life of a racecar is short lived but glorious.  We are forgotten the moment the race is over, but we are cared for and stored like the prized possession that we are because we don’t come cheap.  We cost more than our crews make in a year.