Speedway Girl

For this to work, it has to happen in an alternate universe. In this universe, NASCAR, F1, and Indy car racing doesn't exist. In this universe, it is all about the three tiers of the Unlimited Championship Series Racing. Also make belief are race tracks, a city, and a university.

When I was in college, I would walk by the engineering building on campus, and in a sea of late model Hondas and Fords in the faculty parking lot, there was one reserved space for a professor that was different. Some days there would be a Ferrari parked there, other days a Lamborghini. The prevailing story being that he was regularly awarded grants to design systems for European Formula 1 racing teams. Maybe, maybe not, but what a great seed for a story.

*

Finding him was easy. Getting through to him was going to be a challenge. I put my odds at a thousand to one against me, but I was determined to give it a shot.

Getting onto campus was also easy. I thought I would stand out like a sore thumb, that I was a little old to pass as a college student as a 30 year old woman, but I quickly became aware that the campus was packed with a diverse assemblage of ages, not to mention races and overall different looks so literally anyone could have blended in. Nobody recognized me, though I regretted not bringing a backpack as I stood out in that aspect.

Slipping into his quantum physics class was a little more challenging though the stadium seating and rows of empty seat/desks at the back made it possible. The room was dimly lit except at the stage and massive whiteboard at the front. Once again I stood out from the crowd, I was the only one that didn't have a tablet propped up in front of me. I could see the student's tablets in the rows ahead of me, notes appearing magically on screen as the professor's rapid scribbles on the whiteboard were being transcribed real time.

The notes were indeed scribbles, I couldn't make heads or tails of any of it. Hieroglyphics would make more sense to me, but the professor was rapidly laying them on the board while through the speakers broadcasting from his headset he was describing why we would use such equations in a booming but excited voice. Which also went over my head.

Even with his back to the class, it could not go unnoticed that he was animated, full of enthusiasm. I looked around and he held the rapt attention of every student except for one who was sleeping, his head shamelessly laid on the desktop in front of him. The professor had my attention too. I could feel my heart racing.

He finally turned away from the board and approached the lectern and I was glad I was at the back of the room because I gasped. Loud enough for the row of students in front of me to turn and give me rude looks.

Seeing him again. After all this time. It was almost too much.

Damn. The years had been good to him. He had filled out nicely and was even more handsome to me than I ever imagined he would be when we were kids. I was expecting his handsome face, I had brought up his picture on the faculty page of the university website countless times, but seeing all of him, in the flesh again, it took my breath away.

So much wasted time.

I had my hair in a ponytail, pulled through the back of a tattered baseball hat with a Valvoline Motor Oil patch on the front that I hoped shaded my face enough, and I wore blue tinted glasses, all to help avoid getting noticed. That worked well when I walked through campus and even for when students looked up at me as I took a seat, but the professor saw right through it, pausing his lecture when he looked up at me for the first time.

He stuttered a little bit before continuing his lecture, clearly less animated than before. I had taken him off his game. I had to smile a little at that.

He looked up at me a few more times throughout the rest of his lecture, I always shot back a big smile and even gave a little wave at him once. Each time the pace of his lecture slowed even more until I think he lost so much momentum that he couldn't go on any longer.

He addressed the class, "OK, folks. I'm going to let you go 15 minutes early. Remember that the notes and lecture have all been recorded and you can find it in the link that I listed in the syllabus. Have a great weekend everyone."

Most of the class got up and filed out in a hurry, even the student that had been sleeping popped up and was almost the first one out. Three young women went the opposite direction and gathered at the stage where the professor kneeled down to talk to them at their level. I just stayed put and watched from a distance.

He gave them each some solid attention and went over some of their questions they had from the homework until he told them to come back at his appointed office hours. They left, looking a little disappointed, but I thought they would never leave.

Now it was my turn.

He moved to a sitting position at the front edge of the stage to wait for me as I made my way down the aisle, I intoned, "They're too young for you, Bolt."

He looked confused, "Who is?"

I sighed and shook my head. The guy didn't have a clue.

"Those students," I replied, "they just wanted to be close to their handsome professor."

"Pshh. Physics isn't easy, the material is hard. They had genuine questions and they want to succeed in my class."

Yeah, he still didn't have a clue. Whatever. I was standing right in front of him and threw my arms out. "How come you haven't hugged your best friend yet? After all this time, I don't get a hug?"

He smiled and hopped off the stage and into my arms as I didn't give him enough room not to. His embrace was affecting. I tightened my hug and buried my head into his shoulder. "I missed you," I said. He started to release me and I warned, "No you don't," and I held him tight and savored it a little longer before I let him go. I took both his hands in mine and remained close.

"Did you miss me too?" I asked.

"Of course I did," he responded a little sadly.

After spending most of my childhood with him, there was one thing that I was absolutely certain of. If Talbot Jones ever told a lie, I could tell, and he knew I could tell. He did miss me. It was also why I put him on the spot and I was only getting started.

"Then how come you never come home and see me?"

"I come home," he responded without answering the full question.

"No you don't."

He took the bait. "Yes I do, I come home a couple times a year to see Pop."

"And not one of those times have you looked me up."

"You were busy, Jessica. Busy climbing the ranks until you were the #1 driver in Class 2 Unlimited Racing."

He called me Jessica. Not Jess, or Jessie, or my favorite, JJ. That hurt a little bit. It meant he was unhappy with me right now. I had to unturn the screws but I had one more poke that I couldn't not bring up. "That's not it. You ran away from me. When I needed you the most."

"I did no such thing," he lied. Which I knew. He shook his head knowing, "You followed your dream, and I had to follow mine."

"This was never your dream, Bolt. Do you not forget that I know exactly what your dream was? Do you not forget that it wrapped around with mine?"

He lied to me again, "My dreams changed after college. That's normal. I like what I do."

I was still holding his hands and they started to shake. I had gone too far and knew I had to settle him down. I squeezed his hands and said, "OK, OK. I get it. I just missed you."

"That's not why you're here, Jess."

As much as I held a power in being able to read the truth from him, he was able to read me like a book. Always had. Which was not surprising, we always had a special connection. My dad used to laugh and say we were like twins. Though clearly not.

"I want you to live some of your dream. Your original one. With me."

He didn't hesitate. "No."

"Come on. I need you. Please do this for me. For us."

"What exactly do you want?"

"You know what I want. I want you to take 3 seconds off my lap time."

"No."

That was that. He pulled his hands from mine easily as one or both of us went clammy. He looked at me like he was remembering something and a shade of horror crossed his face. There was surely a lot to remember from our past, but I know what his mind unsurprisingly had landed on.

It was the accident. What else would it be?

*

I walked through the aircraft hangar sized auto shop, no longer needing my disguise while on home turf. That and it having enough security surrounding us to protect the President of the United States if we had to. I always marveled at how the shop was so highly organized and sparkly clean, the 5-second rule on this floor could be extended to 10-seconds. Even with all the motor oil that had spilled onto it over the years.

I walked up to Talbot's father, Jimmy Jones, who was located where I remember him standing for most of my life, next to Dad's race car with the hood up. Some tool or another in his hand, looking down on the car like a doctor would look at a patient.

"Hi, Pop." I always called him what Talbot called him too.

"Hiya, Jessie," he replied in his English accent with a friendly but wise smile. When he smiled, his eyes practically disappeared within the wrinkles, but there was nothing but kindness in them. I know that he has always liked me. He was like my second father even though he was a man of little words. My father always seemed to do the talking for him. They had been friends since before I was born.

"Is Dad in?" I asked.

"Yep. In his office. The sponsor just left." Then as fast as he had acknowledged me, he went back to looking at the engine. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle that had been nagging him for ages. I had to chuckle to myself.

I walked through the shop, past Dad's backup racecar and the other two pairs of racecars, two being mine and the final two being our third teammate's. There were probably two dozen mechanics all going about their business of wrenching on something, minding the CNC machines, or having their heads under a car hood like Pop was doing.

I found my father sitting behind his huge mahogany desk in his upstairs mezzanine office, surrounded by a lifetime of racing memorabilia on the walls and in display cases. Dad was sort of the Godfather of racing. Before he was even 21, he had more wins than any other racer at that age and cemented himself into the record books, as well as into the hearts of fans everywhere. He then went on to string together Championship season wins, at one point in my childhood achieving 10 in a row before a few more, only separated by what we call the gap years. The name Jesse James was by now an American household name, but his fans mostly just called him Outlaw. Yeah, OK, not a lot of creativity there, but I get it that it is obvious.

"Hello, Jessica," he greeted me with narrowed, knowing eyes. He got up from behind his desk and gave me a hug.

"Hi, Dad." I plopped into one of the chairs at the conference table in the corner of his office that he motioned me to. There were still materials on it that he and the sponsor had gone over.

He reached down and hit a button on the conference phone. I heard the echo of a buzzing sound and then Dad's voice, echoing from the shop over the PA, "Hey, Jimmy. Why don't you come on up here."

Jimmy entered at the same time, obviously knowing he was going to be called in. He sat at the table with us.

Dad started, in charge of any situation, as always, "Jessica, I heard you paid a little visit to Jimmy's boy. What is going on in that noggin of yours? I can see the gears working overtime in your head as I sit here today."

I sighed and just laid it out for him in all honesty. "When I was in Class 2, I was winning. Dominating. I always had a fast car but was gaining experience all the time. I earned being called up to the big league, I should be winning at the Championship level."

Dad replied sympathetically, "Sweetheart, this is your first year in the bigs. We're only two races into the season. You finished in the top 20 both races, that's a good start."

I said a little too touchy, "That wouldn't have been good enough for you. Especially at my age."

"It's different now. It's faster now than when I started out. It's an engineer's race now."

I know that was hard for him to say but I was ready for it. "Exactly! Which is why I went to the best engineer for racing on the planet."

Pop nodded his head. Dad gave him a look and then shook his head, frustrated over something I didn't understand, but I knew Pop did.

I said to him, "Come on, Pop. I'm right, we all know it. Remember when I was a kid, he had all those ideas to make a car go faster. Suspension redesigns, body shapes, drivetrain improvements. He was rattling off equations and putting them into practice when I was a teenager. Remember what he did to my first carts, and then when I moved up, with his tweaks I had the fastest car in the Jr. Circuit and pulled out points wins two years in a row."

I hesitated, before adding a little sullenly, "Should have been three in a row."

*

That day, something like 13 years ago now, will be etched upon my brain for the remainder of my life, even though I wasn't aware of everything that went on until weeks and months later. It started out like any other race day in the Jr. Circuit. The Class 2 race was held on the Saturday preceding the Championship level race which would be the next day, always on a Sunday. With the conclusion of the Class 2, my race in the Jr. Circuit would start 90 minutes later, usually concluding after dusk, under the lights.

The long lead up to the race was spent making sure the car was ready, passed safety inspections, first with the team and then with the syndicate. And a lecture from my father about racing to win, but more about safety. "Live to race, but race to live," he'd sometimes say.

Throughout those activities, I spent my time with Talbot, who was my team manager and crew chief, but he also wrenched on my car whenever he didn't approve of my team of mechanic's work. That was more often than not. I also spent every other minute of my time with Talbot. Like his father, he was, um, economical with his words. Not on race day, though. On race day he would talk in volumes, keeping my mind free and clear of the pressure before the green flag.

I loved listening to him talk. He was so smart, and he could make me laugh. I don't know why though, nobody else thought he was funny, but our sense of humor aligned when we had been thrown together since we were two years old.

Growing up together, in an environment that regular kids couldn't even imagine, it made us different from other kids our age. We stuck together because of that. Needed each other.

It wasn't made any easier that Dad was a well known person that shined in the public eye and it was hard to keep from being in it. I remember from a young age that I needed to keep my eyes shut tight when the champagne bottle was opened. He'd hold me in one arm while in the Winner's Circle and open the shooken bottle with one hand in the other. The spraying champagne stung my eyes a couple of times before painfully learning that lesson and it made for a lot of front page sports sections of the newspaper on many a Monday morning. Hard core racing fans literally watched me grow up.

Talbot and I watched every one of my father's races and the leadup races together for years. Even as pre-teens, we'd later analyze each race to death. What went right, what went wrong, and then what I'd do differently if I was behind the wheel, and Talbot would go on about how he'd make the car go faster. Because those were our dreams. Driver and engineer, working together. It would be natural because we just understood each other.

That day though I wasn't thinking of any of that. Just before we were to start our engines, the drivers and crew chiefs were gathered, as required by the syndicate, to get a lecture over sportsmanship, the rules, and blah blah blah. Bullshit like that. It is the only moment in our sport that all the drivers are assembled in one place. Ever. So there's a lot of joking, ribbing, and mostly posturing going on. A lot of testosterone. Except from me.

I was a popular focus of that posturing, though I never let it get to me. Talbot, on the other hand, took it personally. He defended me like he would a girlfriend or something. On that day, he had finally had enough. When Chris Butler picked on both my gender and my asian heritage in some awful slur, then indicating that neither were fit to drive a minivan on a highway, let alone a racetrack, Talbot lost his shit. I wasn't strong enough to hold him back and he made his way over to Chris and threw a punch that landed on the side of his head. Talbot took one in retaliation before the other drivers and crew chiefs were able to separate them. Thankfully both were glancing blows and nobody got hurt.

Being a woman, well, I was 17 so call me what you want, it made me different from all the other drivers. Sure, there was Danica before me, but the other pioneers, women who had bravely attempted to break into what is a men's dominated sport, mainly had starts in the single digits and raced before I was born. What also made me different was that my mother was half Japanese, and I looked a lot like her. What I've gathered over my time on Earth is that a little more than half the population of men can respect me for who I am. The smaller slice of the remaining population don't, but keep it to themselves. Then there's this super thin slice of assholes that can't help but let the asshole side of them out. Guys like Chris Butler.

I was so mad at Talbot for losing his cool. Even if I won the pole at the next race, the syndicate was surely going to penalize me and send me to the back row for the altercation. I told him that we were going to have a fight, and I was going to tear him a new asshole but the meeting was over and I had to start my engine. So I warned him that immediately after the race I was going to unleash my wrath. I fumed all the way to my racecar.

That discussion never happened.

I had earned the pole at time trials and when the green flag waved, I jumped on it. I'd like to say that it was the lingering anger over the skirmish and my determination that made me muscle 5 car lengths ahead of the pack in the first lap, but the reality was that I had a strong, fast car that put me in the lead. One that kept me solidly in front for the first 195 laps. In my mind, I could see the whole race, and I was going to lead from green to checkered flag and this race would be my crown achievement for the season, maybe the best race in Class 2 history.

Only five laps to go. "Bolt," I said into the headset in my helmet, "what's the tire situation?"

We were all business now, the fight could wait. He responded like a machine, "You've got 60 laps on your rubber, this one's going to be close. 35 is the only one challenging you and he's got only 20 laps on his." That meant my tires were at their limit, I'd typically pit and change them between 50 and 55 laps, but 35 was relatively fresh and had rubber to spare.

Number 35 was Chris Butler, and he was closely drafting me. He tried to pass me on the inside and a couple times high against the wall, but I had a stronger car and once he lost the draft, he couldn't move up. Only I couldn't keep the line I had chosen, I had to get these tires to go the distance, so my line gradually drifted higher, towards the wall. My tires just couldn't hold me where I wanted to be.

He started to pass me on the inside which was wide open. He slowly started gaining ground, there were only two more laps left to go. Every inch that he gained on me seemed like a mile until the strength of my equipment decided it had taken enough of this asshole and dialed the amplifier up to eleven. He was no longer gaining on me, and I started pulling away.