"Crash! Turn 3!" Lead commentator Jed Fort yelled. The camera panned quickly to show a billowing cloud of white smoke and a spotty scattering of stock cars all choosing one direction or another, "And it's the 70 of Tyson Batridge."
A brief silence overcomes the commentary booth, "Man, that is not the kind of break he needed. Looks like his rough year will have an equally-rough ending." Backup commentator Kurt Libson added.
"Rough year for the team as a whole, and we already know Tyson will not be returning to this car next year, rendering him jobless. This surely wasn't the note he wanted to leave on."
The NAFSCAR commentators I used to listen to on TV were always my favourite voices growing up. As I worked my way through the ranks, my favourite voices switched to those of my spotter and crew chief. My favourite sound, however, never changed. The roaring of the engine as it symphonies with my competitors' always made me feel at peace inside. It entranced me, like some sort of hypnotic vibe. It never failed to soothe my scattered brain and calmed my wacky nerves. The lights of the track glistened off the cars' sheetmetal underneath the Florida dusk.
"How are your temperatures, J?"
Everyone called me J... I guessed because everyone was too busy or rushed to take the time to say my full name. But, then again, saying one less syllable? Pretty easy if you ask me, "Jasper", but I--
"J, can you hear me?" My mind intercepted the southern twang of my crew chief over the radio again.
I had to pull myself from my ADD-like daze to focus on my job, "220 all around."
"10-4."
"Am I good on gas?"
"Everyone's good to the finish. Car still loose?"
"Worse. I need to come in. What position are we in?"
"11th. There's only like six or seven cars behind you on the lead lap and we got 24 laps to go. Your call."
"I can probably get a better finish coming in for tires even if everyone else stays out. I need four and something to tighten my car up a little. It's fishtailing real bad in the center."
"Alright guys. Four tires, no gas. Add one round on the wedge. No screwups, we're gonna try to win this damn thing!" My crew chief's voice blared with a blatant confidence. Now I just had to deliver the results and let my team do the car work.
"Pit road is open, no takers in the top 10. Here comes Erickson pitting from 11th. He was running strong earlier but kind of fell back." Libson chirped.
Fort paused a moment to gather the words, "The 18 of Lloyd Smith and the 97 of Stan Bass follow him down. Now we'll get to see what those four fresh tires can do! Dan, what's the call on the 32?" He cued pit road correspondent Dan Boyle.
"Crew chief for the 32 car Tesla Corey came over the radio a moment ago and told Jasper Erickson to make the call here on his final pit stop of the evening. Remember, he did not pit on lap 154 like everyone else, so Erickson chose to come down and take advantage of that extra set of sticker tires he had left over. Left side tires are on and the Zuracell Chevy is away! Good stop for the 32 team!"
There are no easy-kept secrets in NAFSCAR. That driver-to-crew-to-media exchange of words took less than two minutes. I always took an extra moment to appreciate the fact that I hadn't said anything too awkward or revealing over the radio, and I always double checked if and when I talked to myself to avoid the possibility of leaning on the radio button.
"3900. Don't speed." I kept my car at 3600 RPMs just for insurance. We made good time, so I retained a little bit extra to leave on the table. Not to say I could kill time, but I could take advantage and be cautious about the pit road speed limit. Never been hit with a penalty as I did not want to be one of those drivers that lost a race for speeding on pit road. Personally, I'd pretend the cops would flash their lights behind me if I sped, and I feared that kind of authority, so it worked pretty damn well even if it was only childlike pretense.
I hit the gas and caught the field about a lap later on the frontstretch. I slowly removed my shoe-protected footpaw from the gas pedal with slight sorrow, the same kind of heartache one would get by removing two lovers from one another. I remained patient, though, and swerved my car back and forth to warm my tires. I watched the rear bumper of the Taxslasher.com Dodge sway back and forth in front of me, the lights of the track glistening off its sheetmetal. My car felt fast, and I simply could not wait to see what it could do when I sped it up. An almost sinister smile tugged at my lips. At this moment I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could win this race. I didn't care about Rhys Carter's imminent championship, I just wanted to win a race. Any race. This race or the Daytona 500, it did not matter.
"One to go this time. Make sure those tires are warmed up for me." Tesla instructed. I swerved the car the entire lap until we made our way off turn 4, the entire time staying relaxed, breathing deeply, just waiting for that elusive green flag I so craved.
Fort announced the restart, "Green flag! Louis Gibson leads Rhys Carter with 20 laps remaining in the season finale! And here comes Rhys to the bottom, he wants the lead but doesn't have enough speed to clear him! It evens out, 50 leads the 26 off turn 2!" The parrot never missed a beat.
"45 about spun down here in turn 2, Jed. Field's all wadded up now." The hummingbird always knew what to say in response. Kurt's much shallower, much lighter voice endlessly complimented the parrot's deeper, more dramatic one. The commentary booth worked like clockwork.
"David Creisman gets loose and the field bottles up! Close call! They are muzzle-to-tail on the backstretch!"
"Look at... look-- the 32 car!" Libson found himself at a loss for words.
"Erickson into turn 3, will he clear the 66? Yes! And boy, what a move that was! Jasper Erickson ducked onto the apron and just passed about a half dozen lead lap cars! Remember, he pit! He's got four fresh tires on that car and he is a-coming! Erickson has never won a race in the NAFSCAR Countrywide Series, could tonight be the night?!"
"Jasper Erickson restarted what... 14th? Well, he just crossed the start/finish line on the inside of Gregory Bartholomew battling for the 7th position."
"And he'll clear him into turn 1, 19 laps to go!"
My god, I'm actually doing it! I'm up to 6th or 7th in just one lap! I kept myself calm and collected as I veered the car into turns 3 and 4, knowing the six remaining cars would be the toughest. I keep my eyes peeled on the rearview for any of the other cars that pit and see the 18 a good distance behind me, still around 10th. It became apparent to me that I had the best car, I just had to use it now.
The 99 of Matt Corey took me a few laps to catch and pass, and by lap 189 I came up to that loose 45 car. I licked my lips, hungry for the victory. I dove my car into turn 1 on the bumper of the 45 car. His car got a little loose in front of me and I could not drive to the inside. The fact that he insisted on hugging the inside line slightly aggravated me, but I kept my patience in check. On the backstretch he waved me past and slowed up a little to let me by. I put my paw out the window in thanks. Four cars left in front of me and 11 laps to go. Now or never, Jasper.
For the next 6 laps I quickly worked my way through the top five. I passed fellow rookie Ari Matilsdefh-Porschina (quite a mouthful. He got teased a lot about it) on lap 192 and then the 40 of Trevor Farnham on the following lap, leaving me 7 laps to catch the two leaders who had put a second and a half on the rest of us. The good news: "Great job, J. Up to third now and you were four tenths quicker than the leaders the last 4 laps. You will take the lead on lap 199." I don't mean to brag, but I had a fast car!
"This is great racing for the lead! These two cannot get away from each other! And now it's Louis to the bottom again! Gibson wants the lead back into turn 3!" Libson exclaimed.
"Coming around for 3 laps to go and Rhys Carter is obviously not playing it conservatively! He's got a championship hanging in the balance and he is all over that 50 car! He dives it into turn 1! Too hard and he slides up the track!"
"Ohh!"
"Louis slides up the track with him and here comes Jasper Erickson on the bottom!"
"Where did he come from?!"
"Those four fresh tires have worked Jasper Erickson into the 3rd position and now he's underneath Rhys for 2nd!"
I approached the 26 with caution, remembering what Zedley had said and how Rhys could kick my ass in the garage if I got in his way, let alone wrecked him. Normally drivers would get penalized for fighting but I had a slight feeling they'd be a little biased since Rhys is the most popular Countrywide Series driver.
The 26 got a good run off turn 2 and I knew I had to make the move soon. The 26 was surely pushing his equipment to keep with me, but I couldn't shake him off of turn 4 as he got that fast run to the outside of me and it rendered us side-by-side across the stripe again. The engine roared loud as my body quivered with excitement, but a little anxiety began breaking into my zen inside the cockpit. I kept my impatient nature suppressed and tried to keep the demons out as we dove into turn 1 again. I studied his line and tried to follow, but caught myself again unable to edge in front of him until he rushed back on the outside, and my nerves were starting to flare. I watched the bumper of Louis mere yards away; not out of reach by any means, but as Rhys edged ahead before turn 3 I noticed his gloved hand gesture out his window to work with him. Through turn 3 I heard my spotter come onto the radio, "26 wants to work with you around the 50." My eyes widened as more discomfort entered my cockpit, I did not trust this lizard any further than I could throw Alaska, and did not pull back from beside him as we zoomed across the line for the white flag.
"White flag, Louis Gibson takes it with a side-by-side battle for second behind!" Fort exclaimed. "And Erickson dives into turn 1! He will not let Gibson out of his sights!"
My hopes never wavered, and now here sat a greedy husky-lynx, a desperate husky-lynx, refusing my biggest rival's request at teamwork and running for myself and myself alone. A moving chicane which my car came so close to clearing the only thing separating me from my teammate out front. The 50 wobbled in front of me, but it was nothing compared to what my car felt like pinned underneath that 26. I felt a thickness in the air which gave me the sense of a sure-to-follow dispute on pit road. Coming through turn 2, I gassed it early and stared at my mirrors. Rhys must've been seething, and this battle was beginning to leave a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and a bad taste in my mouth. My paws were sweating through the fabric of the gloves as they gripped the wheel for five times its worth. Simply put, a strong and gripping fear had managed to strike me with its monstrous paw, and the 26 still would not detach from my car. The 26 had a run as I kept to the inside and slowly crept back up toward the wall, just testing to see if I had him clear. He was close, but I felt I might have had him clear. My spotter remained silent, but I didn't feel my car wobble as I tested it, so I attempted to slam the door on the 26 and dive after Louis into 3.
BANG!
"A three-car fight on the backstretch! Erickson may have him clear, he moves up the track in front... oh no!" Libson commented.
"NO!"
Both commentators cried out from what had just taken place.
What had taken place shadowed a perfect example of outside forces getting into the zen of my cockpit, and it hit. Like a jet crash landing, it hit. My body jerked against the restraints, knocking the breath out of me. I opened my eyes and my hood was smashed in a good bit, the front of my car scraping against the wall. I felt a push from behind as I jerked the wheel back left, leaving the tail of my car to slam against the wall and scrape along with the loud, horrifying screech of fast-moving metal against rough, solid barrier. It lasted only two seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Time slowed to a crawl as both the 26 and 50 passed me by, and by the time it was over, all the lead lap cars left me in the dust. My car would still run, albeit damaged, but I had to ride it along the wall all through the corner as I lost all steering capability. I heard my spotter yelling and screaming in anger and frustration, but I could not make out a single word... my mind emptied. It wasn't the most horrific accident I'd ever been in, but at the moment, it felt like every accident I'd ever been in multiplied by itself. The dead vehicle shimmied and shook violently as I ran it through turn 3, but I knew I had to finish regardless of what I felt inside. I didn't use my judgment on this one, and the damage had now been done. Dejected, I drove my car at a snail's pace across the finish line a good thirty seconds after the leaders. I should've seen this coming from a mile away. Just one lap before, I came to the start/finish line dreaming of being able to cry out in joy the next time I saw it, but the only thing to escape my mouth as I crossed it was simply, "Damn it, Jasper."
"And poor Jasper Erickson. He had a chance to win this race, but he now comes across the line in a shower of sparks." Fort commented on my behalf.
17. The disappointing number I saw on the tower before car number 32. I finished 17th. I rounded the track one last time, wondering how long it would be before I could put this out of my mind. I dreaded driving down pit lane to see my pit crew again. I dreaded Rhys confronting me and kicking me while down. I dreaded it all. My life seemed to be all about fear, and at this moment of shame, it mounted.
When I extricated myself from the dinged-up Chevy, several TV media members shuffled through my dejected crew and approached me. I ignored them for the moment. I didn't even bother to look at who won; I knew Rhys won the championship, and if Louis won the race I'd congratulate him for it later. Simply put, the race ended, and I never wanted to hear of it again.
"Now Rhys, on a different note, you and the 32 had an altercation on the track on the final lap, can you tell me about the contact and what exactly caused it?"
Rhys chuckled a little at the media's question, "You gotta give and take a little. I requested that he push me down the stretch and we could both work by the 50 and maybe have a little race between us back to the line, and I know his spotter was telling him that, but the kid's got rookie stripes for a reason, and if he's going to drive like it's all about him, he may as well be wearing them again next season. We aren't necessarily the best of friends off the track, but when you are out there risking your life to make a paycheck, you gotta take what you got. The kid's a damn idiot, that's all I gotta say." Hey, he may have been right, but when you take into consideration that I, at the time, feared this lizard for my life in the first place, then you bring some justification to my side as well.
It took ten minutes for things to settle, in my mind and out. I sat on the pit wall with my crew while my team owner, Felix Smith, discussed with us the great job we had done this season. I remained completely silent, wisely so as I felt anything I could say would default as null and void. I rested my arms on my knees and let my eyes trace along the cracks in the concrete underneath me. Once Felix's speech had concluded, a wolf from the media approached me. He was turned toward a camera, saying something inaudible to me in the noise and cheering within the speedway. He finally turned to me, his small blunt muzzle curved in a sorry smile.
"Aside from the championship, here's story of the night. Young Jasper Erickson, a great run lost. Let's see if we can get a word with him.
You see me standing at attention, facing you and ready to speak, and you still need to act like you need permission to speak to me? What if I said no, huh? Damn media.
"Jasper... do I need to ask?"
I managed a chuckle. As much as I hated the media, I had to say something for my fans, "I dunno... I just... uh... haven't seen the replays yet but... uh... I just drove it up, thought I was clear and... uh... yeah. Crashed." Now you can see why I hate the media; I didn't know how to speak to them, and at this point I must have sounded more pathetic than a grounded five year old. I already felt I'd been beaten to the ground, but following this interview I think America had finally seen me meet the Earth's mantle. I had expected Zedley or his posse to accomplish that feat, but I alone was able to.
My eyes glanced left and right to see the once empathetic crew now looking at me with sympathy. They knew exactly what I had just said and why I wish I hadn't said a word, but the complete shame I felt surely outmatched anything they felt. I felt utterly hopeless, so I simply did the only thing that crossed my mind. I dropped my head and ran away. I left the track, not once looking back.
My hotel room may have been a four-star suite, but it could have been a one-star and I would not have known the difference. It felt darker and lonelier than ever tonight, however, like my own corner of the world isolated from society. I slammed down my things; nothing more than a couple of magazines, some pens, a couple of season's-end gifts, and a change of clothes. I went to lay down on the bed, but my attention had been caught by a soft thud on the carpet behind me. I slowly turned my head around, and on the green carpet, illuminated by the city lights beaming through the window, I saw a checkered flag lying on the floor.
"What the...?" I breathed, walking slowly over toward it. I reached out a cream-coloured paw and grabbed it, lifting it up to examine it. Indeed, the flag from tonight's race, as it had 2009 Ford 300 written on it.
"How'd this end up here?" I asked myself. I looked at it for a brief moment before turning and slowly walking over to the bed, the flag at my side held firmly in my left paw. When I reached the bed, I sat upon it, holding the flag in front of my eyes again. I examined the handle and that's when I noticed the piece of paper tied to it. I unraveled the note, but found the room too dark to read, so I quickly turned on the light, extremely curious. The note read:
Jasper,
I heard what happened. Just take this like a man, there's always next season, buddy. Yes, Rhys won the championship. And this is a gift for being such a big help this season, I already have a couple of flags, so I thought I'd give you this one. You had the best car anyway. Peace man and God Bless over this offseason! Keep in touch.
Your friend,
Louis Gibson
I have to admit, Louis meant very well, but this didn't make me feel any better. One simple group of words destroyed this cheer-up idea of his, 'Take this like a man.' What makes a man a man besides a penis? Can't a man just be himself, whatever that is? Do I really have to have that rough and tough attitude to make me a man? Being tough never interested me, all I wanted was a NAFSCAR championship, but I never wanted to lift weights, and I certainly never wanted to hurt anyone else, jokingly or otherwise. Is it so wrong to just play the part of myself and not hurt so much in a failing pretense of something I'm not? I threw the flag, cursing and turning to beat up my pillow. It was times like this I wish I had a punching bag; one that looked like Rhys as a vegetable; still and unable to defend himself. I cursed a little more at the top of my lungs, almost scaring myself by my own voice crying out in an unfamiliar tone.
I talked to myself for a while, calming myself down and fantasizing about living the life of a straight fur in this same situation. Maybe if I listened to Louis a little more I would end up feeling happier; either straight and prideful of it or so afraid of my own feelings that I'd force an endless delusion of myself as straight and prideful.
I feel asleep a few minutes after four, after hours of self-criticism and thinking of just how I could ever realize the dream of becoming a NAFSCAR champion as Jasper Erickson, and not someone else like Rhys Carter.