Dale, talking and gesturing. When he returned, he gave Tim a set of headphones and a radio. “Dale said he wanted you to be able to hear our chatter. You want to come up top with us?”
Tim shook his head and thanked him for the headphones. The pit box was the place to be during a race, but truth be told, Tim didn’t like heights very much and the box was high. Sure, it had the umbrellas that shielded you from the sun and the computer screens that had all the race info, but just one look down was enough to keep Tim away.
The crew wore their fire suits and gloves and had their shoes laced tightly, checking everything two or three times.
Cal, the jackman, stretched by putting one leg on a stack of tires and leaning forward. He was in a zone, focusing on the task ahead. He might not even touch the car for the first 40 laps, but then the whole process would boil down to 12 to 15 seconds—if everybody got through their jobs clean.
Mac walked up, pulling a cart with two gas cans behind him, stopping and scowling at Tim as he tried to get to the wall. Tim wasn’t really in the way—at least he didn’t think he was—but Mac made him pay. He pointed to the ground and a yellow line that was painted on the concrete. Mac pulled one earphone away from Tim’s ear. “Stay behind that line. You block me when I’m coming toward the car, and I’ll have you kicked out of here.”
Tim nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Mac grabbed the cart and started toward the wall. He turned and scowled again as the two grand marshals—a former football player and a guy from a popular TV show—yelled, “Gentlemen, start your engines!”
“I’m not trying to be mean,” Mac shouted over the thunderous noise. “You don’t want to mess up our pit stops. That’s why I’m telling you to stay back. Understand?”
“Sure do,” Tim said. “I used to go to tracks with my dad.”
Mac stared at him. “I knew your daddy. He was a good man. Now stay back, you hear?”
Tim nodded and looked at his watch. It was 1:22 when the pace car took off and led the cars in the first trip around the track. When the green flag flew, the crowd of more than 200,000 rose and cheered, and Tim could almost hear them over the roar of the engines.
He focused on Dale through the window net and pumped a fist in the air and yelled. Rather than resenting Dale and holding him responsible for his dad’s death, Tim had been won over. He wondered what it would be like to join his family, but he figured if they were half as nice as Dale, things would be okay.
Tim looked back at the leader pole and saw Dale had slipped to the #13 position after only five laps. Then he heard Scotty’s voice on the radio.
“Got a spinout behind you in turn four, Dale,” Scotty said. “Yellow flag.”
The car that had trouble didn’t have enough damage to pit, so the race resumed in four laps. Dale had fought his way up to 10th when the second yellow came out at lap 25. This time the #55 car slammed the wall entering turn three and had to take his car behind the wall.
“Well, looks like we can’t do any worse than 42nd place.” Dale chuckled.
“Gonna be a lot higher than that today, Dale,” T.J. said. “You look good out there. Car looks smooth in the turns.”
“Yeah, if I can get out of some of this traffic here, I should be good.”
“Looks like you’re pitting in another lap,” T.J. said. “What do you need?”
Tim glanced at the crew and noticed that as soon as the caution came out, everyone was right in position at the wall.
Dale said, “Getting a little push on the right side. Maybe just change the two right and a splash.”
The crew made a flurry of hand signals as Dale and the other drivers rumbled into the pits. Dale’s spot was close to the front of pit road, and Tim craned his neck to see him. Before Dale had even stopped inside the box, Cal had the jack out. He looked like he was flying through the air as he slid it under the car and pumped twice to lift it.
Tim shook his head and thanked him for the headphones. The pit box was the place to be during a race, but truth be told, Tim didn’t like heights very much and the box was high. Sure, it had the umbrellas that shielded you from the sun and the computer screens that had all the race info, but just one look down was enough to keep Tim away.
The crew wore their fire suits and gloves and had their shoes laced tightly, checking everything two or three times.
Cal, the jackman, stretched by putting one leg on a stack of tires and leaning forward. He was in a zone, focusing on the task ahead. He might not even touch the car for the first 40 laps, but then the whole process would boil down to 12 to 15 seconds—if everybody got through their jobs clean.
Mac walked up, pulling a cart with two gas cans behind him, stopping and scowling at Tim as he tried to get to the wall. Tim wasn’t really in the way—at least he didn’t think he was—but Mac made him pay. He pointed to the ground and a yellow line that was painted on the concrete. Mac pulled one earphone away from Tim’s ear. “Stay behind that line. You block me when I’m coming toward the car, and I’ll have you kicked out of here.”
Tim nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Mac grabbed the cart and started toward the wall. He turned and scowled again as the two grand marshals—a former football player and a guy from a popular TV show—yelled, “Gentlemen, start your engines!”
“I’m not trying to be mean,” Mac shouted over the thunderous noise. “You don’t want to mess up our pit stops. That’s why I’m telling you to stay back. Understand?”
“Sure do,” Tim said. “I used to go to tracks with my dad.”
Mac stared at him. “I knew your daddy. He was a good man. Now stay back, you hear?”
Tim nodded and looked at his watch. It was 1:22 when the pace car took off and led the cars in the first trip around the track. When the green flag flew, the crowd of more than 200,000 rose and cheered, and Tim could almost hear them over the roar of the engines.
He focused on Dale through the window net and pumped a fist in the air and yelled. Rather than resenting Dale and holding him responsible for his dad’s death, Tim had been won over. He wondered what it would be like to join his family, but he figured if they were half as nice as Dale, things would be okay.
Tim looked back at the leader pole and saw Dale had slipped to the #13 position after only five laps. Then he heard Scotty’s voice on the radio.
“Got a spinout behind you in turn four, Dale,” Scotty said. “Yellow flag.”
The car that had trouble didn’t have enough damage to pit, so the race resumed in four laps. Dale had fought his way up to 10th when the second yellow came out at lap 25. This time the #55 car slammed the wall entering turn three and had to take his car behind the wall.
“Well, looks like we can’t do any worse than 42nd place.” Dale chuckled.
“Gonna be a lot higher than that today, Dale,” T.J. said. “You look good out there. Car looks smooth in the turns.”
“Yeah, if I can get out of some of this traffic here, I should be good.”
“Looks like you’re pitting in another lap,” T.J. said. “What do you need?”
Tim glanced at the crew and noticed that as soon as the caution came out, everyone was right in position at the wall.
Dale said, “Getting a little push on the right side. Maybe just change the two right and a splash.”
The crew made a flurry of hand signals as Dale and the other drivers rumbled into the pits. Dale’s spot was close to the front of pit road, and Tim craned his neck to see him. Before Dale had even stopped inside the box, Cal had the jack out. He looked like he was flying through the air as he slid it under the car and pumped twice to lift it.
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