Draft

"Draft" (sequel to “Felt,” and “Cut”)

This is Jake. I'm glad someone around here has a ham radio on. Keep it tuned to this frequency, cuz I got somethin' pretty unreal to tell you. Can you hear me okay? The mouthpiece is in my helmet, so it might sound a little muffled, but you should be alright. If you can record this, you better get at it. You don't wanna miss this. Just listen.

Eighty four centimeters. That's your window. You get that much space to make your move. It's do or die in the span of half a second; you're in a pocket of perfect wind resistance, and the responsibility falls on you to take advantage of it, or lose your opportunity. Fall behind, in other words. Cop out. You're the guy behind the checkered flag, in that instance, and you are invisible. You lost. No one gives a shit.

Or, you can be a maniac, and take the alternative. Capitalize.

That's what my buddy told me before he died. Capitalize on your own streak of aggression. He was only a small-time guy, worked at a gas station, but he was a damn good driver. He never made it to sponsorship levels, but he was well on his way, believe me. I never saw him lose a race on the street. He had a nice ride, and this bumper sticker on the back that said "Drive fast, or eat shit."

So, this is what you do. Bank on the possibility that maybe -- just MAYBE, the guy in front of you will lift his foot just half an inch while yours presses down, and give you the space and road you need to capitalize. Maybe he's a smidgeon more afraid of that upcoming curve than you are. So you take that space of fear, and you capitalize. Eighty four centimeters of it, to be exact.

A slingshot through the wind resistance is hard to pull off, but to be perfectly honest with you, there's nothing better in the world if you've got the nuts. Hundred year old vintage scotch. A threesome at the Playboy mansion. A winning lottery ticket. None of that means shit if you're born to race, okay? You'll consider me a thrill-seeker, or a speed junkie, or just plain ol' batshit crazy, but that's just the way it is.

I jerk the steering wheel to the left, enough that it doesn't fight the chassis and disrupt my downforce, and as I gap that eighty four centimeter distance between his rear bumper and my headlights, I'm on his inside corner and passing through to fourth place. I'm in the top five, and normally, I'd be banking some points at the end of today. However, this isn't the Nextel series or the Brickyard 400. Points are worth about as much as a shit-stain on a wedding dress around here.

The curve has ended, and I have one hundred eighty yards of straight-away.

Wide open.

You hear rednecks toss the term around like it's poetry. 'Did you see that guy? He was wide open! Damn, man! FEARLESS!'

What does it mean, exactly? I'm not sure. Does it imply that the piston chambers in your engine are at their flawless limit, that your transmission has topped out at that wonderful apex? Have you reached the nearly unattainable and blissful union of rotations per minute (RPM) and miles per hour? Those two attributes long to neutralize and top out together. There are very few moments in competitive racing when you'll hit that mark. It can take five or six perfectly maneuvered laps, a good draft, and a foolish opponent in front of you, but eventually, you will hit it. When you do, let me know if you bust a hard-on, because I sure do. Every time.

It's not just that. I have no reputation here. This car was given to me, for this one race, and, to quote the voice of the red-eyed weirdo guy in the black suit, "all heats to come, if I am deemed worthy."

My buddy Chaz used to say that you're only as good as the people that you can lap. If racing were UFC, lapping someone would be the equivalent of a ground and pound to the face. Football? It'd be a sack for a twenty yard loss, or an interception return for ninety nine yards. Well, I've lapped every guy here, except these top three. They're different. Every time I try to take a turn above speed and gain some distance on them, it feels like I'm getting in worse and worse shape. The car in first is about to lap the poor schmuck in last place for the second time. They'll intervene on that guy soon. He's short of the mark, and people don't survive when they fall short in THEIR events. Chaz's co-worker Richard thought he had them all figured out, too, like he was in real good cohoots or something. Yeah, that turned out real well.

Look in my rearview. See him, how he stopped to pit? He pitted twelve laps ago. There's no way he's getting gas. He won't be back on the track. Trust me.

So get this. If the guy in the lead of the pack is that far ahead of you, my question is, why even bother? When you get right down to it, most of the cars are tuned to the same specs. If you can't hit the curves and head out of them like a bat out of hell, swallow your fear, and put some lead on the accelerator, you're dead in the water. Nut up or shut up, and go home.

This track is worse than Daytona or Talladega. Here, they don't really give a shit about how my car is tuned, so I’m starting to think maybe these regulars who win race after race have something going on that I don't know about.

I was right.

You wanna know why that one guy is two laps behind the leader? You wanna know why he's dead now? He's got no passion. That's why. I really wish you could see this place. There are no Bud Light vendors or racing merchandise booths. There are fans, but they don't hoot and holler and get up on the fences when you go by, or flash you their tits. There are no baseball caps with number 3's and angel wings on the front (rest in peace, Dale). In fact, the only time they seem to get excited is when somebody overtakes another driver. I think it’s odd. I’m also pissed that I’m fifty car-lengths behind the leader in seventeenth place, as of about an hour ago. Something changed though. I found out these cars, this track ---- this whole surreal fucking gig in itself ---- it's not the real thing. It's better.

Any sport should have a certain degree of heart and dedication to it. What are you willing to sacrifice to win? The moment I answer that question for myself, I hit sixteenth place. Then, I push the smooth little black button on the dash above my clutch. That's how I got up here in the top five. I wish I'd known about it sooner, because the thing is, I'm pretty sure I want to win more than any person --- or thing, on this little stretch of asphalt. It's not the money, either. They killed Chaz. So, what's it all come down to, really?

Revenge.

Stay wih me. I know a little bit about what's going on here, even though they don't know that. See, they find things where they think they can get you. They pit you all against each other in one form or another, except the stakes are always higher than any competition you'll find anywhere else. Then, when you fail, they take you away. It's what they do. They're passion-thieves. They take your desire, your determination, and then, the moment you find out that you didn't have enough of it, they steal it away in a heartbeat, and then your life is over.

Only one guy has succeeded in beating them so far, and he was a football player. As it turns out, he turned out to be good ol' Richard's downfall, since Dick had been banking on people's failures to make a pretty penny. That was in this abandoned little ghost town in Texas, but you know what? That town isn't deserted anymore, and the sky isn't charred with blackness. Ever since he won that little game, the sun peers out a little bit more there every day.

So, I'm here to help my racing buddy rest in peace, but I'm also here to make things right in this place. They've got themselves some sorta foothold, I reckon, but as soon as I lap the leader, we're golden. They lose their power when you beat them, you see. Even if I don't survive, I'll win, and that's all that matters. You feel me? I want it bad enough, that it's almost guaranteed.

I think I see a little ray of sunshinse now, off in the East, over turn four. Things aren't looking so good for them.

Back to that little black button. What do you expect me to tell you? That it's the turbo booster? Nitrous oxide? This isn't the Fast and the Furious. There's another thing I forgot to tell you. They've got this little I-V stuck in my forearm, and it feeds down through the floorboard in to the console. I hit that button, and I can watch the blood going through the little green tube. Half a second later, my engine rumbles like it's running on hellfire, and I'm hard pressed to even lean my head forward half an inch, because it's being forced against my headrest. Honestly, these stock cars give a new definition to "wide open." My speedometer goes up to 220, but the needle tops out at the end and shivers a little bit. I must be going at least 250, maybe more.

Sounds all good and fun, doesn't it? Not quite. See, I'm pretty sure when I get out of this vehicle and get "unplugged" that I'll be dead. The reason is that blood stopped flowing through the tube about twenty laps ago. Now, it's just this black cloudy shit, and every time I hit it to pass someone up, I feel like I just contracted pneumonia. My muscles go weak, and this car feels like it's going to devour me. Not to sound cliche, but I feel a little thin. Like every time I cross the flag, I'm being spread out a little bit more. I've got thirty three laps to go and I'm hoping I'll have enough juice to stop these bastards.

So here I come up on this third guy. It's harder than you think it is. I mean, you've probably tailgated some granny on the interstate that won't do the speed limit, but tailgating somebody at over two hundred is a whole different world, my friend. You're tilting sideways and falling against your door because the slant of the turn is that sharp. Don't cut it too tight or too wide, or you'll end up on the wall. Then, there's the draft.

You have your position behind him ---- or IT, I guess I should say, because the human drivers are all behind me --- and you have to lock it in. Match him, mile per hour per mile per hour. On the last few degrees of that angled curve, it's time to make your move. You gap it, feed out in to the wind, and STOMP that accelerator. If you did everything right, you might even be able to send the number one salute towards the black-robed fucker next to you as he eats your wake. Like I said, there's nothing better in the world. That might be the redneck in me, but it certainly appeals to the competitive spirit.

So here's the straight-away. It's time to press the black button again. I won't lie to you. I'm afraid each time, but I know this has to be done. I just mashed it, radio listener. I feel like I'm dying, but I wish you could see how fast I am. I passed second place just a moment ago, but I have to lay off it now and take this bend. You wanna know what scares me more than dying or losing? The sound those things in the stands just made --- like they're about to blow loads inside their black getups because I'm killing myself to win this race. See, the thing is, I don't give two shits. It might feel good for them to watch me burn up my life through the spark plugs and combustors of this car from hell, but they still assume they're gonna take me out. They think their number one is that good.

Richard did it for the money. Chaz did it because he's a good person, and he liked Richard, so he fell for it. That football fellow --- well, I don't know him, and I can't speak for him so much, but I think maybe he's a little bit like me. He entered willingly, maybe because he thought he was chasing a dream, and that dream turned out to be a nightmare. He fought, and he won, and wherever that man is, he's got to keep carrying the beacon, okay? I can't expect you to believe any of this shit, but if you take it on yourself to find him, you be sure and let him know that he's not the only one who wants to beat them.

I'm drafting first place now, but I'm terrified. You wanna know why? I'm not sure I can beat this cat. The slingshot is in place, the air pocket is there --- but now, I see what happens when you win.

You'll never guess what this sticker says on his back fender, eighty four centimeters in front of my bumper. Yeah.

"Drive fast, or eat shit."

Well, I'd say I'm on the verge, and I really ought to gap him at this point. My only question is, what's gonna happen to my racing buddy? Is it even him, or does he have a black robe on? Regardless, when I lap him, all of this will be over, even if he's gone. It wasn't in vain, you see.

I'm gonna sign off and press this little black button one last time, chief. If I cross the line and get that checker, it'll probably be a car and a corpse, but hell, that should count as a win in my book.

The track isn't there unless you WANT it to be there, and you'll be hard pressed to find it, but check about thirty miles out between Abingdon and Bristol, Tennessee. Also, find that nice quarterback, and tell him that the next ritual of theirs is gonna be some kind of fight. That's all I know.

It's time to capitalize.

You'll know I won if you see the sun.