Open Wheel Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copy rights

  Dedication

  Quote

  Prelude

  Chapter One – Rudders

  Chapter Two – Mounting the Wing

  Chapter Three – Siping the tire

  Chapter Four – Sticky Track

  Chapter Five – Open Wheel

  Chapter Six – Pressure Compensator

  Chapter Seven – Tire Grooving

  Chapter Eight – Bleeder Valves

  Chapter Nine – Steering Arms

  Chapter Ten – Bushings

  Chapter Eleven – Wing Angle

  Chapter Twelve – Rev Motor

  Chapter Thirteen – High Bar Chassis

  Chapter Fourteen – Hooking a Rut

  Chapter Fifteen – DNQ

  Chapter Sixteen – Tip Plates

  Chapter Seventeen – Contact with the Wall

  Chapter Eighteen – Rolling Start

  Chapter Nineteen – Wickerbill

  Chapter Twenty – Wheelstand

  Chapter Twenty-One – Chase Vehicle

  Chapter Twenty-Two – Gearhead

  Chapter Twenty-Three – Cylinder Heads

  Chapter Twenty-Four – Regeneration

  Chapter Twenty-Five – Riding a Wheel

  Chapter Twenty-Six – Stagger

  Chapter Twenty-seven – Rebuild

  Chapter Twenty-eight – Hairpin Turn

  Chapter Twenty-nine – Oil System

  Chapter Thirty – Front Wing

  Chapter Thirty-one – End Play

  Chapter Thirty-two – Setup Sheets

  Chapter Thirty-Three – Lift

  Chapter Thirty-Four – Telemetry

  Chapter Thirty-Five – Bear Grease

  Chapter Thirty-Six – Boost

  Chapter Thirty-Seven – Cold Pits

  Chapter Thirty-Eight – New Spacer

  Quote

  Acknowledgments:

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, sponsors, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, dead or living, is coincidental.

  The opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of NASCAR, its employees, or its representatives, teams, and drivers within the series. The car numbers used within this book are not representing those drivers who use those numbers either past or present in any NASCAR series, USAC or The World of Outlaw Series and are used for the purpose of this fiction story only. The author does not endorse any product, driver, or other material racing in NASCAR, USAC or The World of Outlaw Series. The opinions in this work of fiction are simply that, opinions and should not be held liable for any product purchase, and or effect of any racing series based on those opinions.

  Copyright © 2015 by Shey Stahl

  Published in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Shey Stahl.

  Engine/car definitions were used from the following websites:

  http://www.empiremagnetics.com/glossary/glossary.htm

  http://www.world-sprintcar-guide.com/

  Cover Design: LM Creations

  Copy Editor: Hot Tree Editing

  Proofreaders: Janet Johnson

  Interior Formatting: A Designs

  For my readers. Thank you for allowing me to pursue my dreams.

  In the Fence - A phrase used to describe the wreck of a race car involving several cars or only one car.

  BLOOD TRICKLED FROM his face and down his chin as he fought back, his hands fisting in my shirt, pushing back, desperate to get me off him. When he did, I came back just as strong, adrenaline filled and looking for an end.

  “You have to fucking say it. Tell me you want me, too. Tell me you’re mine.”

  I connected hit after hit, as did he, an even battle of hatred, regret, betrayal, need, will, sacrifice…reckless confidence.

  “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll let you go.”

  Drawing my fist back, I hit him again; and again, and again…this wasn’t anger. No, it was far past that. This was denial that I would ever be anything more, and knowing all along, I was, but he was in my way.

  Love…it made you react; it made you stay, fight, forgive, forget, need…decide.

  “One night with me doesn’t mean anything. But if I can have just one night, or even ten nights, I’ll take what I can get while I can. I don’t care how that makes me look.”

  Rage inflicting punches soared and commotion broke out around us, voices raised, but no one was sure what to say or do. There was nothing they could do; we were pounding years of guilt and regret into those punches, and we couldn’t stop.

  I must’ve hit him close to ten times before Jameson ran inside the shop.

  “Fuck…come on, guys.” He yanked us apart, calm and collected, two things we weren’t. “That’s enough. You’re destroying shit in here.”

  I didn’t even realize it, but we were bumping into the cars, knocking over engines and parts. You name it and it was scattered all over the shop floor. It looked like a fucking war zone.

  We stood there, me trying to get back at him and Jameson having to hold me back. It wasn’t easy. I was reaching around him, over him, anything I could do. “You son of a bitch! You ever call her a bitch again, I’ll make you eat your motherfucking words!” My chest clenched when the words spilled out, lungs burning with each unsteady breath, too heavy to hold in.

  Rudders - Some wing manufacturers are now adding rudders to the underside of their sprint car wings. The rudders help to keep the air moving under the wing cleanly and to help stop flow separation.

  “DO YOU STILL think of me?”

  Why couldn’t I stop thinking about those words? Or that question?

  Because of Rager Sweet. He had invaded my brain.

  Completely.

  Irrevocably.

  Forever.

  Nothing I did changed that.

  Even being married didn’t change it. My thoughts wouldn’t leave Rager even as I watched Easton wading around in the water. I wasn’t in this moment. I was stuck in a moment that took place five months ago.

  July 2029

  The bonfire gave the night an orange glow. Rager was on the other side of the flame, drinking, hoodie up, talking slow and drinking slower, with eyes so heavy they looked pained. They were, I knew that much. Pain was all he knew.

  Pouring the clear liquor in jars, Casten turned the radio up; Tim McGraw bellowed through the speakers outside Rager’s motor home. This was what Williams Grove was to me. Summer sweet, drinking from mason jars, eating barbeque, and holding memories close to my heart.

  With the group around us, no one paid any attention to the two who liked to own the night.

  Rager and me.

  When the sun went down, we were braver.

  Made decisions we didn’t think through.

  Crawling onto his lap in the canvas camp chair, my hands went to his face, relishing the feeling of his hands wrapping around me. I wanted him, and not just in physical ways.

  I wanted him because of who I was when I was with him and who he was with me. Someone I trusted. Someone who made these summer-sticky night memories worthwhile and imbedded them in my brain as if they were the only memories that should be there. Everything else didn’t matter.

  With the night upon us and the heat covering me, I was frustrate
d and intoxicated. Which I knew was a bad idea around him, but I did it anyways.

  Everything felt numb, every movement by either of us slower than the last, and I couldn’t take it any longer. I needed to be with him in some way. I wanted to know, to remember that I hadn’t lost my summer memories.

  Turning to face him, I straddled his lap, wrapping my arms around him, my head just below his chin. My knees were shaking, my heart pounding as I breathed in his scent, all summer and dirt track. I brought my lips to his jaw, his stubble scratchy on my skin.

  “Do you still think of me?” he whispered softly, his penetrating blue eyes locking with mine, and the question went deeper than, do you think of me.

  What it asked was, “What is this? Why are you with me right now?”

  Stroking the dark rough bristles of his jaw, I watched his eyes as I spoke. “Always.”

  Sighing softly, I put my lips at his neck and left a lingering kiss below his ear.

  His hands found the back of my head, pulling my roaming mouth from his neck, holding my face firmly. Grinning, he lowered his lips to mine, stopping short of kissing me. “I never stop thinking about you.”

  My cheeks heated, a warmth spreading and settling, and I wanted to say so much to him. My family was around, given they were drunk, too, but being with Rager, in this way, wasn’t easy. While this just looked like we were sitting together, but it was so much more than that.

  We both knew it.

  “Rager…”

  He smiled sweetly, avoiding my eyes. “Shhh…” He put his finger to his lips.

  “But I—”

  He placed his hand over my mouth and I tasted salty and boy. “Shhh…” His eyes were bonfire-lit, but his calmness was slowly fading. He wanted so much more, too. I knew it. His eyes drifted to Lane and Casten sitting around the fire, a silent look that told me he was trying to keep this discrete. “Please.”

  Closing my eyes, I did my best to remain quiet. My hands trembled at the thought of him touching me again in an intimate way that was… everything we couldn’t be.

  Every year it felt like it was harder and harder to ignore this. And when we finally did touch, it felt like electricity and needles all at once; that was always his effect on me.

  I had an ache for him. It burned bright like coals and ignited in the pit of my stomach anytime I was close to him. It was the ache that could stop my heart and made it hard to think. Made me forget everything else around me. Like the fact that I was married or that anyone could see us.

  Rager slouched his position in the chair, pushing between my legs with his hands on my knees. When I was centered right above where he wanted me, he lifted his hips just enough that I could feel him there, hard, teasing me.

  I wanted it, even though I knew it was wrong, and everyone could see the intimate position.

  Laughter around us drew Rager’s attention over my shoulder. Twisting my head, I noticed Lane’s eyes shifted to us, then away, turning his back. Casten did the same.

  See. They knew, but it wasn’t their place to say anything. So they didn’t, as wrong as this was. Everyone else around us wasn’t paying any mind to this; with the party heating up, all were lost in their own summer sweet memories.

  Holding onto him, I gave more, curved, melted, all for him as his hands gripped tighter, with force this time.

  “Would you actually let me?” he asked, his voice rough, thick, asking questions neither of us knew the answer to. “If I asked, would you?”

  Maybe from fear, my lips wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t give an answer to what this was, afraid of the reaction, the possibility of denial.

  Rager pushed forward, raising his hips again, his hardness so right, yet so wrong.

  “Why?” he asked, his body rigid and unmoving. The pain is his voice hit me and I opened my eyes. “Do you think I want to be this guy? While you’re married and drunk?”

  His hips pushed again, because he did want it.

  Despite his words, he wanted it. Thrusting against me, rigid and fierce, his hands were grasping the fabric of my hoodie, controlled by our movements. I bet if I looked, his knuckles would be white, an indication of his defeat.

  He was annoyed that we were this, anything but nothing, confused, holding onto something we might never have completely.

  “I don’t like second place, Arie.” He groaned, eyes drifting closed as if the idea of it was too much. “And I certainly don’t like being denied, especially by you. I want you.”

  “I know,” I said, knowing that wasn’t what he meant, and knowing damn well he never would truly have me.

  At least we believed that.

  In these moments, we believed that.

  My body hunched forward, giving up, drowning in his touches that never seem to be enough.

  “We have this.” I breathed against his cheek.

  Shaking his head, his eyes found mine as he whispered, “If you knew, if you really understood any of this, you wouldn’t torture me like this.”

  The comfortable glow of the bonfire scattered my thoughts in all directions. I nodded; there was a lot of truth to his words, knowing nothing changed. I hated the way he referred to it, as if it was just an act and nothing of substance. This wasn’t an act with me.

  Everyone thought I was leading him on, but it wasn’t that.

  It never was.

  HAVING SAT NEXT to me, Easton bumped my shoulder, pointing to a surfer he’d been watching, mumbling something about him I didn’t hear. Salty ocean water bubbled up over my bright pink painted toes, my thoughts back to Easton, my husband, the man who should have had all my thoughts.

  I looked at him, watched his face with his black hat pulled down low, his arms resting on his bent knees, his stare locked on the water, though I couldn’t see his eyes from behind his mirrored aviator glasses. He looked so different these days. He wasn’t the eighteen-year-old boy I married six years ago. His hair was slightly longer, peeking out around the edges of his hat.

  How do you know when it’s over?

  How do you know when the countless arguments about the same thing are redundant and nothing will ever change?

  It crept up like the ocean’s tide. As if one minute you’re standing there, and the next, you’re twenty feet in the ocean and your feet are sinking down. Then what?

  I looked around me, and I saw my husband, a memory haunting him, a decision being made, but yet, he wouldn’t say it was over.

  We both knew it was. Even though we came to Jacksonville for a vacation, some time away from reality while trying to escape our situation and get out of our own heads, it was more of a realization. I could feel the change in the air as we came to our conclusion silently.

  Salt-scented air gave my heart a tug, memories of our wedding and every other childhood memory I had on this very beach controlling me.

  The fact of the matter was, nothing we did brought back what we had when we said I do. I couldn’t even tell you where we went wrong. It wasn’t just one thing. It was everything. Six years of mistakes.

  “Do you want to get some dinner?” I asked Easton, twisting my head to look at him. The wind blew just then, tangling my hair around my face.

  At the sound of my voice, Easton’s head raised, slightly, as he shook it, wordlessly answering my question.

  “Not hungry?”

  He sighed, running his hand over his thick beard, which he’d started growing in the chase. “No…”

  I wasn’t even sure when the change in us happened. A year ago, I told him I wanted to try and have a baby. And we did just that. Only it didn’t work, so I went to the doctor and found out I wasn’t ovulating. So I was prescribed medication to help. Months past and it didn’t happen.

  Easton grew distant. The more time I spent with JAR Racing, the harder it was on my relationship with Easton because we were never in the same city at the same time.

  And then Jack died.

  I knew it was over then. I knew because when I was at my worst, feeling like everything I
thought I understood about life was in question, it was Rager’s arms I found comfort in.

  That night in Cottage Grove after the accident, as I collapsed to the ground, it was Rager who was there for me. He held me, and when the tears didn’t stop, he held me the entire night inside his motor home, just to be there for me.

  Jack’s death had an impact on all of us. No one went unscathed. We changed. Every one of us.

  Even Easton. He was in Darlington the night it happened, six days before my twenty-fourth birthday. That night in Cottage Grove, before I even found myself in Rager’s arms, I called Easton and told him what happened to Jack.

  “E, something bad happened.” I sobbed through tears, which drowned out my tone and left me whimpering.

  He sighed, frustrated. “What now? Jesus, it’s like we can’t go one day without drama.”

  Did he even care that his nephew was gone?

  “Jack’s dead. He was killed in the pits at Cottage Grove by a sprint car.”

  And then I hung up. Of course he tried calling back, but I didn’t answer. It pissed me off that he even answered the phone like that.

  He wasn’t there for me.

  “WE NEED TO talk,” Easton said suddenly, never looking at me, his hands crossed and resting on his knees.

  “About what?” I asked, my eyes burning from the ocean air and the words falling from his lips.

  My heart hammered against my chest when it hit me that he wanted to talk about us, and I knew why. This talk had been coming for months. We both knew that.

  Maybe it was the stress of trying to get pregnant, or lives that were being lived separately. I didn’t know. What I did know was despite us trying to make it work, it went downhill fast.

  His eyes darted around, confused, irritable, and then settled on the sand because that was so much safer than looking at his wife who he had disappointed time and time again. “This isn’t working, Arie. You and I both know that.”

  Do I know that? Yes.

  “I know,” I said, not knowing what else to say. My palms felt sweaty, so I rubbed them on my shorts and straightened out my legs in the sand.