Once Around the Track

CHAPTER XXIII

Meet the Drivers. On the days leading up to the Sharpie 500 race in late August, the town of Bristol hosts a street festival dedicated to stock car racing. The Sharpie is the hardest ticket to get in sports: harder than the Super Bowl or the NCAA Finals. The Bristol Motor Speedway event is sold out every year, and race fans from all over the country begin turning up days in advance, clogging campgrounds and selling out motels in three neighboring states. To give the fans something to do in advance of the race itself, there are racing-related events nearby-hence the street fair.

Show cars are parked on the street for the public’s inspection, and there are the sort of booths one might expect at any sports fair: food vendors, hat and tee shirt sales, NASCAR-themed artists displaying their work, and exhibit booths showcasing charitable organizations connected to motorsports.

Occasionally, for an hour or so in the afternoon, a Cup driver would appear at one of the booths to sign his name for the hundred or so fortunate people that the line would accommodate during his allotted time period. You could tell which booths featured appearances by Cup drivers, because those lines were a block long. But other drivers also turned up at the Bristol Street Scene. Local speedways or racing organizations with driver development programs often sent lesser-known drivers to such events to give them experience in dealing with the public before they became famous enough for it to matter much.

Like their famous NASCAR counterparts, these local luminaries would chat with fans, pose for pictures, and sign autographs on publicity photos of themselves. Often, they, too, would have dozens of people in line, because when you’re giving away free stuff, autographed, many people don’t care if you’re famous or not. Besides, once upon a time every driver was an unknown: They had to start somewhere. Prudent fans collected the autographs of the aspiring NASCAR stars in hopes that someday these guys would turn out to be famous.

It was rumored that Roush driver Carl Edwards would be along later in the afternoon, but he had not turned up yet. Badger Jenkins was not driving in the Sharpie this year, and his fans missed him. Some passersby still proudly wore old Badger Jenkins tee shirts, and they would tell you in a heartbeat that one of these days he would be back out there. At his unofficial fan Web site Badgers Din there were conflicting reports: Badger was considering a ride in the Craftsman Truck Series; Badger would replace a driver at RCR next year; Badger was sponsoring a turtle rescue operation; Badger had married a girl from his hometown, and he was enjoying his time off at the lake; Badger was going to star in a Civil War movie. Nobody really knew for sure. They hoped he was happy. They missed him.

At the curb on State Street a line had formed at a table where three young men sat in front stacks of eight-by-ten autograph cards: photos of the driver in a brightly colored firesuit standing beside the vehicle he raced in local competitions.

Taran Stiles surveyed the crowd with the practiced eye of a recovering fan. She was here to see that her driver did not have to face the crowd unassisted. She wore a team polo shirt and a badge identifying her as a driver’s assistant, but she had graciously volunteered to look after the other two drivers as well. Her job this afternoon was to hand out fresh bottles of water and new Sharpie markers for autographing, and to retrieve more autograph cards if anyone ran out.

The blue-eyed young man on the left side of the table had the longest line, mostly female fans, armed with cameras. Many of them wore the emblems of Cup drivers, but they were shopping for new talent, because, hey, nobody stays out there forever.

“They say he’s a natural,” said one dishwater blonde in a red #8 tank top to her frizzy-haired friend.

“Did you hear that he has a Busch ride next year? Grace Tuggle has just been named as his crew chief.”

Taran smiled at the fan. This rumor was true. Tony had finally got his chance in NASCAR.

“I like the shape of his face,” said an older woman. “He’s got that cute cleft chin, and his haircut is really hot. Is he married?” They weren’t bothering to lower their voices. Perhaps they thought that drivers weren’t quite “real,” that he was at most a robot or an animated poster with no life beyond his public persona.

Taran, who was handing out more marker pens, heard them, though. “Tony is engaged,” she said sharply. She paused for a moment, letting the afternoon light catch the sparkle of the very small diamond on her third finger. She and Tony glanced at each other and shared a brief smile. Then it was back to the business at hand.

At the front of the line a dark-haired girl in a white sweatsuit handed her camera to the driver’s minder. “Would you take my picture with Tony?” she said. “I’ve been following his career ever since he started driving around Mooresville. I swear I’m his biggest fan. Does he have a fan club?”

“He has a Web site,” said Taran, trying to sound pleasant, or at least civil. These were Tony’s fans, and he would need fans in order to succeed in racing. “The address is on the autograph card.”

“He’s gonna be a big star one of the days,” said the fan.

“We hope so,” said Taran. She lifted the camera and motioned for the dark-haired girl to pose with Tony.

Flashing a triumphant smile at the rest of the long line, the dark-haired girl walked around the signing table, leaned down to show off her cleavage to its best advantage, and snuggled up close to Tony Lafon, whose wary eyes would not match his public smile. Taran took the picture.

As the girl retrieved her camera, she smiled again at Tony, and said, “Would you like me to send you a copy of the picture? I will, if you give me your address.”

“Just e-mail it to the Web site,” said Taran briskly. “Who’s next?”

The wispy young woman who was next in line was shaking. “I’m next,” she said, barely speaking above a whisper. “I think you’re wonderful, Tony.”

Badger would have smiled and drawled, “Waal, thank you,” but Tony Lafon was not yet accustomed to the kindness of strangers. He reddened and squirmed in his seat, and finally said, “I’m just lucky to be here.”

Her pale eyes blinked at Tony through thick glasses, and she looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. Tony smiled up at her reassuringly, scrawled his name across the autograph card, and held it up to her. She looked like a boiled rabbit.

“Thanks for coming out today,” he told her.

Tears coursed down the woman’s pale cheeks. “I love you, Tony, “she whispered.