“What? Red is here?”
This comment came from someone else farther up in the line, and I craned my neck to the side to see who. Turns out this was unnecessary because we were soon surrounded by several people—male and female—all anxious to see Duane, shake his hand, and meet me as well.
It became a bit overwhelming, to be honest, and everyone wanted to know the same thing: was Duane racing? And, if so, which races? And how was he feeling?
In the end we weren’t allowed to buy our dinner because a skinhead named Sheldon bought us a tray of food without asking permission. This caused a bit of an upset as Devon and his biker brethren had offered first. Duane used this distraction as an opportunity to move us away from the food line.
As he pulled me away I said, “Lone wolf, huh?”
He bent and whispered in my ear, “They only like me so much because I make them money and they enjoy watching me race.”
I shook my head, “Do you know everyone?”
“More or less.” He shrugged, “Or they know me.”
We were stopped a few more times on our way to wherever Duane had in mind. In between greeting people and introductions, Duane explained the locale was likely named The Canyon because of the red clay and dirt making up the race track and the exposed rock faces on three sides of the track. As well, the property was private, owned by some conglomerate who’d left it abandoned years ago, and clearly hadn’t protested its use as a regional racing ring.
The oval track covered two acres but set-up was required for each weekend night. Big industrial lights had been set into the exposed rock face earlier in the day, illuminating the track. The three large bonfires were off to one side—the side not enclosed by rock—and this was where all the cars lined up and parked. I estimated at least two hundred people were gathered around the bonfires, drinking, socializing, and trash-talking while sizing up the competition.
He was right. Everyone seemed to know or know of Duane, though we didn’t loiter to talk for very long. Everyone we encountered appeared greatly surprised to see someone with him. I got the sense that he typically came alone and said very little.
We took our chili, cornbread, and sweet tea to a big boulder close enough to the track to see everything, but not so close we’d get covered in dirt. A race was about to start.
“You look tense,” Duane remarked between spoonfuls of chili.
I realized I’d been frowning at the line of cars revving their engines. I glanced at Duane and lifted my chin toward the starting lineup.
“I’ve heard stories about cars smashing into the rock walls, and head-on collisions causing broken bones and leaving people unconscious.”
“Those rumors are true.”
I felt my frown deepen. “Why would anyone do it, then? If it’s so dangerous?”
He shrugged. “Because it isn’t easy, it takes patience and skill. Because it is dangerous and it’s fun to be a little scared sometimes.”
“A little scared?”
He gave me a crooked grin, his eyes on my mouth. “That’s right. Just a little.”
I snorted my disbelief. If dirt racing made Duane a little scared and sky diving wasn’t all that dangerous, I wondered what could possibly frighten Duane.
At the same moment a shot went off. The cars lurched forward and sped out of the starting line like demons from hell, the engines drowning all other sound. My eyes were glued to the action in front of me, how the cars—some old, some new, all souped-up—slipped and skidded all over the dirt track. Two of the seven spun out at the first turn, one of them bouncing off the rock wall.
I sucked in a startled breath and felt Duane’s hand close over mine. “He’ll be fine. He wasn’t going that fast.”
I leaned against his solid frame and watched the remainder of the race with rapt attention. Only three of the cars made it to the finish line and it was sickeningly close. The whole affair was irresponsible and dangerous, and I thought I’d disdain it.
I was wrong. I loved it. My heart was beating fast and yet I was sitting still.
I loved the sound of revving engines, the smell of engine oil mingled with smoke and earth. I loved the general air of excitement, camaraderie, adventure. I loved how these people loved their cars and raced them hard, used them, risked them. When the cars sped by I felt the rush of wind, the vibration in my chest.
Of course it helped seeing the people who crashed walk away from their cars with no assistance, looking more upset about losing the race and what had befallen their automobiles than about their cuts and bruises.
It was thrilling and everything seemed larger, brighter, clearer—likely a byproduct of the adrenaline pumping through my veins.