Running Wide Open by Lisa Nowak Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lisa Nowak
threatened to plow right through them.
Finally, the #1 car took the lead. Race cranked it up, bearing down on the guy’s bumper so hard it looked like he wanted to park his Dart in the Camaro’s back seat.
For the first time I noticed that my uncle’s car looked different than the others. There were a few that weren’t Camaros, but none like Race’s. Why had he decided to drive a Dart?
Lap after lap, Race dogged car #1, looking for a way around him but not finding it. The crowd went ballistic as the announcer delivered the blow-by-blow in auctioneer-fashion.
“Jerry Addamsen has that Camaro dialed in tonight, folks, but Morgan sure is giving him a run for his money. If the first few races are any indication, Addamsen’s really gonna have his work cut out for him this season.”
Race pulled even with the black car on the front stretch and once again tried to pass going into the corner. The same thing happened in the next turn. He kept coming so close, and each time, I found myself holding my breath, thinking this was the lap he’d pull it off.
“Oooh, almost. That little Dart just doesn’t seem to have quite enough power for an outside pass. Meanwhile we’ve got a great battle going on for fifth place. There goes Tom Carey! Doesn’t look like Whalen’s gonna let him keep that position for long, though. Oh! And Jack Benettendi hits the wall!”
Benettendi’s loss was Race’s gain. As the guy’s car glanced off the barrier, it spun in front Addamsen, who was about to pass. When Addamsen’s black Camaro slowed and dodged to go around Benettendi on the left, Race hit the gas and dove around the spinning car’s right side with so little room to spare he left a black streak on the wall.
“And, once again, Race Morgan steals the lead from our three-time points champion, Jerry Addamsen!” shouted the announcer. “Those of you who were with us last season will remember that Race took home Rookie of the Year honors and managed a third place finish in the points. And he did it in a Dodge, folks. Now that’s something you don’t see every day.”
Addamsen put the squeeze on Race, but it was no easier for him to get by the 8 car than it had been for Race to pass him. When the checkered flag fell, Race was still in the lead.
Winning a stock car race must be a total rush. My uncle chattered like a kid on the first snow day of winter from the time he got out of the car until the Super Stock main ended almost an hour later. Several people congratulated him on sticking it to Addamsen. Every time they did, the catch in my chest corkscrewed tighter.
When it came time for the drivers to collect their payoff, my uncle dragged me along with him. Kasey had to retrieve the van and trailer to load things up.
“After last night, I’m not about to leave you alone,” Race said.
I followed him and Jim across the track and up the bleachers to the announcer’s booth. All the drivers were there, waiting for their money. The guy in front of us—a behemoth who would’ve dwarfed me even if I wasn’t the size of a seventh grader—turned around as we came up behind him. He looked like he was maybe forty, and his brown hair stuck out at all angles from under a yellow ball cap silk-screened with the number 9.
“You must be the infamous nephew,” he said in a voice almost as big as he was. He held out a huge, grubby paw. “Name’s Denny Brisco. I’ve known your uncle since before he could see over the steering wheel.”
I shook his hand. “I’m Cody.”
Denny grinned. It wasn’t one of those three-hundred-watters that Race could blind you with, but it was pretty close. As he opened up his mouth to say something else, a harsh voice interrupted.
“Morgan!”
The shout came from a guy in a black firesuit a little ahead of us in line. The salt and pepper hair and beard that outlined his weathered face made me guess he must be pushing fifty.
“Yeah?” Race said.
The guy pointed a Hamm’s beer cup at my uncle.
Finally, the #1 car took the lead. Race cranked it up, bearing down on the guy’s bumper so hard it looked like he wanted to park his Dart in the Camaro’s back seat.
For the first time I noticed that my uncle’s car looked different than the others. There were a few that weren’t Camaros, but none like Race’s. Why had he decided to drive a Dart?
Lap after lap, Race dogged car #1, looking for a way around him but not finding it. The crowd went ballistic as the announcer delivered the blow-by-blow in auctioneer-fashion.
“Jerry Addamsen has that Camaro dialed in tonight, folks, but Morgan sure is giving him a run for his money. If the first few races are any indication, Addamsen’s really gonna have his work cut out for him this season.”
Race pulled even with the black car on the front stretch and once again tried to pass going into the corner. The same thing happened in the next turn. He kept coming so close, and each time, I found myself holding my breath, thinking this was the lap he’d pull it off.
“Oooh, almost. That little Dart just doesn’t seem to have quite enough power for an outside pass. Meanwhile we’ve got a great battle going on for fifth place. There goes Tom Carey! Doesn’t look like Whalen’s gonna let him keep that position for long, though. Oh! And Jack Benettendi hits the wall!”
Benettendi’s loss was Race’s gain. As the guy’s car glanced off the barrier, it spun in front Addamsen, who was about to pass. When Addamsen’s black Camaro slowed and dodged to go around Benettendi on the left, Race hit the gas and dove around the spinning car’s right side with so little room to spare he left a black streak on the wall.
“And, once again, Race Morgan steals the lead from our three-time points champion, Jerry Addamsen!” shouted the announcer. “Those of you who were with us last season will remember that Race took home Rookie of the Year honors and managed a third place finish in the points. And he did it in a Dodge, folks. Now that’s something you don’t see every day.”
Addamsen put the squeeze on Race, but it was no easier for him to get by the 8 car than it had been for Race to pass him. When the checkered flag fell, Race was still in the lead.
Winning a stock car race must be a total rush. My uncle chattered like a kid on the first snow day of winter from the time he got out of the car until the Super Stock main ended almost an hour later. Several people congratulated him on sticking it to Addamsen. Every time they did, the catch in my chest corkscrewed tighter.
When it came time for the drivers to collect their payoff, my uncle dragged me along with him. Kasey had to retrieve the van and trailer to load things up.
“After last night, I’m not about to leave you alone,” Race said.
I followed him and Jim across the track and up the bleachers to the announcer’s booth. All the drivers were there, waiting for their money. The guy in front of us—a behemoth who would’ve dwarfed me even if I wasn’t the size of a seventh grader—turned around as we came up behind him. He looked like he was maybe forty, and his brown hair stuck out at all angles from under a yellow ball cap silk-screened with the number 9.
“You must be the infamous nephew,” he said in a voice almost as big as he was. He held out a huge, grubby paw. “Name’s Denny Brisco. I’ve known your uncle since before he could see over the steering wheel.”
I shook his hand. “I’m Cody.”
Denny grinned. It wasn’t one of those three-hundred-watters that Race could blind you with, but it was pretty close. As he opened up his mouth to say something else, a harsh voice interrupted.
“Morgan!”
The shout came from a guy in a black firesuit a little ahead of us in line. The salt and pepper hair and beard that outlined his weathered face made me guess he must be pushing fifty.
“Yeah?” Race said.
The guy pointed a Hamm’s beer cup at my uncle.