When I was ten, I began to take notice of how racing stole my dad away. He spent every day in a garage, coming home with grease stains on his hands, smudges on his nose and the distant look in his eyes. It was as if he was still under the hood of a car, thinking about brake fluid or whatever constantly played in his mind.
Engine this. Muffler that. As he opened the front door, I would tune him out before a single word came from his mouth.
The TV was not much help either. Every Sunday, a NASCAR race was on. I couldn't go anywhere in the house without hearing the annoying sounds of the analyst's voice. My dad never sat back in his chair while he watched, either. It was almost like he wanted to be part of the race.
Every time a race was on, I would sit on the floor, my arms crossed and a pout spreading across my lips. Those were the only moments I really had with him, if you could even consider those moments. I hated the smell of gas. I hated the sound of the cars. I hated how it took away my dad and always came first.
He would miss dinner simply because he lost track of time. A "quick" oil change turned into a full rebuild, causing him to miss the daddy-daughter dance he and I were supposed to attend and Tatum's first dance recital.
In my eyes, racing was stupid. It took away my dad. From those early moments on, I promised myself I would hate the sport forever. I was not going to end up like my dad, I was not going to like any driver, no matter what.
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Behind The Checkered Flag
Teen FictionIn a second the engines were not loud or obnoxious but instead like music - beautiful and raw. For years, Oakley convinced herself that racing is loud, reckless, and meaningless. It was easier that way. Loving motorsports would lead her to disappoin...
