Dispatch #22: Driving Mr. NASCAR

by Lupe Fernandez

The red fire suit is hot in the Stockton sun at the racetrack. The white helmet has scratches and dents. I cradle it under my arm, playing at being a pro race car driver.

At Rusty Wallace Race Car Experience, me and my bachelor party wait at under a tent at the Stockton 99 Raceway for other drivers to finish their laps. The short half mile track smells of fuel and rumbles with engines.

Before suiting up, we listened to our instructor brief us on how to drive on the oval track. He tells us which taped marks to follow, which orange cones to watch for, how to put on the steering wheel and most important, how to listen to our spotter yelling in our ear phones.

It's a briefing. A real briefing. Under a tent out of the sun, sitting on folding chairs. A cool breezes rattles the metal canopy and shakes the fences in the background. The breeze cool my face. It's only play time but I imagine it's important.

Me and my party have our gear, our uniforms, our wits and our mutual glances of "Are you sure about this?"

For my bachelor party, I wanted to engage in some adrenaline surging activity. Gaping at scantily clad ladies is not my petal to the metal. A comedian who's name I forget said watching a stripper is like going to a restaurant and paying them to look at the food. While I'm sure such ladies are working their way through college, I'd rather do something more viscerally exciting.

I am the last driver of the day. My fellow drivers have all run their laps and recited their glorious and not so glorious moments.

I climb through the driver window and slide my butt onto a hard seat. I slid my head into a brace as the pit tech straps into a five-point safety harness.

The cockpit smells of grease and sweat. There's a lot of clinking and clanking and I love it. The race tech jams my helmet over my head. My sunglasses sit on my lap. I hope the guy puts them on for me; I'm nearsighted. I shove flat audio ear pads under the helmet and place them over my ears.

The car feels flimsy with its fiberglass shell and barren cockpit with red roll bars. When the race tech flips the ignition and the car rumbles with power, I realize I'm behind the wheel of a powerful machine. I cruise up to the track. I can barely move my head, limiting  my field of view to whatever I can see above the vibrating hood. I can't see or feel the brake pedal.

"Brake! Brake! Brake!" I hear yells from outside the car.

 I almost run down one of the race tech.

My spotter speaks to me through my ear phones and I'm ready.  Green light.

Vrrooomm....I do my laps, watching for orange cones that mark where I "mash the gas" and where I "mash the brake." I drive too slow.

"Gas. Gas. Gas," says my spotter coaches me to drive faster.

I think I'm going to collide into the wall. If I wreck the car, I'm liable for damages. After the eleventh lap, I'm getting used to control the car, hitting my marks, accelerating and braking at the cones when I see the checkered flag.

The ride is over.
 
I cruise off the track and putter to the other parked cars. The race tech unstraps me and removes my helmet. I climb out of the car, pull off the black stocking hat - keeps the helmet interior clean - and pose for a picture.

I unzip my fire suit - I like saying fire suit - and turn in my uniform and helmet to the nice lady by the trailer.

I'm no longer playing race car driver.

In the future, I'd like to play astronaut and submarine captain and lion tamer.

For some of these, I'll purchase pretend time. Others, I'll write and pretend on the page.

That's what I do.

And now a word from The Management:

Our Foreign Correspondent aka Red Zip would like to thank Troy, Johnie, Larry, Carl, Andrew, Aaron and some NASCAR wheels. Troy, his best man, generously arranged this event.

If you don't believe a word Red Zip has written, watch these videos and you be the judge. 

Prep to Drive

Driving 12 Laps

Dispatch #21: My Little SisterHas an Ejector Seat

Nadia "Naranja"

by Lupe Fernandez

Another in a series of "Where Do Ideas Come From?"

After a day at the park, I was having a hard time buckling my prospective brother-in-law's son into his child safety car seat. So many straps and a tight fit. The chair reminded me of an ejector seat used by jet pilots, so my brain went...hmmm...

I have a hard time strapping in my sister into her CX-52 safety car seat. CX stands for Camacho Experimental. The number is the how many seats my dad has designed. Nadia giggles when I put her pudgy arms through the shoulders straps. She waves her fingers in my face and puts one up my nose. Gross. She thinks it's funny. Yeah, funny.

"Quit it, Naranja."

"Your sister no es fruita," Dad says from the front seat.

Her name sounds like the Spanish word for orange. Nadia. Naranja. Get it? She's an orange. I gotta get my laughs somewhere.

I snap her shoulder straps into the center buckle with a bright red button. I dig under her butt to find the lower straps. She squirms and kicks me in the chin, and laughs so hard drool spills down her chin. 

My sister would find a car wreck funny.

"I go boom!" she says.

"No," I say to her, "No boom this time. This time you stay. Okay?"

"No, I go boom!"

CX-42 Prototype

I wish she'd go boom to the Moon. I tug at the lower straps and get them one at a time into the center buckle. "Come on, suck it in." My sister is getting too big for the CX-52. I push on her belly. The lower straps click into the center buckle.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!" She pounds her fists on the arm rests.

"No way," I say to her, "No way, I'm going after you for the millionth time."

"Nadia secure?" Dad says.

I tuck on her straps and fit her sun hat on her big head. "Secure."

"Okay, let's go."

I point my finger at Naranja's face and whisper, "Don't mess around with it. I mean it this time."

She sticks her tongue at me.

I shut the door and walk around the back of the rover. I rattle my dusty, dented bike on the rack to make sure it doesn't fall off. Then I get in the rover next to Dad. He blesses himself, looks at me and I bless myself. Then we put on our googles. 

Sheesh...

The rover takes off down the rutted dirt road. I look back at my sister and she's singing to her Ms. Masked Marvel Doll. Dad skids the rover, slams the brakes, climbs a steep hill, bangs into a pot hole the size of a crater and nothing. The head cushions on Naranja's keep her noggin from slamming around and making her brain into oatmeal.

Dad's smiling. So far, so good.

Yeah, I pray. I pray this is the last test of the prototype and...

BOOM!

The ceiling above my sister's seat pops off. 

BOOM!

The rockets under her car seat fire and she blasts out of the rover. Smoke floods the rover. I can't see and thing and I'm choking to death. Dad slams the brakes. I hit my buckle release and jump out of the rover and land in dirt. I tear off my googles and rub my stinging eyes.

The bright red and white striped parachute is easy to spot in desert blue sky. A trail of smoke drifts over the sage brush. The orange seat sways easy, like a swing at the park, as it descents to the ground. I let out a big breath.

CX-32 Prototype Ascent Rockets

Dad watches her through his binoculars. "30 meters. South, southeast." I hear defeat in his voice.

"Accelerometer failure," I try to cheer him up, "Those things are iffy." 

He grunts. Not convinced.

"No way she figured it out," I say, "Not this time."

Ugh. I unhitch my bike and push off through the scrub. I really hoped this one was it. I've collected every thorn and spiny needle in this desert on my legs and arms that I'm surprised there's any left. I check my bike compass and steer toward my sister. Her nonsense babbling brings me closer to her. I skid to stop, kicking up dust, and hop off my bike.

The parachute flutters over her like a curtain. Naranja stuffs some fabric in her mouth and chews on it. 

I signal Dad my location and take out her water drinky cup from the pack on my bike.

"Thirsty, little booger?" I pull the parachute fabric out of her and give her the drinky cup.

Naranja sucks it down. That's when I see the arm rests. The covers are torn off and connections exposed. 

The scorched rover pulls up and Dad gets out. The hot engine ticks in the sun. 

"How does she do it, Dad?" I show him the electronics. "How?"

Unofficial CX Prototype Testing Ground
(Mojave Desert)

Naranja puts down her drinky cup and says, "I go BOOM!" She laughs at us.

Fifty-two times. Fifty-two! My little sister has hot wired the CX ejector seat and went BOOM!

"Back to design," my Dad says. He unstraps Naranja and carries her back to the rover.


"Daddy, I go BOOM!" She laughs like its the funniest thing ever.

Poor Dad.

Wait 'till Mom finds out...