Sharyn McCrumb - Once Around the Track

Several more women contributed their own graphic opinions concerning the finer points of Badger Jenkins’s anatomy, but Taran did not participate in the discussion. Her feelings for Badger were too sacred to be made sport of. She tried to tune out their banter and focus on studying her fellow applicants, trying to figure out which of them would fit each position, and guessing what had motivated them to come.

Several of them looked like they worked in gyms or taught physical education somewhere. Fitness trainers, maybe. One jolly-looking girl with cropped hair and the look of a field hockey player was reading Paradise Lost while she waited; Taran supposed she was a college student.

Now, with orientation over, the applicants were being grouped together in various configurations to see who worked well with whom, and all the while overhead video cameras recorded the action for future analysis by the team manager. Taran tried to remain inconspicuous, because she wanted a chance to observe the action one time before she had to do it herself.

“All right, crew!” yelled Tuggle, waving her clipboard over her head for emphasis. “Now we’re going to see what you can do under pressure. We’re going to bring the car in here for an actual pit stop.” She pointed to the seven women nearest to her. “I want you, you, and you-and you four-to be the pit crew this time. The rest of y’all-watch! Your turn is coming up.”

She turned back to the seven applicants. “Before we start, go into the garage and find a fire-retardant helmet and a fire-retardant suit that fits you, and gloves and what-not. I assume y’all know that pit crew personnel wear protective gear, as does the driver. We can’t do much to protect you from getting run over-and from time to time that does happen, unfortunately-but we can minimize the risks to you from other things that can go wrong.”

Someone in the crowd called out, “Such as?”

Tuggle favored them with a grim smile. “Oh, let me count the ways,” she said. “Fire is the big one, obviously. The gasman is dumping fuel into an extremely hot vehicle. Sometimes you get a fire. Or a tailpipe can spurt flame, and if you happen to be standing in its path…Hey, where are y’all going?”

Nearly a dozen prospective employees had suddenly decided that they weren’t quite crazy enough to work on a NASCAR pit crew. Smiling nervously, they raced each other for the gate.

Tuggle took the defection with a philosophical shrug. “Well, you all need to be aware of the risks,” she said. “We do everything we can to ensure your safety, but this is not volleyball. People do die in stock car racing-and not just drivers.”

She paused while a few more applicants went sane and broke for the exit.

“But we do provide helmets and these nice fire-retardant suits, and you’ll be wearing one even in practice.” She smiled encouragingly at the diminished pool of would-be team members. “But please bear in mind that those fire-retardant suits are only fireproof for eight seconds-Well, thank you all for stopping by…”

Another ten women suddenly remembered a pressing engagement.

Tuggle surveyed the remaining applicants, who were eying her nervously, waiting for further revelations. She grinned at them. “Well, I think we have now weeded out all the people who aren’t crazy, so the rest of you, let’s get on with this exercise.”

They were all novices, and Tuggle wanted them to err on the side of caution, so she didn’t bother to tell them that cars used in pit practice normally had their main fuel tank filled with water, with a dump valve installed to dump the water on the ground before they go on to the next round. The engine in practice sessions is run off a small tank installed inside the car, about the size of a two-gallon jug, so that the team can practice filling and emptying fuel, without the waste and danger of spilled fuel, which would create hazardous conditions, especially for amateurs.

Three of the first seven women chosen for the first test had thought better of volunteering, so Tuggle selected replacements and sent the group off to get fitted with protective gear. The remaining applicants murmured uneasily to each other, and the crew chief studied the papers on her clipboard while she waited for the first team to get ready. Finally, they emerged from the shop, outfitted in cast-off suits scrounged from various teams.

“Our colors are purple and white,” Tuggle remarked to no one in particular. “But we’re still waiting for the official suits to arrive. It will help when we know the sizes of the crew members chosen for the positions, you know.”

She nodded to one of the mechanics who was lounging in the doorway of the shop, and he signaled to another mechanic who was stationed at a corner of the building. Suddenly, the purple and white 86 car came roaring around the side of the shop building and screeched to a halt in the designated “pit” area.

The seven hopefuls converged on the car and set to work. The driver, dressed as if it were race day, muffled in a firesuit and a helmet that showed only his eyes, sat there tapping his gloved fingers on the steering wheel, perhaps in dismay at the awkward performance of his would-be pit crew.

Taran knew that the average pit stop in Cup racing-changing four tires and refilling the fuel cell-took about thirteen seconds. This practice stop was reminiscent of the bygone era before Leonard Wood of the Wood Brothers racing team had thought to streamline the process-back in the early fifties, when pitting took five minutes, and drivers got out and walked around while they drank coffee. There was a lot of fumbling, and the jackman couldn’t seem to get the car high enough, which considering the way the front end was tilting was probably a good thing.

Grace Tuggle watched the proceedings with the regretful air of someone forced to witness a train wreck. But she didn’t yell. When the interminable pit stop finally ended, many dropped tires and some spilled fuel later, she simply nodded, and made some more notes on her clipboard.

She waved the car away, and it zoomed off around the parking lot, behind the shop building and out of sight again. Then she called seven more women forward to repeat the exercise.

Taran was in the third group to try out, and she felt that she was a little more prepared than the first teams simply because she’d been able to observe their mistakes. She was also confused on one particular point.

“All right,” said Tuggle, “you know the drill. We’re going to assign you duties. Watch how you function as a unit. Film your performance. Speed counts. Accuracy counts. Everything counts. Any questions?”

Tentatively, Taran raised her hand. “Who’s driving the car?” she asked.

Tuggle glared at her, took an exasperated breath, and then snapped, “Our driver is Badger Jenkins, a veteran Cup driver who has won the Southern 500. Any other questions?”

Taran’s hand went up again. “Who…is…driving…the…car… now?”

This time Tuggle’s look of annoyance turned to a thoughtful appraisal of the meek but persistent young woman. After a few moments, she said, “I told you. Badger Jenkins.”

“Yeah, but that’s not him,” said Taran.

There were a few gasps from the other applicants, but only a silent stare from Grace Tuggle herself. At last with a grudging smile, she said, “You can’t see nothing but his eyes, and you had less than a minute to see them, and you weren’t close. What makes you think it wasn’t Badger?”

Because I know those eyes. They’ve stared at me from my screensaver, from my coffee mug…from every NASCAR Nation program I ever Tivoed…from a hundred daydreams…I know his eyes.

Aloud, she said, “The helmet is higher above the steering wheel than it ought to be. Guy’s too tall to be Badger.”