10 Seconds Or Less

In less than ten seconds a dream builds and takes shape and grows within our mind.  But the result of a dream can last a lifetime. Bruce Barrington, in his air-conditioned travel trailer reflected on his dream. He reclined in his captain chair, eyes closed he stroked his beard, and remembered. His three year old beard resembled Dusty Hill’s of ZZ Top. And after the year he had, Bruce was surprised that there wasn’t a speck of gray in it. He started growing the beard when he was twenty three, the day he reached the ranks of a professional drag racer. With only the soft hum of the air-conditioning vibrating through the trailer, Bruce was re-running an old dream when Greg and George burst into the trailer bringing the heat and humidity along with the starting lineup.  

“Well, I got good news and bad,” Greg said as he waved the paper in front of Bruce. “Which do you want first?”

Bruce could smell the Jersey heat sticking to the two guys. Greg waved the paper in an attempt to either fan himself or entice Bruce. The trailer’s air conditioner struggled to keep the space cool especially from the invasion of the visitors. Sweat dripped from Greg’s forehead and George’s shirt. Before Bruce could stand George ripped the sheet of paper from Greg’s hand and began to read the lineup.    

“Well,” George said, “NHRA big shots did the random picking. Just as you thought they would.”

Greg snatched the paper back. “You got lane one, the pit lane for the first race.”

Still stroking his beard Bruce said, “It could be the only race if I don’t win.”  

“You’ll win. You always win.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yeah, I know, but it sounded good.” Greg tried to laugh, rubbing his head where at one time he had to push blond hair out of his eyes. Now only sweat grew there. His half smile seemed to be hiding something. “You . . . you also pulled the first race.”

“Oh, Terrific. I hate being in the first round.”   

“And . . .”

“You mean it gets worse?”

“You also got paired against Dyno Don.”   

“Just terrific. It gets better all the time.” Bruce shook his head in disbelief, “You know he’s seeded number one.”  His thoughts of making it to round two evaporated as fast as an ice chip on hot pavement. “He won at Pomona and before that at Bristol.”  

George chimed in, “Yeah . . . but.” 

“Just terrific. Didn’t he place second in Gainesville?” 

“Yeah, but this is our track. We’re home. You got this.”  Greg tried to smile. “It could be worse.” 

“Yeah, how?” 

“Well,” he struggled for an answer.  “Well, we could not even be competing in this year’s Summer Nationals. We could be sitting on the other side of the fence,” he pointed with a slight nod of the head, “on the bleacher side watching and dreaming and wishing we were on the track.”

“Man, this is what we dreamed of when we were kids sitting in those stands,” George said as he peered out the window of the trailer to the spectators bleachers.  

“We’re here for the big show.”

As the three walked out of the trailer the heat and humidity hit Bruce like a sledge hammer. No matter how long you were away, the humidity always reminds you of the steaming sauna days of central Jersey and why you moved west. Today it sapped the energy right out of Bruce and took his confidence with it. 

“We need to get you and the car and to the fire lane,” Greg said as he fanned himself with the starting lineup sheet. 

Looking at his top fuel dragster Bruce said, “Remember when we were running the ’55 Chevy?” His voice was nostalgic, “It was just the three of us.” They walked to the tent covering his Top Fuel Dragster. “We had no big team. No big sponsors. No big shots hanging around telling us how to race.”

“Yep, I remember,” George said, “and we scrambled week after week for sponsors and parts.”

“But we had no bosses. Man, it was just the three of us.”

Greg put his arms around Bruce and George as if in a huddle, “Yep, the good ole days. Us with no money.”  

“Look at us now.” Bruce pointed with a slight nod of head toward a group of people standing in the shade near his dragster. Dressed in suits and ties they tried fitting into the race crowd but stood out like Met fans sitting in Yankee Stadium for a baseball Game wearing their blue pinstripes uniforms. “We have these clowns hanging around the tent peering into my car as if they knew what they were looking at. Tell me, what does a shampoo company executives know about drag racing? Nothing! That’s what they know - nothing.”

Greg laughed, “Maybe their shampoo washes hair faster than any other.”

“How would you know, you don’t have any hair,” Said Bruce as he looked at the Top Fuel dragster.

George snickered, “But they are paying our way.” 

“You know guys,” Bruce said in a tone of regret, “sometimes I just wish we were back to those earlier days when we were running that old gasser.”  Looking back over his shoulder to the grandstands he said, “When we would build her and run her on weekends we had no pressure. There was no one looking over our shoulders. No big bosses.” He handed his helmet to Greg as he climbed into the cockpit of his dragster. It was a slow, deliberate mount. Slipping down in the seat, Greg handed Bruce his helmet who he placed it on his lap while his team prepared to push him down the fire road to the staging lane. Greg and George walked beside the dragster.  

Looking over at George, Bruce said, “Sometimes I just wish we could go back.”

In the cockpit Bruce slid on his helmet, pulled the visor down, strapped himself and closed his eyes. Like Aladdin with his oil lamp, Bruce ran his fingers over the butterfly steering yoke, caressing, massaging, it hoping against hope that a Genie would appear and grant him his three wishes.  Maybe make a new dream appear.   

George padded the side of the dragster. “We’re up next Bruce. You ready?”

“Time to rock & roll. Go get’m!” Greg yelled over the roar of the Top Fuel Dragster.

With his helmet on Bruce’s earlier dream abruptly reappeared. It transported Bruce back in time. Now he was no longer sitting in his new Top Fuel Dragster, but strapped in his old ’55 Chevy. He was in his old race car with big dreams.  No longer in the fire lane in his Top Fuel Dragster, he imagined that he was in the staging area sitting behind the wheel of his ’55 Chevy. He could feel the excitement of the crowd. The noise of the engines running and burning fuel in the air made him feet complete. Behind the darkened visor he smiled. His free and easy smile was something that had been absent for a long time. Sitting in the cockpit at this moment it was back.  

He inched the ’55 Chevy into position. With his eyes closed, he smiled as the first yellow light came on the ‘christmas tree’, the pole in the center of the track with the starting lights on it. Then second light flashed on when he placed the front wheel on the starting line. Through his peripheral vision he could see that his opponent was still staging his car trying to wrestle it into position.  

Bruce studied the gauges on the dash. His smile grew larger as he relived pushing the clutch in and sliding the Hurst shifter into first gear. He revved his engine. It roared to life. The red needle on the tachometer wiggled and moved up and down before it settled at 6,500 RPMs. He held the engine as best he could at 6,500 RPMs. He needed to get a great start. 6,500 RPMs should do it.  Too much, he would lift the front wheels off the ground or he would sit there spinning the tires. Not enough gas and the car wouldn’t get a jump off the line. Either way he would lose time.  Idling at the 6,500 RPMs the car rocked like a bucking bronco in the stall ready to toss its rider off. The car wanted to break free and go.  

In his minds eye Bruce saw the other car getting staged. The lights on the Christmas tree came on. The green light flashed. Bruce took off. Under his visor, Bruce’s grin grew to a full blown smile. Like a rocket he traveled 10 feet in less than half a second slamming him back in the seat sucking the air out of his lungs.  The rear tires dug in. They buckled under the load. The car bent and twisted. The front of the car lifted up, jumping forward as Bruce was pinned to the back in his seat. The ’55 Chevy pulled 4.Gs. No longer like riding a bucking bronco, now he’s was strapped to a missile with a screaming engine. The car rocketed down the track. First It twisted to the left. Then the tires spun leaving a thick cloud of white smoke behind him. With one eye on the track he wrestled the car back to the center of his lane, while keeping the other eye on the tachometer. The needle on the tachometer shrank then rapidly rose to 6,000 RPMs. Bruce shifted into second gear. The tires broke traction. The rear of the car got loose. It pitched sideways. The nose aimed toward the center line. The tires grabbed traction. The car danced and jumped. With his left hand on the wheel he fought to pull the rocketing car back down the center of his lane as he shifted into third gear. The car roared wanting to turn left on the quarter mile straight-away. The tachometer rose reaching 6,500 RPMs. It redlined at 7,500. He shifted later than he planned into fourth gear. The car screamed. It bucked and twisted. It swerved. The large rear ties gripped the asphalt hurling to the left. With both hands gripping the wheel he struggled to get it straight. Then straight as an arrow as the car accelerated through the speed traps, and the win light came on. Off the throttle, he pulled the lever releasing the parachute then he pumped the brakes to a stop.  An NHRA Official ran over to the car with Bruce’s time slip. More NHRA officials gathered around him applauding as Bruce stared down at the numbers on his time slip. It confirmed that Bruce set a new track record of 9.97 seconds for the quarter mile. He broke the track’s ten second barrier. In the time required to pour a cup of coffee, Bruce’s car had reached 178 mph.

+ + +

George tapped the shell of the Top Fuel Dragster and gave a thumbs up. “Let’s go man. You ready to rock & roll!?!” His voice was barely audible over the roar of the Top Fuel’s engine. But it was enough to shatter Bruce’s dream.  

Bruce patted his helmet, “Ok. Let’s go,” he said with a slight hint of reluctance. With his smile gone he said, “You know, sometimes I wonder, when do our dreams turn into nightmares that we can’t wake up from.”  

“What are you talking about?” George yelled bending down into the cockpit. “Brother, we’re on top,” he shouted above the roar of the engine not sure if Bruce heard him. Bruce looked only straight ahead. 

“Hey Bruce, when you get back to our pit,” Greg yelled trying to be heard.  “The sponsors,” he pointed to the group sipping cocktails in tall wooden bar stools under the pit tent. “They what to talk to you about the way you handle their car.”

No one could see Bruce roll his eyes under the visor or heard him say, “Sometimes I just wish . . .”