I didn’t know Delaware could be so hot. It was 90 degrees outside, but standing in the clay and dust, it felt like the surface of the sun. Why did I opt for the triple layer fire suit? Who cares if it adds 10 more seconds of protection, it’s hot and heavy. My bright and sunny best friend is just as happy as can be, bouncing around in her neon pink single layer suit. Her light brown hair was wrapped up in a straight pony tail, while my mess of curls was plastered to the back of my neck in a pathetic braid. Worst of all, why did I pick a black suit? I know I chose it to fit my cool kid aesthetic, but why? Why do I choose to punish myself like this?

Airport Speedway, Delaware, August.

 I have red dust stuck in my nose, while there’s somehow mud caked around the cuffs of my racing shoes, uncomfortably sticky to my skin underneath. I should have picked someone quieter, I shouldn’t have met the sprightly girl buzzing around me, talking about boys and how the cute guy in the flag stand winked at her. I love her more than a real sister but why did she drag me into this? 

I zipped up the heavy black suit that was meant to protect me from invisible fires caused by Methanol alcohol, the fuel that powers our race cars, it’s a dangerous chemical that can’t even be seen when it burns. The methanol burns your nose hairs when you deal with it, making you want to wrinkle your face and turn away. It’s uncomfortable when you spill it on your hands and instantaneously, the compound evaporates all the moisture out of your skin, leaving your palms dry and gross feeling. With the discovery of this nasty chemical, came along some bright-eyed scholar that decided to buy it by the 55-gallon drums and pump it into high-speed competitive race cars, that sometimes crash and logically, burn. I spun the cap off the tank and hefted the neon green “VP Race Fuels” jug above my head, the volatile liquid rushed through the tube and “glugged” as it filled the fuel tank on the car.

 I stepped inside the big metal oven that we called home for the weekend and grabbed the all black helmet, arm restraints, and neck brace that I was tasked with wearing and mechanically pulled them on, locking snaps on either side of my head so if I were to crash, injuries would be minimal. These cars are sometimes uncontrollable, I physically must tether my arms to the seat belts, so they won’t fly out.

To most people, being strapped to a box of shrapnel filled with explosive fuels would be terrifying, not being able to have free range of movement is unsettling at best, but to me it’s fun. Not many understand the rush associated with racing, the high that you get from brushing with concrete walls at speeds of 120 mph, but those of us that do, are graced with the competitive feelings of elation.

After I was zipped and clipped into the heavy fabrics and various layers of braces and buckles, it was finally time to be strapped in. I climbed into the car in the necessary convoluted entrance and wiggled until I was snugly in the aluminum seat. Next came the seatbelts, a 5-point harness that gets synched down until its even harder to breathe through the heavy air and chemical volatility that hung around the track. I was finally ready to take my runs.

 This isn’t even my car, but they’re almost the same, apart from the nauseating neon pink powder coat that covered Chey’s car. She was still concussed from her latest softball mishap, so I agreed to take the proper test runs in her car while she was recovering. Thankfully, our butts are the same size, so I fit in her car as snug as I did my own, it still felt like home. Soon enough, I was being pushed out onto the track, feeling the uneven wheel base twist as I rolled to a stop, waiting for a push vehicle.

The runs went great, the car was running smoothly, but had a minimal problem of fuel loading up in the engine. Alcohol motors are finicky with the jetting that allows fuel into the motor, if there’s too little, the motor overheats and burns up, if there’s too much, the alcohol floods the system and doesn’t burn properly. I rolled through the exit gate as I had hundreds of times before and put the car into neutral, so it could calmly roll to a stop on its own as I waited for my team to come get me. Sooner than expected, my own father, Chey’s dad, and Chey rushed to the side of the car.

                “Butthead, you’re on fire!” Chey screamed.

I didn’t have time to panic, I knew the numbers, 7 Seconds. It took 7 seconds for fire to spread from the engine 5 inches from my left arm to melt my suit, and that was if the fire didn’t have the chance to spread to the tank and cause an explosion.

Even though the safety equipment I was decked in was meant to be quick release for situations like these, it still helped to have an exit strategy. What do you do when you’re strapped to a box of shrapnel, then suddenly it becomes a ticking time bomb? You get out! I’ve been trained to do this, I was drilled time after time on how to get out the fastest and safest ways, and guess what the quickest escape is? Over the burning engine—yes, I have to climb over it—the only option.

The first response is to yank off the steering wheel and pitch it through the window like a frisbee, to make more space in the cramped, one seater car. I ripped the cords that released my helmet from my neck brace next, giving me more range of motion to my neck, now came the harness release, then I yanked the D-ring that connected my arms to the seat belts.

After I was freed from the straps and buckles, I needed to maneuver my way out. Sprint cars aren’t made to get out of efficiently, they’re made to put metal around the driver to protect them from impact, the window I must climb out of is only maneuverable in one way, head first. I grabbed the rails above me and pulled myself out of the cockpit, making sure to kick the fuel line off, stopping the flow of alcohol to the engine. Flipping this switch with my foot was something I learned to do, since I’m too short to reach it with my hands, it stops the car from burning as quick, as it stops flow from the fuel tank to the rest of the small car. Panic seized my chest as my leg catches up in the previously released seat belts, so I kicked with all the might I could muster in my little hobbit legs and got free. I scrambled face first into the dirt and jumped up faster than I ever have before. I don’t even remember running away, but I do remember frantically pulling on my helmet and suit, pitching them off until I was left in nothing but a sports bra and some shorts I’d stripped to earlier in the day.

My breathing heaved as I tried to make sense of what had just happened.  I’d been on fire. Thrown myself out of a car. Stripped down while hopping in circles. Now I’m half naked.  All within the span of 10 seconds.

                “Oh, shush whiner.  You weren’t even really on fire,” Chey teased and poked my arm as we sat in the Waffle House.

“It was just the motor... “

“That was next to my head! You’d have felt real bad if I’d have died driving your car” I sniped back and stole a piece of toast off her plate.

We were both caked in red dust and clay mud, dried sweat made us smell collectively like a boys’ locker room, and we didn’t resemble the cute girls we’d started the day as.

The waffle house was alive with locals and a few truck drivers stopping for breakfast foods at 12 at night, the juke box played some country song quietly in the background as me and Chey messed with each other obnoxiously.

In my frantic haste to get out of the car, I hadn’t stopped to ask questions, the tail pipe beside me had been on fire, not the cylinder, which made things much safer instead of the dire emergency I was under the impression I was in. While it was still serious and dangerous, the fire wasn’t as pressing as I’d initially thought. An excess of unburnt fuel had built up in the exhaust pipe, with some backfire from shutting the car off, the fuel had ignited and could be seen to be burning.

Soon after we got our food, my phone began to ring,

“Oh hell, it’s mom.”

“Don’t answer it.”

“I almost died once today, my luck isn’t good enough to go for a second round.”