the Sprint Cup's varsity.
For Saturday's Nationwide race at Bristol, I sat on the "box," the perch overlooking a team's pit area, in a chair directly behind Ben Leslie, Ricky's crew chief. While Ricky and the other forty-two drivers on the track followed the pace car for their parade laps, Leslie looked past me to see that his spotter, Mike Calinoff, was in position, binoculars in hand, atop the track's roof. It was the spotter's job to guide the driver, to explain what was happening on the track around him. "When he says there's a hole," Ricky told me later, "you gotta get in it. Things happen so quickly."
I was wearing headphones tuned to the communications between Ricky, Leslie, and Calinoff, an ongoing conversation concerning strategy and car condition that was available to any fan via scanners they could purchase at the track for $110. Leslie told his driver, "Protect yourself. Protect your equipment. Race hard. Race smart."
"Yes, sir, got it. Race hard. Race smart," Ricky repeated. And the cars were off, zipping around the track, the entire crew watching Ricky pass in front of them and then in unison craning their necks to see the big monitor displaying the cars speeding down the front stretch, then turning back around to see him pass again before their eyes, each revolution completed in fifteen seconds.
Bristol was only Ricky's thirty-second stock-car race, and his goals for the day were modest: to avoid getting hung up in a wreck and to gain as much "seat-time" experience as possible. Fifty-five laps into the three-hundred-lap race, Leslie decided to bring Ricky's Ford in for a pit stop, sooner than most other cars on the track. The vehicle was driving loose, its back end sliding sideways as it came around each turn. Leslie announced that the car would get four new tires, the gas would be topped off, and the car's track bar, which adjusted its suspension, would be tightened a notch. The seven members of the pit crew, in fire suits, knee pads, and helmets, waited with legs flexed against the top of the short wall separating them from pit road. They were all basketball tall and lean and broad-shouldered. Although they are called upon only two or three times over the course of a race, pit crews practice their highly choreographed routine dozens of times each week. It might take twenty laps for a driver to pass a car in front of him, but that same position can be gained in the pit by sending a vehicle back out onto the track a second faster.
The men pounced over the wall and onto pit road, jumping and sliding around to the passenger side, the car lifting, tools whirring. Old tires were flung off, new ones secured. A man carrying a seventy-five-pound swan-necked gas can inserted it into the tank, while another crew member ripped a plastic screen from the windshield. Ricky dumped the clutch, hit the gas, and was gone, leaving discarded tires, scattered lug nuts, and splashed gasoline in his wake.
Ninety laps in, a wreck halted the race, and when it started again ten minutes later, Ricky Stenhouse Jr., previously stuck in the middle of the pack, had moved into fourth place. Later, after Leslie pitted the car a second time, Ricky reentered the track in eighteenth place. But Leslie could see that Ricky had fresher tires than all but one car in front of him and was running each lap faster than most of the competition. With nearly 150 laps to go, Leslie told Ricky to follow the No. 3 car, which, he said, would win the race and Ricky would come in second. "You're doing a whale of a job. You're handling it like a man," Leslie said.
Another yellow caution prompted several cars with less fuel and older tires to enter pit road. Suddenly Rickyâthe rookie from Olive Branch, Mississippi, who was angling only for a decent amount of seat-timeâwas in the lead. Leslie's pit strategy had paid off. Everyone on the team perked up as the cars, in a double-file line, prepared for the restart. The green flag was waved and the cars
For Saturday's Nationwide race at Bristol, I sat on the "box," the perch overlooking a team's pit area, in a chair directly behind Ben Leslie, Ricky's crew chief. While Ricky and the other forty-two drivers on the track followed the pace car for their parade laps, Leslie looked past me to see that his spotter, Mike Calinoff, was in position, binoculars in hand, atop the track's roof. It was the spotter's job to guide the driver, to explain what was happening on the track around him. "When he says there's a hole," Ricky told me later, "you gotta get in it. Things happen so quickly."
I was wearing headphones tuned to the communications between Ricky, Leslie, and Calinoff, an ongoing conversation concerning strategy and car condition that was available to any fan via scanners they could purchase at the track for $110. Leslie told his driver, "Protect yourself. Protect your equipment. Race hard. Race smart."
"Yes, sir, got it. Race hard. Race smart," Ricky repeated. And the cars were off, zipping around the track, the entire crew watching Ricky pass in front of them and then in unison craning their necks to see the big monitor displaying the cars speeding down the front stretch, then turning back around to see him pass again before their eyes, each revolution completed in fifteen seconds.
Bristol was only Ricky's thirty-second stock-car race, and his goals for the day were modest: to avoid getting hung up in a wreck and to gain as much "seat-time" experience as possible. Fifty-five laps into the three-hundred-lap race, Leslie decided to bring Ricky's Ford in for a pit stop, sooner than most other cars on the track. The vehicle was driving loose, its back end sliding sideways as it came around each turn. Leslie announced that the car would get four new tires, the gas would be topped off, and the car's track bar, which adjusted its suspension, would be tightened a notch. The seven members of the pit crew, in fire suits, knee pads, and helmets, waited with legs flexed against the top of the short wall separating them from pit road. They were all basketball tall and lean and broad-shouldered. Although they are called upon only two or three times over the course of a race, pit crews practice their highly choreographed routine dozens of times each week. It might take twenty laps for a driver to pass a car in front of him, but that same position can be gained in the pit by sending a vehicle back out onto the track a second faster.
The men pounced over the wall and onto pit road, jumping and sliding around to the passenger side, the car lifting, tools whirring. Old tires were flung off, new ones secured. A man carrying a seventy-five-pound swan-necked gas can inserted it into the tank, while another crew member ripped a plastic screen from the windshield. Ricky dumped the clutch, hit the gas, and was gone, leaving discarded tires, scattered lug nuts, and splashed gasoline in his wake.
Ninety laps in, a wreck halted the race, and when it started again ten minutes later, Ricky Stenhouse Jr., previously stuck in the middle of the pack, had moved into fourth place. Later, after Leslie pitted the car a second time, Ricky reentered the track in eighteenth place. But Leslie could see that Ricky had fresher tires than all but one car in front of him and was running each lap faster than most of the competition. With nearly 150 laps to go, Leslie told Ricky to follow the No. 3 car, which, he said, would win the race and Ricky would come in second. "You're doing a whale of a job. You're handling it like a man," Leslie said.
Another yellow caution prompted several cars with less fuel and older tires to enter pit road. Suddenly Rickyâthe rookie from Olive Branch, Mississippi, who was angling only for a decent amount of seat-timeâwas in the lead. Leslie's pit strategy had paid off. Everyone on the team perked up as the cars, in a double-file line, prepared for the restart. The green flag was waved and the cars
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