Bad Day (A Ryan Blaney One Shot)

Bad Day

Inspired by Blaney's rough day at Kentucky. As always, this is a complete work of fiction. Enjoy! 

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"Motherfucker!" I yell across the radio, clenching my fists on the steering wheel in frustration. Brian Williams, my crew chief for the number 12 Snap on Tools Ford Mustang just finished telling me that Nascar had charged us with a tire violation during our last pit stop.

Now I'm sure you're thinking that I'm being an overdramatic diva driver, right? A little like Kyle Busch- who I was racing for the lead, by the way- until this little set back.

Wrong.

Look, my name's Ryan Blaney and I'm a Nascar Monster Energy cup driver. God, I hate saying that. Whoever came up with that should have realized that people were going to have to say that out loud multiple times a weekend.

Anyway, I'm getting distracted. Right now, I'm competing in the Xfinity race at Kentucky Speedway. I was racing for the lead until this last idiotic mistake. To say that I'm pissed right now is an understatement. Livid is more like it. 

I'm typically known for my laid back demeanour outside the car, but something happens when I slide my helmet on. It's like all rationale flies out the window. Imagine regular road rage, and then multiply it by 40 cars travelling at speeds faster than 150 miles per hour all fighting for one thing- the win.

Yep, that's Nascar for you.

One thing's for sure, if a race car driver ever tells you that they're okay with finishing second, y'all have my permission to call them a liar. I'll tell you this, we drivers are a bunch of competitive motherfuckers. I once witnessed one driver challenge another to a hot dog eating contest. This was at a backyard barbecue. Let's just say it ended up with both of them getting sick, real sick. What a bunch of dumb fucks, honestly.

Each and every one of us pushes hard for the win each weekend. Why? Well of course we want to win for our teams, our sponsors and the fans. But besides that, racecar drivers have what I call a special brand of crazy. I don't need no fucking medical degree to tell you that I'm sure we have some wires majorly crossed up there.

"Ryan, bring it back around to pit road. We're going to change the left sides instead of heading to the rear of the field." I hear Brian's voice in my ear.

"10-4," I mutter back, trying to keep my cool.

I should mention that some idiot decided that I should be the one to carry the Ford performance in-car camera this week. That means I'm making an effort to rein in my temper more than I would normally. Call it a courtesy to all the fans watching from home.

I follow Brian's instructions and try to take a few calming breaths while the pit crew changes my left side tires. As soon as I feel our jack man drop the car, I'm off like a bat out of hell. This is my race to win dammit.

I grit my teeth as I begin aggressively passing cars. They keep blurring by so quickly that I ultimately lose track of how many. I'm a man with one mission: get back up to the front and win myself another jukebox. It's not even like I use the one that I won back in 2013, but boy does it ever make for some good photos.

I stay so focused that I don't even hear my spotter Ryan's voice (I know, Ryan and Ryan, how original) until he's yelling "one to go" across the radio. Somehow, I've made it to P3. All's that left standing between victory and me are the 20 and 18.

Erik Jones is a cool guy and all, but his driving skills ain't got shit on mine. I slam the throttle down as we turn into 4. The car inches ahead and then shoots past as I gather momentum to make the pass. I can see Kyle through the windshield, but he's just too far away for me to catch. If the race had been another two laps I would've won- no questions.