The smells of oil, gasoline, and burning rubber are in the air. Some of them literally, some of them more metaphorically. It's the last race of the season at Atlanta Motor Speedway, and it's the first time for Thunderstorm Racing that this one's actually important. So far, in the long career of Thunderstorm and its main driver, Sophia Lawrence, they've never been in contention for the crown, merely competing for a spot in the upper half of the table, but this year, that all changed. Nobody really knows what exactly led to Sophia's performances improving in her twentieth year of competition, but they did, with her now netting several podium finishes and being consistent enough that she's very close to nabbing the cup this season. In fact, going into this race, the situation is quite clear: she has to beat Lance Pearce, and considering the form he's on, that might just mean she'll have to win the whole race, something she has yet to do in her entire career.
Tensions are running high in the pits. Everybody's running around, trying desperately to make sure everything's in spec, because if something goes wrong today, it's going to be something that will live on in infamy in the team's record books. Everybody's tense... except one of the lot. There, strolling into the pits with the casual stride of someone whose biggest struggle planned for this day was getting out of bed, is Sophia. Already in her trademark yellow racing suit and wearing her usual cowboy hat, she heads over to my side before grabbing me and lifting me up in a big hug. "Howdy, hun, how's it goin' with y'all? Did ya get enough sleep, like ah told ya?" she greets me. Everybody down here is either "hun" or "sugah" to her, and she indeed spent a non-trivial amount of yesterday's team meeting schooling us on the importance of hydration and a regular sleep schedule. And she meant it, too—she has a relationship with her pit crew like no other racer.
So after a few moments of a smothering hug, I manage to free my face from her, er, pillows and take a deep breath. "Y-Yeah... everything's fine," I mutter, panting a bit as she lets me back on the ground and head over to the car. "Um, right. So, the car's looking as good as it ever did. We spent an absolute ton of time going over everything..." I trail off, catching a glimpse of her expression suddenly turning stern. "...while making sure to get our eight hours of sleep and regular breaks," I hastily add, causing her soft smile to return. "We're hoping that Pearce is the only thing looking to give you trouble today, Thunder."
In response, she reaches over, lifting the cap off my head and ruffling my hair. "Don't ya worry none 'bout him. Ah'll show that Yankee what for," she replies. "This's mah home turf, after all." This season has come down to this last race, and the way things have played out, this is a duel between two racers. The down-to-earth, lovable underdog veteran that is Sophia, and the arrogant, city slicker hot-shot that is "Shining" Lance Pearce. After twenty years, Sophia finally getting her chance for a cup with this potential fairy tale ending in her hometown race seems fitting, but I'd be lying if this wasn't putting a lot of pressure on us—even if she's all too ready to take on all that pressure herself, because of course she is. That's just who the Southern Thunder is.
About four hours from now, this will all be done. One look at the clock tells me it's time, and I give her a little pat on the back. "Alright, here we go. Knock 'em dead, Thunder."
And with that same gentle, calm smile, she takes off her cowboy hat and puts it on my head—and on top of the cap. "Ah ain't knockin' nobody dead. That ain't nice. Ah'm gonna win a race," she tells me, and with that, she's in the car and driving out to the starting grid. Now there's really not a lot more we can do except monitor the electronics and update her through the radio. I head back to the main monitors, looking them over for anything, even though feasibly, nothing should have changed in the last few minutes—and sure enough, nothing has. Everything's fine. The screen showing the broadcast view is obviously focusing on the front of the grid, with Sophia on the second spot and Pearce holding the pole. Then, the radio crackles to life. "Thunder callin' Papa Bird, come in, Papa Bird, all systems nominal on the bridge," Sophia says over the radio, and I can't hold back a sigh.
"C'mon, Thunder, we're not in a plane or whatever," I reply. Even now, she can't resist trying to lighten the mood. We run through the final pre-race checks, and before I know it, it's truly time. The lights turn green, and the race is on.