I grew up around racing. My parents say one of my first baby pictures, me on a Big Wheel, looks as though I’m gripping the handlebars and revving the throttle of a motorcycle. At five, I got my first dirt bike and rode the hills of the track we had created in the field behind our farmhouse. My home track, Eddyville Raceway Park, is about 45 minutes away from my hometown of Knoxville, IA, and my dad, grandpa, uncles, and cousins had all raced there.
It seemed so natural when my dad asked me if I wanted to race when I turned 17. I practiced my junior year under my dad and grandpa’s watchful eyes, riding shotgun while they drove down the track to watch how they do it, and then switching so I could drive while they told me what I needed to work on.
Drag Racing 101
Drag racing is not as easy as the pros make it look. When it’s your turn, you have to do a big burnout to get the dirt, rocks, and water off the back wheels. Then, you have to slowly creep up to the line and wait for your lights to come down the tree, or the Christmas tree. You anticipate when they will go green so you get a good reaction time, also known as getting a good or bad light (how long it took you to roll off the start line after the light turned green; the best you can do is 0.000, but that’s nearly impossible). Your dial in is how long you think it will take you to get from the start to finish. When you’re staged (ready for the lights to come down), you better be ready, because the lights go yellow, yellow, and green—a blink of the eye and you could be late.
At green you stomp your foot to the floor and see how long it takes you to finish. At the end, you exit the lanes and stop at the ticket booth that prints off your stats. You are paired up to someone in your class, and one of you advances to the next round. If you have an odd number, someone (at small races it’s usually the person with the best reaction time, and at large races it’s given to a competitor from a track that hasn’t had an opportunity so far in the competition) is given the by run. The by run means you run down the track by yourself (again, because there is an odd number) and basically use it to test yourself, and you are automatically sent to the next round.
There are only as many rounds as there are competitors, and since it’s a single-elimination sport, the number of people thins quickly. If you start out with 24 people in the first round, there will only be 12 people left in the second round (because half will have lost), six people in the third round, three people in the fourth round (meaning one of those three people will get the by run), and only two finalists in the final round.
The Beginnings of Competing
As a senior in high school, I competed in the high school division. I drove my grandpa’s 2006 Dodge Ram truck with a Hemi engine. It was classified as a “street car” because it had not been modified or altered and it ran on street tires instead of slicks (tires used specifically for racing because they don’t have grooves; they’re illegal on the streets of Iowa). A lot of street cars are like cars you’d see driving on the highway or in town, whereas drag cars have custom paint jobs covered in sponsor stickers and even engines that shoot vapor out the tops. My home track was small (only an 1/8 mile) compared to the standard 1/4-mile track, and I didn’t compete against very many other high school racers. I won once and came in second once throughout the four times I competed, but it was enough to qualify to go to the finals to represent my track!
Competing for the first time was very nerve-racking. It was intimidating because I was new to the sport. I was sure I would roll over the start line or forget to do a burnout. I was shaking and giving the steering wheel the death grip when my lights started coming down, and when I hammered the pedal to the floor as the light turned green, I felt like a child who was about to get in trouble for doing something she wasn’t supposed to. I’ve gotten over the shaking at the beginning of a run, but I still get the butterflies every time I go down the track. I think that’s part of the reason I love racing; I’m an adrenaline junkie. As I’m flying down the track, I can’t think of anything but making sure I did my best and that I hope I’ll beat my competitor.
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The E.T. Finals
The E.T. Finals were at the Brainerd International Raceway in Minnesota. Racing there was a completely new experience for me because I was racing complete strangers. Here, there were 23 other high school competitors, which meant five rounds of racing. Some drove street cars like me; others drove classic race cars. Some of them had been racing most of their lives. I was so nervous. How could I compete against this many people? What if I failed in front of the thousands of fans that were sure to be watching? The night we arrived, my race family, which consisted of my dad and grandpa’s old racing buddies, cousins (who had raced for years), my dad, my grandma, and my grandpa, lectured me about not letting my nerves get the best of me and how believing in myself and knowing that they believed in me too was all I needed to succeed.
My first round, I ran against a girl in an actual drag car. She and I were two of the seven girls in the high school division. That left 17 boys to try and beat. I put on my helmet and pulled up slowly to the line, my eyes on the lights, trying to block out the sound of the tires making a burnout and the fans cheering for their favorite racer. I could hear the announcer calling us by name and telling which lanes we were in, but it was muffled.
The lights went green, and I was the first to leave. It didn’t take long until the girl in the drag car was right beside me and passed me. She got to the finish line first, but I glanced up and saw an arrow pointing to my lane. It was a big relief, and I felt really empowered. How could I have beaten such a fast car in my old truck? I couldn’t wait to see the looks on my race family’s faces. My ticket showed she had red lit! This means she took off before the light turned green. If you red light, you automatically lose. I couldn’t believe I was going into the second round!
In the second round, there were only 12 competitors left. This round I was up against a girl in a Mustang. There were only three girls left, and for a moment I wish I hadn’t been paired with her, because if I couldn’t win, I at least wanted another girl to win; now I was decreasing the odds. I was just as nervous, if not more nervous, than my first round. I knew people from Eddyville Raceway were watching me because I saw a blur of blue Eddyville shirts on my way to the lanes. This time, I cut a pretty good light and beat the girl down the track. I went back to our trailer and was greeted with hugs and eyebrows raised in surprise. I was called right back up to get in line to race again, so I didn’t have time to be flattered.
In the third round, with only six of us left, I was the only girl. This made me more nervous than any other round. I felt like I obliged to win this round for all the female racers who hadn’t made it that far. I raced a boy in another street car, which made me feel a little better knowing he wasn’t going to be super speedy. He cut a really slow light and I was faster. I beat him out and headed back into my lane. I liked the left lane. When I race I get very superstitious, so I didn’t want anyone taking my lane. If I do well in a lane a couple times in a row, I think that’s a sign that I should stay in that lane, and so far the left had been treating me well. Now we were down the final three.
My dad came up to my window with my grandpa right behind him. My grandpa had chewed through three cigars so far because he was all sorts of flustered. He was shining the hood of my car and checking for dirt on the tires.
“You’re the only one left from Eddyville,” they told me. “You’ve got to win it for all of us.” I couldn’t handle that kind of pressure—it was my first big race! The track official came over and told us Eddyville had the by run. The two boys competed, and I ran on my own and was brought back up for the finals.
The Finals
I couldn’t believe I had gotten this far. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would make it to the finals of the NHRA Summit E.T. Division 5 drag race. The boy who I would compete against for the title was quite courteous and told me to pick which lane I wanted. I told him nonchalantly that I’d take the left lane, and thank you.
The announcers called us up for the final round and I was shaking like a leaf. I was on the verge of crying because I was so nervous and scared that I would let everyone down. My grandpa squeezed my hand and told me, “Let’s do this, bud.”
I felt like it took me an hour to get up to the staging lights. My heart was pounding and I couldn’t hear a thing. I bumped into my starting spot and watched the lights come down in what seemed like slow motion. I left before my competitor did—a good sign. I felt him coming up beside me and knew I had to stay ahead of him to win. I could see that we were almost to the finish line and I couldn’t watch to see whose win light came on at the end. I was sure I had lost, and a few choice words escaped my mouth.
When I pulled up to the ticket booth to receive my winning or losing ticket, the lady handed it to me and said, “Congratulations!” Congratulations!? Does that mean I won or I lost? I couldn’t tell if she was trying to be nice because I had lost and congratulating me for making it this far, or she was telling me I had actually won.
I looked down and saw the arrow pointing to my side of the ticket, telling me my dreams had come true. I wondered what my mom and sister would think when I called to tell them the good news. I couldn’t believe I had really done it. I still get goose bumps just thinking about how much that day meant not just to me, but also to my family.
As soon as my race family saw my truck coming they had their arms up, waving, yelling, cheering, and dancing; there was a line of people all sporting our team shirts and yelling my name. My dad was the first to hug me, squeezing me until I couldn’t breathe. He told me how proud of me he was and that he knew I could do it. Then it was my grandpa’s turn, and he won’t admit it now, but he was crying. His eyes were shiny and he told me he got so nervous that he bit right through his cigar. One by one, people came over to hug me and shake my hand and tell me what a good job I’d done.
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The Winner’s Circle
We drove up to the winner’s circle and had our picture taken enough times to make smiling hurt. When the photographer asked for a picture of just the family, I was sad to see my race family step aside. They too were a part of my family—a very important part. Family believes in you, which is what I needed. They had believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself, and that helped me to accomplish something many racers will never do.
I received so much more than I deserved from winning that race. I won a NHRA letterman jacket, a ring comparable to a Super Bowl ring, a two-foot solid brass trophy with my name on it, a giant toolbox for the trailer, NHRA champion hats for all of my race family, and a $1,000 college scholarship. I was in National Dragster magazine and even gave a thank you speech at a prestigious Division 5 race banquet in Kansas City honoring all the winners. I couldn’t believe how big of a deal it was. I felt like a celebrity when I saw my face in a magazine. How could it be that all my hot, long days of wearing jeans in the summer at the track, failing over and over, and getting quite a few red lights had already now paid off? I guess anything is possible if you just believe in yourself.
I qualified for the finals again last year but went out in the fourth round. I am still racing almost every weekend, but now that I’m in college it makes it a lot harder to drive three hours to the track. I’m hoping to find enough sponsors in the next couple of years to get my own drag car that I can cover in sponsors’ stickers. I want to get the word out about my racing to influence other girls to join. It is intimidating and you do have to put in a lot of work, but people really are amazed when they find out I’m a female drag racer with a national title.