First lap, I ran the bottom like glue. Lap 10, I moved him up the track going into Turn 1 — not wrecking, just moving . He tried to crossover underneath me in Turn 3, but I’d set the car loose enough to drive off the corner hard.
“Seventy-five,” I said, tossing him the notebook. “But the stagger’s the real trick.”
We loaded Bristol. Qualifying: I beat him by two tenths. His eyebrows went up.
He looked at my scribbled notes — Bristol, Martinsville, Richmond, even a wild Sonoma setup on the back page — and grinned. “Rematch next week? I’m bringing my own notebook.”
