"Here we were, simply humans going out to test ourselves at speeds our ancestors could not have dreamed of. An evolution of those noble chariot races from yore... And just like then, we competed not for money, not for the crowd... But for glory."

A quote quite fitting for a place as hallowed as Daytona International Raceway, wouldn't you say? Only the very best have won here. Well, the very best, and a couple complete flukes. But I digress. You hear about the emotions and sensations the drivers get whenever they step through these gates, but not even their descriptions do the feelings justice. It's something that has to be experienced.

The first time I walked through these gates, I was just a fan. A fan with some driving skill, admittedly, but a still just a fan. For years, I watched racing religiously. I bought the collectables, played the video games, went to the events. Ever since I was little, I dreamed of becoming a racer.

And it was a dream I was going to achieve, no matter what.

During the first half of last year, right after I turned 19, I entered into a driving competition sponsored by the Autobacs Seven Corporation. With each of us driving custom made ASL Gariyas, I dominated the competition up until the final race. That final race was when I took my first steps into this hallowed ground. They upgraded us all to souped-up sports cars, and had us go at it in a 10 lap shootout for the title. As the point leader at the time, I got the best car, an Autobacs Orange Dodge Viper, but had to start at the back of the pack.

But that didn't stop me.

As soon as the flag dropped, I started blazing through the field, grinning like an idiot. If someone was dumb enough to get in my way, they paid for it. 10 laps later, I took the checkered flag, and was offered a contract to drive the new ARTA entry for the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series. How could I refuse?

So, again, here I am, standing in the garage area of "The World Center of Racing", looking over this car. My car. The #89 Autobacs Charger. Suddenly I'm not just a fan anymore... I'm a member of the 2009 Sprint Cup rookie class.

"Still hanging out in your emo corner?"

I look over to my right to see another fellow rookie, Kevin Weiker, grinning. I grin back, and flip him off in response. Kevin, in a way, "lucked out" to get his ride with Yates. After they released David Gilliland, they were looking for someone to fill the second seat at Yates. His friendship with Travis Kvapil landed him a tryout, and Doug Yates was impressed enough to give him the shot. Of course, dude's still paranoid of losing the seat, but who can blame him these days…? He doesn't let it show, though, and he's definitely got the skill to make some big things happen in this series.

"Just thinkin' about how good it'll feel to hoist that trophy in a couple weeks." I reply, a twinge of sarcasm in my voice. This, however, brings the other rookie in our little group out of the woodwork.

"Psh. Please. Like either of you have a chance of beating me!"

That would be the voice of Jack Stroski. The "Knuckles to my Sonic", if you will. He talks a big game, but he can definitely back it up. Just look at the kid's records up to this point in regional series. The fact that a legend like Yarborough had the confidence in this guy to drive for his new team is proof of his potential.

"Sorry, Jackie-boy. They don't let children play with the grown-ups." I say, despite being only a year older than him. To think, the oldest person in our group is only 22… Those who say there isn't a youth movement in racing can STFU. We continue to joke around about winning the 500, despite everybody already writing us off because of our rookie status, and in Jack and I's cases, being with new teams.

But that's why races aren't run on paper.

We finally split up, and I head back to my hauler to meet up with my crew chief, and best friend, Chris Crosby, or "Sporky", as I call him.

"How are the preparations coming along?" I ask, hoping everything is going according to plan,

"Well, the plasma cannon is still gonna be awhile, but the flux capacitor is all set!" He replies matter-of-factly, making me wonder if he's just joking around or if he's really done this. Impossible, you say? Ha! You haven't met Sporky. This guy is a true genius, part of the reason I have him as my team leader. When it comes to strategy, in anything, he's unbeatable.

"Heh, I doubt this thing is gonna pass inspection, then…" I reply with a laugh as I look over my chariot. I still can't believe this thing is mine. And when I say "mine", I mean it. The folks at ARTA let me design it and choose my sponsors after my performance in their "Gong Show". Sleek orange with white flames at the back, and my personal number, 89. And on the back, my personal hero, Son Gohan from Dragonball.

"Feeling nervous?" I ask Chris, who can only grin and say "Nah. I'm not the one that has to do all the work." Lovely. My sarcastic side has rubbed off on him. "You?"

"Of course. This is Daytona. Two weeks from now, it'll be the biggest day of my career." I reply, arms crossed and eyes staring into space. He brushes it off like it's nothing, though. He never really followed racing, so the pageantry of the 500 really doesn't matter to him. He just enjoys the sciency stuff, and hanging around me.

"Testing will start in five minutes." the PA announcer says.

This, of course, is my cue to start getting ready to head out on the track. Due to the new rules NASCAR has in place, this is gonna be our only testing session of the year before the Bud Shootout next weekend. Naturally, everybody is here, with almost 50 drivers trying to get some track time. As the crew pushes the car out onto pit row, I try to do a little stretching before I hop in. Anything to keep myself focused and active will help, with my nerves like this.

"Say, you think Optimus Prime will be mad at us if we wreck?"

That question freezes me in my tracks.

"Sporky. It's AutoBACS. Not BOTS!" I reply through gritted teeth, since this is the umpteenth time I've had to explain it. Of course, given our dorkiness, he's probably just messing with me.

"I know, I know. Just trying to settle ya down a little." He says cheerfully. And thus, the second part of why I chose him. When it comes to moral support, he's always there to give me a boost when I need it.

We finally make it to the pit box, and I slide into the car. My first time in the finished product. They've already got my custom helmet hanging there, as well as a nice, cold Vitaminwater, with a long bendy-straw so I can drink it through my helmet, beside my seat. The cockpit is a tight fit for someone my size, but I'll get used to it. I'm finally all strapped in when Sporky comes to fix my window net.

"All set?" He asks, as I nod in reply. "Alrighty, go get em 'Venger!"

I grin at him through my helmet and key my radio. "Time to go make a lot of left turns."

I flip the switches, and my Dodge roars to life. I haven't even left my pit yet, but I'm already experiencing a rush unlike any other. Chris tells me I'm clear, and I finally roll out at the sickeningly slow speed of 55 miles per hour. I hit the yellow pit exit line, and I mash the pedal down as hard as I can.

"I can't believe I'm doing this..." I tell Chris over the radio.

"Just don't get too star struck. This is still a job."

"Aw, come on man! You're killin' my fun!"

Already, I can tell this year's gonna be a good one. By this point, I've finally caught up the 18 of Kyle Busch. I thought I was going fast before, but wow! The speed in this slipstream is incredible! The 42 pulls up behind me, and I somehow go even faster. Note to self: Hope to god you never develop motion sickness.

"THIS IS AMAZING!" I yell into my radio, probably deafening Sporky and anybody else who was unfortunate enough to be listening in. I finally settle down a little, and begin to adjust to the heat inside the car, as well as the deafening sound of the wind and engines. I come out of turn four and see the flag stand.

"Here we go..."

My first lap as a Sprint Cup driver unofficially begins now. I follow the 18 as closely as I can without touching him, making sure I don't lose that sweet, sweet slipstream of his as we barrel into the first corners. Me, Kyle, and Montoya come out of turn two in a perfectly straight line. Feeling somewhat confident, I decide to attempt a bump draft with the 18.

Bad move.

It appears I bumped him a little too hard. Kyle wiggles a bit, almost scraping the wall. I fly past him, and I coulda swore I saw his middle finger out his window. I just hope to god that move doesn't come back to haunt me.

But about five laps later, it does. Going into turn one, I feel a rather unpleasent bump. One more of those and around I go.

"What the hell!?" I scream right as I get tagged by another car, and spin into the grass.

"Dude! You ok?" Chris says, somewhat worriedly.

"I'm fine... Just a little confused... What happened?"

"Looked like the 18 got ya. By the way this camera angle looks, it appears you got tagged by the 42 as well."

Lovely.

"How bad does it look?"

"Not too bad. We can fix it up in about fifteen minutes. Can you get it back around here in one piece?"

I scoff at that last remark, and start the car up again. Once I make it back to the pits, I pull into our garage stall, where my team goes to work on the passenger side. I finally start to relax a little, and I feel the effects of being hit earlier as I reach for my bottle. I'm definitely gonna be sore in the morning. I see Kevin walk over, probably to rib me for that lovely little ride I just took.

"Got your bearings back yet?" He asks as he leans into the door.

"Heh, I think so. I can finally see colors again." I reply, jokingly. "How's your car right now?"

"Not bad. A little tight in three", he replies matter-of-factly. "Then again, that's because Menard probably got the good equipment…"

Ah, yes. The reason he's so paranoid nowadays. See, when he was hired, Yates was still only a two car operation. Then they brought in Paul Menard and Bobby Labonte, and gave Kevin and Travis' points to them. Needless to say, he wasn't pleased.

So now, he has to get in the show on speed, instead of being locked in. Totally uncool, wouldn't you say?

"Eh, don't worry about it", I say, trying to reassure him. "Who needs points when you have mad skills?" This manages to bring a slight smile out of him before he slaps the roof of my car and walks back to his own stall.

"Repairs are all finished! Get on back out there, bro!"

Taking Sporky's cue, I flip my visor back down, and pull out of our garage stall, ready to show what I'm truly capable of.

Luckily for me, I merge right behind a pack of cars, enabling me to get to full speed a lot sooner. I'm able to charge right up to the back of the 78 and give him a more "proper" bumpdraft. He heads to the low line, though, hanging me out to dry. I'm able to pull back up to the 18, though, and I get a nice push from what appears to be the 02. After my second lap back on the track, I get a transmission from Sporky.

"Dude!"

"What?"

"You just set the fastest time of the day!"

Whoa. I know I expected us to be fast, but fastest time of the day already? Shocking. Seems like they'll know my name a lot quicker than expected… Maybe it'll shut up some of those critics who say I don't have a chance in hell too.

As my lap count continues to grow, so does my pack. My spotter is telling me we have about 10 to 15 cars in this group. My nerves are racing as fast as my car now, since I know all too well what can happen when these large, tight packs come together at almost 200 miles per hour.

I'm ahead of all these others for the moment, but I can feel my tires going away. As I enter turn one, I slide up the track.

"Three wide, you're on the outside", my spotter tells me.

Lovely.

As I glance over to my left as much as I can, I can tell that I'm getting freight-trained on the outside. A few have already slid over in front of me. The panic light in my mind is flashing faster and faster until I get this piece of news from the spotter.

"98 and 32 behind ya. Gonna help ya out."

Phew. Thought I had a little reason to be worried, but all is fine.

Or so I thought.

It appears I relaxed a little too much, as I accidentally bump the 37 car. He swerves into the outside retaining wall, and begins to spin in front of me. I try to avoid him, but no luck, as he spins into my side, and sends me around. I start getting hit from all angles, including a stiff shot to my driver side door from the 99 car. After that, I stop the car on the apron.

"Dude! You ok!? Say something!"

"Yeah, I'm cool. No need to be so dramatic, Sporky." I say, knowing I'm gonna need a lot of aspirin later tonight from that last shot.

I finally get the car rolling and my bearings straight, when all of a sudden, I feel another hit on my passenger side.

"Looks like someone isn't very happy with ya."

Another hit, and my spotter tells me it's the 37, Cale Gale.

"What's his problem?"

"He apparently didn't like that little lapse of judgment you had back there."

Again, he slams into the side of my car, harder than before.

"That's it. Time for this asshole to find out why they call me 'Avenger'"!

I drop back behind him, then swing to the other side, and spin him up into the 36 car. After that, I drop back down to the apron and finally attempt to bring this busted up machine back to the pits.

But Mr. Gale has other plans.

He somehow catches me on pit row, and tries to spin me out. I slow down a little, to let him pass me, then slam him into the infield grass. I see the 37's pitsign ahead, so I decide to pay a little visit to the crew over there…

A few hours later, I'm finally back in my motorcoach, trying to heal up. Seems that last wreck did more damage to me than originally thought. My head is splitting, and I swear, I think I've broken a rib or three. I hear knocking at the door. Lovely. The press is back again. After finishing on top of the speed charts and the incident with Cale, it seems I've become the flavor of the week.

"No more interviews!" I yell, which causes my chest to become engulfed with pain.

"Dude, it's us!"

Heh, a "cheering-up" community, as it were. Sporky rounded up Kevin and Jack.

"Ah, ok. Door's open, guys." I reply, not moving from my futon as they file in.

"Doin' ok?" Jack asks as he walks over.

"Do you want the honest answer? Or do you want me to keep my reputation intact?" I say with a soft chuckle. From there, the four of us spend the rest of the evening just chillin' and joking around, mostly at my expense.

After such a rough afternoon, it's nice to just relax like this with my peeps.

Despite the drama that happened earlier, it feels like I'm really gonna enjoy this little career path I'm on…

And it all starts next week. My very first NASCAR race, here at Daytona.

The Shootout.