Chapter 5

Chapter Five

“ T his. Is. Not. A. Game. However, with skill and hard work, you can make the impossible possible.”

Liar.

Colby spoke the words as if they meant something. As if they were true. Too bad hard work and skills only went so far.

She stood in a room full of hopefuls. All women. All driven and wanting their shot to stand at the top of the winner’s podium. All wanting to be her and seemingly hanging on to every word that came out of her mouth. Since Colby’s debut in the premier league, NASCAR had zero shame in using her to promote the sport and to be the face of their once-popular diversity and inclusion programs. Too bad they were full of shit and didn’t use Colby’s experience to make real change. Still, Colby’s workshop was one of the most sought-after events within the entire sport.

Colby would do her part, not for NASCAR, but for all the talented athletes who just needed a shot. Her own entry into the sport had been damned near impossible, but she hoped her experiences would make it easier for those coming up after her.

Every woman in the room was at various career levels, but all professional drivers who hadn’t yet made it up the NASCAR ranks.

While there had been some progress, it was moving at a glacial pace. Colby was still the only woman on the premier circuit and the only Black woman. Crazy. She was an only in two categories. Not unlike most corporations, NASCAR talked a good game when it came to diversity and inclusion, but where the rubber hit the road, their DEI effort was mostly bullshit.

Being the first was no joke. It was tiresome, grueling, and thankless. Colby supposed nobody really wanted to pave the way for inclusion because it came with so many pitfalls and responsibilities separate from the job itself. At the end of the day, Colby just wanted to drive. Still, she played the game. What choice did she have? It was almost impossible to dismiss a winner and winning was the only way to crack glass ceilings and open doors—even if it was only a sliver. She figured that was one of the reasons teams ganged up against her to prevent it.

She sighed but kept her game face on. It was a miracle Colby’s anger, frustration, and rage weren’t on full display. Especially after that bullshit loss at Charlotte. Not to mention the recent shenanigans she’d avoided during her last four races. Lord knew it was bubbling just underneath the surface.

Her Teflon had a big chink in it. She just needed to keep it together long enough to finish her presentation. Colby reminded herself that even though NASCAR thought they were the ringmasters in this circus, it was only because she allowed it. All the posing and smiling for the cameras helped them, but it also helped her. If they were going to use her, Colby would use them right back. Being high-profile led directly to several multi-million-dollar personal endorsements. Her image was on products from makeup to tires and everything in between.

Too bad, none of it had anything to do with her skill as a driver and never translated into sponsorships for the Lockwood organization. The deals she had been able to secure, Colby considered, pseudo sponsorships, even if not official.

Racing was an expensive sport and cost millions, so those very same millions Colby earned from her deals were indirectly re-invested back into her team. While it was frustrating to be seen as a product and not a world-class athlete, Colby had mostly settled it within herself. Mostly .

Some folks said that she had a marketable look. Her skin was a rich, warm caramel-colored hue, and her almond-shaped eyes were so dark they almost looked black. They were striking—exuding a blend of depth and warmth, framed by long lashes, giving them an enchanting allure—and making a lot of folks a lot of money.

However, her new manager had insisted Colby lose some weight and straighten her cascade of natural curls that framed her face, accentuating her high cheekbones and full lips. He believed she’d get more sponsors if she smoothed it out. Colby didn’t have anything against relaxed hair, and she'd worn it that way for most of her career in Washington. But her natural hair was a necessary statement, and she wasn’t changing it.

Today, Colby wasn’t okay with the bullshit. Her nerves were particularly raw since she had just learned that another potential sponsor had declined to represent Lockwood.

Get it together, sis. You’re almost done. Don’t let them see you sweat.

Colby’s voice didn’t betray her and, surprisingly, wasn’t laced with the storm brewing inside her that was a mix of frustration, hurt, and injustice. Instead, Colby kept her cool while speaking her truth. “Racing is not for the faint of heart. We’ve made some progress, but not nearly enough.”

Pfft ... You can’t even measure the progress in a thimble. Don’t choke on your next words.

“There are still small pockets of racism, sexism, and misogyny within our sport. But to be fair, NASCAR is just a microcosm of the rest of the world. I won’t lie...”

No. Not outright lie, but how many half-truths have you already told?

“Racing is a brutal sport, so it’s vital to keep not just your body fit but your mind and spirit too. You’ll need to pull on something stronger than yourself to stay motivated. Whether it’s a higher power, yoga, kickboxing, or something else. You’ll need somewhere to channel that energy constructively.”

“How can you say that when you’ve managed to make it to the top as an elite driver?” Colby searched the crowd for whomever had blurted out the question.

Do I dare answer that with the unvarnished truth?

Colby stared out into hopeful faces, but none looked like hers. Still, she was proud of the women that were there.

Should I give the patented bullshit answer?

Their earnest looks decided for her. Colby veered off from her prepared remarks and decided to give it to them straight.

“Not to sound arrogant, but there is only one of me. My life was a made for a TV movie, and this organization decided to use it for their benefit.

“Like many of you, I grew up in the world of racing. However, unlike most of you, I was mentored by some legends of the sport through my father, the great Cyrus James. A man most of you may not have heard of. He worked with legends like Willy Ribbs, Bill Lester, and even Jimmy Johnson, to name a few. They were all friends of his. If you haven’t heard of my father...I would encourage you to Google him.”

Colby cracked a small smile as her mind went back in time, watching herself as a little girl in a dirty T-shirt, some Chucks, and a pair of worn jeans. Her mother would have much rather she’d taken up dance or music. But, against her wishes, Colby preferred hanging out with her dad and brother at the garage. There was joy and peace there, unlike what she was feeling today. That brought her back to the present and the point of her story. “I think racing in my family is hereditary. I was eager to learn and paid attention to everything. Both what was said and unsaid .

“That passion was instilled in me as a child and carries me through to today. Circling back to my earlier point, you will need to find inspiration from wherever you can to deal with all the isms. ”

“Isms?” someone asked.

“ Yes. Sexism, racism, misogyny, and if you’re a woman of color, let’s throw in misogynoir for kicks and giggles.”

Colby’s presentation was turning into a real conversation. Another woman in the audience raised her hand. “So, you’re saying having that joy as a child and pulling from that is what has kept you going?”

Colby took a moment before answering thoughtfully. “Partly. It helps, but without question the memory of Rodney “The Magician” James is what truly fuels me. For those who don’t know, he should have made history as one of the best drivers this circuit has ever seen. He was without a doubt the best I’ve ever known past or present. He was also my brother.”

The room was full of head nods and sympathetic glances.

Absentmindedly, Colby twisted a small gold band around her pinky finger before turning her determined gaze back to her rapt audience. “Remember when I said that my life is like a made-for-tv movie? Well, Rodney is part of that story. In some ways, I suppose, he was my ticket into this elusive club, and it came at a very high price—his life. He died doing what he loved. Driving for NASCAR. I carry him with me every time I line up.”

“You were robbed of the win at Charlotte.”

“It’s only been a month, and I’m still recovering from that one. Nevertheless, I love this sport. I’m passionate about it and there is nothing else in the world I’d rather do, but I also want to finish the job my brother gave his life to. So, when I say, there is only one Colby James, just know, it doesn’t come from a place of arrogance, but from an incredible sacrifice.”

The room fell silent. Most everyone knew the tragic story of Rodney James. “He is the reason I get up every morning and ignore the death threats, the bullying, and the bullshit.”

Colby allowed time for her words to sink in before speaking again. “It is my greatest hope that your story will be different from mine, and that my experience will make it easier for you to drive up to that starting line and one day stand at the top of the podium. Maybe even challenge me for a win.”

A NASCAR handler walked up to Colby. His body was stiff, and his face was tight as he spoke out over the microphone. “This will conclude our workshop for today.”

Colby was taken aback by his sudden appearance. However, his expression said it all. He was clearly not happy that Colby was a little too honest, which was most likely the reason he ended the presentation early.

Inwardly, she shrugged. Colby was fine with ending early because she was drained. Too bad she wasn’t quite finished for the day.

Colby pasted on a smile and graciously spoke to everyone who came up to her after the session for an autograph or a word. They had paid a pretty penny to hear her speak, and it was the least she could do.

As the room started to thin out, a couple of women were still seated in the back. Something about their glances at one another stood out.

They were having a conversation, but Colby was too far away to make out what was being said. She tried to focus on the women talking to her, but the smirks on those other women’s faces were unsettling.

I’m being ridiculous. Why would they be smirking about me? They could be talking about anything.

“Ms. James, can you sign my magazine?” Colby tore her eyes away from them and returned her full attention to the person standing before her.

At the back of the room, one of the nameless women whispered to the other, “Did you get that?”

The other one nodded. “Yep. Every word. It’s going to make a great headline for our exposé . ‘Colby James: Surviving NASCAR, Their Racism, and the Ugliness of Their Fandom.’”