Wheelie the Racer
By: Joey Kim,
Staff Writer
The idea of writing wasn’t an appealing concept to me. No matter what the purpose was, I tended to procrastinate and create it at the last minute. It was like that when I was in high school and even when I was pursuing my course as an undergraduate. However, this time it is different. Unlike those boring and uninteresting assignments that were given in past years, this time it doesn’t have a due date. Not only that, but also it is about what I want to write; it is about my good pal, Harley “Wheelie” McQueen.
I lived in a small town north of Denver, Colorado. Our community was so small that when one tiny incident happens, everybody would find out about it in matter of days. In short, it was like one big family. It is also a place where people don’t come and go. It seems to me like it was established that way. It was rare to see new neighbors just like how it was rare for people to leave. Most people who actually had a chance to leave, still came back, just like my parents. Maybe because of the vibe that the city had was calling them back. So after the uneventful early years of school, came high school.
It was a bright fall day in 1995 when I first saw Wheelie. There was a slight breeze that made it perfect for a game of football or just running. I was headed to my first class as a freshman. In the classroom, there sat, uncomfortably, a kid who I had never seen before. He was sitting in the corner with a cloud and thoughts on his face. I doubted myself if there was really a new kid in town. At the same time, I felt sad for him because nobody moves to this town. When the teacher came in and asked him to introduce himself to the class, he hesitated at first, but he stood up and spoke few words, then sat down. He was just a lanky and relatively short guy who lacked the traits of a socialite.
When lunch time came, with the hospitality of the town, everybody gathered up in a circle and bombarded Wheelie with loads of questions, like they had never seen another human being before. The funny thing about it was that no matter what the question was, he was talking about cars. Just cars, cars, cars - nothing more or less. Everybody eventually lost interest and left, but I was interested enough to stay and talk. He had some weird way of thinking and had theories that only he could understand. However, it all came down to cars. That was the reason I gave him the nickname “Wheelie”, because of his obsession with cars and their wheels. As we got to know each other, he slowly opened up. With some exchange of conversations, about how he moved here and his hobbies, we became friends at the end of the day.
The friendship that was swiftly established with a few conversations continued until we graduated high school and eventually followed us until we went out into society. We left the town, which was the first time for me, and went our separate ways. He went to the racetrack to become a race car driver which was his childhood dream. On the other hand, I went to this nameless college to get a degree that I hadn't even chosen yet. Regardless of where we were, we still kept in touch.
We met up every now then to keep ourselves updated about the lives we were living. Mine was mostly complaining about my grades, professors, and girls. However, for him, it was like an action packed adventure. He told me that he was starting from the bottom of the food chain of the racing world, but he still looked so happy. I was jealous of his problem free life; which was hard to come by.
Time flew until I graduated college with a degree in software engineering, and Wheelie’s first win at a NASCAR championship. He did not stop there. He went all over the country to race, and win more medals and trophies, which added to his collection. According to the newspapers, he was in the golden age of his career; just like that he was the super star of the racing industry. On the other hand, I was in front of my desk 24/7 doing the same work every day with interest that I lost months ago. I was like a mindless robot.
Out of the blue, there was a phone call on a Sunday morning with heavy gray clouds hovering over with droplets pouring from the sky. It was a phone call, which up to this day, I still remember what the nurse had said. After the nurse had broken the news to me, I hung up the phone and quickly turned my television on. There it was, a slippery race track filled with black smoke, which made it hard for cameras to capture. I could see a small blaze over the chain of crashed cars. Among them, I easily noticed a flipped, mostly demolished, car. To think that my friend was in there was, simply terrifying.
People said his death was inevitable. The impact was too much for a man to handle. No matter how it happens, the death of one’s best friend is something that no one should have to go through. It was very hard at first. To think that I lost one of my closest friends, next to my parents, was devastating. What had helped me the most to get over this great tragedy, was the inspiring words, that Wheelie told me the last time we met. He told me, “Doing what you want to do is a privilege that most people don’t have. Luckily enough for me, I found my interest early enough to easily pursue my dream. There will be some hard times for sure; however, my passion is the glue that keeps me together. I know this job might also take my life, but let me tell you this. When I die racing, don’t feel sad. Be happy for me, because I’m sure I was too in the racetrack.”