"I Can't Drive 65"
By Kellyanne Lynch
14 April 2002, 1:50 AM - 16 April 2002, 11:55 AM

Disclaimer: Darrell Waltrip's my father, and Kevin Harvick and Ward Burton are just some guys he knows from work. Tabitha Burton used to baby-sit me when I was a wee one. Now I'm old and grown and writing NASCAR fanfic. Daddy DW's proud of me too. If you believe what I just said, then I recommend you seek out a mental health professional immediately. Coming from a grad student in counseling psych, (and future LMHC), this should scare you. ; ) No, I don't know DW, Harvick, or ANY Burtons, nor have I met them, nor do they condone, endorse, condemn, or even acknowledge this fic. I made up most everything in the fic, except some loose plot details, so don't believe that either. Made in the USA for fine, family entertainment purposes. FOX asks that you do not reproduce, retransmit or distribute this broadcast… I'm just being an idiot now. The name of the fic comes from a Sammy Hagar song, "I Can't Drive 55", which he changed to "I Can't Drive 65" for the NASCAR Full Throttle album, (I love that CD! Has matchbox twenty and Creed on it, TWO of my favourite bands!!!) Okay, I'm done disclaiming.

Summary: A NASCAR fic. DW and Kevin Harvick try to discover once and for all which one is the better driver. Contains brief nudity (I am so kidding).

Author's Note: I have other NASCAR fics. Read them all. What I really wanted to say here is that I am really pleased with how this fic turned out. It's up there with "THE Accident" as my favourite. In fact, I'm thinking it might be up to par with my absolute favourite of my fics, the Red Hot Chili Peppers story "Would You Suffer My Reality?". I don't know yet. I shouldn't make a determination like that when I'm on a writer's high. In two days, I might declare this crap. Just wanted to let y'all know that, for now, I'm really liking it.

Author's Note #2: I actually have another NASCAR story that I wrote before this that I still haven't posted. I decided to post this one first, because it's more timely and because Crew Chief Christy Gordon hasn't given her okay yet to let it out of the garage. When Christy gives me the go, we'll send that fic onto the track.

Dedication: Gas girl gives high fives to the rest of the crew, and smacks front tire changer Budwench29 offside the head for not claiming Harvick as kicking DW's ass in the Martinsville truck race. She SOO lost her chance! Now Harvick will never be a teen model! [This is a particularly odd writer's high]

Rating: PG

* Please e-mail matchbox20orbusted@yahoo.com with questions, comments, theories, complaints, or words of wisdom.

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1: A Speed Junkie's Fix

Martinsville Motor Speedway
13 April 2002

Hissing a sigh through clenched teeth, Kevin Harvick shook his head and stormed away from the NASCAR hauler. He marched away from the reporters and prying eyes outside, and away from the fuming officials and accusing glares inside. Kevin removed his #29 Goodwrench cap and ran his fingers through his dark hair. He replaced the hat, then held his hands out before him. They were trembling. He felt like a junkie without his fix and, in a way, he figured he was. He had this throbbing compulsion to grab somebody by the collar, shove that person against something hard, and beat him until the guy was unrecognisable. A few officials in particular came to mind; Kevin smirked as images of thrashing them wafted through his brain. But he couldn't. That realisation tore into him and forces his smile into a sneer. Junk sickness set in. Growling, Harvick slammed his fist into the bright red Excedrin hauler.

"Hey!" someone exclaimed. Kevin didn't care who. Throwing up his arms, he strode deeper into the infield.

Sunlight danced across the #6 truck in Harvick's garage area. He scowled at the flawless red paint and its sleek, unscathed frame. He marched up to it and thrust his foot into the side.

"Rrr!" he rumbled, laying into another kick. The round side of the number caved, and black streaks marred the right side. Drawing his hands to his waist, Harvick studied the markings. He frowned and furrowed his brow at it. Crouching beside the truck, he lapped the tips of his fingers and scrubbed at the streaks.

"Hey, buddy!"

White sneakers stepped up beside Kevin. Glancing at his side, he followed yellow legs to a yellow torso with the Duck Head logo plastered across it. Further up, a face smiled at him.

Harvick got to his feet, and watched as Darrell Waltrip knocked back a few sips from his water bottle. The veteran Winston Cup driver leaned against the truck and folded his arms across his chest. "NASCAR's done whipping you already, boy?"

Harvick nodded. Grimacing, he sighed, "For now, anyway."

DW returned the grimace. Lowering his head, he wagged it. His eyes widened, his gaze falling to the ground. "It's a shame," he stated, baring his teeth. "A real shame you couldn't a finished that race. You were already driving at double boogity, and you looked ready to make it a triple."

Harvick snorted. He leaned against the truck beside the other, threw up his hands and slapped them to his sides. "I just can't believe NASCAR pulled me out of the race! You know, they parked me from tomorrow's Winston Cup too?"

"Are you serious? That seems a little harsh..."

"Yeah, well they seem to have it in for me, so maybe I should have seen it coming. I just don't know why they're claiming I said that on the radio." Wide, hazel eyes fell upon DW. Darrell raised his head and met with them. "I swear, DW, I never said I was going after Gibbs! He may've been annoying the hell out of me, crawling along like a… like a big moving chicane, but I didn't spin him on purpose!"

DW laid a hand on Harvick's shoulder. Squeezing it, he assured the young driver, "Don't I know it!" He smiled. Kevin looked at the ground, then back at Darrell. "I believe you, buddy."

"You have no idea how good that's sounding right now," Harvick replied, managing a smile. "Seems like everyone else thinks I'm a villain."

"A villain? No!" Removing his hand from the other's shoulder, DW pointed at Kevin and widened his eyes. "But you're a trouble maker! You do know that much, right?"

The corner of Harvick's lips curled. He shrugged.

"You're not Tony Stewart, mind you, but you're getting up there! Starting to act like the boy! You gotta watch that temper of yours, Kevin, especially on them short tracks!" DW wagged his head at the Goodwrench driver. Raising his eyebrows, he added, "Now NASCAR might have it in for you, but you gotta try not to give 'em a reason to nail you with penalties. Just good, clean driving. Got that?"

Heaving a sigh, Harvick closed his eyes and nodded.

DW swatted the other's arm. "Enough with the preaching. I guess I'm just real disappointed we didn't get to really race each other today."

"Yeah," Harvick breathed. A smile broke out over his face. "I was really looking forward to trampling you."

DW snorted. "I would have liked to see you try! You know, I got experience from before you even had teeth! I've been driving since before you were born…"

"Yeah, you've been driving since before asphalt was invented," Kevin snickered. "You and your buddies used to race horse and buggies…"

"You were still driving your sister's Barbie Power Wheels just ten years ago…"

"Hell, buggies weren't even invented when you got started!"

DW narrowed his eyes at the younger driver. "You need to be taught a lesson, boy!" he said, then looked to the ground. His sights locked on his feet for several seconds. His lips stretched, twisting upward. When they formed a smirk, his head shot up. He glared at Harvick, looked side-to-side, then back at Kevin. "Let's go," he whispered. He tiptoed deeper into the garage.

Cocking his head to the side, Kevin stared after DW. He shrugged and followed the older gentleman. Three wide steps, and Harvick was at DW's heels.

A wrench clanged to the concrete floor two blocks over, in Ted Musgrave's garage. DW froze, and Harvick barreled into him.

"Uh!" he grunted, as his forehead smacked into the base of Darrell's skull.

DW whirled around. Wide eyes darted about as his head shot in all directions. He grabbed Harvick's shoulders and shook him. Kevin stiffened, saucer eyes staring into Darrell's.

"Are you really keen on racing me?" Darrell whispered.

Kevin gulped. Taking in a sharp breath, he nodded.

"Now I know I just told you to stay out of trouble, but…" DW swirled his head left to right, and left again. Then locked sights with Harvick, and tightened his grasp on the other's shoulders. "I got an idea."

***

Ward Burton paced onto the porch of his South Boston, Virginia, home, clad in his black collared yellow race suit. Gazing through the screened-in windows, he stared into the stars. He took in a deep breath, and inhaled the night air. Ward smiled. He hopped down the steps of his home, humming a few bars of a tune before breaking into it.

"How do you like me now, now that I'm on my way," he twanged, jingling his car keys in his left hand. "You still think I'm crazy, standing here today…"

Rounding the corner of his house, Ward's feet grinded to a halt. His mouth hung open, and he gaped at his garage, which was wide open.

"Honey?" he called out, squinting into the darkness. Venturing a step forward, he swallowed hard. His keys clinked against his side; his body trembled. With each step, he shook more violently. "Honey?" his voice cracked. He grinded his teeth and tiptoed into the pitch.

Ward held a hand in front of his face. Blinking several times, he willed himself to see it but to no avail. His right hand slid against the wall and fumbled for the light switch. Fingers slipped over the plastic plate and flicked up.

Hazy light spilled across the modest garage. The bulb overhead swung on its chord, casting shadows along Ward's power tools and two automobiles. He squinted at his forest green Dodge Ram and his wife's white Ford F150. Glancing through the windows and around the car, he heaved a sigh.

The breath caught in his throat when he spotted movement in the Dodge. He gasped, his eyes bulging at the masculine silhouette in the driver's seat. The engine hummed to life, and Ward jumped. Landing sideways on his left foot, he stumbled back and fell into a work table. The table and Ward toppled over with a crash.

The ignition of the Ford started up. Ward stared slack-jawed at the vehicles as they shot out of the garage, into the night.

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A/N: The song Ward's singing is a Toby Keith song. I think the title's "How Do You Like Me Now?" CinemaPrincess sings it around the house sometimes; she sounds better than he does. In the spirit of the song, how do you like me now? Whatcha think of this fic? Please review!