[Yes, I know that the IMSA VP does not work like this. Yes, I have driven rally cars. Enjoy the story.]

You’re not _really_ a rally racer. Well, you could be, but it’s nothing like how it was in the 80’s. Too much safety. Not enough speed. It’s why you race for IMSA VP, where they have a million useless sponsors and’ll take anyone who wants a big silver trophy and can drive a fancy car.

Some people call it nominative determinism, but you just call it being born into the profession. Rally the sometimes-rally car driver. Fun name, even though everyone thinks you're lying when you introduce yourself, and when you get coffee, the barista always spells your name as “Raleigh.” But enough about you, more about your failed professional racing career.

Red Bull won’t take you. McLaren won’t take you. You’ve never gotten a chance to race a Mustang, no matter how much the muscle car aesthetic appeals to you. They say it’s because you’re not good enough for those big names- but oh, Rally, you know it’s them that ain’t good enough for you. These cars are like the pretty boys of the auto industry. _You_ drive indie. You don’t need a big name for people to pay attention. All you need is four wheels, duct tape, and a V8 engine.

Thing is, you’ve never had a navigator. No buddies, just you and your frankly absurd ability to drive stick. Maybe that’s one of the real reasons no brands have ever picked you up.

_Never did like working with others. Always did the least on group projects, you know?_

_Ma, none of them like me. None of ‘em wanna like me._

You move faster with nobody slowing you down, you tell yourself.

It’s at the Boston course when you finally(and forcefully) get paired with a navigator. His name’s Dallas, which is a little silly, because Dallas is a city in Texas, your hometown. You never thought it could be a name.

Dallas used to race for Ford, a car that looked like it was clad in silver armor with two pretty blue racer stripes running from the hood to the rear bumper. It was a Mustang GT4, he tells you, his dream car, ‘til he crashed the damn thing on a hairpin corner and Ford stopped paying him.

_I’ve never had a big sponsorship,_ you say, while you watch the other PR teams do promo shoots on the track as the sun goes down.

_You’ll get one sooner or later, _Dallas replies, flicking an ant off the guardrail._ You seem like a Yamaha kinda guy._

You laugh. _Is that a compliment?_

He smiles. _Depends on whether you ride motorcycles or play the piano._

You lose your first race together in a yellow GT3 Mustang with no pit crew. Then you lose the next, in Detroit. And the next. And the one after that. So far this season, you’ve only won four out of 10 races with two more to go. Compared to others, it really shouldn’t be that bad. Some drivers haven’t won _any_ races- Dallas tells you as such. 

_Hey. Listen. That Chevy driver hasn’t gotten past ninth place for the last six races. We’ll be alright._

_Dally, we don’t drive for Chevy._

You want to blame Dallas for each lost race, each third place begrudgingly accepted, each step not taken towards the championship at Daytona beach. You don’t talk to him, you won’t call your parents, you switch hotel rooms. You start to consider calling up a replacement driver, as sickening as that thought might be.

Then, you get a car swap. Ford, apparently, has had a change of heart.

You meet the Dark Horse in race 11. Two golden racer stripes, glimmering black paint- it’s the prettiest car you or Dallas have ever seen in your damn lives.

It's a battle consisting of aching muscles, Dallas yelling directions until the speakers in your helmet start clipping, and defending first position like the car was gonna explode if you fell behind. But when Dallas anticipates a turn that could’a given you whiplash if you had half a second less to react, you start to let yourself smile.

One day of celebration is all you get, a day filled with champagne and laughter and a nice hotel room. The next race is at the same course, so you're glad you and Dallas can revel in the liberty of not having to catch a 3 AM flight the next morning.

Now it’s tomorrow afternoon. You’ve just won race 12. Everyone is roaring praise around you as you cling to Dallas with your helmets pressed together, the smell of ruined, burnt tires sharp in your nose and the taste of salt on your tongue. You can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears.

It’s a two hour flight to Daytona.

But all you need is four wheels, a V8 engine, and a navigator whose name is a city in Texas.