His mom called him JoJo as a kid, she said he used to be afraid of everything. Maybe that’s his motivation for getting in the car - his drive to drive: To conquer the fear, to assault natural order, to drive faster than should be possible, and to fly without wings.

If you’re like me, and therefore not his mom, you know him as Jordan. A nice kid from Brea, he’s an eternal frat boy, blonde, with an athletic build and undeniably magnetic personality. One of two rookies in the league, he’s simultaneously a sponsorless underdog, and one of the NHRA’s biggest hopes. Inexperienced, but determined - he’s the only driver to work on his own car.

His crew comprises of road warriors: somehow both accomplished engineers and seemingly celebrated carnival workers. They live modestly, they devote themselves to the track, and they enjoy the monotony of it all. They smoke cigarettes, they talk shit, and they work with absolute precision and speed. Orchestrated chaos.

The racing all happens in a jolt, as the sound of thunder crashes down, vibrating to your core. Immediately your ear drums will never be the same. 

In an instant the car is halfway down the track, the driver clenching the wheel to keep the car straight. You look on, and assuming the car makes it off the starting line, celebrations ensue. Three seconds are all that passes before the parachutes deploy (because breaks alone can’t do the job).

Except, that’s not how it really occurs. You’re too struck by the sound to witness any of it. Too focused on trying to breath through the fumes. As soon as the car explodes down the track you’re left with tears in your eyes and a burning sensation in your nose.

Piece by piece they dismantle the car, clean the parts, talk more shit, weld the frame, reassemble, smoke more cigarettes, and drive it again.