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“I want a burger.”
Doc looks up from the telemetry and the 4 camera angles on the holoscreens projecting off the front of the chief’s stand. “That’s nice. I want you to pay attention to where you're driving.”
They're in the middle of the Dinoco Lite 350.
“I- I- you don't understand. Like a cheeseburger, Doc. With lettuce and pickles and onion. And that burger sauce…” he whimpers over the radio, like he’s imagining it.
“You’re gonna have to wait. You've got the 30 two lengths off the outside.”
Lightning keeps the 30 behind him, then resumes his pitiful whining. “It’s driving me crazy. I need a burger so bad. Can’t get it out of my head.”
“...Did you skip breakfast?” Sometimes, Lightning gets too nervous to eat on race day. Or the day before. Or the day after. It's a whole thing. If Doc was a softtop, he’d be bald to threads by now, worrying about Lightning.
“No, I just- Can you get me a burger? The next stop we make? So I can stop thinking about it and just race?”
…it's not out of the realm of possibility. Generally, you really don't want to eat anything in the hours leading up to a race- the G-forces will just make you sick. And Lightning already has enough problems with-
“Doc?” his boy says. “Please?”
And logic goes out the gate. “Okay, okay. I'll see what I can do.”
“Make sure there’s cheese. And pickled jalapenos. And it can be a little pink in the middle-”
Doc cuts him off. “I'll wake Mack.” Doc is going to also get hungry if the kid keeps it up, good lord. It's an odd feeling. Doc is singularly focused on the race; his body doesn't understand how a snack break factors into things. Lightning is just weird. Hopefully, there's nothing actually wrong with him, and he genuinely just needs some food.
He turns to Ramone. “Get Mack. Wake him up, and have him fire up the grill. Tell him to make it just the way Lightning likes it.”
Ramone affirms, and turns around to rush off and wake the old Superliner.
One of Mack’s duties as the team’s hauler is manning the grill, keeping everyone topped up so they can focus on work. There's dangerous fuel to measure and heft, tire wear to record and relay, and a carefully calculated race strategy to follow, step by choreographed step. There’s no time on race weekend to stop for lunch; hence, often the hauler feeds everyone. Mack knows exactly what to do.
Sure enough, not twenty minutes later, Mack is pulling into the rear of the pit-stall with a freshly made car-sized cheeseburger on his big fender, nearly oozing with all the weird toppings Lightning likes. “One emergency cheeseburger, just as the doctor ordered,” semitruck says. The posted Cup official looks at the offering quizzically, and then shrugs. It smells delicious- Mack will definitely have to make more before the nights’ end, Doc thinks as his mouth waters.
“Just in time,” Doc thanks Mack. “Luigi!” he barks, “Water duty is a cheeseburger.”
Mack gives Luigi the plate just as Lightning comes down pit lane to get a fresh set of tires.
“We’ve got your food, be ready,” Doc says a few seconds ahead of the pit routine spiel.
Lightning’s face lights up at the sight, and he’s tearing into the burger a quarter of a second before he fully stops moving. He doesn't have time to do anything other than eat, because in twenty seconds, everything is finished: the fuel, tires, and food. Lightning cuts hard back into the lane with a squeal of cold rubber, a trail of grease down his chin as he licks his chops. Not a single pickle was spared.
He gets back into position, and the fast stop puts him restarting in fifth. “Nice work boys,” Doc tells everyone. “Feel better?” he asks Lightning.
“Mm, mmhm,” Lightning says over the radio. “Like, instantly. That was great. Thanks, Doc.”
Doc doesn't relax in relief yet. There’s still the rest of the race to go-
-and Lightning is fine for the remainder of it. He does really well actually, placing a close second just up from third. Apparently, a car adapted to go two-hundred miles an hour in the span of a ten seconds from a dead-stop can handle a high-speed burger just swell.
The press shove microphones to Lightning’s face in pit lane after the track is cleared, demanding for elucidation on his odd strategy. “Did you really eat a cheeseburger mid-race? Why?”
Lightning nods and licks his lips like he wants another. “Burger,” he says, and does not elaborate.