Racers: Apollo's Story

by Tyler Tognetti

  Apollo gave the coach a thumbs-up, indicating he would pull out and make his way to the starting grid. He slowly let off the brake pedal, the humming reactor pushing the car forward with absolutely no effort. The red Racer pulled out of the garage, the golden sun reflecting off the speckled paint. He followed the white line from his garage to the starting grid, much the same way an airplane taxi’s. All the other pilots had pulled up onto the track, finding their spots. He looked from car to car as he continued driving. He recognized many of them. These were some of the biggest names in the sport. The worst part was him pulling up by himself, no teammate. He felt the stares of people wondering if he was actually supposed to be in the race. Things were bad enough with him being the first Novice ever to drive in the Tabula Rasa. The resentment toward him was tangible as he made it to the grid and drove past others to find his spot.

  “Keep calm, Apollo,” a similar voice in the helmet reassured him, “These guys are professionals but remember; there’s a reason you’re the first Novice to be invited by the BRQ. Just focus, keep it together, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Says the guy in a nice, air conditioned Coach Hut.” Apollo retorted. The desert heat had immediately begun to cause problems for him. The Racer was fine, but his suit was made of a thick, flame resistant material that wasn’t known for breathing well. The beads of sweat already started to form on his face and around his body. The nervous pilot took in the scene. Pilots all around him sitting in their Racers were making final preparations. The crowd in the grand-stand had begun to cheer for their favorites. Heat waves rose up from the pavement in front of the cars, the bright orange sky looked down on them condescendingly, trying to cook them where they sat. It was summer in the desert, not the best of conditions. It was, however, intentional. The location and timing of the Tabula Rasa was all part of the challenge. Not only was the track itself very narrow and difficult to stay on top of, but the mental game was just as demanding. Resisting the heat, fighting the competition and enduring the tedious hours that lay ahead of them was all part of it. The event was designed to tire the pilots, and when a pilot began to fatigue he would begin to make mistakes. History showed that very few wrecks occurred during the first half of the 100 laps. Once the race was over halfway accomplished, however, conditions would get lethal.

  Suddenly a blaring sound echoed across the track and over the grand-stands. Five minutes. Only five minutes till the race started and the rules went out the window. Of course, rules had been established but the pros knew full well how to exploit the loopholes. They would go after the weakest, first. That meant Apollo. Each of the twelve teams had two Racers on the track, except for Team Gourami. 23 cars. 100 laps. 20% fatality rate. That meant one out of every five of the pilots would either be in the hospital or dead by the end of the race. Stakes were high, but that was the point.

  Apollo had found his position on the grid, near the back of the pack but not last. His previous runs in the Silver Circuit had granted him enough Pilot Points to give him that advantage, at least. All around him Racers were humming in anticipation. So much nuclear power concentrated in such a small area. Apollo chuckled at the insanity of it. The brand new Union of States had been so quick to develop nuclear power for more universal use that some bugs still needed to be worked out. Once the downsize of reactors had been accomplished, one of the first things they did was try to throw them in cars. It worked surprisingly well. Of course, that meant the racing world had to have it. Top manufacturers paid very handsome sums for the refined technology, the result of which was what you saw on the Tabula Rasa and other Racer circuits. Other forms of racing had become obsolete almost overnight. Rather than measuring 0-60 times like they used to, it became 0-150. Power to weight ratios skyrocketed, as did the rate of casualties on the track. It was still a relatively young concept - harnessing nuclear power to race. Racing theory had to be completely overhauled. Tracks had to be redesigned. More to the point, drivers had to get braver. A distinction had arisen between the traditional racecar drivers and the ones crazy enough to use the new stuff. Because of this, the crazy ones got the name “pilot”. It seemed more fitting. The cars became known as Racers, since that was their only purpose in life.

  Apollo spotted another pilot in a light grey Racer staring at him from behind his helmet’s visor. The other pilot looked away and seemed to turn their attention to the screen in front of them. Apollo shook his head. He knew the level of danger he was in. Pilots were reckless, unpredictable people. That’s part of what made the Racer sport so dangerous. He had practically shamed all the other people on that grid just by being there. They all met the appropriate 2nd and 1st Class qualifications. He didn’t. They all had another teammate to back them up. He didn’t.

  “Ya know, Coach,” Apollo said into his helmet communicator, “I think my chances of casualty are a bit higher than that 20%. Whaddya think?”

  “I think if you keep thoughts like that in your little pilot brain there’s no way you’ll even finish, let alone win.”

  “Oh c’mon man, I’m just being real here. I’m a piece of live bait stuck in a tank of piranhas.”

  “Well, I can’t really argue with you. It’s not going to be easy, so you may as well become the hunter. I can’t do much good from here, so you’re kind of on your own.”

  Apollo smiled to himself. Mr. Gourami always tried to be the soft spoken, positive thinker of the team. But that was no good now. Apollo really was on his own out on that track.

  Everything was set. All Racers sat in their appropriate positions, holding their respective pilots. Officials took their positions around the track. The blood-red light that would indicate the start of the race glared back at all the competitors, daring them to move forward. Only 60 seconds separated them from the most intense race of their careers. Grand stand music was playing to arouse the tens of thousands of spectators.

  Apollo focused. His hands were on the small steering wheel, gripping it through his racing gloves. The HUD system integrated into his helmet displayed the real-time telemetry of his Racer, giving him optimal control. He stared at the red light, waiting for it to flash. It would flash three times, very quickly, then turn off completely to indicate the race had started. Those flashes were all he wanted at that moment. Fortunately for Apollo, he got his wish.

  The red light began flashing with dramatic repetition. Apollo slammed his foot down on the accelerator pedal. During the time it would take for the light to finish all three flashes, the Racer computer would register the level of input measured by the pedal, and order the consequential power from the nuclear reactor. That power would be converted from nuclear to magnetic, then to rotary motion as it drove the Variable Ratio transmission. The torque from the gearbox would then crank the rest of the power train. The result of all this was two smoky rooster tails being spewed back from the foot-wide rear tires. Time stopped for Apollo. He felt the power that sat unwillingly at his command. The entire vehicle tensed under him, waiting for the tires to get traction. Then it happened.

  The tires caught the asphalt. The immense torque felt like it would rip the Racer to pieces. The crowd, opponents, heat, drama, none of it mattered anymore. Apollo lost his breath as he was launched to over 150mph in close to a second. Colossal G forces threatened to crush his body. During the time of acceleration breathing was not an option. The world seemed to blur by, but Apollo couldn’t tell if that was due to the speed or the acceleration squeezing his eyes out of focus.

  The Tabula Rasa was comprised of many challenges, the first stretch being the introductory one. As a Platinum Circuit rule, tracks were not allowed to have more than a quarter mile for the starting straight. It would result in too much time spent in acceleration, disorienting the pilots and causing unnecessary wrecks at the very beginning of races. This track, however, didn’t obey the rules. It didn’t care how many titles you had under your belt. It didn’t care if you were Novice or 1st Class. It did everything in its power to fight against you, hence its half-mile
starting straight. This allowed the Racers to reach full speed at 320 miles per hour well before the first corner.

  After only a couple of seconds since the start of the race, Apollo found himself being shot down the track. The G forces finally relaxed on him as his Racer hit its maximum speed. He could see other pilots having difficulty keeping their vehicles under control. The first corner was approaching quickly, requiring him to delicately hit the carbon-magnetic brakes. Slam them too hard at this speed and the torque would simply destroy the braking system.

  Apollo took the left hand turn, surrounded by other Racers. He searched for any opening in the pack that he could exploit to get himself one step closer to first. Right hand turn coming up. A light blue Racer right next to him pulled back to block someone behind him. Apollo took the chance, cruising around the turn on the inside. The reactor behind him hummed with ease as it propelled him around each corner and through each straight. The brakes are what took the main beating, even though they were a state-of-the-art combination of magnetic and traditional systems. Very few materials can tolerate the energy generated by stopping a 320 mph carbon fiber vehicle.

  As the course flew by, Apollo was pleased with himself. So far, most everyone had left him alone. The difficulty of the track seemed to be occupying the pilots’ minds. He used the opportunity to work his way up the pack and hopefully stay there. “Hey Coach!” he yelled into his helmet, “Where we at?”

  “You’ve got a good spot right now, looks like you’re sitting in 7th. I’d say keep that until everyone takes the pit lap. Looks like your tires are nearly shot already and it’s only the 14th lap.”

  “If I push any harder I might lose one.”

  “Exactly. We want to avoid that if possible. So ease up, and just follow the guy in front of you.”

  Apollo agreed. He locked on to the Racer in front of him and stayed there. He made sure to stay at least 20 feet away, as the airflow disturbance caused by the car in front of him would disrupt his own car’s downforce. When moving at an average of 250 mph, downforce was pretty much the only thing keeping the car from bouncing all over the place. It was crucial. It also served as the most easily abused loophole to the no-bumping rule. All that needed to be done to wreck another pilot was to pull right in front of him. The laws of aerodynamics would take care of the rest; you’d never have to touch them. Apollo knew this, and knew that since he was an underdog he’d have to be extra careful. Keeping track of the 360-degree view around your vehicle was crucial. If you leave a blind spot open it very well could be game over.

  So on and on the race went. Apollo felt he had a strong grasp of the track at this point, and he used that to his advantage. Something almost seemed off; no major wrecks had occurred and everyone was still running in the pack. Where was the aggression? The infamous danger at the core of this track’s legacy? Apollo would soon find out.

  Lap 50 was fast approaching. Two pit laps and several dramatic place-changes happened but nothing extreme to speak of. Apollo was running in 10th, employing a strategy of waiting till the last 5 laps to make a move. So far it had worked.

  Standing in the Coach Hut designated for his team, watching the race, Mr. Gourami was just as bewildered. He had thought optimistically about this race but never figured it would be so tame. The news must be furious about this he thought to himself. No post-race story frenzy would happen if this kept up. “How we doin’ in there, Apollo?”

  “Oh, we doin’. Tell ya what though, I’m melting in this suit. We gotta find a way to cool these things off.”

  “Relax, that’s part of the challenge.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You know what’s going on, though? I mean this ain’t exactly the crapstorm it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Yeah, I know. Not sure. I’ll let you know if something comes up. But for right now, you need to focus on winning this thing. Second half is coming up, everyone’s gonna start getting tired and desperate.”

  “Roger that. I’m one of ‘em.” Apollo blinked the sweat out of his eyes. He contemplated the endurance required by the old Le Mans drivers. 100 laps in about 4 hours was all he had to do, he couldn’t imagine what 24 hours would be like. Then again, those guys were going a lot slower with a lot less risk. Apollo tried eyeing the competition but it was impossible to discern what the other drivers were experiencing under their darkened helmet visors.

  Apollo’s Racer just crossed over the start line for the 50th time. Finally, halfway. He could start to see why the second half of the race was so difficult. He was exhausted. His leg was sore from switching pedal to pedal. His arms could barely hold the steering wheel now as they’d gone numb from loss of blood flow. The pilot’s main concern, however, was that he’d stopped sweating. The heat was more intense than ever, but he was dehydrated. There was no more water to sweat. This troubled Apollo greatly. The longer he went without water the less concentration he’d be able to invest in the race. He wondered if any of the other pilots were having the same problems.

  Around corner seven of the track on the 50th lap was the first true event. One of the Racers a few spots ahead of him lost its grip when entering the turn. The back tires exploded at the added friction. The car went spinning out of control, taking out the two other Racers next to it. All three went tumbling into the concrete wall, disintegrating as the massive amounts of energy shredded the body work. Apollo got lucky as he flew by, missing a flying spoiler that had gone rogue. He suddenly felt more alert. Three opponents gone instantly. He went from 10th place to 7th in the blink of an eye. His communicator blared in his ear, “Apollo! You alright?”

  “Yeah, Coach. I’m not hit. I’m good.”

  “Thank goodness. I thought that wing got you!” The relief was evident in the coach’s tone.

  “Who were those guys? Two of the Racers were the same color.”

  “Yeah, Team Hammersmith had both their boys making a move for the front when that happened. I don’t know if they’re alive or not. The track crew is working on getting the wreck cleared now.”

  “Damn. That was close.” Apollo suddenly forgot his physical ailments. He had become sedentary and complacent during the first half of the race. That wouldn’t fly any longer. He had to focus or end up in the wall himself.

  The laps continued to roll by. One pilot lost a tire on lap 59, just falling short of the pit lap. He had, however, ruined his front axle, counting him out of the race.

  The pilots became more restless. Heat, dehydration and fatigue were plaguing them all, making them far more aggressive. Cuts were being made all over the place as they tried to take each other’s airflow away. One succeeded on lap 82. Two instant deaths.

  Apollo was having his own problems keeping the space in front of him clear. It wasn’t easy. The ruthless competition was forcing him to take more risks, increasing speed around each corner and not braking till the last second. Survival of the fittest was the only rule that mattered at this point. He had seen two crashes occur right in front of him throughout the race and it was traumatizing. The more the race went on the more he wished he had Casey there to back him up. They worked well together, preventing cut-offs and executing other team maneuvers. Going solo, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to finish. Doubt started to creep into his mind.

  15 laps remained; no more pit stops, only 17 pilots left. Things were getting brutal. Physical contact was being introduced to the race as pilots got even more aggressive. For entertainment purposes, the officials turned a blind eye to such infringements. Mr. Gourami was stuck in the Coach Hut. Apollo really was by himself on this one. He needed help. He couldn’t handle the endless turns, or the endless attempts by his opponents to end his race short. Backing out wasn’t an option, either. Doing so would be like slapping the Board that invited him here in the face. He’d never be allowed to compete again. Forward was the only option.

  “Coach,” Apollo pleaded into his headset, “I need help. There’s still eight guys in front of me and they’re startin’ to work against me.” Each time some
one tried cutting him off he had to hit the brakes, forcing him to forfeit his spot in the pack.

  “Bro, you gotta hang in there,” said a familiar voice.

  Apollo started in surprise. His spirit suddenly lifted, “Casey?”

  “Yeah it’s me. I’m sorry, man, I messed up. Should’ve been there for you.”

  “Dude, I need you out here so bad right now.” The exhaustion in Apollo’s voice was undeniable.

  “I know. But I can help ya out from here, at least. Coach and I been keeping an eye on everyone around you, we think we can get you an opening on the starting straight.”

  “That’s about 30 seconds away, what do you have for me?”

  “See that purplish Racer up and to the left of you?”

  Apollo hit the accelerator as he came out of the turn he was in, “Yeah, I see him.”

  “Okay. We think his front right brake caliper is failing, he keeps favoring the left side of the track more than he should be and can’t keep a straight line when approaching a turn.”

  Apollo smiled. Only Casey could see things like that. “So you want me to cut him off on the left, force him to brake right?”