Art of Racing in the Rain, The

by Garth Stein

  She gave me a dismissive look and turned her attention toward Denny.

  “Don’t,” he said, sleepily.

  “Shhh,” she soothed. “It’s all good.”

  I have faith. I will always have faith in Denny. So I have to believe what she did to him was without his consent, without his knowledge. He had nothing to do with it. He was a prisoner of his body, which had no more energy, and she took advantage of him.

  Still, I could no longer stand by and watch. I’d been in a position to prevent the demon from destroying Zoë’s toys, and I had failed. I could not fail this new test. I barked sharply, aggressively. I growled, I snapped, and Denny suddenly awakened; his eyes popped open, and he saw the naked girl and he leapt away from her.

  “What the hell?” he shouted.

  I continued to bark. The demon was still in the room.

  “Enzo!” he snapped. “That’s enough!”

  I stopped barking, but I kept my eye on her in case she were to assault him once again.

  “Where are my pants?” Denny asked frantically, standing on the bed. “What were you doing?”

  “I love you so much,” she said.

  “I’m married!”

  “It’s not like it’s having sex,” she said.

  And she crawled onto the bed, reaching for him, so I barked again.

  “Make the dog go away,” she said.

  “Annika, stop!”

  Denny grabbed her wrists; she squirmed playfully.

  “Stop!” he shouted, jumping off the bed, grabbing his sweatpants from the floor, and pulling them on quickly.

  “I thought you liked me,” Annika said, her mood abruptly darkening.

  “Annika—”

  “I thought you wanted me.”

  “Annika, put this on,” he said, holding out her robe. “I can’t talk to a fifteen-year-old nude woman. It’s not legal. You shouldn’t be here. I’ll take you home.”

  She clutched the robe to herself.

  “But, Denny…”

  “Annika, please, put on the robe.”

  Denny tightened the strings on his sweatpants.

  “Annika, this isn’t happening right now. This isn’t something that happens. I don’t know why you thought—”

  “You!” she wailed and she started crying. “You flirted with me all week. You teased me. You kissed me.”

  “I kissed you on the cheek,” Denny said. “It’s normal for relatives to kiss on the cheek. It’s called affection, not love.”

  “But I love you!” she howled, and then she was in an all-out crying fit, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth contorted. “I love you!” she kept saying over and over. “I love you!”

  Denny was trapped. He wanted to console her, but whenever he moved closer, she dropped her hands, which were clutching the crumpled robe to her chest, and suddenly her massive breasts, heaving with grief, were exposed to him and he had to retreat. This happened several times, like a funny toy, a monkey with cymbals or something. He approached to comfort her, she dropped her hands, her breasts shot out at him, and he flew back. It’s possible I was witnessing a living interpretation of an antique pornographic penny bank, similar to one I saw in a movie called The Stunt Man, which depicted a bear copulating with a girl on a swing.

  Finally, Denny had to put a stop to it.

  “I’m going to leave the room,” he said. “You will put on the robe and make yourself decent. When you’re ready, come into the living room, and we can discuss it further.”

  And he turned around and marched away. I followed. And then we waited. And we waited. And we waited.

  Finally she came out wearing the robe, her eyes swollen with tears. She didn’t say a word, but she went straight to the bathroom. A few moments later, she emerged wearing her clothes.

  “I’ll take you home,” Denny said.

  “I called my father,” Annika said, “from the bedroom.”

  Denny froze. I suddenly sensed apprehension in the room.

  “What did you tell him?” he asked.

  She looked at him for a long time before she answered. If her intention was to make him anxious, it worked.

  “I told him to come pick me up,” she said. “The bed is too uncomfortable here.”

  “Good,” Denny sighed. “Good thinking.”

  She didn’t respond, but continued to stare at him.

  “If I gave you the wrong impression, I’m sorry,” Denny said, looking away. “You’re a very attractive woman, but I’m married and you’re so young. This isn’t a viable…”

  He trailed off. Words not spoken.

  “Affair,” she said, firmly.

  “Situation,” he whispered.

  She picked up her handbag and her duffel and walked to the foyer. We could all see the headlights when they appeared in front of the house. Annika threw open the door and jogged down the walk to the street. Denny and I watched from the doorway as she tossed her bags in the back of the Mercedes, climbed into the front seat. Her father, in his pajamas, waved and then drove away.

  26

  That year we had a cold spell in each winter month, and when the first warm day of spring finally arrived in April, the trees and flowers and grasses burst to life with such intensity that the television news had to proclaim an allergy emergency. The drugstores literally ran out of antihistamines. The pharmaceutical companies—those who profit from the misery of others—could have asked for no greater income-generating scenario than a cold, wet winter full of flu shots and NyQuil, followed by a hot spring and record-breaking pollen counts. (I believe that people were not so allergic to their environment until they began polluting themselves and their world with so many drugs and toxins. But then, nobody asked me.) So while the rest of the world was focused on the inconvenience of hay fever, the people in my world had other things to do: Eve continued with the inexorable process of dying, Zoë spent too much time with her grandparents, and Denny and I worked at slowing the beating of our hearts so we wouldn’t feel so much pain.

  Still, Denny allowed for an occasional diversion, and that April, one presented itself. He had gotten a job offer from one of the racing schools he worked for: they had been hired to provide race car drivers for a television commercial, and they asked Denny to be one of the drivers. The racecourse was in California, a place called Thunderhill Raceway Park. I knew it was happening in April because Denny talked about it quite a bit; he was very excited. But I had no idea that he planned to drive himself there, a ten-hour trip. And I had even less of an idea that he planned on taking me with him.

  Oh, the joy! Denny and me and our BMW, driving all day and into the evening like a couple of banditos running from the law, like partners in crime. It had to be a crime to lead such a life as we led, a life in which one could escape one’s troubles by racing cars!

  The drive down wasn’t very special: the middle of Oregon is not noted for its scenic beauty, though other parts of Oregon are. And the mountain passes in northern California were still somewhat snowy, which made me cringe with the memory of Annika and how she had taken advantage of Denny. Luckily, the snow of the Siskiyous was confined to the shoulders of the highway, and the road surface was bare and wet. And then we fell out of the sky and into the verdant fields north of Sacramento.

  Stunning. Absolutely stunning, the vastness of a world so intense with growth and birth, in the season of life between the dormant winter and the baking heat of summer. Vast, rolling hills covered with newly sprung grass and great swaths of wildflowers. Men working the land in their tractors, churning the soil, releasing a heady brew of smells: moisture and decay, fertilizer and diesel fumes. In Seattle we live among the trees and the waterways, and we feel we are rocked gently in the cradle of life. Our winters are not cold and our summers are not hot and we congratulate ourselves for choosing such a spectacular place to rest our heads and raise our chickens. But around the Thunderhill Raceway Park, spring is spring! There is no better evidence of the season.

  And the track. Rel
atively new, well cared for, challenging with twists and elevation changes and so much to look at. The morning after we arrived, Denny took me jogging. We jogged the entire track. He was doing it to familiarize himself with the surface. You can’t really see a track from inside a race car traveling at one hundred fifty miles per hour or more, he said. You have to get out and feel it.

  Denny explained to me what he was looking for. Bumps in the pavement that might upset one’s suspension. Visible seams that he might use as braking zone markers or turn-in points. He touched the pavement at the apex of the turns and felt the condition of the asphalt—were the small stones worn smooth? Could he find better grip slightly off the established racing line? And there were tricks to the camber of certain turns, places where the track appeared level from inside a car but were actually graded ever so slightly—usually by design to allow rainwater to run off the track and not puddle dangerously.

  After we had traveled the entire track and studied all three miles and fifteen turns, we returned to the paddock. Two large semi trucks had arrived. Several men in racing-crew uniforms erected tents and canopies, and laid out an elaborate food service, while other men unloaded six beautifully identical Aston Martin DB5 automobiles, the kind made famous by James Bond. Denny introduced himself to a man who carried a clipboard and walked with the gait of someone in charge. His name was Ken.

  “Thanks for your dedication,” Ken said, “but you’re early.”

  “I wanted to walk the track,” Denny explained.

  “Feel free.”

  “I already did, thanks.”

  Ken nodded and looked at his watch.

  “It’s too early for race engines,” he said, “but you can take your street exhaust out if you want. Just keep it sane.”

  “Thanks,” Denny said, and he looked at me and winked.

  We went over to a crew truck, and Denny caught the arm of a crew member.

  “I’m Denny,” he said. “One of the drivers.”

  The man shook his hand and introduced himself as Pat.

  “You’ve got time,” he said. “Coffee is over there.”

  “I’m going to take my Bimmer out for a few easy laps. Ken said it was okay. I was wondering if you had a tie-down I could borrow.”

  “What do you need a tie-down for?” Pat asked.

  Denny glanced at me quickly, and Pat laughed.

  “Hey, Jim,” he called to another man. “This guy wants to borrow a tie-down so he can take his dog for a joy ride.”

  They both laughed, and I was a little confused.

  “I have something better,” the Jim guy said. He went around to the cab of the truck and returned a minute later with a bedsheet.

  “Here,” he said. “I can always wash it at the hotel if he shits himself.”

  Denny told me to get in the front seat of his car and sit, which I did. They wrapped the sheet over me, pressing me to the seat, leaving only my head sticking out. They somehow secured the sheet tightly from behind.

  “Too tight?” Denny asked.

  I was too excited to reply. He was going to take me out in his car!

  “Take it easy on him until you see if he has a stomach for it,” Pat said. “Nothing worse than cleaning dog puke out of your vents.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “My dog used to love it.”

  Denny walked around to the driver’s side. He took his helmet out of the backseat and squeezed it onto his head. He got in the car and put on his seat belt.

  “One bark means slower, two means faster, got it?”

  I barked twice, and that surprised him and Pat and Jim, who were both leaning in the passenger window.

  “He wants to go faster already,” Jim said. “You’ve got yourself a good dog there.”

  The paddock at Thunderhill Raceway Park is tucked between two long parallel straights; the rest of the course fans out from the paddock area like butterfly wings. We cruised very slowly through the hot pit area and to the track entrance.

  “We’re going to take it easy,” Denny said, and off we went.

  Being on a track was a new experience for me. No buildings, no signs, no sense of proportion. It was like running through a field, gliding over a plain. Denny shifted smoothly, but I noticed he drove more aggressively than he did on the street. He revved the car much higher, and his braking was much harder.

  “I’m finding my visuals,” he explained to me. “Turn-in points, braking. Some guys drive more by feel. They get in a rhythm and trust it. But I’m very visual. It makes me feel comfortable to have references. I already have dozens of reference points on this track even though I’ve never driven it, seven or eight specific things I’ve noted on each turn from our track walk.”

  Around the turns we went. He noted his apexes and exits for my benefit. Down the straights we picked up speed. We weren’t going very fast, maybe sixty, but I really felt the speed around the turns when the tires made a hollow, ghostly sound, almost like an owl. I felt special, being with Denny on the racetrack. He had never taken me on a track before. I felt sure and relaxed; being held firmly to the seat was comforting. The windows were open, and the wind was fresh and cold. I could have driven like that all day.

  After three laps he looked over at me.

  “Brakes are warm,” he said. “Tires are warm.”

  I didn’t understand what he was getting at.

  “You want to try a hot lap?”

  A hot lap? I barked twice. Then I barked twice again. Denny laughed.

  “Sing out if you don’t like it,” he said, “one long howl.” He firmly pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  There is nothing like it. The sensation of speed. Nothing in the world can compare.

  It was the sudden acceleration, not Jim’s bedsheet, that kept me pinned to the seat as we gathered speed and flew down the first straight.

  “Hold on, now,” Denny said, “we’re taking this at speed.”

  Fast, we went, hurtling, faster, I watched the turn approach, scream at us until we were practically past it and then he was off the accelerator and hard on the brakes. The nose of the car dove and then I was thankful for the sheet because without it I would have been thrown against the windshield. Slow, slow, slow the brake pads held the rotors as tightly as they could, burning from the friction, the heat being thrown off the calipers, the energy dissipating. And then he cranked the wheel left and so smoothly but without pause he was back on the gas and we were pushing through the turn, the g-forces shoving us toward the outside of the car but the tires holding us in place, they were not hooting, those tires, no. The owl was dead. The tires were screeching, they were shouting, howling, crying in pain, ahhhhh! He relaxed on the wheel at the apex and the car drifted toward the exit and he was full on the gas and we flew—flew!—out of that turn and toward the next and the next after that. Fifteen turns at Thunderhill. Fifteen. And I love them all equally. I adore them all. Each one is different, each with its own particular sensation, but each so magnificent! Around the track we went, faster and faster, lap after lap.

  “You okay?” he asked, looking over at me as we sped nearly one hundred twenty miles per hour down the back straight.

  I barked twice.

  “I’m gonna use up my tires if you keep me out here,” he said. “One more lap.”

  Yes, one more lap. One more lap. Forever, one more lap. I live my life for one more lap. I give my life for one more lap! Please, God, please give me one more lap!

  And that lap was spectacular. I lifted my eyes as Denny instructed. “Big eyes, far eyes,” he said to me. Those reference points, the visuals he had identified when we walked the track, moved by so quickly it took me some time to realize that he was not even seeing them. He was living them! He had programmed the map of the racecourse into his brain and it was there like a GPS navigational system; when we slowed for a turn, his head was up and looking at the next turn, not at the apex of the turn we were driving. The turn we were in was simp
ly a state of existence for Denny. It was where we were, and he was happy to be there, and I could feel the joy emanating from him, the love of life. But his attention—and his intention—was far ahead, to the next turn and the one beyond that. With every breath he adjusted, he reassessed, he corrected, but he did it all subconsciously; I saw, then, how in a race he could plot now to pass another driver three or four laps later. His thinking, his strategies, his mind; all of Denny unfolded for me that day.

  After a cool-down lap, we pulled into the paddock and the entire crew was waiting. They surrounded the car and their hands released me from my harness and I leapt to the tarmac.

  “Did you like it?” one of them asked me and I barked, Yes! I barked and jumped high in the air.

  “You were hauling ass out there,” Pat said to Denny. “We’ve got a real racer on the set.”

  “Well, Enzo barked twice,” Denny explained with a laugh. “Two barks means faster!”

  They laughed, and I barked twice again. Faster! The feeling. The sensation. The movement. The speed. The car. The tires. The sound. The wind. The track surface. The apex. The exit. The shift point. The braking zone. The ride. It’s all about the ride!

  There is nothing more to tell about that trip because nothing could possibly be more incredible than those few hot laps that Denny gave to me. Until that moment I thought that I loved racing. I intellectualized that I would enjoy being in a race car. Until that moment I didn’t know. How could anyone know until he sits in a car at race speed and takes turns at the limits of adhesion, brakes a hair from lockup, the engine begging for the redline?

  I floated through the rest of our trip. I dreamed of going out again at speed, but I suspected—as it turned out, correctly so—that more track time for me was unlikely. Still. I had my memory, my experience I could relive in my mind again and again. Two barks means faster. Sometimes, to this day, in my sleep I bark twice because I am dreaming of Denny driving me around Thunderhill, the two of us laying down a hot lap, and I bark twice to say faster. One more lap, Denny! Faster!