Art of Racing in the Rain, The

by Garth Stein

  He started the tape. Ayrton Senna driving the Grand Prix of Monaco in 1984, slicing through the rain in pursuit of the race leader, Alain Prost. Senna would have won that race, had they not stopped it because of the conditions; when it rained, it never rained on Senna.

  We watched the race together without pause, side by side, Denny and me.

  50

  The summer of my tenth birthday came along and there was a sense of balance to our lives, though none of completeness. We still spent alternate weekends with Zoë, who had grown so tall recently, and who never let a moment pass without questioning an assumption or challenging a theory or offering an insight that made Denny smile with pride.

  My hips had healed poorly from my accident, but I was determined not to cost Denny any more money, as I had at the animal hospital that night. I pushed through the pain, which at times prevented me from sleeping through the nights. I tried my best to keep up with the pace of life; my mobility was severely limited and I couldn’t gallop or canter, but I could still trot fairly well. I felt that I pulled off my end of it, as I sometimes heard people who knew my background comment on how frisky I looked or how dogs in general heal quickly, and easily adapt to their disabilities.

  Money was still a constant struggle for us, since Denny had to give the Evil Twins a portion of his paycheck, and Mr. Lawrence, the levelheaded lawyer, always demanded that Denny’s account be kept up to date. Fortunately, Denny’s bosses were generous in allowing him to change his schedule frequently so he could attend his various meetings, and also so he could teach driving on certain days at Pacific Raceways, which was an easy way for Denny to make more money to pay for his defense.

  Sometimes, on his driving school days, Denny would take me with him to the track, and while I was never allowed to ride with him, I did enjoy sitting in the stands and watching him teach. I became known as a bit of a track dog, and I especially liked trotting through the paddock, looking at the latest fashion in cars purchased by the rich young men and women whose bank accounts were fed with heaping piles of technology monies. From the nimble Lotus Exige to the classic Porsche to the more flamboyant Lamborghini, there was always something good to see.

  On a hot day at the end of July, we were teaching, I remember, and while they were all out on the course, I watched as a beautiful red Ferrari F430 drove through the paddock and up to the school headquarters. A small, older man climbed out and the owner of the school, Don Kitch, came to meet him. They embraced and spoke for several minutes. The man strolled to the bleachers to get a view of the track, and Don radioed to his corner workers to checker the session and bring in the students for lunch break.

  As the drivers climbed out of their vehicles and the instructors gave them helpful comments and pointers, Don called for Denny, who approached, as did I, curious about what was going on.

  “I need a favor,” Don said to Denny.

  And suddenly the small man with the Ferrari was with us.

  “You remember Luca Pantoni, don’t you?” Don asked. “We came to dinner at your place a couple of years ago.”

  “Of course,” Denny said, shaking Luca’s hand.

  “Your wife cooked a delightful dinner,” Luca said. “I remember it still. Please accept my sincere and heartfelt condolences.”

  When I heard him speak with his Italian accent, I recognized him immediately. The man from Ferrari.

  “Thank you,” Denny said quietly.

  “Luca would like you to show him our track,” Don said. “You can grab a sandwich between sessions, right? You don’t need lunch.”

  “No problem,” Denny said, pulling on his helmet and walking to the passenger side of the exquisite automobile.

  “Mr. Swift,” Luca called out. “Perhaps you would do me the favor of allowing me to be the passenger so that I may see more.”

  Surprised, Denny looked at Don.

  “You want me to drive this car?” he asked. After all, the F430 is priced at nearly a quarter of a million dollars.

  “I accept full liability,” Luca said.

  Don nodded.

  “I’d be pleased to,” Denny said, and he climbed into the cockpit.

  It was an extremely beautiful car, and it was outfitted not for street use, but for the track, with ceramic brake rotors, one-piece FIA homologated racing seats and harnesses, a full roll cage, and, as I had suspected, F1-style paddle shifters. The two men strapped in and Denny pressed the electronic start button and the car fired to life.

  Ah, what a sound. The whine of the fantastic engine layered over the throaty rumble of the massive exhaust. Denny flicked the paddle shifter and they cruised slowly through the paddock toward the track entrance.

  I followed Don into the school classroom, where the students were clutching thick hunks of a giant sandwich, chewing and eating and laughing, their intense morning of track time having injected a week’s worth of joy into their lives.

  “If you drivers want to see something special,” Don said, “grab your sandwiches and come out to the bleachers. There’s a lunch session going on.”

  The Ferrari was the only car on the track, as the track was usually closed during the lunch hour. But this was a special occasion.

  “What’s going on?” one of the other instructors asked Don.

  “Denny’s got an audition,” Don replied cryptically.

  We all went out to the bleachers in time to see Denny come around turn 9 and streak down the straight.

  “I figure it will take him three laps to learn the sequential shifter,” Don said.

  Sure enough, Denny started slowly, like he had driven with me back at Thunderhill. Oh, how I wished I could have traded places with Luca, that lucky dog! To be copilot to Denny in an F430 must be an amazing experience.

  He was driving easy, but as he came around for the third time, there was a noticeable change to the car. It was no longer a car, it was a red blur. It no longer whined, it screamed as it shot down the straightaway so fast that the students laughed at each other as if someone had just told a dirty joke. Denny was laying down a hot lap.

  A minute later, so fast one wondered if he had taken a shortcut, the Ferrari popped out of the cluster of trees at the exit of turn 7, cresting the rise until its suspension was totally extended, and then with a pock-pock-pock sound we heard the electronic clutch quickly downshift from sixth to third and we saw the ceramic brake rotors glow red between the spokes of the magnesium wheels, and then we heard the throttle open full and watched the car slam through the sweeping turn 8 as if it were a rocket sled, as if it were on rails, its hot rubber racing-compound tires grabbing the greasy pavement like Velcro, and then—pock!—shifting up and—pock!—blasting past us at turn 9 no more than two inches from the concrete barrier. The Doppler effect of the passing car converted its snarl into an angry growl, and off it rocketed—pock!—shifting again at the Kink and it was gone.

  “Holy shit!” a student said.

  I looked back at them, and their mouths were agape. We all were silent, and we could hear that sound—pock, pock—as Denny set himself up for turn 5A on the backside of the track, which we couldn’t see but which we could imagine, given such wonderful sound effects, and again Denny careened past us at a million miles an hour.

  “How close to the edge is he?” someone asked aloud.

  Don smiled and shook his head.

  “He’s way past the edge,” he said. “I’m sure Luca told him to show him what he could do, and that’s what he’s doing.” Then he turned to the group and shouted: “DON’T YOU EVER DRIVE LIKE THAT! DENNY IS A PROFESSIONAL RACE CAR DRIVER AND THAT’S NOT HIS CAR! HE DOESN’T HAVE TO PAY FOR IT IF HE BREAKS IT!”

  Lap after lap, around they went until we were dizzy and exhausted from watching them. And then the car slowed considerably—a cool-down lap—and pulled off into the paddock.

  The entire class gathered around as Denny and Luca emerged from the burning hot vehicle. The students were abuzz; they touched the scalding glass window that shielded
the magnificent power plant and exclaimed at the spectacular drive.

  “Everyone into the classroom!” Don barked. “We’ll go over corner notes from your morning sessions.”

  As they headed off, Don clasped Denny’s shoulder firmly.

  “What was it like?”

  “It was incredible,” Denny said.

  “Good for you. You deserve it.”

  Don went off to teach his class; Luca approached and extended his hand. In it was a business card.

  “I would like you to work for me,” Luca said with his thick accent.

  I sat next to Denny, who reached down and scratched my ear out of habit.

  “I appreciate that,” Denny said. “But I don’t think I’d make a very good car salesman.”

  “Neither do I,” Luca said.

  “But you’re with Ferrari.”

  “Yes. I work in Maranello, at Ferrari headquarters. We have a wonderful track there.”

  “I see,” Denny said. “So you’d like me to work…where?”

  “At the track. There is some need, as often our clients would like track instruction in their new cars.”

  “Instructing?”

  “There is some need. But mostly, you would be testing the vehicles.”

  Denny’s eyes got extremely large and he sucked in a huge breath of air, as did I. Was this guy saying what we thought he was saying?

  “In Italy,” Denny said.

  “Yes. You would be provided with an apartment for you and your daughter. And of course, a company car—a Fiat—as part of your compensation package.”

  “To live in Italy,” Denny said. “And test-drive Ferraris.”

  “Si.”

  Denny rolled his head around. He turned around in a circle, looked down at me, laughed.

  “Why me?” Denny asked. “There are a thousand guys who can drive this car.”

  “Don Kitch tells me you are an exceptional driver in the wet weather.”

  “I am. But that can’t be the reason.”

  “No,” Luca said. “You are correct.” He stared at Denny, his clear blue eyes smiling. “But I would prefer to tell you more about those reasons when you join me in Maranello, and I can invite you to my house for dinner.”

  Denny nodded and chewed his lip. He tapped Luca’s business card against his thumbnail.

  “I appreciate your generous offer,” he said. “But I’m afraid certain things prevent me from leaving this country—or even this state—at the moment. So I have to decline.”

  “I know about your troubles,” Luca said. “That is why I am here.”

  Denny looked up, surprised.

  “I will keep the position available for you until your situation is resolved and you can make your decision free from the burden of circumstance. My telephone is on my card.”

  Luca smiled and shook Denny’s hand again. He slipped into the Ferrari.

  “I wish you would tell me why,” Denny said.

  Luca held up his finger.

  “Dinner, at my home. You will understand.”

  He drove away.

  Denny shook his head in bewilderment as the high-performance driving school students emerged from the classroom and headed for their cars. Don appeared.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “I don’t understand,” Denny said.

  “He’s taken an interest in your career since he first met you,” Don said. “Whenever we talk, he asks how you’re doing.”

  “Why does he care so much?” Denny asked.

  “He wants to tell you himself. All I can say is that he respects how you’re fighting for your daughter.”

  Denny thought for a moment.

  “But what if I don’t win?” he asked.

  “There is no dishonor in losing the race,” Don said. “There is only dishonor in not racing because you are afraid to lose.” He paused. “Now get to your student, Grasshopper, and get the hell out on the track! That’s where you belong!”

  51

  “You need to go out? Let’s go out.”

  He was holding my leash. He wore his jeans and a light jacket for the fall chill. He lifted me to my unsteady feet and clipped on the leash. We went out into the darkness; I had fallen asleep early, but it was time for me to urinate.

  I had been experiencing a decline in my health. I don’t know if my accident the previous winter had knocked something loose in my plumbing, or if it was somehow associated with the medication that Denny gave me, but I had developed an inconvenient case of urinary incontinence. After even mild activity, I often slept deeply and awoke having soiled my bedding. It was usually only a few dribbles, though on occasion it was more extensive, and it was always horribly embarrassing.

  I also was having great difficulty with my hips. Once I was up and moving, once I had warmed up my joints and ligaments, I felt fine and was able to move well. However, whenever I slept or lay in one spot for any amount of time, my hind joints locked in place, and I found it difficult to get them moving again, or even to rise to a standing position.

  The net result of my health issues was that Denny could no longer leave me alone for an entire workday. He began visiting at lunchtime so he could take me out to relieve myself. He was very kind, and explained to me that he was doing it for himself: he was feeling stagnant, he said, and frustrated. The lawyers continued at their glacial pace, and there was nothing Denny could do to speed them along, so he looked at the short walk from his work to the apartment and back as a tonic; it allowed him a certain amount of cardiovascular exercise, yes, but it also gave him a purpose; a mission; something to do other than wait.

  That evening—it was around ten, I knew, because The Amazing Race had just finished—Denny took me out. The night was bracing, and I enjoyed the feeling of wakefulness as I breathed in through my nostrils. The energy.

  We crossed Pine Street and I saw people smoking outside the Cha Cha Lounge. I forced myself to ignore the urge to sniff the gutter. I refused to shove my nose into the butt of another dog making the rounds. And yet I urinated on the street like an animal because that was the only alternative I was afforded. To be a dog.

  We walked down Pine toward the city, and then she was there.

  Both of us stopped. We held our breaths. Two young women at an outdoor table at Bauhaus Books and Coffee, and one of them was Annika.

  Temptress! Seducer! Vixen!

  How awful for us to have to see this horrid girl. I wanted to leap at her and take her nose in my teeth and twist! How I hated this young girl who attacked my Denny with her unrestrained sexuality and then blamed him for the attack. How I despised she who would rend this family because of her own agenda. A woman scorned, indeed! Kate Hepburn would smash her with a single blow and laugh while doing it. How my anger burned.

  At Bauhaus, she sat at an outdoor table with another girl. At this hip and cool coffee shop in our neighborhood, she sat drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes! She was at least seventeen by now, possibly eighteen, and was legally allowed to function in society on her own. Technically, she could sit at any coffee shop in any city and stew in her wretchedness. I couldn’t stop her. But I didn’t have to deal with her—immature finger pointer, inflicter of wounds!

  I thought we would cross the street to avoid a confrontation, but instead, we headed straight for her. I didn’t understand. Perhaps Denny hadn’t seen her. Perhaps he didn’t know?

  But I knew, and so I resisted. I set my weight, I ducked my head.

  “Come on, boy,” Denny ordered me. He tugged at my leash.

  I refused.

  “With me!” he snapped.

  No! I would not go with him!

  And then he leaned down. He kneeled and held my muzzle and looked me in the eyes.

  “I see her, too,” he said. “Let’s handle this with dignity.”

  He released my muzzle.

  “This can work for us, Zo. I want you to go up to her and love her more than you’ve ever loved anyone before.”

  I didn’t und
erstand his strategy, but I acquiesced. After all, he had the leash.

  As we drew abreast of her table, Denny stopped and looked surprised.

  “Oh, hey!” he said brightly.

  Annika looked up, feigning shock, clearly having seen us, but hoping there would be no interaction.

  “Denny. Good to see you!”

  I played my part. I greeted her enthusiastically, I nuzzled her, I pushed my nose into her leg, I sat and looked at her with great anticipation, which is something people find very appealing. But inside, I was churning. Her facial makeup. Her hair. Her tight sweater and heaving bosom. Yuck.

  “Enzo!” she said.

  “Hey,” Denny said, “can we talk for a minute?”

  Annika’s friend started to get up.

  “I’ll go get more coffee,” she said.

  “No,” Denny stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Please stay.”

  She hesitated.

  “It’s important that you witness that there is no impropriety taken here,” Denny explained. “If you leave, I’ll have to leave.”

  The girl looked to Annika, who nodded her agreement.

  “Annika,” Denny said.

  “Denny.”

  He pulled up a chair from the next table, which was empty. He sat down next to her.

  “I totally understand what’s going on,” he said.

  Which was strange, because I certainly didn’t. I didn’t understand it at all. She had attacked him. She then accused him of attacking her and because of that we only got to see Zoë on certain days of the week. Why we were speaking with her rather than roasting her on a spit was unfathomable to me.

  “I may have given you signals,” he said. “That’s totally my fault. But just because the light is green doesn’t mean you shouldn’t look both ways before stepping into the street.”

  Annika screwed up her face in puzzlement and looked to her friend.

  “A metaphor,” her friend said.

  Ha! A metaphor, she said! Fantastic! This one knows how to decode the English language! We will save her for roasting tomorrow!