Dead Man’s Switch

by Tammy Kaehler

  “Breathe, Kate,” Aunt Tee advised.

  “Right.” I took my standard three deep breaths and felt better. Then I looked for my notepad and pen, which had disappeared into the cracks between the sofa cushions. I rummaged around for them, trying to inventory what I was wearing and carrying for missing items. I felt the pen and notebook and drew my hand out. Except it wasn’t my notebook, but a small, black, leather-bound version. I frowned at it as Mike shouted a second time. “Kate! Come on!” I stuffed it into my suit pocket and plunged my hand back in the sofa, this time coming up with my blue spiral-bound.

  “Coming!” I turned to Aunt Tee. “Thank you. My helmet—”

  “Outside, with your gloves and everything. Good practice, Kate.”

  “Thanks.” I dashed out.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I was following Mike, Lars, and Seth down pit row to our team’s setup when I was jostled by a driver I recognized brushing past me.

  “Hey, Jim.”

  He turned and shot us a glare.

  “Nice guy.” Mike’s tone was sarcastic.

  “You know him? Jim Siddons?”

  “Sure, I’ve driven with him a couple times. He drove with us at Sebring this year, since you couldn’t make it. He’s been around a while.”

  “We’ve both been in the same boat—looking for a permanent ride. I guess he got one if he’s driving for someone here.”

  We’d reached the Sandham Swift pit setup, and Mike nodded a greeting at the Michelin rep standing next to our racks of tires on the other side of the walkway. We stopped in front of a pit box, a large, white metal storage cabinet with eight lockers on each side, and Mike pulled a locker open, gesturing to the door on its right. “That’s Wa—it’s yours now.”

  I pulled it open gingerly, not sure what artifacts I’d discover, but it was empty. I let out the breath I’d been holding, set my gear inside, and closed the door again.

  Mike had done the same. “I think I heard Siddons was driving one of the Porsches—but he was paying to drive it.”

  I was surprised. I didn’t know Jim Siddons’ history, but he’d struck me as a thoughtful, intelligent, experienced driver—someone temporarily between paying teams, not permanently so. “Did he ever have a long-term gig with an ALMS team?”

  “Nope. He was always the guy hanging around for emergencies or when someone needed a third driver in the longer races. He was paid for a couple races each season. Until you came along, anyway.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you.” Mike smiled. “You’ve got two drivers looking for a chance: one’s young, fresh, talented, and on the way up; one’s older, hasn’t ever broken through, and on the way down. Who do you pick?”

  “I had no idea. He looked pissed just now.”

  We both saw Jack waving a long arm at us from pit lane.

  Mike led the way. “Come on, let’s go.”

  The pit space was crowded with supplies and people. Jack stood at the 29 car, parked behind ours, talking with Seth. Lars was gearing up to drive. Bruce, Walt, and Sam, our car chiefs and chief engineer sat on top of the pit box with Nadia, the ECU engineer. We walked forward, skirting the looped fuel hose and stepping over air hoses and tools.

  Jack stopped me before I sat on the pit wall next to Mike. “May as well get ready, Kate.”

  I returned to my locker. First, I secured my earplugs with pieces of green masking tape that covered each ear. Then I emptied my suit pockets into the locker, stuffed my gloves into them, and headed back with everything else in my arms. Jack finished with Seth and checked the time. “Fifteen minutes left. Kate, let’s have you get in and out a couple times to practice.”

  “Sure.”

  Mike held out his hands, and I set my helmet in them. I pulled the balaclava over my head, arranging the fire-retardant hood so the three openings left my mouth and eyes unencumbered. I slipped the HANS or Head And Neck Support device, which reduced how much my head could move in an impact, onto my shoulders, and then put my helmet on, fastening the chinstrap while Mike attached the HANS tethers to it. By now, fully suited up, I was blind in my peripheral vision because of my helmet, unable to turn my head without swiveling my entire body because of the HANS, and nearly deaf because of my earplugs. I was pumped. This was it!

  Jack was holding the 28’s door open. He pointed in the car, then at himself. I pulled on my gloves, took one last breath, and stepped up to the car. Peered in. Someone had put my seat insert inside, ready for me. I took another deep breath. In and out of the car.

  I grabbed the top bar of the rollcage and slid my right leg in the opening. Half-sitting on the ledge of the lower rollcage bar, I lifted my left foot and slid that leg in. I held the top bar with both hands and lowered my body into the seat, twisting my torso as my helmet cleared the doorframe to end up sitting squarely. Almost without thinking, I grabbed the steering wheel from its hook on the ceiling and snapped it into place. Doing so would be my major responsibility as I got in the car, in addition to making sure the shoulder belts sat on top of my HANS shoulder braces and putting the right-side lap belt into the hands of the driver’s assistant, the crew member allowed over the wall to help us make our driver change. He’d fasten my belts and connect cables to and from my helmet, partly because his light gloves made the job easier, but also because I couldn’t bend over or turn enough to see the connections.

  Jack assisted me this time, first fastening my belts—the five-point harness that had straps over each shoulder, one from each side of my waist, and one coming from under the seat between my legs. I tightened the belts as he plugged in my earplug cable for the radio, and poked the air conditioning tube into the left side of my helmet. I couldn’t see him doing the last tasks, but I felt the tugs and bumps as he worked and felt a final pat on the helmet that signified he was finished. I was set. Wait—I’d forgotten the drink tube. I found it on my right and plugged it in to the front of my helmet where it fit into the tube that terminated close to my mouth. I looked up at Jack fastening my window net. He gave me a thumbs up and mouthed, “Hang on.”

  I spent the two minutes he was gone looking at all the buttons and taking deep breaths. My panic hadn’t risen far by the time he was back wearing a radio and a big headset.

  “Radio check. You comfortable, Kate?” I heard Jack’s voice in my ears.

  I pushed the button to activate the two-way radio. “Check. Yes, I’m good.”

  “Great. Let me talk you through everything, and you do it all to get out again.”

  I gave him a thumbs up.

  “OK. You approach pit lane from the track. About ten yards before the entry line, hit the speed limiter button.” I tapped the button on the steering wheel. When I was driving the car, keeping my foot on the throttle and hitting that button would limit me to the pit lane maximum of thirty-seven miles an hour.

  Jack continued: “Loosen your belts on the way in, unhook your cables—but not this time, so you can still hear me—and remove your drink tube.” I pulled the drink tube out of my helmet and pulled up on the metal slides on my shoulder straps to loosen them, making room for Mike to put them on after me. I also reached to my left and unhooked the cooling tube.

  “Pull in, stop, and release the harness.” I imagined stopping and turning off the car, and then I removed and hung the steering wheel. With a twist of the central round lever, I released the seatbelts, and the shoulder straps snapped back on bungee cords toward the ceiling, out of the way but accessible. By this time, Jack had opened the car door, unfastened the window net, and unhooked my radio cable. I scooted sideways, aimed my head at the doorway, grabbed the top bar of the rollcage, and heaved myself out, reminding myself why I did pull-ups in my regular workouts. Left foot out, then the right, and I was standing on the ground next to the car again. Oops. I bent back into the car and yanked out my seat insert. Jack nodd
ed and smiled. I looked at Mike, who mimed applause at me.

  Jack looked at his watch again and held up one hand, fingers splayed. Five minutes left. The bottom fell out of my stomach at the same time as adrenaline and excitement fizzed into my blood. I nodded to Jack and Mike. Then I got back in the car.

  Jack buckled me in and plugged in my cables a second time. I heard Mike in my ears and saw him through the windscreen as he spoke to me. “Take it easy at first, Kate, just get used to her. Ask any questions you want. I’ll be on the radio until you come back in.” He smiled. “And have some fun!”

  He couldn’t see me, but I grinned at him in return. I gave him a thumbs up, resettled, and sat there in silence, waiting, both hands on the steering wheel. I concentrated on my breathing and on calming my speeding heart rate.

  Jack over the radio: “It’s time. Let ‘er rip.”

  I pushed the ignition button, and the Corvette’s V-8 engine roared to life.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I was the fifth car out of the pits. All four classes were practicing together, so two Porsches, a Viper, and one of the smaller prototypes were in front of me as we exited. They all got away quickly as I took the first lap at maybe seven-tenths of my ultimate speed. I was going as fast as I dared in an unfamiliar car with cold tires on an unknown track, and I was barely fast enough to be out there with the others.

  My first thought as I maneuvered through Big Bend was that Mike hadn’t told me how bumpy this turn was. Speed: 71. I touched the first apex, drifted to the outside of the track in the middle of the turn, then touched the second. An apex was the point in a corner where the car touched the inside curbing, and it represented the optimum line through a corner. You could drive faster through a wide, sweeping turn than you could through a narrow, sharp turn. Hitting the apex—touching the inside curb of the track—meant taking the straightest line through the turn and maintaining maximum speed. Most corners were only single-apex, but since Big Bend was almost 180 degrees, drivers touched the inside of the turn twice while taking the fastest line through it.

  I saw some of the concrete patches he’d referred to on my driving line for the Esses—and then I was making a high speed slide on them through the left-hander. I kept my hands still, ready to correct when my wheels touched asphalt and found grip again. I glanced at the run off: a narrow swath of slippery grass and a metal guard rail. Nothing there to scrub energy and speed or provide a soft landing. Make sure not to get off track in this turn, I thought. Make sure not to get off track anywhere. I hit concrete patches again on the No Name Straight—wondering as I reached 115 through the slight S-shaped curves why they called it a “straight” when it wasn’t.

  Then I was braking and downshifting at the end of No Name, looking to my right at the track disappearing over a rise. A blind hill and turn. Also bumpy. I turned right and quickly topped the hill, swerving right again into the chicane—damn! Carrying too much speed into the turn. Brake as much as I dare, but not so much that I lock up the tires or put the car into a spin. Shit! Missed the corner and punted a cone. Up on the curbing—thump, down hard onto the track. Please God, no damage. Swerve left in the chicane and right again as I pop out. Damn again—wheels on grass and dirt at the right edge of the exit.

  I checked my mirror: one of the corner workers was waving a yellow flag and watching the track anxiously while the other edged out to replace the cone I’d sent flying. Next time, less speed, snappier turning. And inside the chicane, more room to the left. Turn harder to clear the exit. Speed: 50 coming out. Decent.

  I accelerated and upshifted as fast as possible into fourth gear going down the Back Straight. Bumps, bumps, bumps. Narrow track. I remembered Mike’s advice and tapped the brakes at the end of the straight, shifting weight to the front for turning into West Bend. The track was wider here, which wasn’t saying much. Glad I didn’t have anyone trying to pass me at the moment. Mike had told me this was a high speed corner—stay in fourth gear, he’d said. I glanced at my speedometer: almost 100 miles per hour. He’d said we’d get 110 to 115 out of it, and that it took confidence. He was right. I’d push harder next time.

  Out of West Bend and onto the sloping downhill. I went under the bridge—the same one I’d driven over that morning—and upshifted into fifth gear. My eyes flicked to the speed again. 130 this time. Getting closer to Mike’s estimates. Then I took the final turn—shit! The car wiggled as I hit the bump Mike had warned me about. I didn’t react fast enough and the car swung to the left. Left wheels running on the dirt and grass. Tire barrier on my left, angling in as the grass verge narrowed. Closer. I eased right with the wheel, trying not to brake too hard, let off the throttle too suddenly, or jerk to the right. Easy. More throttle, ease right. Wheels back on track. Shift to sixth. Main straight. Speed: 148. Flying now. Bumpy. Breathe, Kate.

  Back into Big Bend, and I was better prepared this time. I’d been blissfully alone for the first lap, but just into my second lap, I was surrounded. Cars pelted past me one after the other, in the bends, on the straight, everywhere. It took everything I had to cope with shifting, steering, remembering to avoid the problem areas I’d noted, watching the corner workers with the flags, and risking occasional glances in my mirrors. This time I made it through the chicane with no cone casualties and ignored the corner workers watching me carefully. I balanced the urge to be a gracious competitor and stay out of the way of faster cars with my need to learn the track—and with my innate competitive instincts, which weren’t about to give way to anyone I could run with. Under the deluge of drivers and cars whizzing past, I was precariously slow. But I hung in there and tried not to imagine the frustration of other drivers.

  The driver of one car in particular didn’t make it easy. I came down the hill at the end of my second lap, into the Diving Turn, and I remembered the problem bump at the last moment. Braced the wheel so I didn’t drift left. A bright, neon-yellow Porsche just tapped me from behind. Was it intentional contact? This wasn’t purposeful bump-drafting in NASCAR. We didn’t do that here. Maybe I’d caused it by turning earlier or harder than the overtaking car expected. But it felt more aggressive than accidental.

  I had no time to think about it in the moment, however, because I was focused on keeping my car on the pavement. The Porsche rocketed away to my right, and I fought the wiggling back end of my car—turning the steering wheel left, then right, letting off the throttle gently. It didn’t take much disturbance to get sideways at the speeds we ran through turns and over hills. But that yellow Porsche got my dander up, as my grandfather would have said, and I laid into the throttle completely for the first time. By the end of the next lap, my third, I finally felt comfortable. I’d picked up speed and found my rhythm, which had to do with my line around the track; with braking, accelerating, upshifting, and downshifting points; and with the sound of the car throughout: throaty here with full throttle, whiny and protesting there with heavy braking and downshifting.

  The Corvette felt like a second skin by the fourth lap. By then, I adjusted to the flood of sensory input I was receiving, and I could process it all. I even stopped noticing the constant bumps or how narrow the track was. I’d always thought of racing and chess as similar pursuits, minus the physical exertion, because you needed to be able to visualize and anticipate every possible move on the board or the track and plan your path accordingly. I started to read the traffic around me, to look ahead and behind my current position and plan not only my own moves, but everyone else’s.

  Other tasks had also become automatic, like watching for flags at corners, and watching my gauges for speed, the RPMs that told me when to upshift, and engine temperature readings. More than any gauge or sensor measurement, the car communicated its health through its sound, vibrations, and feel. I felt it through my arms from the steering wheel, and I felt it from the seat and floor through my butt and feet. Through the hum of the vehicle, you could often feel an engine problem or t
he first signs of a tire giving way—if you were lucky enough to get a slow tearing-apart rather than a sudden blow-out. We literally drove by the seat of our pants—and a lot of other body parts.

  Sometime in my fifth lap, I started to enjoy myself.

  “Kate.” Jack’s voice crackled over my radio. “You doing OK?”

  The radio. I shifted my left hand to press the button. “Doing fine now.”

  “You remembering to breathe?”

  I smiled under my helmet. “Yes, sir.”

  “Kate?” A new voice, my crew chief. “Bruce here. Don’t forget to take a drink.”

  “Will do,” I transmitted, and I pressed the drink button to take a sip. Like many drivers, I had to be reminded to drink water while driving. Non-racing people often asked if it was tough to sit in one place for an hour or two at a time and not need to use the bathroom, but the reality was that I concentrated on driving so intensely that I rarely thought about my body’s needs. It never occurred to me that I was hungry, thirsty, had to go to the bathroom, or had a headache. A cramp might force its way into my consciousness, but only because it affected my driving. I was typically grateful for the reminders to sip water, and I could already tell I needed it, as my mouth was dry and my body was soaked in sweat—after only six minutes of practice.

  About twelve minutes later, I’d done fifteen laps, and Bruce got back on the radio. “Take two more after this one, Kate, then come in.”

  “You got it.” My tension returned. I’d used half of my total practice time, and it had felt more like the blink of an eye than twenty minutes. But I’d found my groove in that time. I was shifting and braking smoothly and no longer learning my line around the track. I took another breath and concentrated on making my second-to-last lap as fast as possible—using my nerves to push myself.