Dead Man’s Switch

by Tammy Kaehler

“Hold on.”

  I did another lap, trying to glimpse the sky, but seeing nothing. The windscreen on the C6.R didn’t offer much view, except of the track in front of me. But a bigger issue was how much I was strapped in place. I couldn’t lean forward at all, and even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to twist my head to look at the sky. Knowing that didn’t stop me from making an attempt. It was the kind of thing you did during a caution.

  One lap to go, and the pace car turned off its flashing yellow lights. Bruce got back to me. “Radar’s not looking good, Kate. Showing possible rain. But Jack’s source says it won’t happen.”

  “Got it.” I really, really, really hoped it didn’t rain.

  I reached the Back Straight and started to gather myself. Around West Bend, I double-checked everything compulsively. We swept down the Diving Turn in a single line and turned onto the Main Straight. The restart counted once the green flag fell, so we all started accelerating even before the pace car turned off, to be at full speed as soon as possible.

  Pace car into pit lane.

  Bruce shouting, “Green, green, green, green!”

  Green flag waving at the start/finish line. Foot to the floor, watching the cars around me. Racing!

  We all entered the first turn carefully at more than 100 miles an hour. Racing was a balance between hanging your guts out and not being stupid. In the first turn after a restart, that meant not letting excitement take over and hurl me into the melee. Not giving up position, but not trying to pass five cars there either. I eased into that turn and the ones that followed, also easing open the floodgates of my adrenaline and putting it to work for me on the track.

  By the time I’d made it through the Chicane—without hitting any cones—and onto the Back Straight, the prototypes behind me had gone past, and I didn’t have to watch for overtaking cars so closely. Bruce would give me a heads up from the pit when more cars approached, though I’d watch my mirrors and the corner workers’ flags too.

  When I completed the first lap, I was breathing more normally, and time started to elongate. People often asked if it was difficult to do everything so fast in a race. The truth was, time slowed down at high speeds. Once I got in my groove in the car, everything slowed down. I had plenty of time to look down the track, check traffic around me, plan my angle of attack on a corner, apply the brake, and turn the wheel. There was plenty of time to think—especially when you had an accident. I’d had time once as I slid off a track to predict where I’d hit, evaluate two or three evasive maneuvers, and put the car into a spin that resulted in a softer impact and less damage. There would be no spinning today, however.

  I swept down the front straight on my sixth or seventh lap, passing a Porsche on the right. Nearing the end of the straight, I tapped the brakes with my left foot, keeping my right planted on the throttle. At marker three, I switched from full throttle to full brakes. Downshifted twice, still braking. Glanced at mirrors to be sure no one had come up inside me. Moved right, hitting the first of Big Bend’s two apexes. Drifted left in the middle of the turn. Light on the throttle, fluttering my foot, finding the edge of grip. Hit the second apex.

  Throttle out of the turn. Stay in third. Brake lightly for the left-hander. Turn in. Line yourself up right. Hit the apex. Throttle out. Let off. Right-hander. Now. On the throttle. Upshift twice. Blazing through No Name Straight.

  A piece of Benny’s advice had returned to me that morning, and I’d incorporated it. “That left-hander,” he’d proclaimed over dinner, waving his dessert spoon at me, “here’s the thing: it’s a throwaway corner. Oh yeah!” He’d gone on, seeing my disbelief. “You give up speed in that corner so you can hit the correct line in and out of the right-hander—all so you’re going as fast as possible on the right line to carry speed into No Name. That’s where you’ll gain tenths.”

  As I’d gotten up to speed in my first racing laps, I’d remembered his words and given it a try, sacrificing speed through the first turn of the Esses to be perfectly aligned in No Name. It felt right. Felt faster. No Name was the second longest “straight” on the track, and I was hard on the throttle, going 130 by the end of it. I slowed to about 50 in as little space as possible for the Climbing Turn into the Chicane, and momentum sent the weight of the car tipping forward. I turned right and climbed simultaneously, tipping the weight left and back with a lot of force. It was the toughest corner on the track for keeping the car balanced.

  Zip up the hill. Miss cones. Blue flag waving. Steer left, right. Throttle onto the Back Straight, upshifting, building speed off the last corner onto the straight. Move left on the track for the prototype coming up behind me. Aim carefully at West Bend. Tap brakes for balance. Fourth gear turn. Throttle. Speed: 112.

  Upshift on the downhill. Carry the speed into the Diving Turn. Turn wheel, ready for the bump, stay on the racing line. Almost flat out. Gasping for air from compression as the car sweeps down the hill and turns at 115. Full throttle as soon as the tires can barely hold grip. Unwinding the wheel. Accelerate. Upshift to sixth. Flying down the front stretch.

  Out of the next turn, Big Bend, I came up behind two Porsches running nose-to-tail. Bruce came on the radio. “Doing OK, Kate?”

  “Fine. Car’s great,” I responded, just before braking, downshifting, turning, tapping the throttle, braking, turning, and finally accelerating out of the Esses. All the while, I was lying back behind the Porsches, trying to find an opportunity to pass.

  Bruce transmitted again. “Those are the class leaders you’re following. They won’t give you any room.”

  “OK. Who’s behind me?”

  “Top three prototypes coming fast. You’re still P3 in class. P4 is three seconds behind you.”

  “OK.” I was through the Esses and into the Climbing Turn by that point, still behind the Porsches. Got to get past them so the car behind me doesn’t catch up. Maybe I can pass on the Back Straight going into West Bend. Blue flags waving madly in the Chicane. Check mirrors. Damn. The overall race leaders, coming up fast. I wasn’t obligated to move over and let them by. By some rights, I could have passed the Porsches, leaving the prototypes to lump it behind me. But I wasn’t sure I’d make the pass in time, and I preferred them in front of me, instead of angry and pressuring me from behind.

  Once they were past, it was my turn, though for all of my impatience to be in front of the Porsches, I remembered Benny’s other lessons and hung back as we dove down the hill onto the front straight. As soon as I leveled out, I pulled right and nailed the throttle. Both Porsches obligingly stayed left, and I flew past them down the front straight.

  I called Bruce. “How much did I lose?”

  “A couple seconds. P4 coming up behind you.”

  Damn. I looked in the mirrors. Sure enough, there was the familiar bright, flag blue of one of the factory Corvettes. I pressed the radio button as I swung into the left-hander. “Sorry.”

  I heard Jack’s voice this time in my ears. “It’s OK, Kate. Just keep pushing.”

  And that’s what I did for the next couple of laps. I held the Number 64 factory Corvette off as long as I could, but sooner than I wanted, it was on my tail.

  Chapter Forty-six

  I was bumping down the front straight when the 64 caught me, riding close to my bumper in an attempt at intimidation. I gritted my teeth. Not happening.

  I focused on maintaining my line through Big Bend and not giving him an inch of extra room to get next to me. I pushed the radio button going into the left-hander. “Prototypes behind me?”

  Bruce came back. “One coming up quick—the wild guy in the black and white LMP2. No one else for half a lap. Do what you can with Duncan.”

  I didn’t bother responding. Only one prototype would be pressing to get past—and because I had my own problems, I wasn’t getting out of its way. Bruce had told me it was Duncan Forsyth behind me in the 64, a nice, fun
ny, and very clever Englishman. I looked ahead and spotted an opportunity. I wouldn’t be an easy mark.

  There was a lone Porsche in front of me, one of Holly’s orange cars from Western Racing, just exiting the Esses into No Name. The driver was going to help me out. I put my foot down in No Name, but let off early for the Climbing Turn. I’d caught the Porsche in plenty of time, but I held off passing, braking late and only slipping inside him into the turn at the very last second. My car wiggled through the bends, the back end skittering, objecting to the speed at which I’d cornered. It looked like a rookie move, and I didn’t care.

  I’d been unkind to the Western Racing driver, by leaving my pass so late and making it harder for him to make his turn. But what I’d also done, I confirmed with a glance in my mirrors, was leave the 64 stranded behind the Porsche through the Climbing Turn, the Chicane, and the first part of the Back Straight. Meanwhile, I gained a couple seconds by blasting my way to West Bend. It wouldn’t save me forever, but it bought me time.

  I’d no sooner made it onto the Back Straight than a black and white prototype popped out to my left. Oops. I could have moved over for him. The driver—Piero, already suspicious of me for other reasons—was annoyed with me, as evidenced by his fist waving high in the air above the open cockpit. I chuckled to myself and looked in my mirrors to see the 64 still stuck. Sorry, Piero, but I’d do it again, given the chance.

  I kept pushing, concentrating on traffic patterns ahead of and behind me to time when I passed other cars and when I was passed by prototypes. I also kept watching my mirrors for the reappearance of the blue Corvette, which wouldn’t take long. I roared past the two Panoz and the smaller Ferrari on the front straight, and I was coming out of the right-hander into No Name, watching again for the blue car. What I saw was a yellow flag.

  Then Bruce was in my ear. “Yellow, Kate. Double-yellow. Full course caution.”

  I reduced speed, wondering where the leader was and how the yellow would affect us. I’d been in the car only thirty minutes, so I knew I wouldn’t be getting out.

  “Where’s the leader? Are we stopping?” I radioed, hearing my voice climb an octave. Already the waiting period was more stressful than the driving itself.

  Bruce radioed back. “Overall leader is behind P4 in class. Repeat, pace car is picking up the leader behind the Number 64 Corvette. We gain a lap on positions five through nine. You, the Saleen, and the two factory Corvettes are all one lap up now.”

  As much as my belts allowed, I slumped in relief. We’d been lucky the yellow hadn’t come out forty seconds or a minute later. When a yellow came out, the pace car picked up the overall race leader, usually an LMP1, wherever he might be in the field of cars. Those behind him lined up, regardless of type of car or position in class. Those in front of the overall leader went all the way around the track and joined the back of the line, effectively gaining a lap on the other cars. A minute or so later and the overall leader would have been the car in front of me, and I’d have gone a lap down—which would have been impossible to make up in a short race like this.

  I’d been lucky. The two Ferraris, Viper, and Maserati behind me in class hadn’t been. I spent futile seconds wishing the leader had been between me and the 64, to have gotten that monkey off my back. I heard Gramps’ voice in my head telling me beggars can’t be choosers.

  Bruce again. “We’ll only stop if you need to, Kate.”

  I shook my head in reflex, then pushed the button. “No. Everything’s fine.”

  I’d caught up with the field of cars, and we were all doing a sedate sixty miles an hour around the track in a single file. I could see now what had caused the caution: the smaller Ferrari I’d passed on the Main Straight had missed the left-hander of the Esses. Instead of turning left, he’d gone straight off track-right into swampy grass.

  I swung past the incident, into No Name. All of a sudden, the unthinkable happened. It started to rain.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Not rain, exactly. Heavy mist. Drizzle. Nerves jangling, I examined the drops hitting the windscreen.

  I jabbed at the radio button. “Are we seeing this?!” My voice came out squeaky. No reply. “Hello?!”

  Bruce replied. “Hang on, Kate. Jack’s checking on it.”

  I continued to circle the track behind the pace car, and my anxiety leveled out, but didn’t subside. The water falling out of the sky was making the edges of the track damp, but it wasn’t coming down enough to pool anywhere, and I didn’t yet need the single large windshield wiper. Still, what I could see of the sky was ominous: dark, dark gray.

  On the Back Straight, a few quarter-sized drops spattered on my windscreen. “Am I coming in for tires? The drops are getting bigger.”

  “Hold on, Kate. Not yet.”

  We circled around to the Diving Turn, and I watched with envy as cars dove to the right into pit lane, no doubt heading for wet-weather tires. The fat drops continued to fall—maybe there were more? I was concentrating so hard on them, it was tough to be sure. I passed the pits and saw, among others, the Viper, Maserati, and the two Ferraris in my class stopped for tires. I took deep breaths and told myself Jack was the boss, not me.

  Through Big Bend and into the left-hander again, and I could see the GT2 Ferrari had been pulled out of the swamp. Track workers stood next to it at the side of the pavement, directing us to stay well left of the racecar and safety crew. The car was being unhooked from its tow strap, indicating it was running and would return to the pits on its own power, making it eligible to return to the race.

  I called in again. “The caution’s nearly cleaned up. We’re not going to have much time if we’re going to stop. It’s getting slick off the racing line.” Where the cars drove, on the racing line, the track was still dry, from the heat of the cars and tires. Offline, however, it was wet. I shuddered. I didn’t want to drive on the already slick concrete patches with the added complication of water—on tires without grooves. The sky didn’t look better. Jack would have to call me in.

  “Kate.” Jack’s voice. “You’re staying out.”

  “What? Repeat? What?”

  “No wet tires. You’re staying on the slicks.”

  “Are you trying to make me wreck?”

  There was a pause before Jack responded. “No.” Another pause. “This is my call, Kate. It’s not going to rain. It’s going to blow over.” Jack’s voice radiated confidence.

  I wouldn’t find out until later that contrary to what Jack was telling me, the radar showed a massive storm moving in right on top of the racetrack. And that Mike, Bruce, and Walter were all holding their breath over the call. But Jack’s local guy, the volunteer security guard, had assured Jack this happened all the time: a storm looked like it was headed straight for you, teased you with a few sprinkles, and veered off. Jack gambled on the local farm boy over the evidence of his own eyes and technology—he later called it “the triumph of redneck over high tech.” Jack put all his energy into promoting a certainty he couldn’t have felt, to make me and Lars, in the other car, feel comfortable.

  All I heard that moment in the car was that the rain would stop. I worked on ignoring my fears. “OK.”

  In two more laps we went back to green flag racing. We took off down the front stretch, and again I was careful not to push too hard for position going into the first turn. The entire field got through it cleanly. Bruce let me know the 64 was still three seconds back, and I kept pushing—careful to stay on the dry pavement of the racing line, no matter who tried to pass. It continued to drizzle, but with smaller drops. After a few laps, I thought it might be lessening, and cars around me started driving off the racing line on purpose. Those were teams who’d put grooved, wet-pavement tires on and were now having to keep them as wet as possible. I concentrated on staying where it was dry and staying ahead of the 64.

  But it wasn’t too many laps
before I got caught behind dueling GT2 cars—a Porsche and a Panoz this time. I wasn’t confident enough in the grip at the edges of the track to be sure I could make the pass stick, and I couldn’t get around them before the 64 was right behind me. Duncan came up fast, but couldn’t get past me on the front straight. I did what I could to stay in front of him.

  Bruce on the radio. “Keep pushing, Kate. Clear track around you.”

  I didn’t respond, concentrating on carrying as much speed as possible through Big Bend and not breaking the back end of the car loose or running straight ahead off the track. Duncan roared up before the left-hander, poking his nose to the left side, and I cheated left to block him. In a flash, he’d swung right, going wide through the left-hander, and pulling alongside on my right. He was up far enough that I wasn’t sure I could stay in front of him.

  I eased right on the track as I turned into the right-hander, hoping he’d get the message and back off. He didn’t. My heart rate surged. His attempt might work, but he’d have to take what he wanted. I eased right again, ready to touch. He’d have to earn it.

  In the turn now. My line swings to the right. Foot hovering over the throttle. Where’s his nose? Bump. There. Rub. Scrape. Damn. Shift wheel left. Can’t get to the line. He’s made the pass. Shit. Shit. Shit. Nail the throttle and get after him into No Name.

  Jack’s voice on the radio. “Careful with the car, Kate. Don’t worry about the pass. You did good. Keep pressing him.”

  I popped out of the Chicane. “We’re racing for position, I’m not going to give it away.”

  I started to strategize. The first step was to stay close, so I settled in to shadow him. I’d stick like glue, but stay a car length or two back. Then I’d watch for an opportunity and take my position back. I damn well wasn’t going to be the one who’d lost us the third spot on the podium.

  The next time into the Diving Turn, I pressed against the left side of my seat again and felt for the first time my growing bruises and muscle fatigue. I wasn’t in shape for this yet, but giving everything I had was the least I could do for the team that was giving me a chance. With Wade in the car, they’d be working on second, not scrambling to stay in fourth. But I had to admit, the team hadn’t been happy with Wade’s attitude or his driving lately. Jack might have been very unhappy. Maybe I wasn’t a step down after all. Wait a minute, I can’t be thinking about this now!