Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  Three standard meals of rubbery chicken, pasta, and steamed vegetables had been delivered for the drivers, and I opened one and picked at it. I was more nervous than hungry, though I knew I needed something. I did what I could and supplemented with a banana, plus two more bottles of water. As I ate, I watched the crew and car leave—with my helmet, gloves, and other gear—and listened to Gramps and Chuck chat about vintage racing, which Chuck was heavily involved in, now that he was retired.

  I could see fans outside the garage pausing and looking in at me, so after I finished eating, and before I changed into my race gear, I went outside to greet them. Twenty minutes and a bunch of selfies later, I came back in to suit up. By then, Gramps and Chuck had progressed to talking about Indy 500s of years past. There was only a skeleton crew in the garage, and only Holly sat in the folding chairs of the office area, so we could hear their conversation clearly. As I passed her, I nodded toward the men and raised my eyebrows. She shrugged.

  “Ninety-two was a great year, I agree,” Chuck said. “And I’m a Rick Mears fan, so I’m partial to ninety-one, when he won his fourth.”

  “Gotta admit, all of my Indy memories are tainted now,” Gramps replied. “I’ve never enjoyed a race more than last year, purely because Kate was in a car.”

  As I moved back to my locker and started taking off my street shoes, I heard Chuck laugh. “No one can blame you for that.”

  Gramps sounded thoughtful. “I don’t know what I’d have done if she hadn’t managed to qualify. You’ve been involved with teams and drivers that didn’t make it into the field. How do they deal with it?”

  There was a pause, and I imagined Chuck shrugging or shaking his head. “It’s not easy. To some extent, they’re convinced they’ll make it. But some come in knowing they’re longshots. Others could be legitimate contenders, but something goes wrong that day. It’s rough having to pack up and admit your dreams are over—for the drivers, but also for the team. But that’s true whether it’s qualifying or race weekend.”

  “Or weeks before, in some cases,” Gramps returned. “Like PJ Rodriguez—I’d never heard of her before Kate was fast on day one. But I think about her a lot now, imagining Kate in her shoes, thinking of how awful it must have been for her and everyone around her.”

  I heard Chuck sigh. “It wasn’t easy.”

  “You were around?” Gramps prodded him.

  “Yeah. Poor Ron. He did so much to support her—including using some of his own money to fund her.”

  Presumably, he had enough coming from running drugs.

  I stripped off my shirt and pants and pulled out my Nomex gear.

  “Did it seem like she’d give up?” Gramps asked. “I’ve seen plenty of racers over the years who simply disappear. But giving up in the form of suicide is different.”

  “Ron didn’t think so. That’s probably what hurt him the most.” Chuck paused. “I know it’s easy to say this in hindsight, but I could see it. She wasn’t as tough as she acted. There was a brittleness underneath, a lack of confidence. I remember hearing the breaking news of an unidentified driver suicide and thinking, ‘I bet that’s PJ.’ Sadly, I was right. Then it was a matter of doing what any good friend would do, and helping Ron deal with the vultures, attention-seekers, and sensationalist press.”

  “Were the press as bad back then as they are now? I swear, some of the so-called media outlets that say things about Kate I want to run out of town on a rail.” Gramps sounded legitimately angry as I finished tying my shoes and stood to pull on the top half of my firesuit.

  “Most of them were okay, but a few were prototypes for the glory hounds of today. Back then, they were still mostly about objective reporting. Until that Kevin Hagan came along and started doing emotional features on everyone.”

  I reentered the office area, water bottle in hand, as Chuck made that last statement.

  “Interesting,” Holly muttered, her eyes wide.

  I nodded.

  Sure. But forget that. Time for racing.

  Chapter Forty-four

  The traditions, rituals, and ceremonies surrounding the Indianapolis 500 were more prolonged and grand than any other race I’d seen or been part of.

  Winners of the 500 have drunk milk since the 1930s, when a three-time winner of the race requested buttermilk as a post-race thirst-quencher, and the local milk board recognized an opportunity. Winning drivers and teams have knelt down to kiss the yard of bricks on the front straight since 1996, when a NASCAR driver did so to pay tribute to the track’s history—which led to thousands of fans puckering up for photos every year.

  Pre-race activities were equally steeped in tradition. Hundreds of multi-colored balloons have been released on race morning since 1947. And “Back Home Again in Indiana” has been performed since 1946—by Jim Nabors for nearly forty of those years.

  Every race weekend had some form of pre-race ceremonies—at the very least, an invocation, national anthem, and instruction to “Start your engines.” But at the Indy 500, they went on for hours, slowly building the excitement and adrenaline in the Speedway. Starting at eight that morning, a dozen bands had paraded down the front straight. They were followed by parade cars carrying Indy 500 Festival princesses and sponsors. Then the official delivery of the green flag by helicopter, followed by parade cars carrying past race-winning drivers and the race’s grand marshal.

  By that point, our racecars were in place on the front straight’s starting grid, and teams were allowed ten minutes to warm up the engines—though we wouldn’t go racing for another hour and twenty. I knew from attending in the past that the quieting of those engines signaled the start of the televised portion of the pre-race show, which began with a military color guard assembled on pit lane. As the Borg-Warner was rolled out to the yard of bricks for photos, media assembled on all sides of a giant platform bridging the wall between pit lane and the front straight.

  Another tradition was driver introductions. We would be called out in reverse order of qualifying, and each row of three starters would climb the steps to the platform, wave to the crowd, and descend steps on the other side for media photos.

  With help from the yellow-shirted security patrol blowing whistles to clear a path through the crowd, I made my way for the final time from the garages to the pagoda, my nervous system already ramped up to anxiety mode. Holly was with me, running interference with autograph-seekers. I was happy to respond to fans at almost any time, the two exceptions being right before qualifying and right before the race, when it took all of my energy to stay calm about what lay ahead. To keep breathing.

  We arrived at the green room, on the pagoda’s ground floor, which was full of drivers, team reps, Series and broadcast crew, and VIPs. I saw the Grammy-winning recording artist there to perform the national anthem in one corner and the Oscar-winning action star who would wave the green flag in another. Mostly I saw my fellow drivers, looking some combination of tense and focused—a few acted relaxed, but that was for show.

  “You hanging in there?” Holly asked in a low tone.

  “Thinking about the car and the race—everything else is put away for now. Except maybe Gramps or Ryan. Any idea what they’re doing?”

  “We’ll see them on the grid. You want more water?” She pulled a bottle out of the small tote bag she carried.

  I already have to pee.

  “Sure.” I knew I needed as much as I could take in, because the minute I got in the car I’d sweat it out by the cupful.

  An IndyCar staffer entered the green room to assemble us into our rows of three. I felt my heart rate kick up another notch, which I wouldn’t have thought possible.

  Keep breathing, think about putting your helmet on and getting in the car.

  In moments, I was exiting the green room to wait under the pagoda behind a tall screen bearing the race logo. Two drivers stood on my left, representing positions
seventeen and sixteen. We’d barely formed our row when we were directed to skirt the screen and walk out to be introduced.

  I looked around, amazed at the sight of hundreds of thousands of people. The crowds were thick on pit lane and the front straight, packed solid from the rope line edging our narrow walkway for a hundred yards in either direction. The stands in front of us, lining the front straight as far as the eye could see down to Turn 1 and up to Turn 4 were full. I turned to look behind us and saw similarly full stands, as well as people lining every window and deck of every level of the pagoda.

  My mouth went dry.

  I forgot how big this feels.

  As we climbed the six steps, I heard the announcer. “Turning to row six, on the outside, starting in eighteenth and making her second run here at Indy, from Albuquerque, New Mexico, Kate Reilly!”

  I waved, smiling, turning to look behind me and up and down the track. I registered a vague increase in volume at my name, but between the cheering of the people in the stands, the ongoing blare of the PA, and the constant roar of my heartbeat in my ears, I wasn’t sure if the reaction had been good, bad, or indifferent.

  The three of us paused at the top of the platform while the other two drivers were introduced, and then we started down the other side, where we worked our way past special guests—veterans of World War II seated in chairs along the yard of bricks—the Borg-Warner trophy, and prior race winners. We greeted and took photos with most of the VIPs, including the Oscar-winner. When we’d reached the end of the line, we all hurried back along a designated path in the crowd to the green room, where everyone made a beeline for the two bathrooms—all drivers were in the same over-hydrated and nervous-stomach state. Holly was waiting for me after I got through the line, and together, we made our way out to the crowded grid to the strains of Florence Henderson singing ”God Bless America.”

  We stopped where we were—barely onto the crowded front straight—and bowed our heads for the invocation and the bugler’s version of Taps.

  I heard Holly blow her nose behind me as we started moving again. “Taps always gets me,” she said.

  I agreed with her, but kept walking, my entire being focused on getting to the car. The Grammy-winner launched into the national anthem, and we reached my crew seconds before the flyover. From that moment, I stopped hearing anything that wasn’t right in front of me. I wanted to use the bathroom again, but I knew it was just nerves and the need would disappear the minute I got in the car. I’d already started sweating.

  I moved to my engineer, Nolan. “All good?”

  He tugged at the sparse hair over his ears. “As we’ll get. Have a good race.”

  My heart rate hit maximum speed, and I wondered if I’d pass out. I glanced at my crew, unable to do more than nod. Gramps patted me on the back and told me he was proud of me. Ryan squeezed my hand and got out of the way. Holly stepped up with my gear, and I handed my phone, sunglasses, and lip balm to her.

  I studied the cockpit of the car as I inserted my earplugs. I pulled on my balaclava and opened the neck of my firesuit to tuck the ends inside. Zipped up again, and smoothed the neck flap closed. Took a deep breath.

  Almost show time. You got this. Focus, stay in the moment, and kick some butt.

  I met Holly’s eyes and smiled as she handed me my helmet. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime, sugar. Anytime.”

  I looked down the track toward Turn 1 as I pulled my helmet on. I didn’t see the crowds, flags, or other cars. Didn’t hear the cacophony around me. I saw open pavement and smooth track. Felt speed. I fastened my chinstrap and stepped toward the car.

  Bald John helped me get settled, fastening and double-checking my belts and securing the extra padding around my head as Alexa initiated the radio check—between her on the stand and me in the car, between me and my spotters in Turn 1 and Turn 3, and between her and the spotters. I was more nervous and more calm at the same time—nervous for the million things that could go wrong at the start and in the race. Calmer because it was finally time to go.

  Enough with the buildup and the waiting. Let’s light this candle!

  Finally, they said the words. “Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines.”

  Nolan swiveled a finger in the air, the crew inserted the starter motor, and my 82 car growled to life under me.

  Chapter Forty-five

  The thirty-three entrants in the Indianapolis 500 pulled away row by row for three warm-up laps before the green flag. The first was the official parade lap, during which we stayed in formation around the 2.5-mile circuit—I was told fans cheered us the whole way, but I didn’t notice.

  The circuit took forever, the 110 mph we did for warm-up laps feeling slow. As we moved from Turn 4 onto the front straight, we straggled into one long line, giving each other space to do the small amount of accelerating, braking, and weaving back and forth we were capable of to warm things up while in full fuel-save mode.

  Alexa radioed to me as I entered Turn 1 on the second lap. “I know it’s not easy, but get your tires as warm as you can, and save fuel.”

  My heart rate was already near race-pace, but I was starting to settle, to feel in the zone. “Copy.”

  “Your jacker is currently zero. Bars P4 and P1. Make sure they’re where you want them for the start so you’re not too loose. Fuel setting 8. Stay out of trouble at the green.” Alexa’s voice was unusually tight with tension.

  Time to go. “Copy.”

  I weaved back and forth between Turns 1 and 2, putting my hands on the anti-roll bar levers and the weight jacker button for reassurance. On the back straight, I gave the car some throttle, then pounced on the brakes fifty yards later and weaved back and forth more before Turn 3.

  One more time down the front straight, focusing on my car. Glancing at the cars around me. Making sure I’m breathing to be ready for the green. Into Turn 1 again.

  The next time, we’ll be racing.

  I touched the throttle to line up next to the middle car from my row, and we went through Turn 2 side-by-side. On the back straight, I switched to fuel setting or “map” 4 for aggressive fuel use at the start. The inside car from our row fell back into line with us. Ahead, the fifth row had similarly formed. The two cars next to me edged forward, and I went with them, closing the gap slightly between rows and feeling the track get narrower as three speeding cars lined up side-by-side.

  We don’t fit three-wide! Breathe, Kate. We do if we’re very, very careful…

  We went through Turn 3 together, then the short chute between turns.

  One more turn.

  My pulse skyrocketed. Still in a tidy row through Turn 4. Heading for the green, starting to pick up the pace. Following the cars in the row ahead as they accelerate. My heart pounding. The sound of the roaring crowd mingling with the crescendo of blood roaring through my veins.

  “Be ready,” my Turn 1 spotter called as my row came out of Turn 4. “Be ready. Ready. Ready—leaders are accelerating. Green, green, green!”

  My instincts tell me to mash the throttle down. My head backs off just enough to not run over the car in front of me.

  “Inside. Two inside. Inside,” the Turn 1 spotter calls from his stand high atop the outer grandstand. “Now one. One inside.”

  I fly down the front straight, seeing space to my left and moving toward the center of the track, now that there are only two of us side-by-side. Shift to fifth gear. Look ahead to Turn 1 but see it full of cars jockeying for position and slowing everyone down. Foot off the throttle, braking. Turbulent air from cars all around me. Check my mirrors—yellow car behind me to the outside, coming fast.

  “Inside. Now outside,” the spotter calls.

  I’m the meat in a car sandwich at nearly 200 mph. I follow my line into the corner, hoping the yellow car on the outside will slow down because there’s not enough room to get by. It doesn’t, and we go
through Turn 1 three-wide.

  There’s no room! The outer car is crowding me.

  We round Turn 1 and go into the short chute between 1 and 2. Spotter reminding me of cars inside and outside. Me trying to hold the car steady to keep from hitting anyone and trying to figure out how the car feels for racing.

  My car pushes up. I turn the wheel more. The outside car gets closer.

  Is the inside car pushing me? The outside car crowding me?

  I feel a bump and multiple vehicles dart around me as I fight my wiggling car. Ease off the throttle, get the wheels straight through the turn.

  Losing ground to the other cars!

  Through Turn 2, I can tell the handling has changed. The front wants to grab and the back end wants to snap around. I’d lost aero downforce on the rear of the car with whatever had been damaged. I wind the weight jacker to the right to add more weight, more mechanical grip, and less tendency to turn or snap to the side that lost aero. Make the front anti-roll bar stiffer—slowly!—to decrease mechanical grip and make it grab less up front.

  I barely got through Turn 2, trying to keep my speed up. Then the yellow car passed me on the back straight.

  Sofia Montalvo.

  I pressed the radio button. “She hit me!”

  In the moment, my adrenaline high and blood hot, I was sure she’d done it on purpose. Watching replays later, I could concede it had been a racing incident.

  “We saw it. Three-wide, hard to be sure,” Alexa’s voice came back, calm and measured. “How’s the car?”

  I inched the wheel to the left, turning into 3, and didn’t respond, busy making more adjustments and thinking the car would slide out from under me into the wall at any second. Feeling like I was on rollerskates in a butter factory.

  Alexa came back on the radio as I fought through the short chute and Turn 4. “We don’t see damage—nothing’s broken off.”