Down the front straight to end only my first lap. “She crowded me, then hit me,” I insisted. “Something broke. Handling went to shit.”
Bitch.
“Do what you can. Don’t want to pit under green. Try to hang on. Fuel map 3.” Alexa kept the words to a minimum to be heard with the noise of airflow.
I focused on turning into 1, then dialed my fuel mixture down.
She will not get away with ruining my race. No way in hell will she beat me.
I channeled my rage into dealing with my suddenly ill-handling beast.
Alexa spoke three laps later. “Lap times steady. Good work. Keep it up.”
I didn’t bother responding. Kept listening to the sound of the car in the turns and tuning my senses to the feel of the tires through my seat. Nudging the levers to compensate for the shifting weight of the car as I burned fuel and wore down the tires. Dealing with the loosest car I’d ever driven and feeling at every second if I even looked at the car wrong, I’d upset the balance, break loose, and hit the wall.
The only other radio activity came from my spotter as five different cars passed me. I swore as the poor handling got worse with a car next to me taking away my air. But I refused to give up without a fight, and I worked my tools until they did no more good. Then I started lifting to slow my corner-entry speed, cursing Sofia all the way.
I was in Turn 2, lap 20, when my Turn 3 spotter yelled, “Yellow! Yellow! Yellow! Turn 4!” The lights around the track and on my dash flashed. “Car is against inside wall. Watch for debris.”
Relief washed through me. I lifted my foot off the throttle incrementally, braked gently, slowing with the other cars on track into Turn 3, waiting for more instructions.
“Looks like debris all across the track. Do your best not to hit any,” Alexa called.
I slowed as much as possible through Turn 4 and picked my way through the debris in the tracks of the car ahead of me. Then I changed the fuel settings on the wheel to setting 8, to minimize consumption.
“Pace car missed the leader,” my Turn 1 spotter called. “Pick him up next time.”
I heard Alexa sigh as she transmitted again. “The wrecked car’s blocking pit entry, so extra time to clear it and open the pits. We’ll try to see what’s wrong as you go by.”
“Copy,” I said.
“But we’ll change your rear assembly.” Alexa paused. “That’ll be full fuel, tires, and rear assembly change. You’ll lose more positions—probably a lap—but it’ll give you something to work with again.”
“I’ll take it,” I told her. Then I waited, impatiently, as the field circled the track for a full eight laps.
Let us in! Got to get this car fixed!
Chapter Forty-six
It seemed like forever, but the safety crew finally cleared the driver, car, and debris. When the pits opened, we all came in, which made for a crowded pit lane. Fortunately, the car pitted behind me was still behind me on the track, so I could pull into my box straighter than if I had to pull in around another car—and I was lucky the crew next to us liked me, because they pulled aside the front tire laid out for their own pit stop to ease my entry.
Unfortunately, fixing my car took a long, long time. The crew worked fast, undoing fasteners and removing the rear assembly—including wing, winglets, and pods—then sliding the new one into place and twisting screws to hold it tight. But even with their speed, I sat there forever. Every second was an eternity, especially as cars in front of me pulled out of their pit spaces. Then cars behind me pulled out and passed us. The field passed us on track, and I lost a lap. Still I waited.
“Hang on, Kate,” Alexa soothed. “It’ll be worth it.”
I concentrated on breathing and being ready to go when I got the wave.
There! Go!
I was clicking the car into gear and pressing on the throttle as I heard Alexa in my ear. “Go, go, go!” A moment later, she continued, “You’re P32, one lap down, but it’s early in the race. Work on the car, we’ll get it back.”
I tamped down my panic and listened to Alexa and my spotters. When we took the green two laps later, I was at the very back of the field and in more dirty air than I’d ever thought possible. In the pits, I’d reset my anti-roll bars and weight jacker closer to normal, but not all the way neutral—which left the car now pushing like a pig.
Too much understeer!
I started moving my tools immediately, a position at a time, and slowly the handling came back to me.
“How does it feel?” Alexa asked, a few laps into the stint.
“Pretty good,” I returned. “Still working on it.”
I kept working for the next ten laps, focusing on tuning the handling and even passing the last car on the track ahead of me. Four laps later, we got another yellow. When the leaders pitted, I stayed out to get my lost lap back, then pitted for full service—telling Alexa I didn’t want any changes. As we circled for the green, I was last again, but back on the lead lap.
More importantly, I had a car I was starting to feel good about. I finally had some stability—a relative term for a racecar at the edge of grip—and I could work on tuning the performance.
We took the green, and two laps later, someone brought out another yellow flag.
Fortunately, this one was short, for a one-car spin and stalled engine. It took a couple laps to get the field collected behind the pace car and get the car restarted. But he drove right off and around to the pits, ensuring a short caution period.
Because I was at the back of the line of cars anyway, Alexa called me in to top me off with fuel—because we never knew if it would help, and it didn’t hurt us. Then we restarted again and settled into a long, green-flag run.
Three laps in, I passed a car with a mechanical problem that was low in Turn 3, slowing and heading for the apron to get to pit lane. I went through Turn 4 and took a breath down the front straight, telling myself to relax. I had a fleeting impression of a wall of color pressing down on me from the stands to my right, but I ignored it, and focused on the car.
Make the next lap better. Faster. Flatter. Catch the red car in front of me.
I stared at Turn 1, not seeing what actually lay ahead—the track and outer wall looking like a barrier at the end of the straight—but seeing the bend of the track in my mind’s eye. Seeing through the turn, past the pesky red car in the middle of it. Foot flat on the throttle.
“You’re four lengths back from the next car, Kate,” Alexa calls. “Go get him.”
I inched closer to him, fighting against turbulence and dirty air, making myself lift less and less through Turns 1 and 2.
Steady. Smooth.
Wind pushing me in the middle of Turn 2. Back end a little loose. Weight jacker to the right to keep more weight on the right rear. Push another click, finally feels stable.
On the back straight, soften the rollbar again, because I’d been good through Turn 3 the last time. Creeping up on the red car four lengths ahead of me. Moving the weight jacker back as I get closer, feeling the dirty air. Good through 3.
Hands barely turning the wheel into Turn 4. Car not turning. Shift the wheel left more. The car finally responds, sluggish. Soften the front bar.
Shooting down the front straight. Wind the weight jacker down again before Turn 1. Still good through that turn. Flat out. Weight jacker again in the short chute, preparing for 2. Better through there, the back end still a little unstable.
Soften the rollbar on the back straight, inching up on the red car. Two lengths now. Good through 3. Watching the red car’s lines. Unwind the jacker for 4.
Down the front straight again, I feel the tow from the red car sucking me closer to him. Feel the dirty air making the car push in some moments and scary loose in others. A length and a half apart now. I adjust for Turn 1, keeping close to the red car. Fight the turbulence. Adjust for 2, still close. Clos
e enough behind him on the back straight to consider passing there—I pull out to the left, foot flat. But I’d started my run on him too late in Turn 2 and can’t get it done.
Do it on the front straight.
“Keep at it, Kate. You’ll get him.” Alexa tells me.
Lift at Turn 3, then roll on the throttle to be flat through Turn 4—this time too close to the red car through the turn. I lift slightly and lose the attempt.
Staying close to the other car around the track, dealing with the air, planning for the next lap. Lift again at 3, build speed and throttle through the short chute and into 4.
Just the right distance away.
I stayed flat through 4 and carried speed onto the front straight. Caught the tow just right. Inching closer. Closer. Closer—now! I pull out.
“Outside,” my spotter tells me. “Still outside.”
I slingshot past the red car.
“Outside—clear!”
I move my tools for Turn 1 before I turn in and keep digging, keep adjusting the car’s balance to compensate for wind, clean and dirty air, and my tires starting to wear. I caught the next car three laps later and passed him on the back straight. Passed another car nine laps later, and another three laps after that. The car was working well, but mostly I was getting past cars that had been slower than us in practice sessions. As I climbed up the order, they’d be harder and harder to pass. But I’d keep trying.
Alexa came on the radio after I’d gone twenty-four laps. “P20. L6 to pit. How’s the car?”
She was telling me I was in twentieth place and we’d pit in six laps. “Loose. Front wing.”
“Copy,” Alexa replied, understanding I wanted a front wing adjustment.
The next time around, Alexa gave me the vitals and told me what they’d change. “P15. L5 to pit. Quarter front wing out.”
“Copy.” I saw cars starting to make green flag pit stops.
The car slid in Turn 2 and I held on, hoping. It was too late in the stint for many adjustments, because my tires were shot. Anything I did at one end of the car by now would unbalance the other. I made it through the turn, flying down the back straight, aiming for the next car, some ten lengths ahead.
Lifted gently for Turn 3. Car slipping more. Into Turn 4, seeing more cars peeling off into the pits.
“P7. L4 to pit,” Alexa told me.
I took a breath down the front straight and felt my heart rate increase.
I have a couple laps’ more fuel—don’t think about it.
I focused on keeping my car pointed down the track for the next lap, dealing with the slide, making any adjustments possible, lifting where they weren’t. Turn 4, the car ahead of me turns into pit lane.
Across the start/finish, remembering to breathe and adjust my tools. Telling myself to focus on the feel of the car in the moment and nothing else.
“P3. L3,” Alexa said.
Focus on the car!
The next lap was a blur, the only thought in my head to not screw up. Turn 4. More cars pitting. I flashed past the start/finish holding my breath. I heard the crowd roar as I focused on Turn 1.
Alexa finally radioed. “P1. L2.”
My whole body shook. While part of my mind dealt with adjusting the car and turning the wheel—and not crashing—another part went somewhere else. Somewhere shocked. Somewhere euphoric.
For a second, I sat there in complete silence, almost unable to see from the vibrations of the car, the wind, and myself. When I got to the back straight, the wave of sound hit me. I heard the car noise, and I heard the crowd.
Holy shit, they’re cheering for me.
I knew it was temporary. I knew it was a game of mileage—solely due to when we’d stopped for fuel and how long we could stay on the track. I didn’t care.
I’m leading the Indianapolis 500, The Greatest Spectacle in Racing, for two laps. This is the best moment of my life.
Chapter Forty-seven
I resumed my mid-pack position after pitting a couple laps later and making the adjustment we’d discussed. The tweak helped, and I wasn’t fighting the car so much for stability, especially in dirty air. It wasn’t entirely stable—I still adjusted to get back to the sweet spot of handling, while in traffic, and as the tires wore—but that was normal for Indy, and I had the tools to work with it.
Our next couple stints were uneventful. I picked off one car each stint, and cycled up to second or third—never again to the lead—right before stopping. The car felt better than it had all month, and even with the increasing heat of the track surface and the changing tire conditions as they went from fresh to worn, it stayed manageable and, at moments, good.
Then, on lap 158, after more than a hundred laps of green flag racing, the big one happened. Right in front of me.
Two cars had gone down the front straight, nose to tail, and going into Turn 1, the following car misjudged his spacing and bumped the leading car in the right rear. Bumped him in the worst place on the track—aside from the exit of 4, where we all tended to be loose anyway. Because of the impact, both cars were unbalanced. The second car—the bumper—spun around first, his rear toward the outside and his momentum propelling him up the track fast, right into the wall. The bumpee wiggled and almost saved his car, but ultimately suffered the same fate.
Because of their trajectories, the bumper hit the wall and slid along it, leaving a long black mark on the white barrier where tires and carbon fiber bodywork scrubbed away. The bumpee was less lucky: he hit the wall hard, destroying most of his back wing assembly, and bounced off, spinning and traveling back down the track, into the path of the rest of us. At that point, he was powerless to control the car—since the suspension was bent, the tires were in the air, rather than on the pavement, and the brakes were useless.
The two cars immediately behind the crashing duo were veterans who’d been trading positions for the last five laps, putting on an incredible display of skill as they went through turns side-by-side and kept their noses clean. But as they went into Turn 1—one car staggered slightly ahead and to the side of the other—they had nowhere to go. They ran right into the first two cars.
The lead veteran was lower on the track. He slammed into the front corner of the spinning car such that tire met tire and launched the veteran’s car airborne for a couple yards. He slammed back onto the track minus one front wheel and most of his front wing, helpless. The other veteran was tucked in behind, half a front wing higher and a split second behind—which gave him more time to lock up the brakes and generate tire smoke, but not enough time to avoid impact. He hit the car that had scrubbed along the wall, sending both of them jolting down the track.
In the end, all of the drivers were uninjured, except for bruises, a sprained wrist, and crushed hopes. But the cars were destroyed.
At the moment it happened, I didn’t know the details, though I was positive none of the four would finish the race. That was clear, based on the debris field, which, as the next car in line after the two veterans, I ran through. Luckily, I was ten lengths back, so I was near the start/finish when my spotter started screaming in my ear.
“Yellow! Yellow! Turn 1! Brake, brake, brake! Go low!” My spotter yelled at me.
I felt a jolt of adrenaline. I got on the brake and shifted my hands to the left to move down the track, trying hard not to unsettle the car. Careful not to tip myself into a spin with sudden actions.
Shit, shit, shit.
Then I was in the turn, trying to pick my way through almost stationary cars and an enormous swath of carbon fiber, metal pieces, and tires strewn across the track. At more than 150 mph I went left onto the apron to avoid a rear wing that slid to rest right in front of me and stayed there through Turn 2, still slowing as quickly as I dared.
If I haven’t cut a tire, it’ll be a miracle.
I moved onto the track again on the back straig
ht, and immediately felt the wobble.
“Did you hit anything?” Alexa asked.
“Maybe? Car feels terrible.”
“Good job to get through there,” my spotter said. “Well done.”
“Agreed,” Alexa said. “Let us know if you feel a tire starting to go, and we’ll watch for it on the monitors. But we want to try to keep you out there even if you do. We don’t want to stop under closed pits. Fuel map 8.” Closed pits meant we couldn’t enter, but in emergency situations, such as a flat tire or not enough gas to continue, cars could enter the pits for only that service—changing a single tire or taking a couple gallons of fuel. For the remainder of service, we’d have to stop with the field once the pits were officially open. Obviously, doing so would put us at the back of the pack, and I knew everyone on the team was hoping and praying I wouldn’t have a tire issue.
I changed the fuel mixture to the caution setting, as instructed, and then hung on for a fraught two laps while my car tried to buck and vibrate all over the track.
After I’d complained on the radio for the third time, Alexa responded. “We’re sure you just flat-spotted the tires getting slowed down. Stay out until the pits open.”
I made it, and when I pulled away, I was in twelfth position—a jump due to the attrition of the four wrecked cars that had been ahead of me, but also to the speed of my crew, who got me out ahead of one of my competitors.
“Great stop, thanks, everyone,” I called, once I’d gotten back on track and in line.
“Forty laps to go, Kate,” Alexa said. “No one can make it on fuel, so we’ll all be stopping. We’re going to do a normal stint, and if we don’t get a yellow, we’ll do a quick splash near the end. Everyone will probably do the same.” She paused. “You’re currently P12. Let’s try to pick up a couple more places. Keep it clean.”
Translation: first priority is finish the race, second is finish higher than I am now.
“Copy,” I returned. I checked my mirrors. “Who’s behind me?”
“The Wildman. Sofia Montalvo behind him,” my Turn 3 spotter replied.
Kiss the Bricks Page 24
