Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  Shit. I’ll be dive-bombed into Turn 1 by an overeager rookie.

  The driver in question had earned the nickname for his flamboyant moves on the track that worked about half the time—there wasn’t much in between brilliant speed and catastrophe in his repertoire yet. With Sofia behind him, I had a double target on my back. I didn’t trust the rookie much, and Sofia, not at all.

  “Spotters, tell me who’s coming up behind me,” I radioed.

  “Ten-four.”

  “Ignore who’s behind you,” Alexa barked. “Focus ahead. Catch the car in front of you, and let what’s behind you sort itself out.”

  Look where you want to go—it’s true of steering out of a spin or driving in a race.

  I knew she was right. If I drove by my mirrors, I’d go slower and end up being passed. “Copy.”

  A few seconds later, we passed the start/finish again, and Alexa radioed, “One to go for green. Restart in fuel map 4.”

  It seemed like an eternity before we were accelerating through Turns 3 and 4 toward the green flag.

  “Green, green, green!” called my spotter.

  I kept my promise and focused forward, on the car in eleventh place, spending the next ten laps staying as close to him as possible and trying to work out where I might pass. We were evenly matched, but I was determined to get it done. I tucked close to him on the straights, letting the tow pull me along, and started poking my nose to the inside, once getting all the way alongside him on a straight. But he was protecting the line, and I couldn’t get ahead of him into a turn. I was still working out how to get to the inside before him when The Wildman did me a favor.

  I later learned Sofia had gotten around him behind me, though he’d stuck to her like a burr after that. I’d put a gap between myself and the two of them early in the run, so I wasn’t paying attention, but fifteen laps into the stint, The Wildman showed his rookie stripes. Apparently impatient with his inability to get past her—she received a warning for blocking him—he went all in at the entry to Turn 1. He dove for the inside of Turn 1 with the smallest of overlaps with Sofia’s car—but she was already turning in, holding her line to the apex. His front wing caught her rear wheel pod, sending them both into the wall and giving everyone the yellow we needed for fuel.

  I wouldn’t have to worry about either one of them again in the race. I felt a glimmer of satisfaction at Sofia’s result, followed by a flicker of guilt. I shoved it all away to think about later and focused on the quick pit stop we’d make for the fuel to get to the end. Everyone would be coming in, so pit lane would be busy.

  I was almost as nervous for that one stop as I’d been for the start, but we all held it together. My team did their jobs flawlessly, and I pulled away without stalling the car. Halfway down the pit lane, I passed a scrum of cars and crew members waving their arms. When I got onto the track, I called to Alexa, “What happened?”

  I heard shock in her voice. “Two cars from the same team screwed up entry into their boxes, turning one around.”

  The first rule of racing was don’t wreck your team cars.

  She radioed again. “That puts you P10. Let’s stay there for the last twenty laps.”

  A top ten at the Indy 500?

  My mouth went dry. “Copy that.”

  It was the biggest partial-stint of my life. I didn’t win. I didn’t make the podium. But in the closing laps of that race, I fended of multiple challenges from a former Indy 500 champion right behind me, and I kept my car clean.

  Three hours and twenty minutes after the green flag flew to start the race, I took the checkers in tenth place. And I’m not ashamed to say I cried.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  My crew was still high-fiving and hugging each other as I pulled into the pits after the cooldown lap. Four of them climbed over the wall to secure the car and help me out, but after I stopped and shut down the engine, I held up a hand. I sat there for a minute, hands still on the wheel, catching my breath. Reliving the laps of work, the passes, the nerves, and the feeling of driving across the yard of bricks, under the checkered flag. I pounded the wheel with my fists and shouted “Yes!” under my helmet.

  Finally, with a nod, I waved the crew in. Banjo removed the pads around my head, while Bald John took the steering wheel off so I could climb out. I stood, but before I could get out of the car, the men surrounded me, shouting congratulations, slapping my back, and hugging me. I yelled thank yous, and I returned every hug, a grin they couldn’t see on my face. My fingers shook as I removed my gloves, helmet, and other gear.

  Finishing the Indy 500 at all was an achievement, but a top ten? Amazing.

  When I turned around, Holly stood at the low pit wall, ready to collect my equipment and hand over a cool, wet towel and a bottle of water. I could see Alexa on the pit box, talking with a small group of reporters. Beyond that, I caught a glimpse of Gramps and Ryan standing at the back fence of pit lane, as people streamed past.

  “Nice work,” Holly said, grinning from ear to ear.

  I beamed back at her. “Unbelievable.” A crew member climbed over the wall next to me, and I thanked and hugged him on the way.

  “Not unbelievable,” she corrected me. “Lucky, but deserved. You and the team worked hard. Keep that in mind for the media.”

  “True.” I held the wet towel over my face, stood still, and breathed for a moment. “Wow,” I said through the fabric.

  Holly laughed. “Wow is right.”

  I opened the bottle of water and drank it down in one go. I was hot and dehydrated—and soaking wet. But happy.

  “There are reporters waiting,” Holly said.

  I nodded, looking for Gramps and Ryan again, but not seeing them. Then suddenly, they appeared to my left, climbing over the wall next to our depleted stacks of tires. I went to them, and the second he was back on two feet, Gramps swept me up in a bear hug.

  “My Katie,” he murmured against my ear. “Congratulations, my girl.”

  I felt tears threaten again. “It wasn’t a win,” I tried to joke.

  “It was as good as one, and you know it.” He stepped back and patted my cheek. I could see love and pride in his eyes, and they filled my heart. “Now give Ryan a hug. He nearly wore his hands out, wringing them, worrying over you the whole time.”

  “He did?” I glanced from Gramps to Ryan, my eyebrows raised. “That’s s—” I almost said “silly,” then I came back to reality. More than two hundred and twenty miles per hour, Kate. “Sweet,” I amended.

  Gramps kissed my cheek. “You go do the rest of your job. We’ll find you later.”

  Ryan stepped forward when Gramps moved away. He held my shoulders and stared into my eyes. “You’re amazing.”

  “You’ve seen me race before.”

  “This one’s different. Watching you out there, so totally in control of that much speed, I felt…”

  I waited, wondering how he’d finish the sentence. Other men in my life would have been turned on, jealous, or diminished. It came to me that this was a vital moment in our relationship, right here, in the pit lane at Indianapolis, with me sweaty and stinky in my firesuit.

  Ryan smiled. “I was proud. Humbled. In awe. Grateful to be with such a tough, special person.”

  I should never have wondered.

  I hugged him. “You always say the right thing.”

  He squeezed me, then stepped back. “More later, speed demon. You’ve got more work to do.” With a smile, he nodded toward the pit box.

  I went back to where Holly stood, chatting with four men and Lyla Thomas, and climbed over the wall to stand next to the group. By unspoken rule, they let the IndyCar radio guy go first—television and radio always had tighter deadlines, especially if they were broadcasting live.

  “We’ll go live on-air, Kate,” the reporter began, and paused for the go-ahead. He smiled, drew breath, an
d then spoke. “Congratulations, Kate. How are you feeling after your best finish here at Indy?”

  All of the reporters held out their recording devices to catch my response, though I aimed for the radio microphone. “I’m feeling fantastic. What a great day and a spectacular result for the Frame Savings/Beauté car. I can’t thank the Beermeier Racing team enough for giving me an outstanding machine, and especially my pit crew for being so focused and solid with every stop.” I paused and took a breath. “If you’d asked me before the race how high I thought we could aim, I’d have said a top fifteen. You know, I dreamed of higher, but hardly dared think it’d be possible—not because we didn’t have a good car, but because of the relative youth of our program. But here we are, with a top ten that feels like a win.” I smiled at everyone.

  The reporter nodded. “Do you realize that only two women have finished higher than you here, in the history of the race? Can you comment on that?”

  For a moment, I couldn’t speak at all.

  Pull it together! You’re live!

  I stole Ryan’s words. “I’m proud to hear that. It humbles me to be part of the incredible tradition of the Indy 500 at all, but to be the eleventh woman ever to race here, and now this? It’s hard to put into words the honor it is. But again, it was so much more than just me. I share that honor with the entire team.” I grinned. “It’s especially cool to share it with my team owner, the woman calling the shots on the radio for me today, Alexa Wittmeier, one of the other eleven women.”

  The radio reporter thanked me and signed off on the air, then lowered the mic and thanked me again, shaking my hand before he left. The other reporters pressed closer. I spent the next twenty minutes answering serious racing questions ranging from “What kind of adjustments were you and the team making to your car throughout the race?” to “Does this give you confidence for the remainder of the IndyCar season?”

  I also fielded the inevitable ridiculous queries, such as “How did it feel to be a woman leading the race?” and “What’s your response to the idea that you’re one of the best female racers around today?”

  Before answering the last one, I exchanged a look with Lyla Thomas, who rolled her eyes at the questioner. I smiled. “Someday I’d rather be thought of as one of the best racers around today, not just one of the best women.”

  The reporters all left shortly thereafter, except Lyla, who lingered for another question. “Do you think this will finally put the PJ comparisons to rest, Kate?” When I didn’t answer right away, she added, “On or off the record, your choice. I’m curious.”

  “I hope so. I feel sympathy and respect for her, and I’m sad she never got the chance to fulfill her potential. But I’m a different person in a different car in a different era. I hope people see Kate when they look at me, and if today’s finish helps, great.” I nodded. “You can quote me if you want to.”

  She thanked me, saluted with her micro-recorder, and took off down pit lane toward the media center.

  I sat down on the wall, feeling like a balloon losing its air.

  What a day.

  Alexa and Nolan stepped down from the pit box, Nolan carrying two laptop computers under his arm. His hair stuck straight out on end, no doubt the result of hours of tugging on it during the race.

  He stuck out a hand. “Hell of a job, Kate. Thanks for the effort.”

  I pulled him in for a hug, which he always seemed to like but was too shy to initiate. “Thank you, Nolan. You gave me a great car.”

  He nodded and shuffled off. Alexa smiled after him then turned back to me. “How does it feel to make history?”

  “You’d know, wouldn’t you?” I stopped and thought about it. “Amazing. Empowering.” I thought more. “Exhausting.”

  She laughed and slung an arm around my neck. “I remember it well. Come on, let’s get you back for some clean clothes, and then we’ll celebrate.”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  My crew already had the champagne and beer out by the time Alexa and I returned to Gasoline Alley. Up and down the Beermeier garages, everyone was celebrating. We’d all finished well—me in tenth, Mick in twelfth after not one but two cut tires during the race, and Kenny in fifteenth.

  Banjo pressed champagne into my hand before I could even change, insisting, “You gotta toast with us.”

  I took a sip with the boys, then hurried off to get into dry clothes. Kenny was still in our locker area, tying his shoes. We congratulated each other on our finishes.

  “Aye, I’ll take fifteenth. Mind you, it’s not tenth in only my second year of trying.” He eyed me sideways, a smile curving his mouth. This had been his fourth running and his best finish so far.

  I shook my head as I opened my locker. “Plenty of luck. How was your day?”

  “Car was good, but the bastard yellows caught me out twice.”

  I peeled my wet firesuit off the top half of my body. “I must have gotten all your luck. For once, the yellows fell exactly right.”

  “Then you owe me a pint for taking my share of luck.” He stood and smiled. “I’m off to share a toast with my crew. See you tomorrow night at the banquet, if not before.”

  Once he’d gone, I finished removing my wet clothing, rubbed myself down with a towel, and got dressed in jeans and a team polo. I didn’t rush back out to the party, but instead took a moment to tidy my locker and reflect on the day.

  I thought of the bubbly waiting for me in a humble plastic juice cup and compared it to the race-winner’s bottle of milk, drunk in front of thousands of spectators and dozens of media. I’d caught a glimpse of him, one arm and shoulder through the traditional wreath of mixed green leaves and thirty-three orchids. He’d been grinning, staring at the Borg-Warner trophy, and wiping milk from his face.

  Being sticky from dumping milk over yourself was a small price to pay for being in victory lane—and I’d give anything to be there. But all in all, I was content with champagne in plastic cups with my team.

  Maybe next year it’ll be milk….

  I smiled at the thought and went back out to join the fun.

  While I’d been changing, my father, his family—my family—and a handful of the VIPs who’d been in the Frame Savings/Beauté suite had arrived.

  My half brother, Eddie, spotted me and whooped. “That was amazing! I didn’t breathe for the last twenty laps.”

  “You and me both.”

  He stepped out of the way for the others to congratulate and hug me. My father, his wife, my half sister, Lara, Beauté executives, and even Charlene Menfis, the Frame Savings VP I’d toured at the start of the day—everyone glowed with excitement and success. As I spoke with them, Ryan appeared at my side with a new glass of champagne for me.

  He spoke into my ear. “Enjoy yourself. I’ll drive everyone home.” Then he moved off to talk with Eddie and Lara. I had a moment’s concern about my father and Gramps running into each other again, but since I didn’t see Gramps around, I decided he’d gone somewhere to avoid having to interact.

  Everyone wanted to hear how the race had felt from inside the cockpit, and especially how I’d managed to avoid the accident that had happened right in front of me. I told and retold the story, answering the same question over and over, but I didn’t mind. If I could put my sponsors in the cockpit with me and help them experience the thrill I felt behind the wheel, any effort was worth it. And from the looks on their faces, they felt some of the same wonder I did to have been part of this historic race.

  Half an hour later, I walked the Beauté executives and my father’s family to the door of the garage, wished them a safe drive to their hotels, and thanked them again for their support. I took a moment to lean against the block wall of the garage and breathe. There was still activity in Gasoline Alley as teams returned equipment to their garages and lingering fans snapped photos or cornered drivers for signatures. Tom Barclay rounded the far corn
er of the garage building, coming from the track, and as I watched, he walked directly to me.

  “Kate, congratulations.” His expression showed him to be unsure of his reception, but he extended a hand anyway.

  What the hell.

  I shook. “Thanks. A pretty good day.”

  “Do you have a minute? I won’t keep you long, but I wanted to explain something.” He was subdued.

  I nodded, leaning against the garage wall again.

  He stuck his hands in his pockets, hunching up his shoulders. “What you said earlier made me think.”

  “I’m sorry again. I shouldn’t have—”

  He stopped me with a gesture. “It’s fine. You made me face that the catalyst for my business might be a lie, which was a little rough.”

  “That doesn’t mean your business isn’t worthwhile.”

  He smiled, a hint of his typical arrogance showing through. “Thank you, but I’m not questioning my career—I know I’ve helped hundreds of people.”

  At least I didn’t damage his ego.

  He went on. “The key was I realized I hadn’t questioned a foundational assumption, which I’d then built a series of actions—and a business—on. Even worse, something else you said made me recognize another baseline assumption I’d taken at face value.” He sighed. “This is the one I need to explain and apologize for.”

  I had no idea where he was going with this. “Sure.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “Last week, I was talking with an individual I’ve worked with in the past, and in conversation, this person mentioned being a friend of yours and being concerned about you. Wanting to help you. Saying you felt the stress of the race, especially given all the comparisons to PJ Rodriguez. You were apparently feeling vulnerable and not as focused as usual, but you weren’t yet admitting to any of it. This individual thought perhaps you could use some help from me to get through the month. Then, of course, when your assistant came to ask me about our services, it only validated what I’d been told.”