Anniston, a pleasant green-and-white country town, was six miles or so from the Talladega track.
Officially, Adam’s company, like other car manufacturers, was not directly involved in auto racing, and the once strongly financed factory teams had been disbanded. Yet no official edict could wipe out an ingrained enthusiasm for racing which most auto executives shared, including Hub Hewitson, Adam, and others in their own and competitive companies. This was one reason why most major auto races attracted strong contingents from Detroit. Another was that auto corporation money continued to flow into racing, through back doors, at division level or lower. In this way—in which General Motors had set a pattern across the years—if a car bearing a manufacturer’s name won, its makers could cheer publicly, reaping plaudits and prestige. But if a car carrying their name lost, they merely shrugged and disclaimed association.
Erica got out of bed, took a leisurely bath, and began dressing.
While doing so, she thought about Pierre Flodenhale whose picture had been featured prominently in the morning paper. Pierre, in racing garb and crash helmet, was shown being kissed by two girls at once and was beaming—undoubtedly because of the girls but also, probably, because most prognosticators had picked him as among the two or three drivers most likely to win both today’s and tomorrow’s races.
Adam and others in the company contingent here were also happy about Pierre’s prospects, since in both races he would be driving cars with their company’s name.
Erica’s feelings about Pierre were mixed, as she was reminded when they met briefly last night.
It had been at a crowded cocktail-supper party—one of many such affairs taking place around town, as always happened on the eve of any major auto race. Adam and Erica had been invited to six parties and dropped in on three. At the one where they met Pierre, the young race driver was a center of attention and surrounded by several glamorous but brassy girls—“pit pussies,” as they were sometimes known—of the type which auto racing and its drivers seemed always to attract.
Pierre had detached himself on seeing Erica, and made his way across the room to where she was standing alone, Adam having moved away to talk with someone else.
“Hi, Erica,” Pierre said easily. He gave his boyish grin. “Wondered if you’d be around.”
“Well, I am.” She tried to be nonchalant, but unaccountably felt nervous. To cover up, she smiled and said, “I hope you win. I’ll be cheering for you both days.” Even to herself, however, her words sounded strained, and in part, Erica realized, it was because the physical presence of Pierre aroused her sensually, still.
They had gone on chatting, not saying very much, though while they were together Erica was aware of others in the room, including two from Adam’s company, glancing their way covertly. No doubt some were remembering gossip they had heard, including the Detroit News item about Pierre and Erica, which distressed her at the time.
Adam had strolled over to join them briefly, and wished Pierre well. Soon after, Adam moved away again, then Pierre excused himself, saying that because of the race tomorrow he must get to bed. “You know how it is, Erica,” he said, grinning again, then winked to make sure she did not miss the unsubtle humor.
Even that reference to bed, clumsy as it was, had left an effect, and Erica knew she was far from being completely over her affair with Pierre.
Now, it was noon next day and the first of the two big races—the Canebreak 300—would begin in half an hour.
Erica left the suite and went downstairs.
In the helicopter, Kathryn Hewitson observed, “This is rather ostentatious. But it beats sitting in traffic, I suppose.”
The helicopter was a small one which could carry only two passengers at a time, and the first to be whirled from Anniston to the Talladega Speedway were the executive vice-president’s wife and Erica. Kathryn Hewitson was a handsome, normally self-effacing woman in her early fifties, with a reputation as a devoted wife and mother, but also one who, on occasions, could handle her dynamic husband firmly, as no one else knowing him could or dared to. Today, as she often did, she had brought along her needlepoint which she worked on, even during their few minutes in the air.
Erica smiled an acknowledgment because the helicopter’s noise as they were airborne precluded conversation.
Beneath the machine, the ochre-red earth of Alabama, framing lush meadowland, slid by. The sun was high, the sky unclouded, the air warm with a dry, fresh breeze. Though it would be September in a few days more, no sign of fall was yet apparent. Erica had chosen a light summer dress; so had most other women whom she saw.
They landed in the Speedway infield, already massed with parked vehicles and race fans, some of whom had camped here overnight. Even more cars were streaming in through two double-lane traffic tunnels beneath the track. At the helicopter landing pad, a car and driver were waiting for Kathryn Hewitson and Erica; briefly, traffic in one of the incoming tunnel lanes was halted, the lane control reversed, while they sped through to the grandstand side of the track.
The grandstands too—North, South, and Over Hill—were packed with humanity, waiting expectantly in the now hot sun along their mile-long length. As the two women reached one of the several private boxes, a band near the starting line struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner.” A singer’s soprano voice floated over the p.a. Wherever they were, most spectators, contestants, and officials stood. The cacophony of speedway noises hushed.
A clergyman with a Deep South drawl intoned, “Oh God, watch over those in peril who will compete … We praise Thee for today’s fine weather, and give our thanks for business Thou hast brought this area …”
“Damn right,” Hub Hewitson asserted in the front row of his company’s private box. “Lots of cash registers jingling, including ours, I hope. Must be a hundred thousand people.” The phalanx of company men and wives surrounding the executive vice-president smiled dutifully.
Hewitson, a small man with close-cropped, jet black hair, whose energy seemed to radiate through his skin, leaned forward so he could better view the throngs which jammed the Speedway. He declared again, “Motor racing’s come up to be the second most popular sport; soon it’ll be the first. All of ’em out there are interested in power under the hood, thank God!—and never mind the sanctimonious sons-of-bitches who tell us people aren’t.”
Erica was two rows from the front, with Adam beside her. Kathryn Hewitson had gone to the rear of the box, which had tiered seats rising from front to rear, and was sheltered from the sun. Kathryn told Erica as they came in, “Hub likes me along, but I don’t really care for racing. It makes me frightened at times, and sad at others, wondering what’s the point of it all.” Erica could see the older woman in the back row now, busy with her needlepoint.
The private box, like several others, was in the South grandstand and commanded a view of the entire Speedway. The start-finish line was immediately in front, banked turns to left and right, the back-stretch visible beyond the infield. On the nearer side of the infield were the pits, now thronged with overalled mechanics. Pit row, as it was known, had ready access to and from the track.
In the company box, among other guests, was Smokey Stephensen, and Adam and Erica had spoken with him briefly. Ordinarily, a dealer would not make it in here with the high command, but Smokey enjoyed privileges at race meets, having once been a big star driver, with many older fans still revering his name.
Next to the company box was the press enclosure, with long tables and scores of typewriters, also ranged in tiers. The press reporters, alone among most others present today, self-importantly hadn’t stood for the national anthem. Now, most were clattering on typewriters, and Erica, who could view them through a glass window at the side, wondered what they could be writing so much about when the race hadn’t even started.
But starting time was close. The praying was done; clergy, parade marshals, drum majorettes, bands, and other nonessentials had removed themselves. Now the track was clear, and f
ifty competing cars were in starting positions—a long double line. Throughout the speedway, as always in final moments before a race, tension grew.
Erica saw from her program that Pierre was in row four of the starting lineup. His car was number 29.
The control tower, high above the track, was the Speedway’s nerve center. From it, by radio, closed circuit TV, and telephone, were controlled the starters, track signal lights, pace cars, service and emergency vehicles. A race director presided at a console; he was a relaxed and quietly spoken young man in a business suit. In a booth beside him sat a shirt-sleeved commentator whose voice would fill the p.a. system through the race. At a desk behind, two uniformed Alabama State Troopers directed traffic in the nontrack areas.
The race director was communicating with his forces: “Lights work all the way ‘round? … okay … Track clear? … all set … Tower to pace car: Are you ready to go? … All right, fire ’em up!”
Over the Speedway p.a., voiced by a visiting fleet admiral on an infield dais, went the traditional command to drivers: “Gentlemen, start your engines!”
What followed was racing’s most exciting sound: The roar of unmuffled engines, like fifty Wagnerian crescendos, which swamped the Speedway with sound and extended for miles beyond.
A pace car, pennants billowing, swung onto the track, its speed increasing swiftly. Behind the pace car, competing cars moved out, still two abreast, maintaining their starting lineup as they would for several preliminary, nonscoring laps.
Fifty cars were scheduled to begin the race. Forty-nine did.
The engine of a gleaming, vivid red sedan, its identifying number 06 painted in high visibility gold, wouldn’t start. The car’s pit crew rushed forward and worked frantically, to no avail. Eventually the car was pushed by hand behind the wall of pit row and, as it went, the disgusted driver flung his helmet after it.
“Poor guy,” somebody in the tower said. “Was the best-looking car on the field.”
The race director cracked, “He spent too much time polishing it.”
During the second preliminary lap, with the field still bunched together, the director radioed the pace car, “Pick up the tempo.”
The pace car driver responded. Speeds rose. The engines’ thunder grew in intensity.
After a third lap the pace car, its job done, was signaled off the track. It swung into pit row.
At the start-finish line in front of the grandstand, the starter’s green flag slashed the air.
The 300 mile race—113 grueling laps—began.
From the outset the pace was sizzling, competition strong. Within the first five laps a driver named Doolittle, in number 12, charged through massed cars ahead to take the lead. Shooting up behind came car number 38, driven by a jut-jawed Mississippian known to fans as Cutthroat. Both were favorites, with racing pundits and the crowd.
A dark horse rookie driver, Johnny Gerenz in number 44, ran an unexpected third.
Pierre Flodenhale, clearing the pack soon after Gerenz, moved up to fourth in number 29.
For twenty-six laps the lead switched back and forth between the two front cars. Then Doolittle, in 12, pitted twice in quick succession with ignition trouble. It cost him a lap, and later, with smoke pouring from his car, he quit the race.
Doolittle’s departure put the rookie, Johnny Gerenz, in 44, in second place. Pierre, in 29, was now third.
In the thirtieth lap a minor mishap, with debris and spilled oil, brought out caution flags, slowing the race while the track was cleared and sanded. Johnny Gerenz and Pierre were among those who pitted, taking advantage of the noncompeting laps. Both had tire changes, a fill of gas, and were away again in seconds.
Soon after, the caution flag was lifted. Speed resumed.
Pierre was drafting—staying close behind other cars, using the partial suction they created, saving his own fuel and engine wear. It was a dangerous game but, used skillfully, could help win long races. Experienced onlookers sensed Pierre was holding back, saving a reserve of speed and power for later in the race.
“At least,” Adam told Erica, “we hope that’s what he’s doing.”
Pierre was the only one among present leaders in the race who was driving one of the company’s cars. Thus, Adam, Hub Hewitson, and others were rooting for Pierre, hopeful that later he would move into the lead.
As always, when she went to auto races, Erica was fascinated by the speed of pit stops—the fact that a crew of five mechanics could change four tires, replenish gasoline, confer with the driver, and have a car moving out again in one minute, sometimes less.
“They practice,” Adam told her. “For hours and hours, all year-round. And they never waste a movement, never get in one another’s way.”
Their seat neighbor, a manufacturing vice-president, glanced across. “We could use a few of their kind in Assembly.”
Pit stops, too, as Erica knew, could win or lose a race.
With the race leaders in their forty-seventh lap, a blue-gray car spun out of control on the steeply banked north turn. It came to rest in the infield, right side up, the driver unhurt. In course of its gyrations, however, the blue-gray car clipped another which slid sideways into the track wall amid a shower of sparks, then deep red flames from burning oil. The driver of the second car scrambled out and was supported by ambulance men as he left the track. The oil fire was quickly extinguished. Minutes later the p. a. announced that the second driver had sustained nose lacerations only; except for the two wrecked cars, no other damage had been done.
The race proceeded under a yellow caution flag, competitors holding their positions until the caution signal should be lifted. Meanwhile, wrecking and service crews labored swiftly to clear the track.
Erica, a little bored by now, took advantage of the lull to move rearward in the box. Kathryn Hewitson, her head down, was still working on needlepoint, but when she looked up, Erica saw to her surprise that the older woman’s eyes were moist with tears.
“I really can’t take this,” Kathryn said. “That man who was just hurt used to race for us when we had the factory team. I know him well, and his wife.”
Erica assured her, “He’s all right. He was only hurt slightly.”
“Yes, I know.” The executive vice-president’s wife put her needlepoint away. “I think I could use a drink. Why don’t we have one together?”
They moved to the rear of the private box where a barman was at work.
Soon after, when Erica returned to rejoin Adam, the caution flag had been lifted, the race was running full-out again, under green.
Moments later, Pierre Flodenhale, in 29, crammed on a burst of speed and passed the rookie driver, Johnny Gerenz, in 44, moving into second place.
Pierre was now directly behind Cutthroat, clinging to the lead in number 38, his speed close to 190 mph.
For three laps, with the race in its final quarter, the two fought a blistering duel, Pierre trying to move up, almost succeeding, but Cutthroat holding his position with skill and daring. But in the homestretch of the eighty-ninth lap, with twenty-four more laps to go, Pierre thundered by. Cheers resounded across the Speedway and in the company box.
The p.a. boomed: “It’s 29, Pierre Flodenhale, out front!”
It was at that moment, with the lead cars approaching the south turn, directly in front of the south grandstand and private boxes, that it happened.
Afterward there was disagreement concerning precisely what had occurred. Some said a wind gust caught Pierre, others that he experienced steering trouble entering the turn and overcorrected; a third theory maintained that a piece of metal on another car broke loose and struck 29, diverting it.
Whatever the cause, car 29 snaked suddenly as Pierre fought the wheel, then at the turn slammed head on into the concrete retaining wall. Like a bomb exploding, the car disintegrated, breaking at the fire wall, the two main portions separating. Before either portion had come to rest, car 44, with Johnny Gerenz, plowed between both. The rookie driver’s
car spun, rolled, and seconds later was upside down in the infield, it wheels spinning crazily. A second car smashed into the now spread-out wreckage of 29, a third into that. Six cars altogether were in the pileup at the turn; five were eliminated from the race, one limped on for a few laps more before shedding a wheel and being towed to the pits. Apart from Pierre, all other drivers involved were unhurt.
The group in the company box, like others elsewhere, watched in shocked horror as ambulance attendants rushed to the two separate, shattered portions of car 29. A group of ambulance men had surrounded each. They appeared to be bringing objects to a stretcher placed midway between the two. As a company director, with binoculars to his eyes, saw what was happening he paled, dropped the binoculars, and said in a strangled voice, “Oh, Jesus Christ!” He implored his wife, beside him, “Don’t look! Turn away!”
Unlike the director’s wife, Erica did not turn away. She watched, not wholly understanding what was happening, but knowing Pierre was dead. Later, doctors declared, he died instantly when car 29 hit the wall.
To Erica, the scene from the moment of the crash onward was unreal, like a reel of film unspooling, so her personal involvement was removed. With a dulled detachment—the result of shock—she witnessed the race continuing for twenty-or-so laps more, then Cutthroat the winner being acclaimed in Victory Lane. She sensed relief in the crowd. After the fatality the gloom around the course had been almost palpable; now it was cast off as a triumph—any triumph—erased the scar of defeat and death.
In the company box the despondency did not lift, unquestionably because of the emotional impact of the violent death a short time earlier, but also because a car of another manufacturer had gained the Canebreak 300 victory. A degree of talk—quieter than usual—centered around the possibility of success next day in the Talladega 500. Most in the company group, however, dispersed quickly to their hotels.
Only when Erica was back in the privacy of the Motor Inn suite, alone with Adam, did grief sweep over her. They had driven together from the Speedway in a company car, Adam saying little, and had come directly here. Now, in the bedroom, Erica flung herself down, hands to her face, and moaned. What she felt was too deep for tears, or even for coherence in her mind. She only knew it had to do with the youthfulness of Pierre, his zest for life, the good-natured charm which on balance outweighed other faults, his love of women, and the tragedy that no woman, anywhere, would ever know or cherish him again.
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