Lucky Seven
Page 8
“It’s coming, Dad,” Chick said triumphantly.
On Friday, the day before the races, he and Ken went to Mort’s Pit Stop, registered, paid their entry fees and had their cars inspected. Mort himself inspected them.
“Going to enter your cars in the Con-cours?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Chick.
“Then you’d better be here early. The Con-cours starts at one-thirty sharp.”
“We’ll be here,” said Chick.
They read the Model Car Racing announcement before leaving.
MODEL CAR RACING
SATURDAY, NOV. 16
1:30 P.M. CONCOURS D’ELEGANCE
1st Prize:
White ribbon and model car kit
2nd Prize:
Red ribbon and deluxe controller
3rd, 4th &
5th Prizes:
Blue ribbons designating place won in contest
2:00 P.M. HEAT RACE
First 6 winners:
Ribbons and right to compete in Main Event. Balance of drivers to race in consolation races according to performance.
2:30 P.M. FIRST CONSOLATION RACE
Ribbons to first 2 winners
3:00 P.M. SECOND CONSOLATION RACE
Ribbons to first 2 winners
3:30 P.M. SEMI-MAIN EVENT
Ribbons to first 2 winners
4:00 P.M. MAIN EVENT
1st Prize:
Trophy plus $ 10 in merchandise
2nd Prize:
Ribbon plus $5 in merchandise
3rd Prize:
Ribbon plus $2 in merchandise
4th Prize:
$1.00 Track time
5th Prize:
$ 75 Track time
CLASS OF CARS
No Limitation
“They’re pretty good prizes,” observed Ken.
“I’ll say.” Chick’s pulse was already speeding up.
11
The Concours d’Elégance was on.
There were twenty-three cars entered, all lined up at an angle and side by side on a shelf by the wall left of the raceway. Eddie Lane was judge, as before. Each boy with a car in the Concours waited breathlessly.
Mine won’t win, thought Chick, his hands clasped tightly behind him. There are too many that are more good-looking. That bright shiny red Lola GT, for example. That Mako Shark II with Firestone lettered on the tires. And that sharp, forest-green Camaro with the chrome door handles and silver bumpers. They’re terrific.
The judge added up the scores. At last he picked up the blue ribbons. Chick breathed ever so slowly. The fifth prize went to the Mako Shark II. The fourth prize to a green Rover BRM. The third prize… Chick breathed easier now. There was no use being anxious. His Stingray had no chance. The third prize went to an orange Ferrari. The second prize, a red ribbon… Chick’s heart pounded like a hammer gone crazy. The judge was putting it on his Stingray!
Someone—Ken—slapped him on the shoulder. “Chick! You won second prize! A deluxe controller!”
Chick was dazed.
The first prize went to the Camaro with the chrome door handles.
“Nice going, Chick,” said Jack Harmon, whose entry was a pink Chaparral. “That’s the second time you’ve won a prize in a Con-cours. Well, let’s see what your bomb can do in the Heat!”
Don’t sass him back, thought Chick. Don’t let him get your goat. Remember the wise words of Mr. Duffy.
At three minutes of two Eddie Lane made an announcement. “Attention, racers! The Heat Race will begin in exactly three minutes. It will last for two minutes. There are twenty-three entries. The six drivers who complete the most laps in the two minutes are qualified to enter the Main Event. Drivers who place eighteenth through twenty-third will compete in the First Consolation Race. The first two winners in that race will then compete in the Second Consolation Race. The other four are eliminated.
“Drivers who place thirteenth through seventeenth will compete in the Second Consolation Race with the two winners of the First Consolation Race. The first two winners in this race will compete in the Semi-Main Event. The other five drivers are eliminated. Drivers who place seventh through twelfth in the Heat Race will also compete in the Semi-Main Event. The first two winners in the Semi-Main Event will compete in the Main Event. The remaining five are eliminated.
“I’ll call off your names in the order that you’ve registered. Choose your lane, take two practice laps, then wait at the starting line. Number One, Dick Ealy. Number Two, Jack Harmon. Number Three, Harry Mills ...”
Eddie called off eight names. Chick’s wasn’t one of them. After the eight drivers raced, eight more would be called and then the remaining seven for the Heat Race.
Color stickers, matching the lanes for identification, were put on the cars. Then the cars were lined up. Jack’s was in the yellow lane, Number 7. Four turn marshals were in their positions at the corners.
“Okay,” said Eddie. “At the count of three! Thumbs down! One! Two! Three!”
Eddie switched on the power and the cars took off. They streaked to the first hairpin curve, slowed briefly, their tails whipping out ever so slightly. A black Lola 40 scrambled into the lead going into the second curve, followed by two Ferraris, and Jack Harmon’s Chaparral fourth. For two laps there was little change. Then the Chaparral moved up into third position and held the spot for five laps.
Suddenly one of the Ferraris spun out at the dangerous S-curve at the underpass. An instant later, just as the turn marshal shouted “Track!,” the car in the next lane struck the spunout racer and deslotted.
The turn marshal placed the cars quickly back on the tracks. At the count of “Three!” the race continued. The black Lola held the lead for the next four laps, creeping steadily ahead. A Ferrari was in second place, Jack Harmon’s Chaparral in third.
At the end of a minute the black Lola had covered ten laps, the Ferrari nine and Jack’s Chaparral eight laps and ten sections.
Jack’s Chaparral crept ahead, gaining at the curves. The seconds ticked off slowly while the cars gobbled up the sections.
“Time’s up!” Eddie Lane yelled. “Don’t touch your cars till I get their laps recorded!”
A Ferrari 250 GTO came in first with nineteen laps, four sections. Jack Harmon’s Chaparral came in second with eighteen laps, seventeen sections.
Seconds later Eddie had them recorded, then called off the names of the next eight drivers. Chick waited breathlessly. At last: “Number Six, Chick Grover. Number Seven, Kenneth Jason. Number Eight—”
Chick chose the orange lane, Number 3. Ken, the green lane, Number 2. They put color stickers on their cars. The drivers took two trial laps each, then the race began.
Chick’s hand was warm on the controller, his thumb pressing the plunger way down as the royal blue Stingray shot for the first curve. Up on the plunger. Down again on the short straightaway. Up again as the car approached the second turn. The tail whipped slightly as the Stingray burst across the stretch to the underpass, slowed briefly as it negotiated the S-curve, then shot like a blue streak down the long stretch near the wall to the sweeper. Down it came and breezed like a bullet in front of Chick to complete its first lap.
A racer spun out on its second lap. Another deslotted and roared over the tracks, tumbling over the side to the floor as it tried to take the inside curve of the steep, wide bend too fast.
Seconds later the racer in the white lane spun out on the first S-curve. The car in the purple lane stalled almost in the same section. At the end of the Heat Race the car in the blue lane came in first with eighteen laps, three sections; the car in the purple lane seventeen laps, eight sections; Chick’s car in the orange lane seventeen laps, two sections; Ken’s car in the green lane sixteen laps, eight sections; the car in the yellow lane sixteen laps, four sections and the car in the black lane fifteen laps, one section.
All of the last seven cars finished the Heat. Eddie Lane tallied the points. Chick and Ken waited anxiously.
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br /> “Beat you by a lap and a half,” said a voice at Chick’s elbow.
Chick stiffened. “So what? That was just the Heat.”
Jack Harmon chuckled. “I know. I never do as well as I can in Heats. I’m best in Semis or Mains, where it really counts.”
The braggart, thought Chick coldly.
“Attention!” Eddie’s booming voice over the loudspeaker silenced the room. “The six winners of the Heat Race eligible to compete in the Main Event are: Number one, James Sand. Number two, Paul Miller. Number three, Kim Norman. Number four, Frank Spry. Number five, Jack Harmon. Number six, Bob Sobus.”
A fist poked Chick gently in the ribs. “Well, how about that? I don’t have to worry about the consolation races!”
Chick turned grim eyes at Jack Harmon. “And I don’t have to worry about being nerfed.”
Too late. The one thing he didn’t want to do anymore was sass. Jack Harmon, in particular. Jack could rattle him to pieces. And when you’re racing model cars you can’t be rattled or you’re sunk. You can’t think of anything else. You can’t think of how many laps you’re behind or ahead of the other guy or you’ll lose for sure.
“Guess you’ll never get it through your fat head that I wouldn’t nerf you on purpose, will you?” said Jack.
Chick didn’t answer.
He and Ken placed fourteenth and sixteenth respectively, qualifying them in the Second Consolation Race. Butch Slade’s black Porsche came in eighteenth.
12
The drivers in the First Consolation Race who had finished eighteenth through twenty-third in the Heat Races selected lanes and put color stickers on their cars. Each car took its two trial laps, then lined up at the starting line.
“Okay!” said race director Eddie Lane. “The first driver to cross the finish line after twenty laps wins first place! The next car in line wins second place! The others are eliminated! Get ready!”
The power was switched on and the cars took off. A red Mustang took the lead immediately. It shot to the first hairpin, slowed ever so briefly, shot to the next hairpin, slowed again, then blazed across the longer stretch to the underpass. A Barracuda was second, a Porsche third, a blue Ferrari fourth. A Ford GTP and a Lola T-70 trailed.
The Mustang led the pack across the long straightaway near the wall. At the steep bank Butch’s black Porsche caught up. The cars remained tire to tire as they blazed across the starting line to complete lap one.
The Mustang pulled ahead after the first sharp curve, slithered to the second. Then, just as it slowed to make the turn, its tail spun out and the car stopped! But only for a second. The fat rear wheels spun, found traction and the car took off again. But that second was enough for Butch’s Porsche to pull into the lead.
It stayed in the lead for five laps.
Then—a surprise. The blue Ferrari blazed by the Porsche down the sweeper and sprang into the lead! It held it for two laps then was overtaken by the Mustang.
Come on, Butch! breathed Chick.
The Porsche was less than half a section behind the Ferrari as it whipped through the underpass then blasted across the straightaway. It caught up with the Ferrari at the sweeper, went ahead momentarily, then trailed again. It remained third to the seventeenth lap, just two sections behind the Ferrari and about half a lap behind the Mustang.
In the eighteenth lap the Porsche did it. It came up even with the Ferrari, edged by it as both cars made the first sharp curve, stayed ahead going into the second and during the short stretch to the underpass. Watch it here, Butch!
The Porsche hung in there. It was ahead by two sections as it completed its nineteenth lap.
The horn buzzed. The cars stopped. The Mustang was first to complete the twenty laps. In second place was Butch Slade’s Porsche.
The cars that had placed thirteenth through seventeenth in the Heat Race competed in the Second Consolation Race with the two winners of the First Consolation Race.
The place winners, beginning with the thirteenth, chose their lanes. A gold Dodge Charger was in the black, Chick’s Stingray in the yellow, a red Firebird in the purple, Ken Jason’s Ford GTP in the red, the Mustang in the blue, Butch Slade’s Porsche in the orange and a Lola 40 in the green.
“Thumbs down!” The Second Consolation Race was on.
The cars took off together as the power was turned on. Chick was filled with excitement and fear, fear of spinning out and thus losing ground. He tried to shake it off, to remain as calm as he could, to think only of the Stingray as it zipped from one curve to the other, skimmed like bolt lightning across the straightaways, and glided down the sweeper.
One lap. Two. Three.
Suddenly the red Firebird spun out at the underpass.
“Track!” a turn marshal shouted.
The cars stopped for a couple of seconds as the car was straightened and its flag re-slotted.
Five laps. Six. Seven. On and on… Only two could win. Only two would enter in the Semi-Main Event.
Chick felt as if the room were closing in on him. The controller was like a hot iron in his hand as he watched his little Stingray take the corners ever so beautifully and slither like a blue streak down the stretches.
What lap was it now? Eleventh? Twelfth? It seemed so long ago when they had started. Where was the Dodge Charger? He seemed to remember gliding past it around the wide bend. He wasn’t sure. How were Ken and Butch doing?
No! his mind shouted at him. Don’t think of the others!
Suddenly the yell: “Twenty laps!”
The cars stopped. Everyone looked anxiously at the race director.
“The winner: black lane!”
It was the gold Dodge Charger. The owner jumped happily and whooped like an Indian. Then silence.
“Number two winner: yellow lane!”
Someone yelled in Chick’s ears and pounded him on the back. “Chick! You won second place!”
He was so choked he couldn’t speak. He stretched and unstretched his fingers, then wiped his sweating forehead. He had crossed the second hurdle. The next would be stiffer.
13
“Sorry, Butch,” said Chick.
Butch shrugged. “So am I. But we both can’t win.”
“You did okay, Chick,” said Jack Harmon. “But the Semi is tougher. You’re up against real tough bombs in that one. But, of course, you know that. You’re getting to be a champ.”
Chick’s face turned iron-hot. He clenched his fist and then unclenched it. He knew Jack wanted him to get rattled. Jack figured that if Chick got rattled he’d blow up and lose the race.
Chick forced a smile. “I’ll do the best I can.”
“Get ready for the Semi!” yelled the race director.
The drivers who had placed seventh through twelfth chose their lanes. The boy with the Dodge Charger chose the green lane, leaving the remaining white outside lane to Chick.
“This will be fifty laps!” the race director announced. “The first car to finish is winner. The next car with the most number of laps is second place winner. Both winners will then compete in the Main Event. All right. At the count of three. Thumbs down! One! Two! Three!”
The race was on.
The red Porsche 904 in the purple lane took the lead going into the hairpin and held it going into the second curve. A blue Lola T-70 gained on it as all eight cars streaked toward the underpass. All eight made the sharp S-curve, tore down the long straightaway and down the sweeper. The Porsche was first to finish the first lap, the Lola T-70 second, the Dodge Charger third, and Chick’s Stingray fourth.
Round and round…
Chick’s thumb trembled on the plunger as he pressed it down to full-throttle the Stingray on the stretches. Rrrrrrrrrrr! Eight motors roared as one as the racers swarmed down the sweeper, eating up the sections and then the laps.
The Stingray pulled ahead of the Charger. It gained on the red Porsche. The Ferrari 275P whizzed by it at the underpass, threatening to catch up with the Porsche. Chick full-throttled the Sting
ray down the long straight, held it full speed on the sweeper. It was gaining… gaining…
Three laps later it overtook the Ferrari. Round and round… Round and round…
“Thirty laps!” yelled the Race Director.
Round and round…
“Forty laps!”
“Forty-five!”
The controller was hot in Chick’s hand. Which position was he in? The Third? Fourth? Fifth?
Round and round…
And then the shout: “FIFTY LAPS!” The cars stopped. Gently, Chick lay the controller aside and stretched his tension-gripped fingers. And waited.
“The winner, Ted Curit’s Ferrari 275P! Second place winner, Chick Grover’s Stingray!”
Chick gulped.
“Well, you came through again, champ!” cried Jack Harmon. “Let’s see what you can do in the Main!”
Chick dabbed drops of oil of wintergreen on the rear tires of the Stingray in readiness for the last race, drank a glass of orange juice with Ken and Butch, and rested.
“Thumbs down! One! Two! Three!”
The Main Event was on. Two hundred laps. This was the big one. The real big one. Rrrrrrrrr! Motors roared. Sparks flickered as all eight cars took off at the same time.
Watch your car carefully! Concentrate every second!
Round and round…
The Stingray, a Cheetah Riverside and a Porsche 904 hung together down the stretches and the curves as if a stiff wire were drawn through them. A gray Alfa Romeo in the white lane crept slowly ahead. A Ford GT in the red lane and a Lola 40 in the purple were a couple of sections ahead. The Ferrari 250 GTO and Jack Harmon’s Chaparral were fighting for the lead.
Round and round and round…
The Alfa Romeo deslotted at the sweeper and went sailing over the track to the floor.
“Track!” shouted a turn marshal.
The power was shut off. The car put back on the track. The power turned on.