“Green, green, green,” I heard from Bruce.
I swept down the hill, leading the class. Stayed right, as close to full speed as possible. Green flag waving. My heart pounded in my ears. Through the corner. Foot to the floor down the front straight. Willing my Corvette to out-drag Andy into Turn 1.
Racing.
Chapter Forty-one
In front of me, prototypes jockeyed for position, playing chicken for the racing line through Turn 1. The biggest danger to me—to any of us starting in the second half of the field—was a spin or wreck by the cars ahead of us. We had some room to maneuver or stop, but not much. We took it on faith they’d behave and keep the track clear for us. This time they did.
A blink of an eye and I’d reached my braking point for Turn 1. Blue in my side mirror meant Andy next to me. I stayed in the center of the track. Glanced left. He wasn’t even with me or ahead of me, so I had the line into the turn. I braked as hard and late as possible, downshifting twice to fourth gear. Off brakes, turned to the apex, accelerated out.
Andy in my rear view, tucked up behind me as close as if we were parked at a curb. I smiled. Still P1, Kate. Stay on top this lap. Fighting hard to keep the lead from lap one wasn’t our strategy for this long race. But dammit, I wanted to go on record as leading a lap. Andy would really have to earn his way past me.
Up the hill to 2, staying straight as the track starts to bend to the left. By the first white line across the track, turn left to the apex. Downshift to fourth. Set the wheels right next to the curbing at the apex. Barely any turning to the right for 3, right wheels on the curb. Down to 75 mph. No flags from the corner workers. Andy still on my tail. The prototypes ahead of me, with lighter weight and greater downforce, had put distance between us.
Accelerate out of 3. Turning left around the arc of 4, upshift to fifth right after the turn. Hands right, aim at the first right-hand curb of the Esses. Hesitate on the throttle. Accelerate. Touch the paint at the right-side curbing. Swing hands left. Touch paint at the left-side curbing. Upshift to sixth. Car at the bottom of the valley, pointing up now. Touch 120 mph. Waiting, waiting—then heavy on the brakes just before the right-hand curbing at the end of the Esses. Downshift twice. Turning left. Apex—and throttle.
I tracked out from the turn wide right and used all of the exit curb. Foot planted on the floor. Upshifted to fifth. Then sixth. Drove my line, trying not to look in my mirrors in this key passing area. I hit 135 before braking.
Andy swung right, filling my mirror as we braked for 6. I downshifted twice to fourth gear, braking hard and late. He wasn’t close enough to take the apex away from me, and I swept right, touching the paint of the curb with my right-side tires.
Full throttle for a few heartbeats, then full braking, downshifting to third. Focused on hitting my early braking point, clipping the apex, getting smoothly on the throttle. Slowest corner on the track, 55 mph. No flags. Standing on the throttle for the drag race out of Turn 7 and down the long back straight. Using every bit of revs I can in every gear, upshifting, wringing out as much power as possible.
I knew Andy would attempt a pass at the end of the straight, and it was too early to play blocking games. I stuck to the line I’d drive if I were alone, drifting to the right side of the track halfway down the straight, upshifting to sixth, top gear. One eye on the track ahead, one eye on the blue car behind me. Andy pulled left, filling that mirror as we reached 160. Both of us braking and going down three gears for 10a. Not close enough to make the pass. Release the brakes, turn left for 10a, 72 mph. Get on the throttle slowly, turn right for 10b. Put the power down, pointing up the hill. Upshift to fourth. Flash under the yellow block on the bridge.
Shifting to fifth as soon as the car settles over the crest of the hill. Pointed at striped curbing on the left side of the downhill. Sixth. Absorb the bumps in the track. Turn right, just past the curbing where the track starts to flatten out. Foot still to the floor. Turning right. Start/finish line, no flags, 136 miles per hour.
I led a lap at Petit Le Mans!
I clamped down on those thoughts and focused again on the track. Andy was still behind me, ready to pounce. I hurtled down the front straight. Watched for my braking point for Turn 1. One lap down. Thirty or forty more to go in this stint.
Andy laid back after the first lap, sticking with me, but not hugging my bumper or hounding me, for a good twenty-five minutes. Then he got by me on the heels of the race leader as we went into Turn 10a. Nothing I could do to block him, short of moving over and hitting him, since he was tucked up in the draft behind the faster, lighter prototype I was letting by.
I hit the wheel in frustration, but settled in to follow him as closely as he’d followed me. I dogged him for the next twenty minutes, ready if he made a mistake, until a yellow flag for a Porsche in the gravel at 10 cut short our fun.
After the field collected behind the safety car and the prototypes had pitted, it was our turn in the GT classes. Jack confirmed we’d change to Leon, because this first pit stop was happening under yellow—if the first stop I had to make for fuel, usually around the hour mark, was under green, I’d have stayed in for another stint. I had my cables unhooked and my belts loosened as I stopped. I pulled myself out of the car seconds later, grabbing my seat insert, then got out of Leon’s way.
I walked quickly around the back of the car, past tire changers poised with their air guns ready for the fuel to stop flowing. Hopped over the wall into our pit box to the sound of the air jacks deploying and tires being changed. Before I had my helmet off, Leon roared away with fresh tires and a full tank of fuel.
Aunt Tee waited, as always, with a wet towel and a cold bottle of water. I needed both of them. The day had heated up, though a breeze kept the humidity down—out of the car. Ambient temperature was in the low eighties, and the cockpit of the car was probably thirty degrees higher and humid. I drank the water down and rubbed the towel over my face. Aunt Tee took my helmet and put it on the drying machine at the back edge of the pit space. I hung the towel around my neck, then unzipped and struggled out of the top half of my firesuit, knotting the sleeves around my waist. I was still covered by a sports bra and a regulation double-layer Nomex shirt, but I felt better.
I looked up at Jack, Bruce, and Mike, all sitting on top of the pit box command center, monitoring Leon in the car. Mike smiled and Jack waved me over. I climbed up two steps and hung off the side of the cart, as there was no room to sit on the bench seat with them, plus Walter and Paolo from the 29 car.
Jack pulled his headset off the ear nearest me. “How was it?”
“Fun. Car’s still fantastic. Sorry about getting passed.”
He shook his head. “Too early to worry. If the car’s still good, we’re good.”
I gave him a thumbs-up and moved around behind the cart, joining the rest of the crew and Aunt Tee, who offered me another bottle of water. We watched the monitors, waiting to go green again.
Right before the field passed the pits under yellow for the last time, I heard my name from the other side of the cart. I leaned around and saw Juliana waving furiously.
I crossed to her, untying my firesuit sleeves and shrugging the top half of the suit back on.
She spoke as soon as the field passed. “Quick on-camera?” I nodded, and she spoke into the mic to the booth announcers. “Ready here.”
Thirty seconds later she glanced at me, then started speaking. “I’m here with the pole sitter from the GT class, Kate Reilly. Kate, how was your first stint?”
“Lots of fun. It doesn’t get better than starting on pole—except starting on pole and making it through Turn 1 with no incidents, as we did today. The Sandham Swift team gave us a fantastic Corvette this weekend, so we’re out there trying to show our sponsors—BW Goods, Active-Fit, Leninger’s Auto Shine, among others—a good time.”
“Looked like you played tag with the LinkTime 64 Corve
tte.”
“We had a good time. I have nothing but respect for those guys on the factory Corvette team—great drivers and nice guys. We got a little racy there, and it was good, clean fun. Neither of us is going to mess up a car this early in the race. There’s still a long way to go.”
Juliana nodded and turned to the camera. “That there is. Thanks, Kate, and good luck with the rest of the race. Back to you in the booth.”
Chapter Forty-two
I watched Leon put a few green-flag laps in, his pace similar to mine and Mike’s. All we could do was stay close to the leader, tick off miles, and hope little went wrong. In any race, but especially an endurance race, the question wasn’t if something would break or go against us, but when. We hoped it would be minor and easily fixable.
After I finished another bottle of water, it was time to change out of my wet clothes and fuel back up with lunch at the motorhome—also the site of a real bathroom. Porta potties were fine for male drivers and crew, who didn’t have to peel their entire firesuit off to do their business. Or for when time was tight. But I opted for a real bathroom whenever possible.
During one of the sprint races the American Le Mans Series ran, which lasted two hours and forty-five minutes, I’d never dream of leaving pit lane in case I needed to get back in the car. But here, if things ran to Jack’s plan, Leon would do a double-stint of two hours, then Mike, who sat ready on the pit box, would do the same. I wouldn’t be in the car for a while, and it was my job to be rested, nourished, and hydrated by then.
I stepped up onto the command center again and leaned close to Jack’s ear. “I’m going to the paddock for lunch.”
Jack shouted back. “We’ll get you if we need you. See you in a bit.”
I hopped back down and told Aunt Tee my plan. She decided to go with me, and we headed to the exit five teams down. The noise level wasn’t much better a hundred yards away in the paddock, but being inside the motorhome dulled it to a bearable roar. I changed into a dry set of gear, then opened a laptop on the kitchen table to connect to streaming audio of the track announcer. Aunt Tee got out supplies to make me a sandwich, and I remembered I should tweet something.
“@katereilly28: Great first stint at #PetitLM in Sandham Swift Corvette. Car going strong, Leon Browning in now. Fingers crossed.”
“That new young man seems to be doing a good job reporting in the pits today,” Aunt Tee commented as I finished typing.
“Scott Brooklyn?”
“That’s him. It’s too bad he didn’t have a job or a ride this year, but perhaps the silver lining of Felix Simon’s passing will be an opportunity for another nice person.”
I made a noncommittal noise as I scrolled through my Twitter feed.
Aunt Tee warmed to her topic as she put mayonnaise and mustard on rye bread. “I hope Scott can make the most of the opportunity. I’ve often thought he—and so many others trying to break into racing—must be quite frustrated. Even troubled. Though talk about troubled…Felix Simon was one for the books.”
I paid closer attention to her. “You thought Felix was troubled? Everyone else thinks he was the nicest man they’d ever met.”
“He hadn’t an ounce of respect for women. I saw that, even if the men around here didn’t. Though he was always polite and friendly to me.”
We both stopped what we were doing and looked to the laptop as the excitable announcer’s voice rose further:
“The number twelve car is shedding carbon fiber down the back straight, as the right rear tire has come apart at the seams and is tearing up the bodywork. Debris all over the racing line—double-yellow flags! Full course caution. Now fire at the back of the car! Undoubtedly from oil or fuel lines torn open by the tire carcass.
“The driver, Eddie McAlister in one of the Turner Racing Group Porsches, keeps going in the car—does he know he’s on fire? He seems to, because he’s pulled to a stop in front of a stand of corner workers, and we hope they’re ready with an extinguisher. Now that he’s stopped moving, fire sweeps forward in the car—get out quickly now, Eddie! There, he’s opening the door and pulling himself out. He’s on his feet and away from the car as the safety truck pulls up with larger extinguishers than those brave corner workers have. Sad for Eddie and the team, but I think their day is done.”
“Glad he got out,” I said. “Why do you say Scott Brooklyn is troubled?”
She rinsed two leaves of lettuce. “It must be difficult when the breaks don’t go your way. So many of these boys are equal in talent, but some get attention and some don’t. Often it’s down to bad luck or good, I think.”
“He seems to be good natured.”
“I agree. I have no reason for saying so—and I trust you won’t spread the idle gossip of an old lady—but I’ve always wondered if there was more boiling away under the surface because his ambitions have been thwarted so often.”
“Now you’ve got me spooked. And you’re hardly an old lady.”
“He’s no different than dozens of other boys out there pounding the pavement each race weekend.” She set a plate down in front of me with my favorite sandwich: turkey and Swiss on rye. She turned to wash a bunch of grapes as I took the first bite and made happy noises.
“Personally,” she went on, “I think Scott can make it bigger behind the microphone than the wheel. His sparkle shows on camera.”
I swallowed a bite. “He’s dating Juliana.”
She raised both eyebrows in surprise. “I hope that works out for him this time. He dated Ellie also, you know.”
“He told me he only met her once.”
“Maybe he’s still upset about it. That Ellie—rest her soul—she was a heartbreaker.” She saw my confusion. “She wasn’t malicious. She was sweet and gracious, but also so private and closed-in. I knew quite a few young men who fell for her and were quite hurt by her lack of real interest.”
“Like who?”
“Scott, for one. Zeke. Duncan Forsythe. Stuart.” She eyed me, and I nodded to indicate I knew. She named half a dozen other men, including Holly’s boss, the team manager at Western Racing, and some reps from engine or car manufacturers.
The announcer called the green flag, and we refocused on racing. A short time later, Aunt Tee and I left the motorhome to return to the pits. She carried a plate of cookies she’d baked that morning to add to the pile of snacks for the crew.
A fan with a tight black shirt over a pot belly aimed a long camera lens through the chain link into the LinkTime Corvette pit space, and he swung the camera toward me, tracking me as we passed him. He lowered the camera to reveal a blond goatee and a wide grin. Then he waved.
He was gone before I realized he was the nameless guy on my possible stalker list. As Aunt Tee and I reached our pit space, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. George Ryan stood on the paddock side of the fence, trying to get my attention. He held a weekend program and a pen above the fence for me, mouthing what looked like a request to sign it. He took my photo with a pocket camera, and when I finished signing, I posed so he could take another.
He couldn’t look happier about getting a puppy on Christmas, and he mouthed “See you later,” as I returned to the pits.
How many items have I signed for him? I could hear Gramps in my head, “Stop looking a gift horse in the mouth, Katie!” He was right. I shouldn’t question anything my supporters and fans wanted. They cheered for me, and I appreciated them. Even if they were a little weird sometimes.
Chapter Forty-three
I saw Zeke approaching, his head bent close to that of a driver from another team. Zeke wrapped up his spiel as he reached me, stopping to shake the driver’s hand. “Just remember, Zeke Andrews, Z-A—like A to Z, but in reverse.”
In a flash, I remembered the Ringer’s post about a possible source of trouble close to home, simple as A to Z. I waved at Zeke to stop, pulling up the Ringer site on my
phone. I found the post and showed it to him.
He read it, then looked at me, stricken, which tied my stomach in knots. He led me away from my pit space to the fence and spoke close to my ear.
“It’s not what it looks like. Give me a second to explain.”
I made a “hurry up” gesture with a hand.
He sighed. “It’s about Rosalie. I haven’t told you about the part-time job she picked up this year. She’s running Miles Hanson’s fan club.”
I pulled away, my mouth open in shock. “Miles Hanson?”
“She’s done what she could to defend you.”
Something in his voice made me look him in the eye. “Has she?” Though Rosalie was outspoken, I’d always thought her easily swayed by the loudest voice in the crowd.
“She tried to stop the witch-hunt.” He rubbed a hand over his face and looked guilty. “This has been a mess. She’s a mess. There are other issues, and she didn’t do as much as I wanted her to with the fan club.”
“Other issues?”
He cupped his hand around his mouth next to my ear, so no one could see what he said. “Emotional issues. All of a sudden she’s insecure, doesn’t want to leave the house. Worse, she’s crazy jealous of anyone I talk to. Especially women. Even you. She keeps saying she’s afraid I’m going to leave her.”
I was shocked. “You’d never do that.”
“Not until she drives me to it.” He laughed, a humorless sound. “Never mind. That’s what the damned Ringer post is about. What a shit-disturber.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I assured Zeke I would keep his secret, and he apologized. We parted because we both had jobs to do, not because anything was resolved.
I crossed back into our pit space and grabbed a radio headset to listen to transmissions with Leon, then found a seat facing the monitors. The ten screens on the back of the pit cart carried the same feeds as the ones suspended above the bench seat and desk where Jack and the others sat. One showed live timing and scoring, currently displaying Leon fourth in class; one showed the live SGTV feed; and the others carried camera feeds for different corners. They were arranged in order left to right across the top row of monitors, then left to right across the bottom. We had nearly constant video coverage of our Corvettes.
Braking Points Page 22
