Banging Wheels

by Natalie Banks

  “What do you think these are?” said Callie, gesturing at her race gear. “Sponsored cooking overalls?”

  He afforded himself a smirk. She was sassy, and no mistake. She could definitely hold her own. He didn’t like what he imagined she had to put up with, and some part of him felt protective, but from a cold, competitive perspective, maybe this was good news. She looked like a real threat, and he’d need every advantage he could get, so if other people were chewing up her energy then that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  Two cars sat sleek on their jacks, side by side. His was nearest. Was hers slightly further forward in the garage? Or was it in his head? It shouldn’t have mattered one iota, yet somehow it bothered him.

  “Can we... bring the cars level?”

  “They are level,” replied his engineer, Steve, who was fiddling with the actuators. If the most fraught relationship was with your teammate, then the closest was with your engineer.

  “Well then, can we bring mine further forward?”

  Steve looked at him, bemused.

  “Just a bit.”

  Steve looked at him again, still bemused. “Starting the mind games a bit early, ain’t we?” But nevertheless, he stood up and called over for help moving the vehicle on the jacks.

  It was all about the details. Clarence Darrow apparently used to put a piece of wire in his cigar to keep the ash intact at an implausible length during his closing speeches as DA — a ploy to keep the jury distracted. A man from his own heart.

  Those long dark days of boarding school were behind him now, but he’d come through them. He’d come through everything, and had the scars — and the skills — to show for it. Don’t wait for someone to pull a fast one on you — get in there first. He had time for kind people, but he didn’t have time to be kind. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. Kindness is something that people exploit. Don’t be kind. And if someone else is kind to you, push them down and let the rest of the pack feed on them.

  He’d made that mistake multiple times when he was younger, and he’d never do it again. He was suddenly back on the hard wooden floor, punches raining down on him, polished shoes thudding into his ribs, his hands covering his face. He pushed it away. It was a long time ago. And he’d had his revenge. He went to the gym, took up boxing, and the next time the opportunity presented itself, he’d evened things up with the ring-leader.

  Besides, there were worse things in life than taking a beating. His ex had caused him more pain than anything else combined. In a way, it had worked out well — he’d disappeared into his racing hobby as a way to block it all out, and became so good at it that it became a bona fide career choice. But he still hadn’t gotten over what happened with his ex, not really, and the fact she was still his last proper girlfriend, despite the fact it was now a few years ago, just about summed up how he felt about relationships.

  He watched Callie talking to her engineer, too far away to hear the words. They were discussing the bumpiness of the asphalt — he could see that from her hand gestures. It was a chance to try and glean some useful pieces of information. He’d used everything he could in the lower leagues. But now he was distracted. He remembered those same delicate hands grabbing at his hair.

  He’d longed to stay there in bed with her. It hadn’t crossed his mind that she might be in the same line of work as him, although those wickedly toned thighs and arms told him she at the very least looked after herself. But there was something more. He thought he might actually... No — he had to push that away. Attraction was vulnerability, and he knew all too well what could happen when you showed vulnerability to a woman. He had to treat her like the rest. Do that and the part of him stupid enough to even contemplate falling for her would get the message.

  It had seemed like forever, but finally here he was, back in his ‘office’ — the cockpit of an open-wheeled racing car. Cozy was one word you could use. Cramped would be another. But this was nothing new — he was used to his legs stretching out ahead of him, his body gripped in place by the molded surrounds, his view of the world restricted to a narrow letterbox. People think the cars look fast from the outside, but it was nothing compared to what it was like being inside one, your backside skimming fractions of an inch above the road surface. He could feel the anxiety and the excitement — two sides of the same coin.

  It wasn’t his first time in the car. They’d had a number of practice sessions at the test track to get used to the handling, and they’d had the qualifying sessions to determine starting positions. But now was where it really started. It was time to do battle and show everyone who was boss.

  As they circulated around behind the safety car, he worked the wheel, blipped the throttle, and checked the settings on the steering wheel.

  “Just me and you, buddy,” he said. “Me and you against the world.”

  “Roger that.” It was the voice of Steve in his ears.

  Ha! He’d had the radio button down. It was an instinct. You talk — you press the button. Which was fine, but he’d had a long, slow winter on his own, apart from the odd fling, and he’d picked up the unfortunate habit of talking to himself.

  He swerved from side to side, keeping the tires up to temperature as they negotiated the final few bends, then tucked in tight behind the front two. He’d qualified in third, with Callie filling his mirrors behind. He had been faster, but it was close. Her fastest lap had been only a tenth of a second slower than his, and she’d made a mistake. Ideally, you would wipe the floor your partner, but that wasn’t realistic at this level. Edging them was fine. Just as long as you beat them, it was okay.

  “Tire temps are good,” said Steve. “Brake temps are good. You’re ready to go.”

  “Copy that. Let’s do this.”

  They took the final turn onto the straightaway, and he smoothly but decisively squeezed the throttle with his right foot until it reached its limit, feeling the familiar throb of power as the car built up towards the 200mph mark, shifting through the gears, the tire walls and fencing on either side turning into a blur.

  They crossed the line, and that was it — the race was on. He immediately looked for the advantage of the car in front, but the car behind was the more immediate problem. He could see the blue of his teammate’s car dancing in his mirrors. As they braked down into the first corner — the cars snaking about with the weight of full fuel tanks — she threw it down the inside of him. He thought about ‘closing the door’, as they call it, but thought again. Take it cool. Take it calm. No sweat. It was a long race — there was no need to make a rash move. Let her go.

  In fact, this could work well. The next car behind him — fifth place — was that of Sam Daniels, in his team’s distinctive bright yellow livery. The car was of a similar speed to theirs, and he could put a hot lap in if he needed to, but the guy was a pussy of a driver. Flash him a wheel and he’d jump out of the way rather than risk an accident, so there was no threat from behind. In front he could let Callie do the work of pressuring the front two cars. Hold position, let them wear each other down, then make your move. This was it — this was how he liked to race. Keep his heart locked away and use his head instead. Emotions are not to be trusted — they just fuck things up.

  It took him a few laps to settle in, but then the laps starting passing in a blur, as they always did once he got into a rhythm. His style was smooth and silky. Take as little out the car as possible; let the suckers trash their tires with wheelspin and jerky maneuvers, paraded under the name of ‘passion’. As predicted, the front three were battling it out up front. Every now and then he’d seen a flash of yellow come alongside, but it was easy to keep the guy at bay. Just close the door and he backed off every time. The guy was fast and smooth, but he lacked the killer instinct.

  He was almost drifting into hypnotic daze, but then came the wake up call, as the blue of his teammates rear wing was replaced by the white of another — she’d made the move into second place. They were over half-way through the race, and he was a couple o
f seconds out of touch — staying out of the turbulent air of the car in front — but now it was time to up the pace. He gradually lengthened his stride, stealing back a tenth of a second here and another there, until he was right on the tail of third place as they came onto the straightaway. Picking up the draft of the car in front — when you’re close to a following car, it creates an area of low pressure behind, meaning you can go faster — he eased into the inside slot and braked smoothly, stealing the turn from him.

  He quickly started chasing Callie. It was funny seeing her in the car — there was nothing visible to mark her out as the voluptuous woman she was. It wasn’t like she let her blond locks run wild outside the helmet — they were tucked away inside her race suit — but he knew, and that was enough. How much he’d love to run his lips up her spine, nibble at her neck, trace his hands around her own racing lines. But maybe that chance was gone now. Maybe he’d blown it.

  “Come on... focus.”

  “Repeat please.”

  “Talking to myself.”

  Callie was being slowed marginally by the car in front, which was now being driven defensively. He watched her style with interest. It was very different from his. Not so much smooth and measured, but like an angry hornet, harrying the guy in front. She probed this way and that, waiting for her chance. And it was no surprise when the chance came. Choking under pressure, the leader made a mistake, running wide in a tight corner, leaving her the time and space to dart inside and seal the move. Nice work. If he didn’t have a carbon-fiber helmet in the way, he’d stroke his stubble in appreciation.

  Drake didn’t need asking twice — his racer’s instinct kicked in and he followed through at the same time, parasitically. Let her do the work, and he’d get the benefits. It was all working out nicely.

  With fifteen laps to go, it was time to make his mark on this race. He lengthened his stride once again, braking that fraction later, carrying that fraction more speed into the corner. A few laps more and the lead would be his.

  But those few laps passed and he was barely making an impression. She was just too quick. Damn it — this wasn’t the plan! He got his head down and tried harder still, pushing it right to the edge of the track, striking the apex of each turn with precision, but she was still agonizingly out of reach. Then, with just a handful of laps to go, she made a tiny mistake coming out of the final corner, allowing him to get the closest he’d been. He wasn’t close enough to pass — he knew that — but he was also the closest he might ever get. It was now or never. It was time to show the attitude that had seen him advance through every league he’d come to, and beat drivers who were otherwise his equal. It was time to bare his teeth.

  As they entered the turn, Callie didn’t take a defensive line, because she didn’t need to — Drake was too far back. But Drake threw it up the inside anyway. The crowd was on its feet — what was he thinking? Smoke poured off his fully-locked tires. He had no chance of making the corner. But there was something there to arrest his slide — Callie. With calculated precision, Drake drifted his car sideways into Callie’s, expertly banging wheels face-on-face — anywhere else might have broken his suspension. Jarred by the impact, she sawed at the wheel, desperately trying to keep the car on the track, but ultimately lost the battle, and spun off. The last Drake saw of her was a sideways view of her tires spinning uselessly in the gravel, throwing up clouds of dust that quickly diminished as he disappeared down the road.

  The last few laps were held under a safety car as the stricken vehicle was craned out of harm’s way. Drake felt a small amount of guilt when he saw it dangling from a track-side crane hook, but this was quickly quashed by his joy as he took the checkered flag. Motor racing was war — and there were always casualties. He crossed the line and took his maiden win for the team, punching the air as he did so.

  It was going to be his year — he could feel it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Callie was fuming. She’d had the race won. Fourth hadn’t been the ideal starting position, but she’d battled her way to the lead, and she had the legs on him. The race was hers — there was no doubt.

  “Hey asshole,” she called out to him as he passed in the garage. He ignored her, instead focusing on fixing his hair, sweaty from being under his helmet. “I said, asshole!”

  He walked on by through the back exit and towards the motorhome, a sly grin on his face. Her engineer looked up at her. He was a thirty-something Australian with a pock-marked face of stubble, and a tangled wiry mess of blond hair, like a grizzled old surfer. Callie got that sense that he’d seen it all before.

  “They call me Ozzie,” he’d said when they’d met.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m an Aussie.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “And it’s better than Lionel, isn’t it?”

  “Is that your real name?”

  “Nah, but it’s a terrible name, isn’t it?”

  He was in light-hearted mood then, but now he had a more serious air about him. “You need to get your head together. Second race is up soon.”

  Indeed it was. This was one of the season’s back-to-back races. Grid positions for the second race were determined by fastest lap of each driver in the first race, meaning that this time it was her who was on pole, with Drake and Sam Daniels behind her. She liked Sam — she’d met him a couple of times in the pit lane earlier in the day — and he seemed like one of the good guys. A fast, clean driver, from what she’d seen in the race, too.

  Back in the car, she felt like she was at home. Any uncertainties in life just melted away. It was a conduit for her expression, and the one thing she felt she really did well. When she was a kid, her mom had tried to get her to learn in the kitchen alongside her. They’d both stand there — mom in her grown up apron and her in her little one, her mom trying to teach her how to bake, or maybe just keep her occupied during the long summer breaks. But she couldn’t stand still long enough, and would end up running off, hands still covered in pastry, to play with her brother’s cars, making jumps out of books and toy bricks, before abandoning that halfway through to play on her bicycle.

  But as she got older, nothing could absorb her like racing could. Well, maybe one other thing. What she’d been doing with her teammate — before she realized he was a teammate — that could hold her attention pretty well, too. She thought back to him making her melt with those ridiculously beautiful eyes, and later to the feeling of having him inside her, of him grinding against her. But what a jerk. There was no way there was going to be a repeat of that. No matter how much some part of her — some ridiculous, foolish, instinctive part of her — wanted it. Why couldn’t he just be one of the good guys? She found herself daydreaming about a Drake that wasn’t her teammate, and that was, well, just less of a jerk. What makes a guy behave like that? And worse, why did she have to be so attracted to him, despite it? That was what had drawn her in to her last boyfriend, and what a mess that had turned into.

  The biggest problem with this was that he wasn’t the first jerk in her life. In fact, she’d had a string of them, to the point where she’d started to wonder whether it was some problem with her. Two boyfriends ago — two jerks ago, in fact — she’d dated a sales executive. She only found out after a tip off from a friend that he was offering his ‘sales package’ to at least three other women. She immediately set about returning all his things — via the second-floor window.

  The think about jerks is... drum roll... they’re jerks. It was obvious, but somehow she far too often failed to see the connection until it was too late. If you meet a guy, and he’s a jerk, don’t be surprised when he then behaves like a jerk. He’s just being himself. Well, no more of that, thank you.

  Once again they circulated, warming tires, getting ready for the off.

  They crossed the line at full speed, but her mind was only half on what she was doing. Dammit, she’d let herself get distracted. And there he was, filling her mirrors. She instinctively darted to the
right, to cover the inside of the approaching corner, but he was already upon her, and went even further right than she had. Sam Daniels swamped her on the other side, and for a brief moment they were three abreast on the straightaway. But she had the least momentum and was always going to lose out as they braked into the first corner. Drake took her on the inside, Daniels on the outside, and she suddenly found herself down in third.

  Damn that man. She’d never admit it to him, but he’d just cost her the lead.

  She finally settled into some kind of rhythm. Left, left, right, the short straight, the chicane... you could break a circuit up into individual segments, but it wasn’t about that — driving was more art than science. It was like playing the violin, something she briefly tried but gave up because of a lack of staying power. It was all about feel. You felt each corner intuitively; felt the vibrations of the road surface through your backside and the steering wheel; applied pressure to the pedals like the car was a living, breathing creature.

  Driving quickly was a feeling, too, and when done properly that feeling was one of harmony. When she was driving quickly, it all just happened. She went into the zone. It all seemed so calm and effortless and serene. On her own on the test track she could lap as quickly as anyone she’d ever gone up against. She had an especially good feel for changing circuit conditions. The circuit was a living, breathing thing — the track surface, the air pressure, the humidity, the tires; they were all in a state of flux the whole time, and she could feel all of it. When those changes were at their most extreme — like when it rained, for example — that’s when her art was at its best.

  When she was learning her craft, racing go-karts, she couldn’t afford to have tires for all conditions, so she’d just gotten used to having to use dry tires in the wet.

  “The rain queen,” they used to call her, though they called her that when she cried, too, which she did on those rare occasions when she lost. Boy, did she hate losing. There was nothing she disliked more.