“The two ahead are a pro and an amateur—Andy Padden in front and Roger Lee behind. Roger’s pretty good.”
Sportscar racing was a mix of pros and amateurs—the gentlemen drivers, who paid their own way to race cars. They had to qualify for a racing license with training or seat time in lower-level races, but those guidelines still allowed for a wide range of skill level. It was the rare amateur who had the hours of experience a pro had—and mostly it was seat time that was crucial. Given a set of on-track conditions, from weather to other cars, I knew how a pro would react. An amateur wasn’t as predictable, which could easily make him, or her, dangerous.
Bruce came back on the radio. “Right behind you is a NASCAR guy, Sam Remington, and behind him is a rookie amateur, Francis Schmidt. Careful of him. That’s the red car.”
Has to be Sam behind me. I shook off the distraction and focused on the guy in the red prototype. He was sure to want to pass me in the first lap, as would Sam. The difference was the amateur might not know how to do it well.
We rolled under the starter’s stand in our orderly line. I glanced left, found our pits. Noted a Porsche with its hood up in the massive pit complex two spaces up from us.
“Lights out on the pace car,” Bruce said. “Green next time by.”
I spent the last yellow lap thinking about braking points, turn-in points, apexes, and moisture on painted areas. Watching the rain, looking for puddles. Time to go to work.
The green flew as I exited NASCAR 4. I got on the throttle as much as I could, given the traffic ahead. The Ferrari right in front of me was sluggish, but I wouldn’t do anything rash to get around. Not yet.
As expected, Sam was past me by the start/finish line. The red prototype—with the amateur, Schmidt, at the wheel—didn’t start as quickly, but zoomed up as we curved down toward Turn 1.
“Prototype moving inside. Inside,” Cooper said in my ear.
As Cooper warned, Schmidt pulled to my left, coming even with my rear wheels—then ahead of them. Making a very late move.
“Ready for you, jackass,” I muttered. I braked early and wide, giving him space to shoot by. Which he did, carrying too much speed into the corner and breaking his rear tires loose. He saved the slide, wobbled dramatically, and continued.
If I’d taken my normal line, he’d have punted me straight into the tire wall. I shook my head. I focused on getting my tires up to pressure and catching the Ferrari in front of me.
From the left edge of the track, I braked for Turn 3 at the end of the pit exit blend line. Late apex through that 180-degree turn, unwinding the wheel on exit, tracking all the way to the left edge of the track.
Cross back to the right side of the track before the Kink. Where the white stripe in the road turns right onto an access road, I turn left to the Kink’s apex. Lift slightly at apex—only this lap, only because of cold tires. No braking, no lifting there usually. Brush the apex curbing with left-side tires. Check mirrors. Track out to the right side of the track.
Ready for Turn 5, the West Horseshoe, a long right-hander. Braking. Wide entry. Turning tighter, tighter. Brush the curb late in the corner. Throttle out of the corner. Look ahead.
Closer to the Ferrari in front of me. I must be faster through there than he is.
Accelerating to Turn 6, staying right on track. Mirrors. Braking, turning as early as possible. Getting back to the throttle as early as possible. Stay to the left of the black line of asphalt sealer—leave the outside for the faster cars coming up behind.
“Two prototypes outside. Outside on the banking,” Cooper told me. Then, as the first one passed, “One more prototype outside. Now clear.”
Onto the banking. On the throttle, set my hands. Stay low.
I took a breath. Took a moment to enjoy the sweep of the banked track—even the weird, early dusk caused by overcast and mist. Around the curve, the track flattened out. I drifted right. Brake hard starting at the “2” marker for the Bus Stop. Onto the left curbing at apex. Feed throttle on. Curbing on the right. Build speed slowly. Second curbing on the right. More speed. Point the car at the banking, over the curbing on the left. Out of the Bus Stop, back to banking. Full throttle. Around NASCAR 3 and 4. Cooper in my ear, prototypes flashing past. Ready for the dip in the track over NASCAR 4 that makes the car wiggle. Through the tri-oval, passing a GTD car, flashing over the checkers on the pavement.
I stayed low on the approach to Turn 1, touching the left side of the track by the patch of grass near pit lane exit. Braking, then turning left, touching the inside of the turn at the stack of tires. Curving through the narrow Turn 2. Mist lighter here, less damp offline. I radioed that information to Bruce. Then I focused on chipping away at the two car-lengths between me and the Ferrari.
In the next fifteen laps, I used every bit of skill I could muster, pushing my limits in damp corners, weaving through traffic, trusting my tires, trusting the car. Two-thirds of the way through my hour-long stint, I was up on the Ferrari’s back bumper, itching to get past him, when a yellow sent us back to the pits for service.
Not long into my second stint, I got through the traffic and took the battle to the Ferrari again. Ten laps of precision driving later—from both of us—I was grinning under my helmet.
“Who is this guy?” I radioed to Bruce.
“Raul Salas, new guy out of open-wheel, going to run for Redemption all year.”
Well, Raul, you’re good. And this is fun.
I managed a pass four laps later, only to have him return the favor on the next go-round. I was working on my next opening when I suddenly had a front-row seat to all hell breaking loose.
Chapter Twelve
7:05 P.M. | 19:05 HOURS REMAINING
Raul and I had just swung onto the back straight out of NASCAR 2 when I noticed the wrong kind of motion in the distance. I saw cars entering the Bus Stop chicane, arrowing through the turns instead of swinging side-to-side through them. Going way too fast.
I kept pushing, pressing the Ferrari ahead, but I was ready for cars off-track, debris, or a flag. I wasn’t ready for racecar carnage. For flames.
Over the next minutes and hours, I pieced together what I saw from a combination of split-second glances as I passed, and from video replays they showed briefly on SGTV.
My sister car, the number 30 Sandham Swift Corvette with Ian Davenport behind the wheel, had come out of the track’s inner loop onto the banking of NASCAR 1 behind one of the all amateur-driven Benchmark Racing Porsches, the 77. Though the driver of the 77 tried to make his Porsche three lanes wide, he couldn’t keep Ian behind him in the Corvette. As the track flattened out onto the back straight, Ian had passed the Porsche and begun to pull a gap.
Then came the Bus Stop.
Ian braked and turned in for the first, left-hand bend of the four-turn complex. The Porsche behind him slowed enough to make the first turn—barely. Then everything went wrong. The Porsche slammed into the left rear corner of the Corvette, which propelled both cars across pavement and grass, straight into the wall. Hard.
Neither driver could change the trajectory of the two-car missile—turning and braking were useless efforts when tires no longer had grip on the track—and the recent drizzle of rain meant the slick grass of the runoff area offered more help than resistance. Ian was fortunate to make impact with the right-front corner of the car first, so there was more car to absorb energy from the impact. But it was a huge hit.
Nearly every wall in the Speedway was lined with steel and foam energy reduction, or SAFER, barriers, designed to absorb and dissipate the forces in an accident. That action reduced deceleration forces on a driver and vehicle and hurt drivers less. In addition, in high-impact areas, walls were lined with stacks of tires that absorbed even more impact and energy. But tires and foam can only do so much.
Somehow Ian’s Corvette swung around at the last second before impact, so the car s
lammed into the tire wall broadside at something north of 150 mph, burying the passenger side of the Corvette in the stacks of rubber.
The bit of turning by the Corvette opened up the driver’s side to bear the full impact of the Porsche—which also managed to pivot. The end result was the worst possible: the Porsche’s engine swung like a pendulum and smacked into the driver’s door of the Corvette. The heaviest piece of the Porsche hit the Corvette at its point of least crumple zone for the driver.
Most of this was visible to me in the moment only as a vague sense of movement and plumes of dirt, mud, and grass kicked into the air. Plus an explosion of foam in the air as the cars hit the wall. As I followed the Ferrari down the back stretch, I didn’t even know which cars were involved.
I braked on my mark. Glanced left again, looking for my line and trying to gather information on the accident—how bad it was, who it involved, and if it would bring out a caution.
First glance. Only two cars. Green Porsche limping away from the wall. Turn in to the left-hander. Sighting my line for the two right-handers.
Second glance. Dark car gleaming under the lights. Black Corvette against the wall. One of ours?! My breath caught in my throat.
Right-hand turn. Sight the right-left turn combination to get back onto the banking. Next to the incident now. Green Porsche on the grass verge three hundred feet away. Turning my head away from the track more than really safe. Having to know.
Third glance. Our 30 car. With a cockpit full of flames.
Time elongates for drivers in a race, as we process large quantities of information at an extremely rapid speed. But time did one better for me at that moment in the Bus Stop, as I watched my sister car burn. Time nearly stood still, along with my breath and my heart.
Stop! I’ve got to stop. I’ve got to help. Now! I need to stop.
It took envisioning the steps—getting my car slowed down and parked on the shoulder of the track, unbuckling and extracting myself, and running a hundred yards back to the 30 Corvette—to realize I’d never make it there before the safety crew. Plus I’d have no tools or gear to put out flames or care for the driver. And I’d be in danger of getting hit by other cars.
Corner workers and safety crews were trained for these situations. I knew the nearest corner workers would be there in seconds with handheld fire extinguishers. A full crew in a truck with fire-fighting equipment could be there in a minute or two.
You’re driving, Kate, you can’t stop! I shouted to myself as I bounced over the curbing of the second right-hander at 95 mph. I dragged my attention back to my car before I bobbled the left-turn exit to the Bus Stop. Focused on accelerating and breathing.
Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod that was bad. Is he okay? Ohmygod, ohmygod.
It took all of my training and will to dam up the worry I felt and focus on my line and my car.
Once I was settled on the banking of NASCAR 3, trembling foot on the floor, I keyed the radio. “That’s Ian in the wall. Hard.” I choked up and released the button. I swallowed. Hit the button again. “Where’s the damn yellow?!”
The lights blinked on, garish against the dark sky beyond the Speedway. I lifted my foot from the throttle.
“Full-course caution now, Kate, slow it down.” Bruce sounded calm, which both reassured and infuriated me. Why isn’t he worried or upset?
Jack’s voice on the radio. “What did you see, Kate?”
I took a deep breath. Be a pro. “Green Porsche and 30 car straight after turn-in to the Bus Stop. Straight into the wall. The Corvette is right side to the wall, driver’s side to the track. Porsche moved off slowly after impact. Flames in the cabin of the Corvette.” I swallowed again. “Is he okay?”
Jack was back on quickly. “Ian doused the flames from inside the car.”
That meant Ian was conscious and able to hit the button to activate the fire extinguisher mounted in every car for exactly this possibility. My arms shook with the force of my relief.
Cooper, my spotter, radioed instructions about where the pace car would pick up the field in relation to my current location. Bruce repeated the information from Race Control that the whole field would take the Bus Stop bypass, staying on the oval track, instead of going through the turns. I followed their instructions and thought about what I’d seen.
Foam flying wasn’t good, because it meant an impact heavy enough to break up the barrier. The Porsche being able to move off again after impact could be good—maybe that suggested the damage to our car wouldn’t be that great. But flames in the cabin meant something important had broken. I wondered if Sandham Swift would be able to repair the car. If they could get it back out to finish the race.
Of course, the big question was if Ian was injured—but he’d been conscious. Maybe he was hurt—a broken bone. He’d been awake.
I followed the line of cars down the back straight and through the Bus Stop bypass. I looked left to the accident site and couldn’t see the 30 car for the cluster of trucks with light bars flashing. The view was unchanged on my second time by. I called in to the pits.
“Is Ian out of the car yet?”
“Negative.” Jack’s voice.
“You said he was conscious, right?”
“He activated the fire bottle. He’s not out yet. That’s all we know.”
I bit my lip, wanting more. Wanting reassurance.
Bruce spoke next. “I’m sure they’re being careful. Safety crews are staffed by experts.”
I knew he was right. Expert doctors, firefighters, and safety crew worked races for a pittance to be involved in a sport they loved, and as a result, they were highly skilled teams. Knowing it didn’t ease my concern over Ian.
Bruce went on in his smooth voice. “How are you doing, Kate? How’s the car?”
What do you mean, how’s the car? How’s Ian?! How’s Stuart, for fuck’s sake?!
I drew a breath and pressed the radio button to transmit those sentiments. Then I released the button and took another deep breath. The answer to Bruce’s question? I was more than a little freaked out.
I breathed deeply twice more and put everything and everyone outside of the car. Only room for me in there. I pressed the radio button again and made sure I spoke calmly. “I’m worried about Ian. I didn’t like seeing the fire.”
I really didn’t like the fire. I never liked fire. Truth was, fire scared me more than anything. Spiders, snakes, bad guys in dark alleys, amateurs on track with me…I could cope with those. Fire gave me nightmares. I wasn’t proud of it.
I focused on the car and spoke to Bruce and the team, describing changes over the ninety-plus minutes I’d been driving. “Any indication if something broke in the 30 car to cause his accident, Bruce?”
He heard my unspoken question. “Nothing to be worried about in your car, Kate. We think he was an innocent victim of something going wrong in the Porsche.”
“Other than incompetence?”
“Easy,” Jack put in. “We don’t know anything yet.”
I knew Race Control and anyone with a scanner—including other teams—could be listening to our conversation. But I’d exhausted my small store of calm, and I didn’t care. “All I’m saying is some of the amateur drivers in this race have been a menace.”
My hands tightened on the Corvette’s steering wheel. “And they’re going to need to watch out if Ian and the 30 car end up paying the price for their mistakes.”
Chapter Thirteen
7:10 P.M. | 19:00 HOURS REMAINING
“Enough, Kate. Not on the radio.” Jack sounded angry.
“I’m not saying anything everyone else doesn’t know. Someone needs to stand up for those of us getting run over out here!” I stopped, finally hearing the shrill quality in my voice that must have been apparent to everyone else listening. I was short of breath and my heart raced. Those symptoms weren’t unusual while I was
in the car, but not while I was in the car under caution for the fourth lap.
“Kate, no more.” Jack’s voice was lower and more formal than usual. “I repeat. No. More.” He paused. “Pits are open, and you will pit with GTs in two laps. You will change to Miles. Do not transmit anything that is not about the car. Do you copy?”
I felt embarrassed and suddenly exhausted—though anger and fear overrode those emotions. “I copy. Pitting in two laps, driver-change.”
I spent those laps fretting and straining to see something of the 30 car in the scrum of emergency vehicles. Seeing nothing only ratcheted up my anxiety. The second time by, when three ambulances still waited next to the four emergency trucks, I realized my whole body was trembling. I hit myself on the side of the helmet and called myself a few bad names, which got me steady and focused on the procedure for our pit stop.
Once I was out of the car and over the wall, Miles roaring off with a full tank of gas on fresh rubber, my knees gave way. I collapsed into a plastic chair in our pit space. Disgusted with myself, I yanked my gloves off and pulled at my helmet’s chin strap. Aunt Tee helped pull my helmet and HANS off and offered me a clean, wet towel once I’d peeled off my sweaty balaclava.
I wiped my neck and face with the towel, then tilted my head up, draped the towel over my face, and breathed for a minute. No more shaking or weakness. Bad things happen on the street or in a race, but they’re unusual. I wasn’t going to live my life in fear.
I looked around. The 30 car crew milled about their portion of the pit space, each person expressing tension their own way—one pacing, a couple obsessively cleaning and organizing tool drawers, another biting his nails. Chris Syfert, the music agent and amateur driver who should have been climbing into the 30 car at this stop, stood square behind the pit cart, helmet still on, eyes on the monitor, arms folded. Her rock-star cousin, client, and racing partner Thomas Kendall stood next to her, also staring at the monitor. In the other two-thirds of the Sandham Swift tent, the 28 and 29 car crew and drivers cleaned up after pit stops.
Avoidable Contact Page 7