by Davida Lynn
To her, that felt like a land speed record, but she quickly looked to the large whiteboard just over the cash register boasting the top ten laps of all time.
21.433 by IndyKid
Two through ten were all in the mid to upper twenty one second range.
She was almost nine seconds slower. It was humiliating. “What was your fastest lap?”
“Twenty-eight nine.”
“Not tonight.” She shook her head. “You were leading me like you were at the the head of a funeral. What’s your fastest lap time ever?”
Chance took a long break, pointing up to the white board as he exhaled. His face was a tangled mixture of embarrassment and pride.
“Your IndyKid?” Heather was incredulous. She laughed out the question, “Are you serious?”
Chance nodded, turning away. “It’s not a big deal. It’s downright unfair. That’s like Jaques Pepin winning a small town cooking contest.”
Heather laughed, but then froze. “You know who Jaques—Never mind. How long have you been living here?”
“I was here for about two years before heading back to California. That time’s been at the top for quite a while.
Heather smiled. “I want to go again, but first I want some tips.”
“Tips.” Chance turned back to the glass windows that overlooked the track. “Okay. What I was pointing out was the apexes.”
Heather’s eyes shifted around, as if the meaning of that sentence might be plastered on a wall somewhere behind Chance.
He chuckled. “The apex of a turn is where you stop turning in and start drifting out. Watch this next set of laps, especially on the turn leading up the ramp. There’s tons of time there.”
“Meaning?“
“You can gain lap time there, or you can lose it. You want to try and carry as much speed as possible up the hill and around that second floor section.”
The next eight drivers headed onto the track, and Heather kept an eye on the turn Chance had pointed out. Some of the drivers almost clipped the inside barrier they were so close to it. Others were way off, and she could see they were visibly slower. Heather’s heart pounded as they waited for the eight minutes to click off.
“There and there,” Chance pointed out a few other turns. “You don’t need to brake before them. Let off the gas just a little, but don’t brake. People aren’t used to using their left foot for anything in a car, so they tend to under or over do it. Ease into it until it feels a little more comfortable.”
Heather nodded. She hadn’t turned to him. Her eyes were glued to the karts on track. She wanted to go faster. Maybe she wouldn’t feel it inside the bumpy, loud, little go-kart, but she wanted to see it on that sheet of paper. She wanted to see a fast lap, not some grandma slow time.
“Finally.” She mumbled as the eight riders climbed up the stairs and back into the waiting area. She was the first one down to the karts, Chance in tow.
She climbed into the second idling kart, feeling worlds more confident than the first time around. Before pulling the seatbelt tight over each shoulder, Heather turned to Chance, who was still sliding down into his seat.
“Don’t wait up for me. I want to see how fast you can really go.”
“You got it, kid.” There was something in his eyes that Heather loved. They were sharing in his passion. I bet Isla never did this.
The bored teenager checked over their belts, then hit a button that changed the yellow lights above them green. Chance took off, and from the very first corner, Heather could see that he wasn’t holding back one bit. The kart was sliding around, especially when they got to the one hundred and eighty degree corner that sent them traveling in the opposite direction. Chance practically slid the kart around the corner to Heather’s amazement. After that, she lost track of him.
Heather tried to remember what Chance had taught her. She looked for the apex of the turns, staying conscious of when she was turning in and then out. There was no way she could know what her lap times were until the end of the eight minutes, and she found that maddening.
Still, she could feel something about each lap; almost like each one was smoother than the one before.
As she climbed the crest to the second floor section, a kart shot past her around the outside. Chance. She hit the brakes for the next turn, but it seemed like he was able to drive much further before he started to slow down. She tried to remember that for the next lap.
Her mouth was dry. Heather realized she had her mouth open the entire race, almost panting. She crossed the start/finish line, ready to put everything together everything that she had learned. The lap was smooth and felt fast right up until she came to the one hundred and eighty degree turn. At full throttle, she was heading straight towards Chance’s kart pointed the wrong way.
She slammed her left foot down and felt the rear of the kart snap out of control. Bouncing to a halt just a few inches from the inside barrier, Heather had a death grip on the steering wheel. Yellow lights flashed all around her.
She turned to Chance. “What happened?”
After raising the visor on his helmet, Chance said, “You told me to push, so that’s what I did. You can make the most time in the slowest corners.”
“And?”
“And I pushed a little too hard.” He shrugged.
Heather squinted at him. “I was on a good lap, too.”
She practically snatched the paper from the teen’s hand. Running a finger down the column of laps, she stopped at the second to last lap, bolded so it stood out.
26.899
That was it? Barely two seconds faster? Heather’s head dropped. Chance took the paper from her.
“Damn. You took off two seconds. That’s incredible.”
Heather gave him a sour look. “Incredible? That’s like seven seconds slower than you.”
Chance took Heather’s hand, leading her to a bar stool that overlooked the track. “People are lucky to improve a tenth of a second around here. Have you ever driven with the purpose of getting faster?”
“What do you mean?”
“Aside from being late to work, have you ever driven the same route with the intention of doing it faster?”
Heather shook her head. “I guess not,” she said, looking down at the next set of drivers strapping into the go-karts.
“So it’s your first time driving one of these, and in twenty some laps, you gain more than two seconds. Trust me when I say that is impressive. You might have a natural talent for this.”
She shrugged, feeling a little better about herself. “I just listened to what you told me.”
“I’m very impressed,” Chance said, pulling her in for a kiss. “I’m also very hungry. Shall we?”
Heather nodded, giving the go-kart track one last look. “Fine, but we’re coming back here, mister.”
Chance laughed and threw his hands up. “Alright, alright. You win.”
The sun beat down on the race track in the first truly hot day of the year. The cloudless blue sky was cut off by the grandstands all around. Chance couldn’t find his hat, so his hand was glued to his forehead, blocking out the bright light.
Chance let out a yawn that was far too big to cover up. Shaking it off, he pulled his gear bag up onto a toolbox. A few cars rolled down the pit lane, spurring him to throw his ear pieces in quickly.
Free practice had just started, made very clear by Pops tapping the imaginary watch on his wrist.
“Chill out,” Chance said to himself. They were maybe three minutes from getting the car fired up and on track. No big deal. To ease his frustration, Chance looked over at Heather.
Frank was showing her how to record tire pressures and temps. The sight made Chance smile. There was an eagerness in her eyes, despite the slight dark spots beneath them. She and Chance were running on three hours of rest. Still, it was worth every second of missed sleep. The night before had probably been one of the best of Chance’s life. His nomad lifestyle didn’t give him much opportunity to share him
self with another, making it all the more special.
Heather had started out with a temporary job, but Chance could see that it was turning into an interest, and maybe even a passion. There was nothing greater than when you can see someone getting pulled in by motorsports.
By race day, she’d be adjusting tire pressures before and after pit stops as well as marking down temps after a set of tires came off the car. Maybe it would be something she’d want to pursue, who knew.
Pops stepped from the war wagon as Chance pulled his nome hood over his head. “Is your head in the game?”
“Of course.”
“No, don’t give me of course. I’m getting flashbacks to last season.” Pulling Chance aside, he lowered his voice. “For the sake of everyone here—and I do mean everyone—you can’t screw this up.”
Pops didn’t need to be lecturing Chance. He was a different man this season. He was more mature, and he had real goals in mind. Last season he might have been selfish, but that was gone. “I’m fine. Can I get in the car now, or do you have more weight you want to pile on my shoulders?” Chance didn’t bother to hide his frustration.
“No. Let’s just get some pit stop practice in, huh?”
“Fine.” Chance pulled his helmet down and clipped the radio jack into place.
Annabelle was up on the hydraulic jacks that lifted the car during pit stops, and when Chance stepped into the cockpit, the car rocked to one side.
“Oi, I’m under here.” Kiwi’s voice came from the back of the car, more annoyed than anything.
Without responding, Chance slid down into his seat, already trying to tune out all of his frustrations. Clearing them for the race would be crucial, and his issues were mounting. Annabelle was great, but his promise of prize money seemed to be dwindling. Whatever he did manage to take home might not be enough to really get settled into a new career.
Despite his best efforts, Chance was getting angry. He queued up the radio. “You give me shit about being a few minutes late, and we’re still sitting here. What the hell is going on?”
Pops said, “We’ve got an issue with the air jack. Calm down, we’re working on it.” He was just as testy as Chance.
“Great. So glad I climbed in the car. Where’s the umbrella? I’m already starting to sweat.”
“We’re looking for it.”
Chance turned his head as much as he could. “Doesn’t look like it.”
Pops spun around from his seat on the war wagon.
Before he could speak, DJ’s voice boomed over the radio. “I didn’t realize your periods had synced up. If I hear one more iota of bitching from either of you two ladies, I’m going to pick out the prettiest dresses I can find and parade you down the front straight in front of fifty thousand people. Try me, Chance. So help me god, try me.”
Chance took his thumb from the radio button. He knew DJ was serious, and he was smart enough not to push the old man.
The car rattled as they worked on fixing whatever was wrong at the back of the car. An umbrella did appear, and Chance muttered his thanks as the shade draped over him.
After a sudden burst of air pressure, the car dropped back onto its wide tires. Chance raised his hands up to the steering wheel.
He watched Pops hop from the concrete wall and take his place in front of the car. Spinning his finger in the air, he cued Kiwi to start the engine. Chance held down the ignition button, and the seven hundred and fifty horsepower motor roared to life.
He felt a headache brewing, but once his heart rate climbed, he’d forget all about it. On track, everything else went away. He only had the immediate in mind. Lap times, tire degradation, suspension settings. It was easy. He could tune out the radio and only focus on the minute rise and fall of the engine’s revs. At two hundred miles an hour, there was peace.
Pops stepped to one side and sent Chance out onto the pit lane. The tires squealed, the back end of the car lurching sideways. Chance cut the wheel in the opposite direction, controlling the rear until he hit the pit lane speed limiter.
There, the world became a blur everywhere but straight in front of him. He thought about Heather, but more importantly, Chance thought about what he would do after the race.
Unless the gods were smiling and he ran the race of his life, the odds were slim that he could get a real ride. He understood that great luck on his part and terrible luck on Billy’s had gotten him into the big show. Still, even a champion with a secure ride could find himself out the door. Chance didn’t want to count himself out of a full-time drive too soon.
Pushing all the bad shit and unanswered questions out of his mind, Chance tried to focus on the positive. The Indy 500 had been the dream for his entire life, and he was one week away. More than that, he had found a strong, beautiful woman who was beginning to show a passion for motorsports. She was a sharp and a welcomed departure from the gold diggers like Isla.
Chance knew he could be happy with Heather and a life spent watching instead of racing. He didn’t know how it would all work out, but that was a problem for the day after the race.
Chance was tired of being in the car. He loved driving, but pit stop practice wasn’t driving. Out for a lap, immediately in for a pit stop, then back out. Rinse and repeat. The crew was getting faster, so Chance tried to keep that positive note in mind.
Once he got out of the car and before he could say a word to Pops, DJ was pointing at the passenger seat of the golf cart. Not a good sign.
Chance threw his gear on top of the bag, gave Heather a warm smile as he passed, and dropped down next to the team boss.
DJ headed off, the cart laboring under the weight.
“You can’t keep seeing her. Not like you’ve been.”
Chance turned to his boss. “What? Are you serious? One rough night and you’re cutting me off?”
“One rough night? You think we’re all blind? Chance, I saw it from day one. Before day one, actually. I heard about the scuffle.”
Chance shook his head. “DJ, there’s no issue here. Heather and I are professional at work.”
“And outside of work?”
Chance paused. There was no denying what was going on, but he had to say something. “Outside of work…things are less than professional.”
“That’s the thing, kid. We race from April to October. Means we’ve got five months off, right? Wrong. We spend those five months building next year’s car and all the other shit that goes along with running a race team. Same situation here. Just because we go home at ten doesn’t mean we’re done. We go home or to the hotel.” DJ slapped a hard hand down on Chance’s thigh. “Or in the hauler. Anyway, we don’t drink if we’ve got an early morning. We eat a hearty dinner if it’s a busy morning. We sleep if…we always sleep, and that’s where the issue comes in.”
“One long night. That’s it.”
DJ nodded. “ Yeah, I’ve had my share of long nights, too, kid.”
“I bet.”
“But they were always after the race. You can’t be doing this shit and expecting to be up to speed. Your reaction times are slower, your hydration level has dropped, and your mind just isn’t as sharp. We don’t have the money for fitness analysts, but they’d tell you the same damn thing. Chance, I’m putting you on ice.”
“Do I even want to know what that means?”
“Lockdown, freeze out, cockblock. Whatever you wanna call it, that’s what it is. You can’t see her until the race is over.”
Chance tried to say something, but DJ cut him off. “No questions, argument final. There are eyes on you all the time, now. Be professional at work, or I’ll have your ass.”
In truth, DJ was all talk. Between Chance’s money in the team and the short time before the race, there would be no finding another driver. DJ couldn’t fire him, but he could make life very hard for Chance, even after the 500 was over.
DJ was a crotchety old man, but he was a legend, and his word meant something. Chance didn’t want to be on his bad side, even if he gav
e up racing. The old man had been more of a father than anyone else in the world, and he gave Chance a…well, chance, when no one else would.
“I don’t like it, but you’re the big time winner here, not me. DJ, she’s special to me. I want you to know that.”
They had reached the hauler, and DJ pulled himself upright. “I met Gwen at this track in ’63. Did you know that?”
With a wide smile, Chance shook his head. “I didn’t.”
“I didn’t ask her out on a date until I had reached victory lane. Let that be a lesson to you.”
DJ left Chance sitting there, probably hoping to make a dramatic exit. Chance was angry, but he had to admit that the biggest moment of his life was less than a week away, and distractions would only endanger his performance.
Another golf cart drove past. It was painted red, with flame decals behind the tires. It belonged to Team Kenzie. They were the biggest team out there, not only supporting Jack Savage, but three other drivers. The team was looking for their nineteenth win. Chance envied them, but he also pitied them.
Those larger teams were a business, having long ago lost the spirit of racing. The true spirit of racing was in competition, sportsmanship, and pushing machinery to the edge and beyond. Long before Chance was behind the wheel, sponsors and TV ratings had taken over the top-tiers of motorsport, but there were still beautiful moments.
Chance relished the opportunity to race with the best in the world at the greatest track in the world. He loved losing himself in the laps, not knowing his position until his engineer radioed him after the checkered flag dropped. He loved the smell of burned fuel in the air around him on track.
At Kenzie, even the drivers had to worry about pleasing the sponsors. They had to post on social media almost constantly, and racing was probably the last thing on their minds.
After Chance drove off, Heather didn’t have long to ponder on him before four tires were dropped at her feet. She snapped back into work mode, stabbing the thermometer into the hot rubber of one of the rear tires. She noted the temperature on her small notepad. She repeated the process twice more, once in the center of the tire, and once on the outside.