by Fleur Beale
I took the motor off, being careful not to ding anything. I set it down and picked up the spare. We’d take both engines tomorrow, as always. I bolted it on, connected the wires and hoses, then fired it up.
Except that it wouldn’t fire. I began to go over it, checking everything I could think of, running through what could be causing it. Still nothing. The spark plug was almost new, so I left that alone. It shouldn’t be the fuel mix because I was always careful to get the ratio of petrol to oil right.
I was standing back, frowning at it, when Dad came in. ‘Shit! Sorry, Dad. I lost track of the time.’ I waved a hand at the kart. ‘ That’s the spare. It won’t start. I can’t work out what the hell it is.’ I tried the starter again.
Dad said, ‘You get the tea. I chucked corned beef in the slow cooker this morning. I’ll sort this out. Don’t worry, son.’
I handed him the spanner I’d been using. ‘It’s just … I want to do well this weekend. Nail that track. I need all the advantage I can get over Craig. He won’t come down to Manawatu, but you can bet your arse he’ll put in the practice on all the other courses. It’ll give me a psychological edge if I can beat him next weekend.’
Dad took hold of my shoulders. ‘Listen, Archie. The sponsorship’s important. I’m not denying it. Those extra tyres would be bloody useful. But I want you to forget about that. Just get out there and race your heart out. That’s all I ask. We’ll buy the goddamned slicks if we have to. Stop worrying.’
It was enough to make a bloke choke up but I managed to mutter, ‘Thanks, Dad,’ as I took myself off to the kitchen.
I was never going to win a cooking competition, but I got the job done, all the time turning over in my head what could be wrong with the kart.
I gave Dad a yell, mashed the spuds — and heard the sweet sound of the engine.
He came in as I was dishing up. ‘What was it?’
‘Let me get in the door, Archie.’
Damn it, he was in one of those moods when he’d tell me in his own sweet time. Still, I wasn’t too worried. The engine was going and it had sounded good.
But after he’d done nothing with his mouth except put food in it for five minutes, I gave in. ‘Everything’s sweet now?’
‘Yep.’
‘Dad!’
He laughed. ‘It was electrical. The starter motor brush wire was broken.’
I let out a sigh of relief — it wasn’t going to take big money to fix. ‘I didn’t even think of that. Good call.’
Craig wouldn’t know how much anything cost. He wouldn’t even be interested. Dad was right — the battle to win the extra sponsorship was going to add a kick to the year.
Bring it on.
CHAPTER SIX
WE DROVE UP to Palmerston North on Saturday night, and there was a nasty surprise waiting for me at the motel — Craig came strolling out of the unit next to ours.
‘Thought you’d turn up sooner or later,’ he said.
‘Didn’t see your name on the entry list,’ I said.
‘Last-minute decision.’
I looked around for his kart trailer. ‘Are you planning on doing the course on your own two legs?’
‘I’d still beat you. Gary’ll be here in an hour or so.’
‘Gary? Isn’t Carl your mechanic?’
‘Gary’s new. He’s the best. Dad made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. He’ll be taking it easy. It’s a long drive from Auckland.’
I didn’t bother asking why Craig hadn’t jumped in the van and come down with Gary. His father would have handed him the plane tickets — Here you are, son. We don’t want you getting tired by a long road trip.
‘Your dad’s going to be here?’
He shook his head. ‘Gary’s doing the honours.’
Dad locked the van, then said, ‘We’re cooking dinner. Got enough for three. How about you join us?’
Old Craig’s face lit up like a tail light. ‘Cool! Thanks, Bill. I was just going to order pizza.’
Dad tutted and treated him to the proper food lecture. I winked at Craig, and he grinned back. He’d heard the same lecture a few times by now.
Over dinner of cold corned beef, coleslaw, mashed spuds and broccoli — possibly a more basic feast than Craig was used to — conversation inevitably got around to the Challenge.
‘Have to warn you, Archie,’ Craig said, ‘I’m planning on winning.’
‘Plans are good,’ I said. ‘But it’s the performance that counts.’
Dad just smiled, leaned back in his chair and listened to us sparring.
Craig and I dealt to the dishes — he did seem to know how to dry a plate. We’d just finished when we heard Gary pull up outside. Craig hung up the tea towel, thanked us for the meal and left. Through the sliding door I watched him go up to Gary and high five him.
‘I’m glad you don’t do that,’ I said to Dad.
‘What’s wrong with a high five?’
‘Not that. I reckon it must be lonely for Craig. Gary might be the best money can buy, but it’s not like having your old man with you.’
My old man didn’t respond to that, except to look pleased and tell me to make him a cup of tea.
WE GOT TO the track at 7.30 in the morning. Craig and Gary were right behind us.
We set up our base and unloaded the kart. I pulled on my race suit, picked up a rag and rubbed it over the bodywork.
Dad took the rag from my hand. ‘Calm down. Go and check out the track.’
I was a couple of steps away when he said, ‘Archie, drive your own race. Don’t worry about any other bugger.’
He was right, as usual. I couldn’t let Craig get into my head. I couldn’t worry about him beating me.
We took the kart to the tech shed for scrutineering. Gary and Craig were already there. Gary and Dad shook hands and I could tell they were sizing each other up — I bet I’m a better mechanic than you are. I caught Craig’s eye and we laughed.
Jim, an old guy with frizzy white hair, was in charge of scrutineering. He checked the brakes, the steering, the nuts and bolts for tightness, and the transponder. After he’d tugged at it, I checked it myself just in case he’d loosened it. I always did that — useless going all out to win if the transponder fell off during the race and couldn’t record my brilliant performance. But all was well. The little yellow box was firmly attached to the back of my seat just as it was meant to be.
The last of the drivers in our class arrived just as I was done with scrutineering. Next on the programme was the drivers’ briefing, and after that there was nothing to do but wait for my first race.
I went outside to look at the track. We’d be racing anticlockwise. It was tight and technical, a real driver’s track and probably my favourite. Craig came out too, and we wandered around, both of us intent on memorising the course. At one point, he said, ‘I warned Josh Gibbons to watch out at the end of that front straight. Told him to watch out for the love-taps.’ Love-taps meant somebody was behind you, bumping the back of your kart, letting you know they wanted to pass you.
‘You’re so kind. Bet he didn’t fall for it, though.’
‘Just planting a seed of doubt, Archie. You should be grateful. That could earn us a tenth of a second on each lap.’
I tried a touch of psychological trickery myself. ‘Are you worried Josh’ll beat you?’
But Craig laughed. ‘Nice try, Archie.’
The loudspeaker called our practice.
As always, Dad was the one to push the trolley with my kart on it down to the dummy grid. We didn’t talk much, just a few comments about the weather, my position on the grid. Nothing earth-shattering.
Then we were into the tuning run, all of us doing our own thing as we spread out along the track, working on smoothness and speed instead of worrying about getting past the guy in front. Lap times weren’t so critical on a club day with a randomised, pre-determined grid, but next week it’d be a different story. Best lap time would get pole position.
My kar
t felt good, though I was glad to know there was a brand new set of tyres waiting and ready for the first of the Challenge series.
Back in the tech shed, I waited for my turn to weigh in. I’d grown over the holidays, but I still needed lead on the kart to bring me plus the kart up to the minimum for our class. Craig was taller and heavier-built than I was, and when we’d raced each other a couple of months ago he’d been not too far off the minimum weight. If he grew during the year, then the power to weight ratio could well end up in my favour. Even half a kilo over the base weight would handicap him. I should start buying him ice creams.
My turn on the scales. No problem, but I knew there wouldn’t be. Dad was very particular about keeping to the rules. The minimum weight of driver plus kart was 145 kg for the Junior Max, the class I was racing in. I still had a few kgs to go before I’d reach that without the help of the weights.
We took the kart back to base. There was nothing I needed to do since it was running sweetly. I gave Craig a yell, we picked up Josh on the way and wandered down to the notice board to find our grid positions for the first race.
‘Shit,’ said Josh. ‘Look at that, will ya! I’m at the back. Again.’
We grinned at him, and Craig patted his head. The grid was worked out on a random mix format, and Josh knew perfectly well he’d be up the front at some stage during the day because there were only nine karts in our class.
He kicked at the fence. ‘I hate being at the back first up. It’s not a lucky start to the day.’
‘You don’t need luck,’ said Craig. ‘You need skill.’
‘The back of the grid’s okay,’ I said. ‘Think of it as the chance to practise your passing.’ I liked starting well back and hunting my way to the front — working out how to pass, how to sneak through.
Josh didn’t look convinced. We watched him run off to talk to his father, who seemed to say something that cheered him up.
‘Archie, when will you learn to stop helping the opposition?’ Craig shook his head. ‘That kid’s going to get competitive soon enough. You don’t need to hand out the advice.’
Josh was twelve and it was his first year driving in the Junior class. He was a bit of a nervy kid, but he’d settle down. Just give him time.
I stuck a concerned expression on my face. ‘I was right then? You are worried Josh’ll beat you.’
Craig laughed. ‘Shit scared.’
We joined Lewis and Tama at trackside to watch the cadet class. There were a couple of six-year-olds at the back of the grid with the big X on the back of their karts to show they were learners and, as yet, unrated.
Each competitor under eighteen had to have a parent or guardian with them on race day. For these little kids, that person also got to start the engine for their driver. The starter gave the signal, and the kids were off, leaving the adults to duck and dance out of the way as the karts roared away.
‘Whoa! Yay!’ The cry went up from the onlookers as one of the adults stumbled and nearly face-planted on the concrete. But he caught his balance and stayed upright to a round of cheering.
The kids didn’t notice a thing. They roared off the dummy grid, and round the track they went, in formation, waiting for the signal to start racing.
‘They’re away!’ Lewis yelled. ‘Watch 82. That’s Marina. My sister. She’ll go off at the end of the back straight next lap. Betcha.’
‘She’s a barger,’ Tama said as 82 bumped her way into a gap, shoving the drivers on either side so she could get through.
‘No manners at all,’ said Lewis cheerfully. ‘Here she comes. Watch this.’
Kart 82 hammered down the straight — and went barrelling off on to the grass.
‘What the hell was that about?’ Craig asked. ‘She didn’t even try to take the corner!’
Lewis was laughing too much to answer for a couple of seconds. ‘She was dead set on breaking my cadet speed record. I should have explained that I’d stayed on the track when I set it.’
We watched Marina jump out of her kart and push it further into the grassed area. She pulled off her helmet, scanned the spectators for her brother, then raised both thumbs. Her face was one beaming grin. Lewis clapped his hands at her and gave her the thumbs-up.
‘Will you tell her?’ Craig asked.
‘Nah. She’s too stoked.’
We watched the rest of the race. Already, even though those kids were so young, you could tell who the natural drivers were. There were at least a couple in the pack with the killer instinct. I’d be willing to bet that Marina would be good once she settled down.
We watched a couple more races, then it was our turn to collect our karts and take them down to the grid. I was in position five. Craig was next to me on six. I pulled on my helmet and climbed into my kart. Number 24.
This was the moment I loved. The helmet shut out the world, and it was just me and my kart. I stilled my mind, pictured the track, driving it in my mind. Next, I visualised the start. Craig would try to cut across me to the inside the second the lights signalled the start. I pictured myself hitting the throttle, sticking to the inside so that there was no room for Craig to muscle in. We’d probably catch the leading bunch at the corner. Look ahead. Look at the gap, not the karts.
I was ready.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WE LEFT THE dummy grid on the starter’s signal. Round the track in formation for the rolling lap, watching for the lights at the start/finish line. They went out — and we were racing.
I opened up the throttle. Craig appeared in my peripheral vision. I held my line, hugging the inside. He fell back.
I kept my eyes on the track ahead. The leading four off the grid were bunched up until the corner, which they took in single file, the back markers losing valuable tenths of seconds. I’d pick off the slowest on the next corner.
I caught him on the back straight, staying in his slipstream until we hit the braking zone, when I pulled out smoothly and drove into the gap. One down and a tightly bunched group of three in front.
Sometimes you get lucky. The front runner lost power on the sweeper and pulled off the track. Two left and Craig hunting me down. The two in front were new to the game. I overtook one on the straight before the hairpin, and the other as we came out of it.
For a whole half-lap I was tempted to just race. I wanted to beat Craig. I wanted to be the winner on the podium. I wanted to be the one making the dumb speech at prize-giving. But thanks to the hammering Dangerous Damian had handed out the other night, I came to my senses in time and kept to the game plan Dad and I always used in practice. Grandad had helped us work it out. I didn’t want to have to tell him that I’d chucked it on the rubbish heap.
I settled in to testing the limits. Craig got past me in the hairpin on the fourth lap when I went for a nice little excursion over the grass caused by turning in too soon at the entry point. No worries. I had those braking points, apexes and exits fixed in my memory now — they were those from the previous lap.
By the final lap, Craig was a kart length in front. He’d be happy, and cocky.
I shut him out of my thoughts. Now for the fast lap: the lap where I put it all together, went for speed and smoothness.
Craig was doing the same. It was a two-kart race, him and me with the rest of the field way behind. I watched ahead of me, kept him in my awareness, but he wasn’t my focus. Into the corners, looking into the apex, flicking eyes ahead to the exit point. Always watching ahead of where I was on the track. Smooth, fast, focused.
The chequered flag ahead. Craig’s kart in front of me. I pulled out from his slipstream, racing side by side to the finish line.
I think he got over first. Hard to be certain.
We drove round again, slowing the speed, into the pits and across the scales.
Dad met me, his face carefully expressionless. ‘Craig won by a tenth.’
‘He did? Bummer.’
‘Everything okay?’
‘Kart’s good.’ I checked the data logger for my ti
mes. ‘Fastest lap is 45.085. That’s not too bad. Cornering is okay too.’
‘Practise the rest of the day as well,’ Dad said.
I didn’t say anything for a moment. I wanted to show Craig I was a better driver. Damn it, I just wanted to win. But — stick to the game plan, keep the focus on the main prize.
‘Yeah. Okay.’
We went back to our base. Craig poked his head in the tent. ‘Want to watch the seniors?’
‘Off you go,’ Dad said. ‘Nothing to do here.’
I had a bet with myself that it wouldn’t be long before Craig pointed out that he’d won. He was never obvious about it, always came at it from an angle.
‘How’s your kart going?’ he asked.
I had a private smile. ‘No problems. Yours?’
‘Top notch. Gary’s good. Almost worth what Dad’s paying him.’
Josh came over to join us. ‘How’s it going, Josh?’ I asked.
He didn’t look happy. ‘Awful. The engine’s all to hell and we don’t know what’s wrong.’
‘Tough,’ Craig said.
‘Come with me,’ I said to Josh. ‘We’ll see if Dad can sort it out.’
Craig caught my eye and shook his head. Well, bugger him. Josh wasn’t going to worry us for a year or so, and the two of us had been helped out often enough. It wouldn’t kill him to let Gary the Great give the kid a hand.
Josh and I hung about, listening to the men trying to work out what was wrong. They still hadn’t got it sussed by the time our next race was called.
‘Ring Grandad,’ I said. ‘It’s just the sort of thing he loves.’
Dad pulled out his phone as we headed to our tent. ‘Come with us, Josh. If he’s got an idea, you can run back and tell your dad.’
So Josh came with us down to the dummy grid and we listened to Dad’s side of the conversation. ‘No, Dad — calm down. Archie’s fine. It’s a mate of his. Josh. The engine’s coughing. No power.’ He listened for a couple of steps. ‘No. We tried that. It’s nothing obvious. Okay. Thanks. Yes, Archie’s doing good. Nice and smooth. Okay. Bye.’ He gave the phone to Josh. ‘He’ll have a think and get back to you with an answer.’