Braking Points

by Tammy Kaehler

  I was opening the Jeep’s back hatch when my phone rang with Lily and Matt Diaz on the other end, hoping I had a few minutes to talk. I sat down in the cargo area, legs hanging over the back bumper, and dug a notepad and pen out of my bag.

  Lily sounded full of energy. “We’ve gone through your inbox.”

  “Our intern did the basic sorting, to be honest,” Matt put in.

  “Whatever, dude, don’t interrupt,” Lily continued. “We’ve got subfolders of messages in a couple categories: media, fans to respond to, crazies to ignore, and crazies to watch out for. It’s the last group we want to give you a heads-up about, Kate.”

  It seemed to be time for me to speak. “All right.”

  “We’ll be e-mailing you the summary with pertinent details,” Matt said, “including which messages to respond to, and info on the media requests we’re handling. We’ve noted some troublesome e-mails, since some of those are threats, as you discovered yourself. We’ll help you keep an eye on those.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “But there are a handful of oddballs,” Lily said. “We want to talk about those.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “First,” Matt shuffled papers as he spoke, “there are four people who want to give you things—homemade jam, a twelve-year-old’s drawing of you and your car, an embroidered wall hanging of your car, and a framed photo of you in the Winner’s Circle.”

  I was used to receiving drawings, photos, and other gifts—though the jam was new. “Sure, I’ll respond to those.”

  Matt spoke again. “The second issue is five addresses that contacted you in non-threatening ways multiple times. They offered support, but since they e-mailed more than once, you might keep an eye out for references to those names.”

  “We use ‘names’ loosely,” commented Lily, “given only one seems like a first and last name. The rest are nicknames, though one is pretty flattering.”

  “Flattering?” I was getting a sugar high from smelling the boxes of doughnuts next to me.

  Matt shifted papers again. “One is ‘racer28guy,’ which could refer to you.”

  “Or his own racing number,” I said.

  “True.” Matt clicked his pen a couple times. “The others are jimbo67, peterwheeler, mainstreet35, and mrguarddog.”

  I dutifully wrote down the e-mail names. “I see your point, Lily.”

  “They may be people you want to talk to. They seem harmless.” She paused. “But there’s one other sender that’s a little odd.”

  I didn’t like that buoyant Lily had turned subdued and serious. “Odd how?”

  Matt spoke before Lily could. “Lily has her own opinion. The facts are his e-mail name is ‘katefangmr’ and he’s e-mailed every couple days for the last two weeks.”

  I considered. “That’s back to right before the Wisconsin race. Is he yelling at me about Miles?”

  “The opposite,” Matt said. “He’s friendly, looking for your attention. He must have met you sometime, because he refers to that.”

  “I meet so many people at races, that doesn’t narrow it down.”

  “And he doesn’t give any clues to who he is. He says he admires you and wants to talk with you again. He grows increasingly attached as the e-mails go on. Tells you about his life and emotions.”

  I didn’t see a problem. “That happens with fans. They follow my racing career, see me year after year, and all that good fan stuff.”

  Lily exhaled loudly. “That’s usually great. But my gut’s saying something different. You can’t prove it from these e-mails, Kate, but if I had to place money? I’d bet you’ve got yourself a stalker.”

  I leaned forward and put my head between my knees. Focused on breathing. Thought of my new pal, George. He’s such a normal guy, it can’t be him. Right? I didn’t look forward to watching everyone for signs of weird behavior.

  Matt disagreed with Lily’s opinion, and she admitted it wasn’t clear my correspondent had entered stalker territory. So far he—or she?—was only very friendly, which Lily told me I could see for myself when they sent me their packet of information. Matt told me they’d keep handling my inbox for a while, which meant I was still getting hate mail. We said goodbye, Matt promising to keep Lily from scaring me again.

  I shook off my concern and got up to haul the treats into the half-arranged garage area, smiling with pleasure at the music of clanking tent poles, banging mallets, and jangling metal tool chests being rolled around. This, the Tuesday before Petit Le Mans, was setup day. Up and down the paddock, teams unfurled large awnings from the sides of transport trailers or snapped together sections of thick plastic mesh used as garage flooring. In pit lane, they erected popup tents over pit carts, tire racks, fueling rigs, huge plastic jugs of fuel, and person-sized bottles of compressed air trailing yards of hose. The racetrack looked and sounded like a circus had come to town, minus the elephant poop. It smelled like race fuel and cigarette smoke. It felt like home.

  Over in the hospitality half of our team’s setup, I saw Aunt Tee had set up two eight-foot tables, draped them with tablecloths, and placed sponsor and team information on one and snack food on the other. The two coolers were already stocked with sodas and bottled water. I saw her unfolding the hanging rack for firesuits and got my gear out of the Jeep.

  “Good morning, Kate.” She gave me a hug after I’d set down my bags. “Bringing food for the team was very thoughtful.”

  “I still feel bad about letting everyone down.”

  “You’re a sweetheart. This is everything?”

  I handed over my helmet in a soft-sided case, my team firesuit, and a duffel containing my fireproof undergarments, my balaclava or head sock, radio cable with earplugs custom-molded to my ears, gloves, driving shoes, and Head And Neck Support or HANS device. Though the team had two other sets of my undergarment layer and two firesuits, I always traveled with my helmet and at least one set of gear, in case I was called on for promotional work or to drive when I wasn’t with the team.

  She got busy unpacking my bag, and I sat down in a chair to deal with a task I dreaded, calling Ellie’s husband Ethan. He sounded tired as he picked up, but his tone warmed when I identified myself. I stumbled over condolences, and he thanked me, though he wouldn’t hear my apologies.

  “You’re not responsible, Kate.”

  “I know that logically. My heart doesn’t listen.”

  “I understand.”

  “How are you doing? Do you have help with your twins?”

  “Ellie’s parents live four miles away from us. They’ve been a big help the last couple years, stepping in when we needed them, and the kids are used to being at their grandparents’ house—that’s where they are now, in fact. I’m here trying to go through Ellie’s things.”

  I felt a physical pain in my chest imagining Ellie’s absence in his house. His life. “I shouldn’t be interrupting.”

  “It’s fine. I need the break.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. “I missed her all those years. I’m glad I got the chance to see how happy she was. I suppose I wanted to connect with you to say that.”

  “It helps keep her close. She missed you, too.”

  I blinked furiously to keep the tears at bay.

  He chuckled, tired sounds. “Don’t cry too much, Kate. You’re at Road Atlanta this weekend, right? One of my favorite tracks.”

  “You’re in the business, I heard?”

  “With Dunlop Tires. I’ll be back to my Grand-Am rounds next season. In the meantime, maybe you can go out there and win one for Ellie.” His voice changed, as he choked up. “You know, so much was finally going well for her—the twins are strong and healthy, she’d turned a corner and found a goal, she had a new job to look forward to. It was all so positive. There was so much potential. It would mean something to her if you’d go fulfill your potential.�
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  Tears streamed down my face, and I tried not to sniffle into the phone. “I will,” I whispered. I spoke louder. “I’ll do my best every time—for people like Ellie who won’t have the chance. But this weekend’s for her.”

  There wasn’t much more I could say, and I’d taken enough of his time. We disconnected with thanks for the conversation on both sides.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I spent five minutes thinking about determination before Mike arrived. He nosed his car up to mine at the rear of the paddock, bumping it, making it rock backward against the brake. I crossed my arms and glared at his laughing face through the windshield. Racecar drivers loved to play bumper-cars with rentals.

  He got out, and I pointed to where his car still leaned on mine. “That’s my car.”

  “A love tap.” He smirked, retrieving his suit and helmet from the trunk.

  We walked back under the awning, where he gave Aunt Tee a bear hug before turning over his gear. He pushed his sunglasses on top of his head. “Fancy-pants here?”

  I laughed. “Fancy-pants” was the nickname he’d given Leon Browning, a brilliant, young, Scottish driver who’d joined us for the twelve-hour endurance race at Sebring in March and would race with us for the ten-hour Petit Le Mans. Back in January, we’d eyed the short, slight twenty-year-old with the flaming thicket of red hair, dressed to the nines in pointed shoes, artfully ripped jeans, and a fitted, wildly colorful button-down shirt. Mike had voiced the thought in my mind, “That’s a hell of a lotta style for the US market.”

  “Run of the mill in civilized nations,” Leon offered, smiling.

  I shook his hand, eyeballing him and deciding we were equal in height, though I had five years and a different gender on him.

  Mike crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow, and exaggerated his Southern drawl. “Ain’t you sharper than a straight razor? Kate, this here’s Fancy-pants.”

  Leon nodded at Mike, mimicking his stance. “Aye, then, ye great moose-boy.”

  A single beat, then Mike roared with laughter. They’d been pals ever since.

  Aunt Tee clucked at Mike’s question. “Leon has arrived. He’s down at tech getting his gear inspected.” She referred to the fact that all drivers and crew needed their firesuits, fire-retardant undergarments, shoes, helmets, and HANS devices inspected for compliance to safety and badging regulations at every race weekend. “He said he’d be back for lunch.”

  I looked at Mike. “Eat, then take a cart around the track?”

  “Good plan.”

  An hour and a half later, the three of us commandeered one of the team’s electric golf carts and headed down the paddock toward Pit In, to access the track.

  “@katereilly28: With Mike Munroe and Leon Browning in a golf cart to tour the Road Atlanta track. Petit Le Mans in 4 days!”

  Mike drove, I sat next to him, and Leon sprawled on the back bench seat. We’d welcomed Leon with hugs (me) and insults (Mike), both of which he responded to with vigor. In the months since we’d seen him, he’d taken the GP2 series—a support series to Formula 1, often racing on F1’s qualifying day—by storm, winning a number of races. He’d never driven Road Atlanta, so he was eager for the reconnaissance lap we were making, as well as our advice. I’d driven the track the year before with the team, and Mike had been there many times.

  We puttered down the main straight, and Mike spoke over his shoulder. “We’ll talk you through it, all right, Fancy-pants?”

  Leon settled his sunglasses more firmly on his face. “Take it away, old man.”

  Mike drove the racing line on the track as much as possible in the golf cart, moving at something less than one-tenth race speed.

  “Up the hill from Turn 1, you’re looking at sky,” he began. “Blind hill, aim for that telephone pole. That’ll set you up for Turn 2, which isn’t much. Then you turn for the right-hander of 3.”

  We slowly crested the hill and followed the gentle sweep of Turn 2 to the left. Mike let the golf cart drift all the way to the left side of the track after 2, then angled right for Turn 3. He bumped us over the curbing of 3, the golf cart wobbling, and I spoke. “Use the low part of this curb—not the high part. It’ll help keep you balanced, and you’ll accelerate through it.”

  Mike stopped near the exit of three. An SUV went slowly past us, ALMS marketing staff hanging out the open back hatch, ready to place track signs for maximum television coverage. A driver also passed on a bicycle as we sat looking down at the valley that contained the Esses.

  “Here,” Mike pointed as he spoke, “set your hands for the sweeping left turn—don’t get jerky. Find your arc and hold it. Feed throttle on.”

  We moved again, picking up speed as we curved through Turn 4 and the track fell away from us. Mike lifted his foot off the accelerator and the cart gave a jerk that sent Leon falling forward over the seat backs.

  “Oy!” He shouted.

  “You’ll remember to lift here, won’t you?” Mike pressed the pedal again and the cart moved faster downhill.

  I turned to Leon. “This is my favorite part of the track. Great rhythm through here, no braking, accelerate through the curves. The runout of Turn 5 ahead is the other curb you want to use, but stay off the rest. None of them will help you.”

  We made it up the hill to 5, and Leon turned to look behind us as Mike went onto and beyond the exit curbing.

  We cruised through 6 and 7 and turned onto the long back straight. The golf cart was slow on the gradual uphill of the first half, and just before we reached the top of the rise, a rental car went by. The racecar driver in the passenger seat nodded at us. The guy behind him, who I recognized as a prototype driver from a visiting European team, started to nod, then did a double-take at the sight of me, his nose wrinkled as if he’d tasted something vile.

  “What the hell was that about?” Mike asked, after the car was gone.

  I shrugged. “And who was it?”

  “Dominic Lascuola.” Leon leaned forward over the seats. “Races over in Europe, though he’s a Yank.”

  The name was familiar. “Lascuola? Does he have a sister?”

  “A younger sister,” Leon confirmed. “Twenty-two, racing off and on with a Mazda team in Grand-Am.”

  “Colby, right?”

  “She’s here with a team in World Challenge this weekend.” Mike raised an eyebrow at me. “I hear some call her the next Kate Reilly.”

  “God help her.” I laughed.

  We finally were headed downhill on the back straight, looking at Turns 10a and 10b, a quick left-right zig-zag.

  Mike pointed ahead of us. “The most important turns on the track. Bottom line, you want to roll through 10a and square off 10b. Be fast out, because Turn 11 is nothing. You’re accelerating from the exit of 10b to the end of the front straight.”

  Mike barely lifted off the accelerator as he swung through 10a to the left and turned hard right for 10b. Leon scooted to the inside of each turn, and the golf cart still leaned precariously. Mike kept his foot down going up the hill, but we’d slowed to a snail’s pace by the time we reached the bridge across the peak of the hill.

  I waved a hand at the sign on the bridge with “Road Atlanta” and three colored blocks in a row horizontally: black, yellow, and red. “Another blind crest, lots of speed. Aim for the yellow block and trust you’re in the right place. Let the car settle back down on the wheels after getting light over the rise, then stand on the throttle.”

  Mike held the cart in a straight line as we swept down the hill, the track moving to the right. We touched the left side of the track partway down the hill, and he started to turn right.

  “Bump!” Mike shouted, as we rolled over the bump on the racing line most of the way down the hill. “Happens every lap. Get used to it.”

  I turned to look at Leon again. “You’ll hit about 130 through here, full throttle.” I gri
nned. “They like to say it takes balls for this turn.”

  He winked at me. “Lucky all of us in the 28 car have them.”

  We rolled down the front straight again and entered the pits at Pit Out, driving the wrong way through pit lane to the paddock. Leon stretched his legs out again across the back seat, and I finger-combed tangles from my hair.

  We parked the cart behind the garage and sat down in green molded-plastic chairs in the hospitality area next to Tom. Mike and Leon each took two of the cookies Aunt Tee offered around; I took one. Tom was occupied with the computer on his lap.

  “You making media magic, Tom?” Mike asked between bites.

  Tom looked up, more worried than amused. And he was looking at me.

  The unsettled feeling returned to the pit of my stomach. “Now what?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Good news and bad news,” Tom said. “The good is fan voting closed for the ALMS Favorite Driver award. Informal polls show lots of support for you.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Tom shook his head. “Most of the voting happened before the Miles incident.”

  “Oh, aye,” Leon broke in, wiping his fingers on a paper towel. “I meant to ask about the last race. Wee bit of a mistake there, what?”

  I pointed a finger at him. “Don’t get cheeky, Fancy-pants.” I turned back to Tom. “It’s a nice vote of pre-wreck confidence. We’ll get ready to congratulate someone else at the banquet.” The favorite driver and “From the Fans” award were both voted on by ALMS fans via the Series website and announced at the championship banquet held Sunday evening, the day after Petit. The banquet was primarily for the distribution of season championship trophies, though there were other awards, tributes, and roasts presented as well.