~ * ~
Quick
Steve Worland
No copyright 2014 by MadMaxAU eBooks
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PROLOGUE
A tenth of a second.
It’s no time at all.
A finger snap.
An eye blink.
But in motorsport it’s the difference between winning and losing.
Between champion and also-ran.
Between life and death.
~ * ~
The red light disappears and Billy Hotchkiss stamps on the accelerator.
The five-litre V8 thunders as the Autobarn Holden Commodore launches off the Mount Panorama pit straight. Billy knows the beginning of a V8 Supercar race is the best opportunity to move up the grid if qualifying didn’t go to plan—and his hadn’t gone to plan. In yesterday’s shootout for starting positions a light sprinkle of rain at the top of the mountain turned the track slippery halfway through his lap and he ended up fourth on the grid.
Bam. The big V8 slams into the 7500 rev limit.
Clunk. Billy thumps the lever forward on the sequential gearbox and his Holden leaps forward. To the right Garth Tander’s Holden Racing Team machine bogs down horribly. Billy cruises past and he’s third before he reaches the end of the pit straight and takes the sharp left turn at Hell Corner.
There’s not too much understeer from the Commodore as he feeds in the power and carries momentum up Mountain Straight, over eleven hundred metres up a steep gradient. Two cars are ahead. Craig Lowndes’ Vodafone Racing Falcon leads Mark ‘Frosty’ Winterbottom from Ford Performance Racing.
Billy can’t let them skip away. They will never be as close as they are right now so he must make the most of this moment if he wants to lead this race by the end of lap one. More people watch the start than any point until the chequered flag falls, which is a thousand kilometres and one hundred and sixty-one laps away. Anything could happen over the next six hours: his car could have a mechanical failure or his co-driver could have an accident. What he does have control over is making sure he leads every lap while he’s behind the wheel. He’s only just turned nineteen but the motor racing world thinks he might be quick, that ephemeral quality only the great ones posses, so it’s his responsibility to show them they’re right. He knows his team won’t want him taking stupid risks but then they’ll love the visibility for their sponsors if his car leads at the end of lap one. Of course he can’t win the race on the first lap but he just might be able to build himself a reputation, which would help his cause when he attempts the jump from V8 Supercars to Formula One, his ultimate goal.
Clunk. He ratchets the gear lever forward again, pulls sixth gear doing two hundred and fifty kilometres an hour, Sir Isaac Newton prohibiting his Supercar from travelling any quicker up the steep incline. He’s not catching the two cars ahead but then they’re not drawing away either. He knows Lowndes and Frosty won’t just give him first place.
I will need to take it.
As he crests the rise at the end of Mountain Straight, Billy draws beside Frosty’s Falcon. Billy’s only met Frosty once and liked the guy, though he would like him even more if he wasn’t drifting wide as they take Griffiths Bend —
Thump. The right corner of Billy’s front bumper connects with the left corner of Frosty’s rear bumper. It has little effect on Billy’s Commodore but sets the Ford’s tail wagging. Frosty takes his sweet time to get it under control and loses precious tenths in the process.
Billy sweeps past and now he’s second. He falls in behind Lowndes’ Falcon as they slow to ninety and take the tight left turn into The Cutting. Billy carries good speed but there’s little room to pass through here so he cools his jets and waits for the right moment.
Line astern, the Ford and the Holden sweep towards the top of the mountain, past Reid Park, then down to ‘metal grate’, which is, unsurprisingly, a metal drainage grate at the right shoulder of the roadway, then on to Sulman Park, then McPhillamy Park, tyres scrubbing as the gentle left turn tightens, then tightens again. Over the thunder of twenty-seven V8 engines kicking out six hundred and fifty horsepower apiece he can hear a roar lift from the crowd that lines the track to the right.
Woh. The steering goes light in Billy’s hands as his Commodore crests Skyline, the highest part of the circuit at eight hundred and sixty-two metres above sea level. He momentarily takes in a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside then plunges into the Esses.
Down and down and down, cold brakes squeal as he turns left then right then left again, the giant wing on the boot of Lowndes’ Vodafone Falcon bobbing and weaving just a metre in front of Billy’s radiator grill. There’s no way past.
This is not the moment.
Clank clank clank. Down to second gear and ninety kilometres an hour as Billy turns hard right and drops the Holden into The Dipper, the V8 whining as he uses the engine to brake the fourteen-hundred kilogram race car.
Christ, it’s so bloody steep.
Down and down and down. The sedan reaches the bottom of The Dipper and settles.
Clunk clunk clunk. Up to fifth gear and one seventy along the short straight, then down the box again. On the brakes deep and hard as he takes the sharp left turn at Forest Elbow at a leisurely eight-three kays. Lowndes is still just a metre ahead but not giving anything away. The corner seems to take an age.
Smooth and clean, smooth and clean.
Out of the corner he gets on the power smooth and clean, without any wheel spin, and shoots down Conrod Straight. At almost two kilometres it’s the longest, fastest section of racetrack in this great southern land.
The speed builds fast as he pumps the gear lever: third, fourth, fifth, sixth—two sixty, two seventy kilometres an hour, the speed builds, two hundred and eighty kilometres an hour, still builds, two eighty-five. It’s like space and time have warped, the engine revs pinned to 7500 in sixth. Lowndes’ Falcon is still just a metre ahead. He’s not pulling away. Billy can get him under braking as they exit The Chase. He’s sure of it.
Two hundred and ninety-seven kilometres an hour.
The Chase approaches. It’s a slight kink to the right then a short straight, then a hard left-hander. Billy will need to be the last of the later brakers to pass the defending champion. He’ll drive up the left side then own the corner with track position. Lowndes won’t want to turn in on him and risk a collision on the first lap. He’s too smart for that.
Billy’s Commodore touches three hundred kilometres an hour as The Chase arrives. The road bends right and Billy dabs the brake, wipes off twenty klicks. As the left turn approaches, Lowndes’ Falcon stays to the centre of the track, gives Billy just enough racing room.
This is his moment.
Don’t-brake-yet-don’t-brake-yet-don’t-brake-yet.
Billy waits—and waits—then throws out the anchors and clanks down the gears, aims the Commodore up the left side of the Lowndes Falcon. He draws level, but the race car’s tiny change of direction coupled with a slight nosedive from the heavy braking unsettles the rear of the vehicle and the back drifts to the edge of the track—then over it and onto the grass.
That’s all it takes.
The left back wheel digs into the soft surface and the tail flicks around and spears the Supercar across the track.
Time slows.
‘Christ.’ Billy tries to catch it but it’s over as soon as it begins. Travelling at two hundred kilometres an hour, the giant sedan pirouettes, tyres smoking as rubber grinds on bitumen.
Billy watches Craig Lowndes yank the steering wheel left to avoid the sliding Supercar and round the corner. As the Falcon ducks out of the way Billy glimpses the metal snake of race cars that winds up Conrod Straight.
He can still save this.
He just needs to hit the kitty litter nose first. The kitty litter is a sand trap designed to slow vehicles if they leave the track at The Chase. It works best if a vehicle enters nose first. Billy wrenches the steering wheel, tries to get the nose around.
It doesn’t work.
Time speeds up.
Travelling one hundred and eighty kilometres an hour, the Commodore slides off the racetrack and hits the kitty litter side on.
Crunch. He can hear sand blast against the underside of the vehicle.
He can still save this.
If he can slide the car across the kitty litter to where the sand meets the grass then he’ll be able to drive around the edge of trap and rejoin the race. He just has to hope the wheels don’t dig into the sand and flip the car —
The wheels dig into the sand and flip the car.
‘Oh Jesus.’
He can no longer save this.
He’s now a passenger on the way to the scene of the accident. The Commodore flicks up and rolls violently, kicks up a wall of sand with each revolution. Billy holds on for dear life, can only wait for it to end. Metal tears and glass shatters as the six hundred thousand dollar vehicle sheds wheels and panels and wings—and keeps rolling.
Craaack.
What the hell was that?
Centrifugal force wrenches the V8 from beneath the Commodore’s chassis. The engine makes a break for freedom, cartwheels across the kitty litter spewing oil and water and gasoline —
Whump. It bursts into flames, lights a wall of fire across the sand. Billy catches a glimpse of it as the Commodore keeps rolling. Nine times, ten times, over and over and over. It feels like he’s being dumped by a tidal wave. Without the weight of the engine the chassis seems to pick up speed as it rotates —
Thump. It stops dead.
A moment passes.
Shaken, Billy blinks twice, takes a breath and does a quick inventory of limbs. They’re all attached and in working order. He can’t believe he escaped such a monster shunt without so much as a scratch. The car is right side up but the nose points towards the heavens at a steep angle. Through a tear in the floor Billy can see the front of the chassis is balanced on one of the wheels.
V8s rumble close by. He looks back. What remains of his Commodore is perched at the edge of the kitty litter near the exit of The Chase. That metal snake of cars whips past on the track just a metre behind.
Creeeeak.
‘Oh damn.’ The wrecked Commodore shudders, slips off the wheel and rolls backwards onto the track. Billy pumps the brake pedal to stop it.
Nothing happens.
Clank. A car in the metal snake clips the Commodore’s rear quarter panel and spins the vehicle across the track —
Bam. The last car in the snake T-bones the Commodore’s driver-side door.
Billy’s world turns dark.
There is nothing but pain.
~ * ~
A tenth of a second.
It’s really no time at all.
A finger snap.
An eye blink.
But in motorsport it’s the difference between winning and losing.
Between champion and also-ran.
Between life and death.
~ * ~
Sunday, 12th October 2008.
Craig Lowndes wins the Bathurst 1000 with co-driver Jamie Whincup in a Vodafone Ford Falcon. Billy Hotchkiss’s Autobarn Commodore is destroyed on the first lap when it is hit by a back-marker at the exit of The Chase.
The back-marker escapes injury.
Billy does not.
He breaks his back, his pelvis, his left shoulder and both legs.
He spends a year in physical therapy.
He never drives a V8 Supercar again.
~ * ~
SIX YEARS LATER
~ * ~
1
With landing gear raised, the single-engined Beechcraft 19 descends from the clear blue sky.
Billy Hotchkiss pilots the aircraft. He doesn’t look that different from the fresh-faced kid who tried and failed to lead the first lap of Bathurst back in 2008. He’s still tall and lean with a cheeky grin. The only visible change in his appearance is the pair of long, thin vertical scars above his left eyebrow, where his helmet shattered and sliced into his forehead.
Beside him sits his flight instructor, Ernie Jenkins, thinning hair, happy face, sixty if he’s a day. ‘So we’re cleared to land.’
Billy nods, his expression a portrait of concentration. ‘Okay, cleared to land.’
Stick and pedals, stick and pedals.
‘I can do this. Stick and pedals.’
Ernie nods. ‘So, what do we need to think about?’
Billy scans the instruments of the tiny aircraft, his mind turning. ‘Well, we have a crosswind. It’s . . . it’s about eight knots.’
‘Okay. That’s good. Are you all lined up?’
Billy looks out the aircraft’s windscreen. ‘Runway thirty-five at Essendon Airport is directly ahead. Big tanks to the right, hangars to the left. All lined up.’
‘Beautiful. Okay, what else?’
Billy glances at the instruments once more. ‘Airspeed is correct. Altitude is . . . correct. I just need to take it on in.’
‘Sure, but is there anything else?’
Billy racks his brain, glances at his instructor with a concerned smile. ‘I don’t know, what am I forgetting?’
‘What do we land on?’
‘The runway.’
‘Yes, and what lands on the runway?’
‘The plane.’
‘What part of the plane?’
Billy’s confused. ‘The undercarriage?’
‘And what else is that called?’
Billy stares at him blankly for a moment, then: ‘Oh Christ, the bloody landing gear!’ He flips a lever. The landing gear lowers with a hum then locks with a clunk below them.
Ernie smiles. ‘There you go.’
Billy is mortified. ‘Ohmigod.’
‘Happens to everyone once. Just make sure it doesn’t happen twice. Now just take us on in, nice and gentle.’
Billy nods, works the stick and rudder and eases the little Beechcraft down.
Chirp. He settles the plane on the tarmac nice and gentle, just like Ernie asked. This is Billy’s third flying lesson so he’s pleased with how quickly he’s picked it up, though that’s the only thing that’s pleased him. He hoped flying would give him something approaching the adrenaline rush he felt when he raced, the adrenaline rush he missed so much, but no, flying is like doing maths with a chance of engine failure. It is exacting rather than exciting and there is always the chance you could plummet out of the sky, which might be worth it if it was more exciting, which it isn’t. Through the lessons Billy realised that what he loves is speed when it’s up close and personal. That’s what gives him the rush. In the air he could be doing one hundred knots or three hundred and it all felt the same because there were so few reference points. But on the ground you feel everything because the road is right beneath you and it’s one big reference point.
Billy angles the Beechcraft towards the hangars as Ernie pipes up: ‘So, another couple of flights like today and you’ll be ready for a solo. As long as you remember to lower the landing gear.’
Ernie smiles at this and Billy forces a grin in return. He’s going to have to break the bad news to the old codger sooner or later so he may as well lay it on him now: ‘Ernie, about that. . .’
~ * ~
The sun is out and a cool breeze eases along Collins Street in Melbourne. Traffic is light for a Saturday morning.
A Kenworth semi-trailer truck, without a trailer, trundles along the roadway, the towering skyscrapers reflected in its cherry-red paint job and heavily tinted windows. Inside, three people sit along the front bench seat. They wear dark-grey jumpsuits and racing helmets with visors raised. The person wearing the yellow helmet with wide green str
ipes is behind the wheel. ‘Can anyone see it?’
The person wearing the red helmet with thin silver stripes nods and points out the windscreen. ‘There. About two hundred metres ahead.’
The person wearing the black helmet with the red, yellow and blue stripes glances in the side mirror. ‘We’re clear behind.’
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