A SUNDAY DRIVE

He eases the wheel left to straighten the machine as he turns onto the straight. He hammers the throttle. ---

---The exhaust roars and the chassis twists straining to contain the monster threatening to rip loose from its’ mounts under the hood. The machine squats to the rear as weight transfers from front to back forcing the rear tires into intimate contact with the pavement. The rubber folds around the individual gravel components griping them from all exposed sides. Suddenly whole groups of rubber molecules are ripped free of the bonds with their neighbors releasing energy as screaming sonic waves and heat. The rubber is left smoldering in the road.

The nose of the machine rolls right and rises against the horizon. The steering becomes light and unresponsive requiring large inputs to correct for the wildly wondering rear tires as they slide along two paths of molten rubber slick as freshly spilled oil.

Things are happening fast. Dozens of dynamic variables are racing through the structure with each second. Hundreds of individual parts create forces that stress attachment points. In many places the structures are literally strained near the point of explosive failure.

The inertia of every cell in his body resists the acceleration as the seat rips forward under him. All of his senses are afire and in tune with the wild beast that’s screaming all around him. His inner ear is disturbed as the machine yaws left. He feels a force pushing his butt right and his eyes follow the horizon across the windshield. He hears the rear tires complain at being ripped apart and smells the aroma of their demise. He can taste the fumes of the beast as they excite his buds.

He reacts without thought smoothly twisting the wheel right to correct the yaw, and lifts slightly from the throttle to arrest the rear wheel spin. He is rewarded with a sudden surge of forward thrust as the rear tires hook up and begin to pound the monsters torque into the pavement. The metal of the rear axles twist straining their atomic bonds. Many bonds succumb to the force and break forming micro-cracks as the axles resist the monsters rage. The portion of the axle that extends beyond bearings bend as the rear tires thrust the machine forward.

A bright amber glare from the panel strikes his eyes warning him the monster is 200RPM from explosive destruction. He simultaneously depresses the clutch, lifts the throttle, and pulls the shifter from 1st to 2nd. He drops the clutch and nails the gas. The tires complain with a scream, but they have a little heat in them now and they quickly grip the road with only minimal help from his right foot. The skillfully selected gear ratio drops the monster into the bottom of its’ power curve, and the tires pound the aggregate out of the pavement with no mercy.

The car is being propelled forward at a ferocious rate, and a huge butterfly is loose in his belly. The butterfly is being fed by the physical forces he is experiencing and by the raging mental processes racing through his brain. He is not scared, and he will not lift until the only option is death it self. The sensation is primal beyond sexual excitement. It’s powerful fearful competitive rage! It’s a feeling of victory the seduction of no woman can ever match.

The 2/3 shift is complete and things are getting very serious as the speed rages beyond 100. His sensation of speed and time are compressed due to his racing mental activity. The scenery seems to crawl by as he scans the road far ahead searching for the land mark that determines the point beyond which a mistake will result in pain.

At the O in the sign for JOE’S GARAGE he smoothly shifts his right foot from throttle to brake applying aggressive force to the peddle. The brake pads, driven by hydraulic force, bite into the wildly spinning rotors and begin to give their lives converting kinetic energy into light, and a super heated blasting cloud of residual dust and metal particles. Weight transfers to the front tires and drives them into brutal contact with the pavement. He is thrown forward and the belts dig deeply into his body as they restrain him. He inputs small corrections to the wheel forcing the beast to maintain a straight path. The lightened rear tires threaten to lock up, but he senses this and modulates the braking force with his big toe forcing the tires into compliance.

While maintaining heavy braking force he simultaneously depresses the clutch and rolls his right foot towards the throttle which is purposely positioned so he can operate the brake and gas at the same time. He gives the throttle a sharp stab to match 2nd gear engine speed to road speed. Failure to match engine speed will result in rear wheel lock up and send the machine spinning out of control and into the greedy grip of the Grim Reaper.

With engine and road speed matched he pulls the shifter into 2nd and releases the clutch. He maintains light brake pressure to keep the right front tire planted in the pavement, and turns the wheel left aiming for the corners apex. The chassis rolls as weight transfers away from the turn. The springs compress and the roll bars twist as they drive the weight onto the outside tires. The tires howl for mercy as the side walls distort and the slip angles increase generating the centripetal force that pushes the machine left. His momentum continues to pull him forward as the machine moves left dragging him with it. The lateral supports of the seat thrust into his ribs and right leg. The shoulder belts bite into his chest as they pull him left. He allows his body to relax into the seat and belts and they cradle him as a mother would a frightened child. The forces of two gravities crush him into the seat. When the left front tire just brushes the curb at the apex he shifts from brake to throttle and begins to smoothly apply the gas.

The machine accelerates and the right rear tire feels the pressure. It squeals in pain as it looses grip causing the machine to turn hard left. With the reactions of a cat he snaps the wheel right to catch the rear end and stop the spin. He then applies smooth throttle to maintain the tire slip angles keeping the car in a slight over steer attitude. The car drifts away from the apex, all four tires sliding. As the exit of the corner approaches he achieves full throttle. The machine slides out towards the edge of the road beyond which lies the Reapers’ domain.

This is just one of 575 corners he will face in the next hour. He is a race car driver, and life couldn’t be better.




1

The wheel spin at the start was a mistake. It has allowed the Corvette that started to his left to get away. He is only just able to hold off the two Camaro's that started behind him as he races out of turn one. He gets a good run off the turn, and the two Camaros fall behind, slowing each other as they racing for position.

The Corvette driver aggressively drives far to deeply into turn two, a 90 degree right, and locks up the right front tire when the driver turns carrying to much speed for the cold tires to handle. The Vett pushes up a lane in the turn and misses the apex. This will compromise the Vett's speed off of the turn and result in a lower terminal speed down the next straight. If he can hit this turn he can get a good run down the next straight and make up time he lost at the start.

He hits his braking mark for turn two and smoothly turns right towards the apex. The tire temperatures are coming up nicely and they are beginning to develop full grip. He’ll have about ten laps of maximum performance from the tires before the strain and wear causes them to fall off. He has a choice: push hard early to get track position while the tires are good, or be patient and preserve the tires for consistent performance through out the fuel run. The driver of this Vett doesn’t make many mistakes so he decides to use some tire now to take advantage of this mistake.

The Vett pushes up half a lane and is forced to slow to regain grip. It then turns sharply right and diamonds the corner for a late apex. This will allow it the best exit speed possible given the mistake the driver made under braking. Turning behind the Vett he hits a perfect apex and is able to get the power down early. The Vett cuts across his nose from left to right chasing its' compromised late apex as he drifts left towards the outside at the exit of the right hander.


They drag race down the straight slamming through the gears. The Vett is about two feet ahead and is straddling the center of the road putting up a block. He got a good run off turn two and has a slight speed advantage. He presses the issue by hugging the left side of the track and they make slight right front to left rear contact as he begins to over take the blocking Corvette.

Having a firm grip on the big picture and realizing the Mustang has beaten her off turn two the Corvette driver moves right to give racing room. From frustrating experience in her past she knows the first rule of racing: “In order to finish first, first you must finish.” The Mustang driver is intent on capitalizing on her mistake. If she fights for turn three, a tight left 180 degree hair pin, with this disadvantage she is likely to crash them both out.

Having raced the Corvette’s driver many times before he is able to predict what she will do. She is a fast, smooth, skilled driver and she doesn’t take risks that can throw away a race in the early stages. As expected she abandons the block and moves right to get set up for turn three. Now that he has pulled his nose even with her left rear he moves right with her so he can have as wide an entry as possible into the next turn. They are only inches apart and he can hear the scream of the Corvettes engine in concert with his own as they race towards the braking zone for turn three.

Turn three is an ideal place for an inside pass, because of the set up required for turn four. There is a very short straight that leads into turn four which is a flat, wide, and sweeping right hander. Turn four can be run flat out allowing the driver to carry a lot of speed onto the long back straight away. But to do so the entry and apex for turn four must be perfect. This requires a very late apex in turn three and hugging the inside of the turn at the exit to position your self for the proper line into turn four and the shot down the back straight.

When passing in a corner both cars give up time because they are constricted by the other and neither can run on the proper line. But because turn three is normally sacrificed for the set up for turn four, little time is lost executing an inside pass in turn three.

However the Corvette driver is not without a competitive option. If she can win the braking battle into turn three, get grip from her rear tires on the outside, and get the power down early to stay abreast of the Mustang through the corner she can block him from the perfect line into turn four. This will compromise both their speeds off turn four, but she’ll be able to continue the battle down the back straight. Unfortunately it will also mean the two Camaros speeding from behind will be able to close and force a four way fight.

Suddenly a corner worker in turn three frantically waves the yellow flag. This battle for position has been decided by circumstances beyond their control. The second place Porsche has spun and come to rest backwards in the middle of turn three. The Mustang is able to squeak by on the inside but the Corvette is forced well high to avoid a head-on crash. This leaves the Mustang on line for turn four and he rockets away down the back straight. This time the Mustang wins the fight by the luck of the draw. Behind his face shield he draws a sadistic grin and says to himself, “Ya baby I’ll take it!”

The back straight at this track is almost 1300 feet in length. This coupled with the speed carried off of turn four makes for a very entertaining ride as terminal speeds typically reach 180 mph. He looks down the track to find the lead car and sees the Duster streaking away about 150 feet down track. He shakes his head in wonder as he thinks to himself, “Man that dude has figured out those Mopars.” As he shifts into fourth gear he glances in the mirror and spies the Corvette blasting off turn four about 75 feet back. She got held up pretty good by the spin in turn three. The fourth place Camaro is right on her butt with the second Camaro bringing up the rear of the line. They are now locked in a three way fight for third so he can relax a little and settle into a rhythm that will keep pace with the leader and preserve the tires for late in the fuel run.

When he crosses the start finish line to complete the first lap Jerry, his crew chief, comes up on the radio. “You are P2, P2. Sixty six with a two. Good lap. P 1 sixty five with a five.” Jerry has given him position and lap times for himself and the leading Duster.

He replies, “Damn that guy is fast. How the hell is he doing that with a Plymouth?” He says with mock disgust. “That doesn’t seem natural. You guys sure that thing isn’t humpen around with a hemi hidden under the hood?”

“No hemi, but there are 340 fully manned squirrel cages under there.” Jerry jokes. “You should see the pulley system he uses to tie them into the transmission.”

“What do the rules say Jer? Can we use squirrels in Fords?”

“Sorry buddy Mopars only. We can run gerbils though.”

“No… I don’t like that idea. Gerbils are too much like rats. I associate rats with Chevys. They crap all over everything.” He says with a chuckle as he heal and toes the brake and throttle and shifts down into 2nd gear.

“Hey buddy give me a run down.” Jerry requests.

“It’s not bad. Still a little loose in the tight left handers, but easily managed with throttle. It’s got a slight push through four, but I was flat first time through. It’s pulling like a striped assed ape, but you couldn’t convince that Plymouth he has anything to worry about.” he replies.

“Ya well… Hey man that over steer will get better as the gas burns off. If the push gets worse we’ll work on it at the stop.” Jerry assures him.

“It was better through four that time. Tires are hot now…feels a lot better.”

“Stick to the plan dude. I’d bet that Duster is burning his tires off to run that pace. Save yours and we’ll make a charge at the end of this run.” Jerry instructs him.

“Rodger dodger Jer.” he huffs as he smoothly twists through the S turns at 115mph on the back side of the track.

The Duster continues to open the lead through the first quarter of the race. However at about lap fifteen the gap stabilizes and begins to drop. One of the Camaros maintains pace with the Vett and they are locked into a fierce fight for third. He settles into a rhythm and smoothly cranks off laps. There are the normal local cautions as guys fail to get away with mistakes, but overall the race is unfolding at a quick pace. The monster is screaming in perfect harmony. He has no worries.

He blasts across the start finish line to complete lap twenty and Jerry says, “P1 minus 1.2, P3 plus 2.5, sixty seven flat. He’s backing up to you now, told you he was burning em off. We pit in five, pit in five.” Jerry informs him. “Turn it up and go get him bud, put some heat on him.”

“Copy pit in five. Ye haaa! Time to trash the tires and light a fire under his Mopar loven butt!” he exclaims.

“Be careful of that left front. It’s gotta be hotter than hell and near gone.” Jerry says acknowledging the damage to the left front tire caused by the under steer the car has developed in all of the right hand turns. “I’m gonna take a turn out of the right rear and drop the left front pressure two pounds.” he tells his driver explaining the chassis adjustments he intends to make during the pit stop. The turn of adjustment out of the right rear weight jacker will transfer weight off of the left front and right rear tires. The weight will shift onto the right front and left rear. This should reduce the stress on the left front tire in the right hand turns reducing the push (under steer), and help the right rear when turning left reducing the over steer (loose). Dropping the air pressure in the left front tire will compliment the weight adjustment and prevent the tire from over pressurizing when it gets hot.

“Copy that boss.” he forces as he resists the g loading through turn four.

He’s storming down the back straight pounding through the gears. The Duster is firmly centered in his sights, and is obviously struggling for grip now. It suffers severe wheel hop as its’ driver brakes and down shifts for turn five. With its’ rear tires worn out they can’t handle the forces being demanded by the driver and they lock up and bounce rapidly on the pavement like a basketball being dribbled an inch off a floor. This reduces the grip of the rear tires to zero. If the driver attempts to turn into the corner the car will spin out of control. He fights the wheel to keep the car straight and is forced to drive it off track and into the gravel trap that slows the car to a stop before it impacts the tire barrier.

“Hot damn the Gods are smiling on us today!” He exclaims with glee. “Mopar boy is in the kitty litter in five!”

“Alright! I told you he was cookin those puppies. Don’t follow his example now Mac.” Jerry admonishes. “You got a big lead on Sandy, and she still has her hands full with Roy Black. So give me five more smooth laps then bring her in and we’ll give her some go juice and a new set of skins.”

“Rodger dodger boss. Keep the hammer down and drive it like my ass is on fire!” He responds with a manic giggle.

“Now damn it driver you be careful. That’s a nice trophy over there and I want it!” Jerry responds with an exasperated chuckle. He knows Mac is joking, but he is a very aggressive driver; which is what makes him so good. However his judgment is occasionally suspect and he has been known to throw a race away now and then. It’s not as though there is anything concrete to gain by winning. Amateur club racing doesn’t pay a dime. But pit crews are as competitive as the drivers. And being a partner in the car Jerry has spent a lot of time and money to get it here. He wants that trophy collecting dust on a shelf back at HIS shop.

Mac brakes, stabs the throttle, and down shifts to first as he swings the car into turn 10. The car goes loose and he uses the over steer to steer the car towards the inside of the turn and towards pit lane as he comes onto the front straight to complete lap 25. He drives hard, up shifts to second, and dives right onto pit road. He brakes hard before the commitment line and sets engine speed at 4500 RPM to avoid exceeding the pit road speed limit. Ahead and to the right he spies Jerry frantically waving indicating where he needs Mac to stop the car. He slides the car into the pit box, all four tires locked up.

This isn’t NASCAR, and there will be no 13 second pit stops today. Mac kills the engine, hits the quick release for the seat belts, and reaches around to unlatch the window net so he can exit the car. He disconnects the radio and cool suit water lines and climbs from the car. Jerry is already at work on the left front tire and Mac sprints to the fuel can Jerry has positioned just over the pit wall. Lugging the heavy fuel can Mac pulls the deck lid retention pins, raises the lid, and removes the fuel cap. Jerry hammers the left front tight and moves to the left rear. Mac is fueling the car as Jerry drops the jack and runs around the front of the car swinging the jack in a wide arc by its handle. He skillfully uses the momentum of the arcing jack to swing it into position on the right side of the car. He then leans into the trunk and places the weight jacker wrench onto the right rear spring perch. He then attacks the right rear tire.

Holding the emptying fuel can against his body with his left arm Mac reaches into the trunk and grabs the wedge wrench with his right hand. He takes a turn out of the right rear spring. This should cause the car to turn better and reduce lap times. He removes the adjuster wrench and runs to the pit wall over which he dumps the wrench and empty fuel can. He grabs the second can and returns to the fuel cell. Jerry slams the right front tire home and pulls the jack clear. He leans into the trunk area to confirm Mac has removed the weight jacker wrench, and then he leaps over the wall and grabs a pre-positioned bag of ice. Holding the ice before him he leans into the right side window and unstrapps the lid for the driver cool suit ice chest.

Temperatures inside a race car can exceed 140deg. The cool suit is designed to pump cold water from the ice chest through a network of surgical tubing sewn into the first layer of Macs’ Nomex underwear. It keeps the normally volcanic personality that emerges from Mac any time he is strapped into a race car at more of a controlled ballistic level. More importantly it reduces driver fatigue and keeps him sharp deeper into the race.

With the second can empty Mac installs the fuel cap, closes and pins the deck lid and returns the empty can over the wall. He shoe horns himself back thru the window and settles into the seat. Supporting himself with his right arm Jerry is now leaned all the way across the inside aiding Mac reconnecting to the car. Wearing helmet, head and neck restraint system, and full fire gear Mac can’t quickly locate the belts, radio leads, and cool suit lines. Jerry uses his left hand to place these in Macs gloved hands and visually ensures they are properly attached. As Mac pulls the belts tight and fires up the engine Jerry races around the car to latch the window net. He performs a radio check as he goes.

Jerry slaps the hood of the car indicating he is clear and Mac drops the clutch and blasts out of the stall with the engine howling, tires screaming, and gravel flying. The whole thing took less than 90 seconds. It isn’t NASCAR but it’s not too bad for two fat old dudes.

Time lost in the pits is equal to time lost on the track. They practice their pit stop procedures at least once each night during the week leading up to a race. Their efforts are rewarded as they increase the lead of the race once everyone cycles through the pits.

Sandy blasts her Corvette off pit road a full 10 seconds behind, but now solidly in second place. Roy looses touch with Sandy due to a sloppy and uncoordinated stop. He does however manage to hold onto third as the other Camaros crew completely lays an egg in the pits. The Porsche that spun early in the race has recovered and leaves pit road in fourth nearly a lap down to Mac and the raging Mustang. Mopar boy, having been extracted from the kitty litter, leaves pit road two laps down in 10th.


2

The race continues.

Mac hits the apex at turn five. He lifts the light trail braking he has maintained to keep the right front tire planted in the pavement, and shifts his right foot to the gas peddle. He squeezes it genteelly mindful of the still cool tires. The monster begins to wind up eagerly gulping air and fuel. At 7500 RPM, the beasts never exceed speed, its’ pistons are racing along in the cylinder bores absorbing the extreme heat of combustion and creating more heat from friction. If not for the actions of the water circulating a few tenths of an inch away, and the cool soothing lubrication of the synthetic oil maintaining a life saving barrier, the pistons would self destruct in a fraction of a second. Air and fuel flows smoothly through the custom shaped intake ports. It swirls past the purposely chosen tulip shaped valves packing the combustion chambers with mammoth charges of automotive motivation awaiting the spark of life that will start the chemical reactions that propel the car through the fight.


He smoothly negotiates the S turns, accelerating hard, sweeping to the outside. He applies light trail braking to set the chassis, and then smoothly twists the wheel left. The car responds with eager aggressiveness. The g forces build crushing him into the seat. He clips the apex and squeezes on full throttle. There is only time for a short squirt of gas then back to trail braking, and a twist of the wheel to the right. His body is thrown to the left and crushed into the seat from the other side. He is in a zen like state, the car is he and he is the car. They have become one, a cybernetic being, each feeding from and using the other to become something neither can be alone. He sees, hears, feels, tastes, and smells the car, the track, the air rushing by outside the open window. He is oblivious to the universe outside the tunnel of vision immediately ahead and in the mirrors. He is concerned with no war, election, honey do, or college tuition due now. His entire existence is consumed by the race.

He has continued to build his lead and as the laps wind down he can no longer see the second place Corvette in his mirrors. He blasts up the short chute leading to turn 10. At his mark he hammers the brakes. He feels the belts digging into his body, clutch, blip throttle, 2nd gear, then clutch, blip throttle, 1st gear. He trail brakes to keep the chassis set and turns the wheel right guiding the car towards the apex. This is a tight 90 degree turn and he must carefully ease into the gas to keep the rear tires hooked up. As the car drifts towards the wall he unwinds the wheel and gets full throttle. He snatches 2nd gear, dumps the clutch, and is rewarded by a healthy kick in the ass by 650 screaming horse power. As is his habit he glances at the flag stand as he roars towards the start finish line, and this time the flagman is waving the double yellows.

“Shit! Caution, caution, full course caution!” Jerry cries over the radio.
“Ought oh some body must have screwed up big this time.” Mac mumbles.
“And screwed us out of a 20 second lead.” Jerry says dejectedly.

Mac lifts from the throttle, backs the speed down, and blends in behind the pace car as it pulls on track from pit road. Within seconds Sandy and her mean hot pink and black Corvette are on his rear bumper. What was an insurmountable lead with five laps to go is now zip.

“Well crap, the racing Gods giveth and they taketh away uh Jer.” says Mac.

“Damn it! How much you got left Mac? Sandy was closing on you by about six tenths a lap.” Jerry says.

“Six tenths why the hell didn’t you say something?” Mac demands.

“Shit Mac, you had her by twenty seconds. There wasn’t any need to get you excited.

"Now how much do you have left.” Jerry demands back.

“Ok ok no need to get huffy. To tell ya the truth not much.” Mac responds. “Maybe the tires will come back a little with this caution, but six tenths! I don’t know about that.”

“Umm must have been Shelton, he’s gone.” Says Jerry speculating about the Porsche missing from its fourth place position.

“No he’s in the trap in five, they wouldn’t go full course for…” Mac observes. “…oh there it is. Someone went over the berm in eight. This doesn’t look good Jerry.”

“What do ya see?” Jerry implores.

“A big off! Damn the tire barrier is still there, must have gone over it! Lots of dirt plowed all the way up the berm, but no car.” Mac responds. “They are all on top looking and working their way down the other side.”

“Hey Mac, might be Mopar boy. He’s missing too and he ain't in the pits.” Jerry says as he strains his head looking around for the missing Duster. “Ok Ok, marshal just yelled my way…ya Ok, their gonna go red Mac. Their gonna stop you on the front straight. You want some cold water?”

“Absolutely buddy! Must be a thousand degrees in here and the ice done melted a couple of laps ago.” Replies Mac.

When they come around the track again the head flagman is displaying the red flag. The pace car comes to a stop on the front straight and Mac stops just behind. He has both cooling fans running on hi but despite this the engine is getting hot without the high speed ram air moving over the radiator. He is forced to shut the engine down.

Without air flowing through the car the inside temperature quickly rises. As the temperature raises the air density decreases and Mac is becoming dangerously short of breath. He has no option; he must get out of this thing before he passes out!

He hits the quick release on the belts, lowers the window net and grabs the cage bar. He pulls his head and upper body through the window and clear of the car, and gulps down air. Ahh…near instant relief, he gulps breath after breath until his head clears. He settles back down into the car and disconnects the radio and cool suit lines. Now there’s an oxymoron “cool suit” he thinks to himself. With the ice melted heat has conducted from the hot floor into the ice chest and now the cool suit system is flowing HOT water; he had shut it off several laps ealier.

Jerry arrives and aids Mac getting out of the car. Mac is nearly exhausted, and collapses into a sitting position with his back to the car.

“Here you go buddy drink this.” Jerry says handing Mac a large bottle of cool water.

Mac tears his helmet off and snatches the water and gulps it down. “Damn Jer, there’s no air in that hot box, almost passed out!”

“Ya must be the outside temp coupled with the heat of the car.” Jerry responds. “Maybe we should add a forced fresh air intake system to your helmet.”

“It was ok till we stopped.” Mac says, still huffing in air. Sweat is pouring from his face and his color is red. He polishes off the water. “Hate racing in this kind of heat.” Jerry hands him another bottle and he tears the top off and drinks.

“You gonna be able to continue buddy?” Jerry asks with concern.

“Ya I’m ok, just couldn’t breath in the car. We do need to do something about that.” He says.

“Well we’re not often required to race in hundred degree plus weather, but a fresh air system is cheap, so I’ll put it on the top of the priority list. We’ll get it taken care of before the next event.” Jerry consoles Mac. He puts his hand on the back of Macs neck his army paramedic training kicking in. Damn the man is hot! He takes a third water bottle and trickles cool water onto Macs head. He knows not to pour water down Macs fire suit. It collects in the seat area and is heated by the aluminum seat and can boil!

They hear a whistle blaring and a marshal yells “Five minutes!”

“Shit...Ok, let’s get me back into this thing.” Mac grumbles as he struggles back to his feet.
Mac climbs back into the car and Jerry helps him strap in. The air is a little thicker inside now as some of the heat has radiated away while the car has sat. There is a slight breeze blowing through as well.

A whistle blares and a marshal yells out, “One minute!”

Mac fires up the monster and monitors the instruments as it comes back to life. Mac thinks to him self, Oil pressure is good. Water temp is 245 hot but ok, and it will come down once we are moving. He double checks both cooling fans are on. Oil temp is 275 that’s ok too. The machine is ready for battle. Wish I had some fresh tires. Sandy’s gonna eat my lunch.

“Ok Mac I’m back up, how ya doing?” Jerry calls over the radio.

“Fine…fine. What are they saying about Mopar boy?”
“He’s ok, a little shaken, but alright. He took a hell of a ride.” Jerry responds.

“Ya he did, he went flying! Not supposed to do that in a car.” Mac says with a laugh. “I want to meet that guy. He’s got…well he’s got balls that’s for sure. Don’t know about brains, but balls, he’s got a nice pair of those.” Mac laughs out loud.

“Man I hope the tires have cooled enough to give me some grip.” Mac says as he pulls away.

The car spits fire from the exhaust as it bucks and rocks back and forth on the solid coupling created by the race clutch. It loads up, sputters and threatens to die complaining at being forced to run hot and at low speeds. Mac clutches it and snap revs the engine a few times to clear the cylinders of excess fuel. Happier the engine responds and pulls the car close behind the pace car.

Mac moves to the edge of the track to get clean air flowing over the radiators. The water and oil temperatures slowly come down. He periodically aggressively pulls the wheel left and right repeatedly; scrubbing off the bits of rubber, gravel, and trash the hot sticky tires have picked up. If he fails to clean the tires before his first trip into turn one they will not produce the grip he’ll need to keep Sandy behind him. In effect he’ll be returning the favor she gave him on the opening lap of the race.


“Ok get ready green this time by, scrub those tires dude. Three to go!” Jerry informs him.
“Now’s the time to let it all out Mac. Gime what ever you got left. Ya don’t want’a get beat by a girl do ya?” Jerry giggles.

“Wont be the first time she’s whooped me.” Mac says.

“Ya but not today damn it! Show her you da MAN!”

“Jerry this car is gonna be fifty feet wide! She’s gonna be bustin up fiberglass getting by today!” Mac shouts back.

“Alright! That’s what I’m talking about!” Jerry responds. “Kick er ass!”

They turn onto the front straight, and the pace car accelerates away towards pit road. Mac maintains his slow pace for a bit longer. He then accelerates hard watches as Sandy responds then brake checks her. It’s a classic trick and it has worked because…

“Green, green, green, green!” Jerry shouts.

Mac hits the gas and the car surges forward, catching Sandy still reacting to his sudden brake check. The trick has given him a four car advantage at the drop of the green, and more importantly a speed advantage he will carry all the way to turn one. By the time he hits his braking mark he has a six car advantage. She will be boiling mad at having been caught out and may make more mistakes reacting to it.

Mac sails off turn two and sets up for the throw away entry into turn three. However he turns in to early, apexes early and ends up wide on the exit. He is off line for turn four and must lift to keep from going off track at the exit. He pounds through the gears as he watches the Vette close from behind. He is hot, worn out, and the tires are struggling for grip. She has the advantage. As he sweeps by the apex of five she is right on him. They roar through the S’s at 110 mile per hour. He’s a little loose on the exit and she ducks towards the inside to try a pass into turn eight.

Turn eight is a lousy place to pass and she blows it diving in to deep locking up under braking. As she sails past on the inside he is able to turn under her and pull off a slid job. She has pushed up out of the groove, and he turns for the apex and emerges from the corner still in the lead.

Sandy lies back on the next lap, cooling her tires for a last lap try.

They flash by the start finish line and get the white flag. Mac is in the lead by two lengths, Sandy has five on Roy, and he is secure with no pressure from behind.

“One more buddy screams Jerry. “Hold her off dude hold er off!”

Mac is sure she laid back the last lap to cool her tires for a big run on this the last lap of the race. She’s not close enough to make a try into turn one, so that only leaves her turns three and ten as chances for a clean pass. The tire advantage she had she appears to have used up in her aggressive attempts on the restart. So her only hope is to try to force a mistake, or to shove her way by. Well she’s not getting a mistake out of me today! Mac thinks to himself. She’s gonna have to force her way by, and that’s not like her. He grins to himself.

She cooks into turn three hard but is to far back to make the pass. They both exit onto the back straight and race down into turn five. Mac makes a slight error under braking locks up the left front and leaves a little opening. Sandy sticks her nose into the gap, but gets it chopped off as Mac aggressively slams the door shut. They make contact, trade some paint and blast off for the S’s.

Through the S’s they fly; left, g forces building, then right, both cars in classic full four wheel drift. The tires at their absolute abilities to hold the cars on the track. Through turn eight and turn nine she stays glued to his bumper. She gets a good run off of nine and slides right to set up an inside pass into ten. Mac goes right with her to block her inside move. She darts left looking at the outside, hoping Mac will go with her. He doesn’t, she’s out of time! She desperately swings back to the inside and misses her braking mark!

“SHIT!” she screams as she locks up her tires all four bellowing smoke as she plows into the rear of the Mustang!

“What the fu…Oh crap!” Mac shouts out loud. The car is spinning right and he frantically chases it with the wheel, cranking in full left lock. The spin continues…then suddenly the rear tires take a bite into the pavement and with the front tires turned full left the car snaps left and straight towards the outside wall.


CRASH!!!...and the world fades to black…

Um that’s a nice buckle there…wonder whose it is hehe…kinda looks like the one I have…that’s strange. What’s going on here…that is my seat belt buckle…I’m looking down at my crouch…nice pants dude… my arms are limp and hanging at my side…SHIT I’m knocked out! Where the hell am I…Oh ya the race!

Mac raises his head and looks out the windshield which is dislodged from its frame. The front of the car is twisted and crushed.

Ah there is the ambulance and fire truck…they are coming this way…good…I think I might need them…That’s really strange? The ambulance is going side ways…how the hell can it do that? Has the ambulance lost control and spun out…? Holly crap! I’m still moving…what’s that! The engine… it’s screaming…the car’s in gear…and I’m about to pile drive the ambulance!!!!

The realization of the situation snaps Mac back to the present, and he reaches up and swats the kill switch shutting off all power. The engine dies instantly and the mangled front end that has been digging up turf sending it flying through the air plows in deeply and grinds the car to a halt about thirty feet from impact with the ambulance. The medical crew that was scrambling away from the immanent crash, skids to a halt and reverses course. They sprint to the twisted and smoking Mustang.

“…Mac…Mac! Can you hear me…Jesus Mac are you all right!” The radio yells at him on it’s own internal battery. Mac realizes Jerry has been screaming at him for some time.

“Hey Jerry what’s up?”

“What’s up? What the hell is that supposed to mean, what’s up.” Jerry responds with disbelief. “Are you ok?”

“I uh think I took a little nap there for awhile. I have no idea where I’m at.” Mac responds.

“You’re at Lakeside Speedway; you just won the race, its Satur…”

“I know all of that Jerry. Where the hell am I at on the race track, and what do you mean I won the race?” Mac demands.

“Oh man it was great! You mean you don’t know what happened?” Jerry asks excitedly.

“Don’t have a clue. Guess I was out for a few seconds there. We won!?”

“Ya man! Sandy screwed up big time and hit you. You lost it and plowed into the fence.” Jerry explains, “It must have jammed the throttle wide open, cause that thing was screaming, bouncing off the wall all the way across the line! Parts were flying, smoken, crashing…we WON! I thought you were gonna crash the emergency crew for a second there.” Jerry giggles. “You sure you’re ok?”

“I think so. The medics are here. I’m gonna get out of this sweat box, hard to breath in here.” Mac responds.

As he moves to get out of the car he feels a sharp pain from his left foot. He looks down and can see day light coming from the foot well. The left front tire is where the clutch peddle is supposed to be.

“Ouch! My foot’s hurt guys.” He says to the rescue crew.

“How bad, can you tell if it’s broken?” asks the medic.

“Na I don’t think so, I can move it.” He responds, “Help me out of this damn thing, will ya?”

As they help him climb from the car Sandy comes running up and skids to a stop at his side. She grips his arm and helps lower him into a seating position next to the car.

“Oh Mac I’m so sorry! Are you ok?” she pleads. “I really messed that up, I didn’t mean it! Are you hurt Mac, are you hurt?”

“Calm down Sand Box, I’m gonna live.” He smiles at using the nick name he knows she hates. “A couple broken bones and scrambled brains never killed anyone.” He exaggerates hoping to get the rise out her he wants. It works…

“Oh you!” she responds and slaps the side of his helmeted head, “You’re just fine, as big an asshole as ever…but oh Mac your car. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey kid it’s not me you have to worry about. I’m pretty sure I caught Jerry making love to this thing one night.” He chuckles.

“Really?” She seriously considers that for a few seconds then, “Damn it Mac you’re just fine.” She says as she stands at his side hands planted to her hips.

“Come on help me get him to the ambulance.” The medic says to Sandy. “You think you can walk dude?”

“Ya I’m ok, help me up.” He says holding up his arms for aid.

They both take an arm and pull Mac to his feet. Sandy stands in front of him and works the strap free from his helmet. She pulls it off and looks into his eyes.

“I really am sorry Mac, I could have killed you.” She’s nearly crying.

Mac takes her face in his hands and returns her gaze. “Hey kido we’re racers. Ya did what I would have done. You did good.” He says and then kisses her forehead. She smiles at that and helps the medic guide him towards the ambulance.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 03.02.2010

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