Running Wide Open (36 page)

Annoyed, I grumbled about his absence.

“Did you think you were the only one allowed to have a personal crisis over what happened?” Race asked.

“At least I got over mine.”

“Jim will, too. Cut him some slack.”

Proving he still had what it took, Race just missed setting fast time by three hundredths of a second. Our pit area was chaotic following that accomplishment, and Race got so sidetracked he neglected to line up for the trophy dash when he should have.

“It’s good to see you back, Morgan,” Ted Greene barked as he swept down the pit road, slinging threats. “Now get lined up, or I’ll make you sit this race out.”

“I always knew that man had a heart,” Race told the Super Stock driver who’d been bending his ear.

Kasey and I went to watch from the pit wall as the four cars in Race’s dash pulled onto the track. I felt so nervous I thought my stomach was gonna digest itself.

The Dart, always distinctive among those Firebirds and Camaros, now stood out for its crumpled roof and freshly painted driver’s door. The #8 I’d fashioned out of duct tape completed the effect, contrasting with the expert graphics on the fenders.

“Next time around,” I said, anticipating the start as the flagman brandished the furled green.

The cars blazed out onto the backstretch, bunched up tight. A tang of vaporized racing fuel drifted on the breeze, sending a surge of adrenalin through my bloodstream.

When the green flag flew, the pack charged into turn one as a single unit. Nothing changed for the first quarter lap except the speed of the cars. Then, slipping out of turn two, Denny edged ahead of Tom Carey to take the lead. Race followed in his wake, Carey to the outside and Addamsen falling directly behind.

With the white #68 Camaro still at his side, Race couldn’t take the high line going into turn three. Instead, he bore down on Denny, whipping to the inside as the two cars pulled out of the corner. The Dart roared down the front stretch, its bumper inched up flush with Denny’s door. It was enough to claim the groove. Race went into turn one hard and pulled ahead to take the lead coming out of two. The crowd practically went into meltdown.

After that, Denny didn’t have a prayer of overtaking the Dart. Addamsen was another story. Race managed to hold him off for a lap and a half. Then, as they entered the north turn, the black Camaro squeezed by on the outside.

“Ah, crap,” I said, knowing that with only one lap to go there was little chance of Race reclaiming the lead. He tried to prove me wrong, badgering Addamsen through the corners and pulling even with his rear quarter panel on the backstretch. But when the two cars screamed under the flag tower, the Camaro was a full fender-length ahead.

“Damn!” I said.

“Second place is impressive enough,” Kasey pointed out.

“Hey, I’m not complaining.”

The cars slowed for the cool down lap, then Addamsen pulled up to the start-finish line to claim his trophy. He grabbed the microphone from the announcer’s hand and addressed the crowd.

“I’d like to thank my crew, John and Tony; my sponsors, Willamette Tire, Emerald City Subs, and Duke’s Auto Wrecking; and most of all, my competitor, Race Morgan, for giving me a run for my money. It’s good to have you back, Morgan.” There was momentary silence as everyone tried to assimilate this new level of decency into their opinion of Addamsen. Then the crowd broke into a roar of approval.

Back in the infield, Addamsen parked his car and strolled over to our pit. “Morgan,” he grunted. “That was the best challenge I’ve had in weeks. Your debt to me is paid.” A hint of a smile indicated he wasn’t entirely serious.

“Too bad you didn’t tell me that sooner,” Race said. “You could have saved me the public humiliation of buying you a case of Hamm’s.”

“It’d be even more embarrassing to have to return it,” Addamsen said.

“Good point. Stop by my van after the races and I’ll give it to you. Lord knows
I’m
not gonna drink that crap.”

When Addamsen left, I followed Race to where the Cadillac hearse was parked at the north end of the track, so he could thank the paramedics.

“Just doing our job,” said Alex.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed through a mouthful of hot dog. “But do us a favor and try to keep the shiny side up tonight. I don’t feel like breaking a sweat.”

The heat wasn’t as spectacular as the dash, but Race started out strong, stealing by Tom Carey on the first lap. Schrader and Whalen quickly overtook Jim, who’d had the pole. At least with them, Jim put up a fight. When Race challenged him, he ducked down low and gave up the groove. A weird combination of disgust and pity tugged at my gut. Was it guilt that made him do that, or did the idea of getting his car that close to Race’s spook him?

In the remaining laps, Race managed to work his way up to third, but he couldn’t find a way around Denny. He pulled into the pits after the race and parked the Dart.

“How are you holding up?” Kasey asked.

Race grinned. “I could do this all night.” But he needed help with his helmet strap, and as soon as he got out of the car he planted himself on a stack of tires.

“You gonna be okay for the main?” I asked, handing him a bottle of Gatorade.

“Sure. My battery will be recharged by then.”

A few guys came to talk to Race during the Super Stock heats, but by the time the Street Stock main began, the stream of well-wishers had dwindled. That made it doubly shocking when Jim slunk into our pit area.

“Hey,” he said.

Race took a second to shoot me a
ha, I told you so
look before turning to acknowledge his prodigal friend. “Good to see you, Jim.”

Jim stood with his hands jammed awkwardly into the front pockets of his firesuit, giving Race a cautious once-over. “You’re looking good.”

“Yeah, I’m through the worst of it. How’re you doing?”

“All right.” Jim glanced down at the cracked asphalt of the pit road, then back at Race, who was still resting on the stack of tires, but managing to look cool doing it.

“I feel like an ass for putting this off so long,” Jim said, “but I want to apologize. I shoulda been there. I let you down.”

Race smiled. “You’re here now.”

Guilt and disbelief glinted in Jim’s eyes. I knew just how he felt, being let off the hook when he didn’t deserve it. For a second, I could almost sympathize.

“I damn near killed you,” Jim said quietly.

“No,” Race said. “I damn near killed me. You just had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everyone tells me there was nothing you coulda done, and I believe that.”

An incredulous half-smile flitted across Jim’s face. He shook his head. “You’re somethin’ else.”

Race grunted, dismissing the comment. “So what was that crap, letting me get around you in the heat?”

Even in the dim light, a flush of shame stood out on Jim’s cheeks. He shrugged and looked away.

“Well, it better not happen again. I’ve got new door bars and the best helmet money can buy. You’re not gonna hurt me.”

Jim laughed, but before he could say anything he was interrupted by Ted Greene’s growl. “Let’s line ’em up, Sportsmen!”

“You heard the man,” Race said, struggling to hide the effort it took to push himself to his feet. “And I better see some serious driving out of you.”

As Jim walked away, I shook my head at Race’s capacity to forgive. Much as I couldn’t fathom it, I admired it. I didn’t think I’d ever be capable of that kind of compassion.

Fatigue was beginning to sap what coordination Race had, so Kasey helped him with his helmet and belts. “Thirty laps is a lot to ask of yourself, especially this late at night,” she said. “Just remember no one will look down on you if you drop out early.”

Race reached for the ignition switch. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You’re wasting your breath,” I told Kasey as the Dart rumbled away.

“I know, but I had to try.”

I turned toward the back pit exit. As I watched the cars line up, my confidence dropped a few hundred RPMs. What if Race couldn’t do this? Even worse, what if he couldn’t face up to the fact? In spite of what he’d told us about making safety his first priority, pride could easily wedge its way under his throttle and keep him from backing off.

The Street Stock winner collected his trophy and pulled into the pits. Ted Greene motioned the Sportsman class out onto the track. They circled around to the front stretch and parked on the start-finish line, then the announcer launched into introductions, rattling off car numbers and sponsor names in a machine-gun blast of words. He made it back to the final row in under a minute.

“And in the 8 car, from Eugene, Oregon, sponsored by Eugene Custom Classics, Rick’s University Video, and Willamette Electrical Supply—he shouldn’t even be out here tonight folks but why let a little thing like a near fatal injury stop him—RACE MORGAN!”

The crowd went nuclear, completely overpowering the announcer as he went on to sing Addamsen’s praises.

The announcer finished his spiel by commanding the drivers to start their engines. With a ground-shaking roar, they obeyed. The pack pulled forward, building momentum as it circled the asphalt. Then,
snap
, the green flag was out and fourteen cars engaged in a free-for-all heading into turn one. Addamsen got the jump on Race, slipping between Denny and Tom Carey. Following his lead, Race shoehorned his car in behind the black Camaro.

For several laps, chaos ruled. Then speed and experience reshuffled the deck, sending the slower drivers to the back of the pack. Race clawed his way up to sixth place only to lose the position to Denny. Addamsen left both of them behind. By lap ten, he’d taken the lead.

During the next dozen laps, Denny picked off the slower cars, working into third place behind Schrader and Addamsen. Race couldn’t keep up. He’d gotten stuck behind Johnny Quinn, a mid-pack driver, and was having no luck finding a way around him.

“He’s getting tired,” Kasey noted.

“Nah, he’s still got plenty of fight in him,” I said, even though I knew damn well that under ordinary circumstances, Race would’ve got around Quinn within two laps. “He’ll pull out a top-five finish, just you watch.”

It wasn’t like it would take a miracle. He was still sixth, and there were eight laps to go. Then Tom Carey, who was always a strong runner, slipped into seventh and started banging at Race’s back door.

“Now it’s time to start worrying.”

Almost before the words were out of my mouth, Benettendi, a lapped driver just ahead of Quinn, got squirrelly coming out of turn two. He nailed the guy he was trying to pass. Both cars careened down the backstretch in a cloud of tire smoke that stank of burning rubber. Quinn avoided them by darting down low, but Race was too far to the outside to follow. Pulling wide and hanging two tires out into the weeds, he squeezed past Benettendi with a grating metallic shriek. So much for that new door skin.

As Race tore past the second car, the driver overcorrected, swinging abruptly to the right. His bumper dinged the Dart’s rear quarter panel, knocking Race sideways in front of Carey. But before the 8 car could spin around completely, Race let off the gas. The tires bit, he gunned the engine, and the Dart rocketed into turn three to overtake Quinn.

A half-step behind the action, my heart went into jack-hammer mode as the spicy perfume of wild mint hit my nose. “Damn!” I said, trying to shake off the sudden adrenalin surge.

Then the flagman whipped out the yellow.

“Not good,” said Kasey.

No kidding. The lineup would revert to what it had been before the wreck, costing Race the position he’d just gained. Even worse, an extended caution at this point would siphon his reserves, leaving his tank near empty for the restart.

The pack slowed to a crawl, making a wide sweep around the mayhem on the backstretch. Benettendi managed to get his car rolling, but a flat and a punctured radiator sidelined the guy who’d hit Race. In addition, two other drivers had skidded on the spilled water, crashing to add to the destruction.

Five full laps passed before the tow trucks got the damaged cars off the track. It took the clean-up crew another four to clear the debris and spread cat litter on the puddles.

“Could they move any slower?” I grumbled as one of the officials directed the line of cars through the clay granules to clear the dust. Race must be running on sheer determination by now.

After three more laps, the chief steward nodded. The flagman held up the tightly rolled green. Cinching up like beads on a thread, the field of cars growled down the backstretch. I remembered what Race had told me the week before about restarts. The drivers had to hold their positions until the leader took the green, but after that, it was anything goes. This would be Race’s best chance to gain some ground.

The green flag flashed. Addamsen’s Camaro surged out of turn four. Race, noticing from his spot on the backstretch, charged past Quinn on the outside.

“Yes!” I shouted. Fifth place. Now if he could just hold onto it.

Easier said than done. Tom Carey had also gotten the jump on Quinn. His white Camaro might’ve been welded to the Dart’s bumper, for as close as it followed. I sucked in a breath and held it. Just one screw-up, one moment of weakness, and it would all be over.

In those last laps, Race’s strategy changed. He quit pursuing the fourth place car and put all his effort into keeping his position. Carey hounded the Dart through the corners, pulling up to within half a car-length on the straightaways. But Race held his ground. The checkered flag fell, and he crossed the finish line with Carey still trailing.

“I told you he could do it!” I swung around to hug Kasey.

The Dart growled down the pit road and pulled up beside us. It sported a gash that extended the length of the driver’s door and bisected the duct-taped 8.

“I don’t know whether to congratulate you or give you hell for staying out there,” Kasey said, lowering the window net.

Race laughed. “I think I’d prefer it if you just handed me my Gatorade.”

“You know you’re going to regret this tomorrow.”

Race flashed her an exhausted grin. “Wanna bet?”