Braking Points Page 24

  Leon entered pit lane. The rest of the world disappeared and then I was moving. Forty-some seconds later I drove down pit lane in the car, cinching my belts down. My finger hovered over the speed limiter, ready to release it.

  There’s the line. Limiter off, car into second gear, foot to the floor. Bruce in my ear telling me the track is clear. Third gear. Go like hell, Kate.

  My stint was eventful in a good way. Immediately after I got in, race control threw a double-yellow to retrieve a driver who’d gotten into Turn 10a too hot and stranded his car in the gravel. We stayed out, and I got a lap back on the leaders. That put us in sixth, on the same lap as positions four and five.

  On the last lap before going back to green, Bruce spoke, “P5 four cars ahead of you, P4 six cars ahead of him. Go show everyone pole position wasn’t a fluke.”

  “Copy.” My heart rate was high. Bring it on.

  Eight laps later I slipped past a Ferrari into Turn 6 for fifth.

  Fifteen laps more and I dogged the back bumper of the Porsche in fourth. I nipped at his heels for three or four laps, unable to force him into a mistake. Then I held back, watching for his strengths and weaknesses. I could go deeper into a corner before braking than him, and the discrepancy was greatest in the corner with the hardest braking: the 10a/10b left-right complex. That’s where I pounced.

  I shot under the bridge, an angry Porsche now in my rear-view, and I imagined the high-fives in our pit box.

  “Good work, Kate. P4 now. Settle in, keep pushing,” said Bruce.

  I kept up the pace for the rest of my fuel load, through a green flag stop for fuel and tires, and for forty-three minutes of my second stint. That’s when the racing gods smiled on us.

  Two prototypes leading the LMP2 class tangled at the top of the hill in Turn 2, collecting one of the LinkTime Corvettes in the process. The Corvette got off easy, able to limp back to the pits with a broken right-front suspension to be repaired. They could finish the race and earn points. The two LMP2s were in worse shape. One smacked into the tire wall on the left side of the track, breaking too many parts to continue. The other tipped up and barrel-rolled three times. The driver walked away, but track workers needed shovels to collect car parts. We were in for a long caution for cleanup.

  Bruce radioed me news of the accident and the full-course caution. He also shared the best news of all: the race-leading LMP1 was two cars behind me, about to be picked up by the safety car. My job was to hurry around the track to join the back of the long line of cars—which put us back on the same lap as the GT leaders.

  Racing also meant blind luck sometimes.

  I picked my way through debris and safety vehicles in Turns 2 and 3, then floored it around the rest of the track trying to catch up. That’s when Bruce relayed another piece of news. The LinkTime Corvette involved in the accident—which I’d passed between Turns 6 and 7, making its slow way back to the pits—was third in class. One lap later, I inherited that position.

  “You are P3 now,” Bruce said. “Pit with GT class for driver change.”

  I had three laps at slow speed to enjoy the track. We were officially in twilight, and the waning light made the racing more challenging, but made the cars look extra cool with headlights, reflective tape, and decals glowing. I’d been blinded by the setting sun between Turns 6 and 7 for the past half hour, but the trees finally blocked it, and I caught glimpses of a medium-blue sky with puffy clouds tinged pink.

  The pits opened for the prototypes, and I spent my last lap behind the safety car focusing on pit stop procedure. Then I followed a Ferrari down pit lane.

  A minute later, Mike pulled out for the run to the checkers.

  Chapter Forty-six

  I put my helmet, gloves, and other gear in my pit locker for the time being, gratefully accepting water and a wet towel from Aunt Tee. I wiped my face and neck, and felt a lot more fresh.

  Juliana waved from the wall, and I went forward, finger-combing my hair, to give her my comments on the race, the pace of our car, and what we might see in the final laps. We’d raced for eight hours at that point, tallying approximately 825 miles on 325 laps of the circuit. That meant about another hour and a half to reach 1,000 miles.

  She asked me to make a prediction, and I shook my head. “We might still see anything and everything. I hope you’ll see us hang on for a podium!”

  Juliana tossed me a smile and a “good luck” before hustling off to her next story. I briefed Jack and Bruce quickly on the car and my stint, then ran back to the motorhome to change into another set of dry racing gear. Once back in the pits, I grabbed radio headphones and stood behind the pit cart watching the monitors with Leon.

  A crew member stood to get a snack and offered me his chair, but I declined. I’d stand, pacing and nervous, for the remaining laps.

  Sometime later, I was distracted by a group on a VIP pit tour, garbed in matching red firesuits with big ALMS logos, led by a Series rep. They got closer, and I blinked in surprise, seeing my father, his wife and kids, and his angry nephews.

  I kept my focus on the monitors as they approached, but turned and waved when they stopped behind us, their guide pointing to our display and shouting something in Amelia, Eddie, and Lara’s ears. My father had no need for the tour or the explanation, and Holden and Billy stood to the side, giving me dark looks.

  My father noticed their behavior and spoke sharply to them. They stepped apart and smiled at both of us. Like sharks. My father mouthed “good luck” to me, and I nodded before turning back to the monitors. Mike kept reeling off laps.

  At a tap on the shoulder, I turned to find Billy looming over me, Holden next to him, the others walking away. I steeled myself not to retreat as Billy leaned close. “Just stay away from our family, little imposter, for your own good.”

  I had a hard time taking these pampered, rich kids seriously. “I don’t need your advice,” I spit back. “Get the hell out of my pit space. Or maybe I’ll start asking if anyone else knows you were in Siebkens Tavern two weeks ago.”

  Billy reared back in surprise. Holden gave me a small, nasty smile, and pointed his index finger at me, thumb cocked to look like a gun. He bobbed his hand as if firing, while making a kissing motion at the same time. They walked away, chuckling.

  Leon put a hand on my shoulder. “What the bloody hell was that about?”

  “Spoiled brats who don’t like me. Don’t worry about it.” I might suspect the cousins of wanting me out of the way, but I wondered if they could be responsible for the ill will raining down on me lately. I also didn’t know why they’d have killed Felix. I shook my head to clear it. Focus on the car and the race. Deal with unwanted family later. Or never.

  The whole team heard Jack’s voice on the radio. “Forty-five minutes remaining.” He meant we were in the fuel window to make it to the end of the race. Mike would stop under green in twenty minutes, just as fuel ran out, or under yellow between now and then for the last stop of the race. The crew started preparing.

  “@katereilly28: One more stop for fuel/tires then good to go to the end of #PetitLM. Keep hunting them down, Mike! #hopingforapodium #afraidtosayitoutloud”

  Ten minutes later the caution waved, for a Porsche GTC entrant with a blown engine. The pits were chaotic, every car in for service. All took fuel, some changed drivers, and most changed tires. Everyone in Sandham Swift congratulated each other on a perfect stop—and then we realized we were P4. A Porsche had leapfrogged us by taking fuel only.

  Just like that, our podium finish slipped away. We were devastated. Every team member watched Mike with grim, laser-intensity focus, willing him to get the spot back.

  He tried everything. For the next half-hour, he drove like his life depended on it, putting in lap times through traffic that rivaled my pole lap, even setting fastest lap of the race for the GT class. Six laps to go, he was nine seconds behind the Porsche, and try as h
e might, he couldn’t make up more than a second and a half each lap. He pushed. We bit nails. Paced the pit walkway. Cracked knuckles.

  Four laps, six seconds behind.

  Three laps, five seconds.

  Coming down the back straight, headed to the line for two laps to go, he flashed past a Porsche. Leon and I looked at each other.

  “Wasn’t that…?” I began.

  Bruce, calm as ever on the radio. “P3 Porsche slow on the back straight, possibly out of gas. You’re now P3, Mike.”

  We started to cheer, then realized we still had two laps to go. We didn’t breathe until Mike was half a lap from the end. That’s when I grabbed Leon’s hand and followed the crew as they hopped the wall, ran across pit lane, and stood at the track wall along the front straight.

  The overall winner tore past us, taking the checkers. Fireworks went off at the start/finish line. We saw the LinkTime Corvette in P1, GT winners. The BMW in P2.

  And then there was Mike, blinking the lights for us as he roared past. I hugged everyone and didn’t mind crying at the racetrack, because we were third at Petit Le Mans.

  Back at our paddock an hour later, Mike’s only disappointment was our trophies weren’t cups for drinking champagne out of. Instead, they were glass replicas of a waving checkered flag on a globe, all on a pedestal with “Petit Le Mans,” the date, our class, and our finishing position. Our third-place trophies were smaller than those for second or first, but we didn’t care. We’d fought hard and pulled through for third against a tough, international field. Not only that, but our finish—and an early mechanical failure for another team—meant we’d taken second place in the season driver and team championships. The champagne flowed.

  Anyone with a camera was invited in for photos of the car, trophies, drivers, and crew. That included my two journalist-buddies Colton Butler and Jimmy O’Brien. I even poured them plastic cups of champagne.

  “Thanks again for that phone number,” I said to O’Brien. “I still can’t believe it was Felix, though I suppose I can’t be mad now the guy is dead.”

  He looked confused. “Felix Simon? Can’t be. It was a woman’s voice. Why else would I think it was you who called?”

  I was numb with shock, hardly noticing as they waved good bye. It was Felix’s phone, how could it not be Felix? I smiled for more photos.

  “You OK, Kate?” Tom handed me another glass of bubbly.

  I snapped out of it as Juliana rushed in to hug me, Scott trailing her.

  “Congratulations, Kate!” Jules danced me back and forth in her embrace.

  I laughed with her. “Pretty awesome, huh? But how are you after that marathon?”

  She waved Scott forward to stand with us. “Not bad, Scott was a big help.”

  He smiled. “Glad I could step in.”

  “Well, good for all of us.” I snagged cups of bubbly and handed them over. “Time to celebrate!”

  “@katereilly28: Kudos to Sandham Swift team and Mike/Leon, great co-drivers. Third in GT at #PetitLM rocks! Sooooooo thrilling!”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  I made it to Centennial Park in downtown Atlanta the next morning by 7:30. Tired, but on my feet. Not even hungover. Even more amazing, Tom and Holly agreed to leave our hotel at 6:45 to go with me. Stuart also made a surprise appearance, showing up right before eight o’clock. I felt guilty, seeing him there. I needed to get my head straight and apologize to him. But not in the middle of hundreds of people.

  I waited with my friends and the rest of the Beauté spokeswomen and corporate reps—Lindsay Eastwood and others—near the Centennial Park Concert Stage, where the races would begin and end. The half-marathon had taken off at 7:30, with the marathon runner spokeswoman—Leslie something—and Tina the jockey joining that pack. The other four of us would go out with the 5K groups at 8:30: the soccer player and basketball player running it, the rower and me walking—with a thousand of our closest friends.

  Early or not, the atmosphere was festive. The temperature was still cool, and the roads had been deserted, right up until we reached the streets around Centennial Park. The stage and multiple pop-up tents were festooned with balloons and banners—predominately pink and white—and pop music with a quick tempo blared from the speakers. Under the tents, each event sponsor distributed samples and information: makeup and product brochures from Beauté, nutrition bars from a sports food company, sweatbands from an athletic gear company, and so forth.

  After ten minutes of on-stage activities, during which an energetic female emcee introduced executives and spokeswomen, invited each of us to say a few words, and pumped up the crowd, we were instructed to line up for the race start.

  “Someone gonna yell ‘green, green, green’ in my ear?” Holly wondered, as we followed an event volunteer to the head of the walking group.

  Tom and Stuart chuckled.

  As we reached the crowd, another walker attached himself to our group: my super-fan, George Ryan. He wore the same event t-shirt everyone else did and toted a camera, which he used to take a photo of me as I walked past him.

  “Hi Kate,” he said, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

  “Thanks for coming out today, George.” I shook his hand.

  I heard Tom talking to George behind me as we approached the main pack of people—mostly women—waiting to walk the course. I felt the first flash of nerves at being a representative of an issue and an organization with so much impact. Then I felt proud to be able to contribute. I stepped forward and introduced myself to everyone in sight. I hardly noticed when the gun sounded for the 5K runners, when our group started walking, or details about the course, because I was listening to stories about why people were there and how breast cancer touched their lives.

  The race route ended where we began, and we returned to the field in front of the stage for the presentation of medals to top finishers. I had no further duties, so I stayed in the crowd and applauded.

  George touched my arm to get my attention. “I wanted to say good bye.”

  “There was something I wanted to ask you about, George. The other day you said something about drivers’ personalities, how they can be different behind the wheel. That some will always be jerks. Who were you thinking of when you said that?”

  “No one I’d consider a jerk. But you know, some drivers are really aggressive in the car, but not on foot. I figure, no matter how nice they are out of the car, they’re going to be strong-willed. Maybe have a temper. There’s a personality trait that will be the same, even when people act differently in the two situations. It’s not a well-formed theory, sorry.”

  “Why didn’t you think Ellie would keep driving? And how did you know Felix Simon and Zeke Andrews would end up in broadcasting?”

  “I didn’t think Ellie had the fire inside. Felix and Zeke?” He grinned. “They’re hams. Always loved the spotlight.”

  “But not Scott Brooklyn?”

  “There’s something more private about him. I didn’t peg him to be able to stand being around racing if he wasn’t behind the wheel. I always thought he wanted it more than a lot of drivers, but he didn’t know how to connect for it. But he’s good on-camera.”

  “That’s an interesting perspective.” I paused. “What about me?”

  “Too soon to tell.”

  I laughed and shook his hand. “Good answer. I can’t think about the end of my racing career yet. Thanks again for coming this morning. It’s really great of you to support the organization.”

  “Anything you support, I’ll support. I’ll see you at the dinner tonight.”

  He left as the crowd applauded the final winner. Two minutes later, the perky emcee closed by exhorting us to support our sponsors at their booths.

  I snapped a phone photo of the stage and tweeted it:

  “@katereilly28: Great turnout for Beauté and BCRF 5K downt
own ATL. Thanks to all participants and supporters. Keep working on a cure! [pic]”

  Stuart checked his watch. “I have to head back to cover some of tonight’s details.”

  “Thanks for coming, Stuart.” I paused, looked him in the eye. “I’m looking forward to more time to talk.”

  He nodded, but I couldn’t read anything in his expression. He said goodbye to the others and set out across the park.

  Holly, Tom, and I agreed to do a quick walk around the tents before we left. Near the BCRF tent, we ran into Juliana and a cameraman. Tom wandered off to a nutritional supplements table while Holly, Jules, and I compared notes on what we planned to wear to the banquet—I’d be in blue, Holly in black, and Jules in red for her role up on stage.

  “I hope you insisted on a speaking role,” Holly said. “Not the silent trophy girl.”

  Juliana laughed. “You better believe it.”

  “Jules,” I lowered my voice. “Is everything good with you and Scott? Is he OK?”

  She nodded. “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw the argument you had in the pits yesterday, plus he’s seemed frustrated recently. He could benefit from Felix’s death if a spot on the broadcast team opens up next year.”

  Juliana looked annoyed, and I spoke again quickly. “I’m worried for both of us. I just found you again. I don’t want to lose you also. I’m messing this up.”

  “How can I get mad at you for being concerned for me? Trust me, I’m watching out for myself.” She put a hand on my shoulder and looked to Holly. “I’ll see you later this evening? Looking fabulous?”

  “Sugar,” Holly drawled, “you can count on it.”

  Jules wiggled her fingers at us and took off.

  I looked at Holly. “She didn’t say anything about Scott.”

  “She sure didn’t.”