Braking Points (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-nine

Though Mike and Leon assured me no one would mete out vigilante justice, Jack was unconvinced and made a point of notifying the Series. The rest of us prepared for the next practice session, hoping the Corvette was still fast.

The first step was driver-change practice, which we did in the pits while the Star Mazda series qualified on track. Lars and I strapped into our respective cars, and the other drivers waited behind pit wall with the crew, who wouldn't practice fueling and tire-changing with us this time.

At the wave of a red shop rag, two drivers and a crew member leapt into action at each car. Inside, I removed the steering wheel and hung it on the ceiling hook. I also twisted the lever to release my seatbelts and flipped the two lap belts over the left and right edges of the seat so the next person wouldn't sit on them. I hadn't tightened the shoulder belts—I would have loosened them as I rolled down pit lane for a stop—and they retracted toward the ceiling on their bungee cords, out of the next driver's way.

Bubs, the crew member who acted as our driver change assistant, had the door open and the window net down in the seconds it took me to remove the belts and wheel, and I pointed my helmet toward the opening, twisting my shoulders so I faced the sky. I reached up, grabbed the car's tube frame above the window opening, and pulled myself through it, pausing with my torso out and butt on the frame rails protecting the cockpit. I pulled my left leg out and stood on it, hopping backward and pulling my right leg out. I dipped back in for my seat insert. As soon as I got out of the way, Leon dashed in with his insert and Bubs helped him get belted and fastened.

Behind our 28 car, Lars and Paolo went through the same drill. They slammed their door closed a fraction of a second before Bubs shut the door on Leon.

Jack looked at his stopwatch. “Could be worse. Next set.”

I heard crew chiefs behind me radio drivers to unhook their helmet's air conditioning hose, drink tube, and radio cable and loosen their belts—tasks they'd perform on the way to the pit stall.

“Go!” Jack said the word and a crew member waved the red “flag.” Seth and Mike jumped over the pit wall with the crew. Another short break, and it was my turn to get back in as Mike got out.

Once there, I heard Bruce over the radio. “Kate, five minutes to the start of practice. Time on the change was good. Stay there, since you're out first. You set?”

“Copy that, Bruce.” I spent the time resolutely pushing the thought of other drivers gunning for me out of my mind. I focused on the car and the track, envisioning its turns, one after the other.

I roared out of the pits and discovered the car was every bit as good as it had been yesterday. I quelled my bubbling spirits with the thought that track conditions had been similar in every session. The real test would be how setup and tire compounds reacted to cooler temps during night practice later. And possible rain.

Still, I had a fantastic twenty minutes on the track, finding a rhythm and getting comfortable with the flow of the turns and straights. I remembered where on track I liked to pass, how to vary my entry and exit of corners, and where to watch for my own mistakes. My share of practice flew by.

Coming down the back straight on my last lap, I unplugged my air and drink tubes. Left-right through Turns 10a and 10b, and then slow, hugging the right line up the hill into Turn
11
, making it clear to other cars on track I was pitting. Just over the crest of the hill, I pulled into pit lane, braking hard and downshifting as I wound down the slope.

I turned right at the bottom and hit the speed limiter button as I crossed the commit line. Loosened my belts and unplugged the radio cable, the car making angry, flatulent sounds as the limiter shut down cylinders in the car's V-8, restricting me to thirty-seven and a half miles per hour. I veered into our pit stall, pushed the button to turn the car's engine off, and stopped.

I was out well before the fueling was done—though for this stop, the crew only pretended to fuel the car for twenty-five seconds. Another signal and two tire-changers on each side of the car lunged forward, wielding air guns on the first wheel nuts as the air jacks lifted the car up. Bubs slammed the door shut and was over the wall as the tire-changers moved to their second wheel. Hands in the air from the driver's side crew. Hands in the air from the other side. The air hose yanked from the air-jack plug, Leon starting the engine even as it bounced down on four wheels. The crew member who'd held up a hand indicating “stop” waved the driver on. I imagined Bruce on the radio shouting “Go, go, go!”

Then Leon stalled it.

I pulled my helmet and HANS off with Aunt Tee's help. “Oops,” I said to Jack.

“He'll learn the lesson this way. You did.”

Leon stalled because I'd deliberately left the car in fourth gear at Jack's request. My job exiting the car was to leave it in first gear—the gear required for the speed limiter. His job entering was to check the gear, so he didn't lose precious seconds stalling or speed out of pit lane. A year ago, I'd learned my lesson, starting and stalling three times before noticing gear selection. I'd never forgotten again.

I apologized to Leon later, as we stood in the garage watching the crew inspect our suspension. He grinned and shook his head. “Like you, I'll no' forget again.”

Holly walked up, looking like a five-foot-tall movie star with big, black sunglasses and red lipstick. “How's the car?”

“Good.” I winked at Leon.

Holly studied our faces. “That's it?”

We smiled at her.

“Glad you got some good news, because the Ringer's at it again. He's calling you a sponsorship-whore.”

“Where did that come from?”

Holly took off her sunglasses as she and I moved to the motorhome side of the setup. “You spoke to a group and said you'd hawk anything a sponsor threw at you.”

“It's not what I said, but it was here, to guests in the paddock.”

“Someone tipped off the Ringer. Who'd you see?”

I sat down in a plastic chair. “No one I recognized. Kreisel VIPs, guests. Regular paddock people. Mike. I think the Michelin Man walked by.”

“Could be him. Bib is a sneaky guy.”

I nodded. “You know Colby Lascuola? I met her today.”

“Girl in World Challenge? Brother racing in Europe but here this weekend?”

“That's her. Get this, she was up for the Beauté sponsorship.” I nodded at her surprised expression. “She said she wasn't upset. She's also one of the drivers Jack said he'd hire if I wasn't here.” I related other names he'd mentioned.

“World Challenge ran with the ALMS in Wisconsin, so she could have been in Siebkens. Was she smarmy, aggressive?”

“I liked her, but her brother gave me a hard look.”

“Dreamy Dominic?”

I laughed. “I should find out if they were at Road America and the Tavern that night, since they were in Atlanta on Saturday.”

“I'll ask around.”

“You have a minute?” I updated her on who'd been in which locations.

She tapped her finger against her cheek. “In both places we have me, Stuart, Juliana, Tom, Felix, Scott, Zeke and Rosalie, and a couple dozen Series and team crew.”

“Plus George Ryan, super-fan guy.”

“Swimming in motive in Wisconsin, but the people also in Atlanta? Not so much. The only one with any motive so far in both places is Felix.”

“I'm sure there are more people—and motives. I'll keep on it.”

We were silent a moment, then I spoke again. “Colby has a management company. Should I have one?”

“What would it get you? You've got a job and a great sponsor.”

“About that.” I looked around before whispering. “Do you think Jack will hire me back next year?”

“He'd be a fool not to, why?”

“Juliana heard a rumor he wouldn't.”

“I don't see it—and I haven't heard anything. I think you're safe.” Knowing her sources, I almost believed her.

Holly had been gone only two minutes when Zeke appeared, Rosalie following him, looking tense. But she smiled when she saw me, throwing her arms open for a hug. Zeke and I took care of a quick interview for SPEED's daily report, then we all sat down.

“I can't believe it's been so long,” I said to Rosalie. “What have you been doing?”

“Still freelance public relations work for the racing world. Teams, mostly, a couple drivers here and there. Working from home. Playing with the dogs.” She and Zeke had two Corgis they treated like children.

Zeke put his hand over hers. “Word of mouth brings her new clients all the time, because she's so good.”

“Been doing it a lot of years now.” She gave a wan smile. I thought she looked more tired than I'd ever seen her. She still didn't look her age, which was nine years more than Zeke and twenty more than me, because her Italian background had gifted her with nearly unlined olive skin and shiny, thick black hair. But she didn't look healthy.

“Are you doing well otherwise?” I asked.

She nodded. “I'm fine. And how about you this weekend? I'm sorry it's been a rough time for you.”

“Car's good, everything else is crazy. I could go on, but that's the bottom line. Zeke, what do you know about Scott Brooklyn?”

“We've known him for ages, but not well.” He glanced at Rosalie, and when she shrugged, he went on. “I worked with him a few times at SPEED when he did pit work. He's still racing when he can. Quiet, smart, thorough. Good guy. Why?”

“Curious. Juliana's seeing him, plus I've got an interview with him in a few minutes. He's still pretty young, right? Why isn't he racing more?”

Zeke scratched his head with the end of his pen. “Early thirties? Good enough driver, but never scored a big-deal drive. He's almost too nice to make it in racing—no killer instinct for making deals. Decent talent on the mic. Speaking of talent, you're staying out of Felix's way?”

“Sure, but rumor is he's trying to get everyone to run me off the track.”

Zeke flushed bright red, his eyes furious. “That's enough. He makes every journalist in the business look bad, and has no call to threaten you. I'll get to the bottom of this.” He left abruptly, Rosalie following after a quick hug for me.

I wondered what I'd unleashed on Felix.

 

Chapter Thirty

The interview with Scott Brooklyn went smoothly, and I thought I'd tell Juliana I liked her choice in companions. However, the sight of her in the paddock lane a few minutes later drove the thought from my mind. Juliana looked disheveled. Unsteady. I jogged toward her, shocked to see grass and dirt stains on both knees of her khaki pants. I got closer and saw blood on her hands.

“Jules, are you all right?”

She looked up from her examination of her broken purse strap, her eyes wide, shocked. “There you are.” She looked at her purse again, then back to me. “Can you believe, they broke my purse?”

“What happened to you?” I took her arm and led her to the Sandham Swift paddock.

“Car came at me in the lot up the hill.”

“What?”

She nodded. “Big, dark car. Didn't see it. But suddenly it was on top of me. I jumped. Fell. Broke my purse.”

She seemed jittery, and I sat her down in our hospitality area. “Hang on.” I dashed into the motorhome and returned with Aunt Tee and a first aid kit. I took Juliana's purse from her and set it aside, while Aunt Tee went to work cleaning Jules' hands and knees. The blood was mostly from a cut on the outside of her wrist. Otherwise, her hands and knees were dirty, she had a tear in one knee of her khakis corresponding to scraped skin, and her shins looked to be bruised.

I went back inside at Aunt Tee's direction for a glass of sweet tea, my mind racing at the implications of an attack on Juliana.
Who would be after me
and
her? Why?

Juliana drank down the tea and seemed less shaky. I looked her in the eye. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Better now, and no permanent damage. Thanks to both of you for the care.”

Aunt Tee collected her supplies. “You sit here until you feel all right. I'll bring more tea and some cookies in a minute.” She disappeared into the motorhome.

I looked at Jules again. “I don't know how or why, but this has to be connected to the person who tried to run me down. We should tell the police.”

“I suppose.” She frowned. “But they won't be able to do anything. It's been half an hour now. Even if the car's still at the track, we'd be looking for one of a hundred thousand cars here.”

“At least tell track security, and maybe they can relay the information to the police?”

She nodded and got to her feet, steady this time. In command, but frowning down at the stains on her knees. “I have to get to the media center, because the show must go on. Thank goodness I have a change of clothes there. But I promise I'll talk to security right away. Thank you for this.” She hugged me, then pulled back. “Oh, I spoke with Felix.”

“And?”

“It's so dumb. He doesn't think females should be racecar drivers. ‘Girls don't have the temperament for it,' he said. He won't let up on you because he doesn't think he's treating you any different than the men. He gave me a song and dance about handling all of our subjects fairly—as if I need a lecture on journalism from him.”

“I can't believe you didn't kick his butt six ways to Sunday.”

She laughed. “It took some restraint—but at least I could vent to Scott, since he understands. Mark my words, Kate, I won't be stuck with Felix forever. I'll beat that chauvinist to the top.”

“I look forward to that. So there's nothing I can do about him?”

“Tough it out. Avoid him as much as possible and do all your interviews with me. I'll explain to the bosses there's a conflict and see what we can do.”

“I wish it was something I could fix. But at least we tried. Thanks.”

She pointed her forefinger at me. “Drive smart, Kate.”

“Drive smart, Jules,” I said, returning the gesture and repeating the girls-only mantra, blessing, pep-talk, and cheer we used when we raced together. With Ellie. I felt a tug in my chest at the memory as we parted.

“@katereilly28: A ‘Drive Smart' shout-out to memories shared by Jules and Ellie. Miss you, E.”

I suited up by 6:30, half an hour before night practice, and sat in in the motorhome listening to Seth, Tom, and Mike talk about wine.

I turned to Seth. “How do you deal with the people who do nothing but get in your way?”

“In the business world, you mean?” At my nod, he went on. “I know I'm good at what I do, and I give my work my full attention. Beyond that, I ignore the haters. There will always be haters. Don't let them shake you.”

His words made me realize what a blow my confidence had taken the last two weeks. I'd had positive messages streaming at me from all angles—my new sponsorship deal, personal support from Beauté's CEO, fans eager to interact with me, my teammates rallying beside me—but I'd been caught up in the negative.
From now on, to hell with anyone trying to bring me down.

Jack and the others arrived for the meeting, and I asked for a minute first. “I wanted to thank you all for your support and tell you I'm through worrying and cowering and feeling like my life is out of control. I'm here to drive, and if jerks out there don't know that's my goal, I can't help them.”

Everyone applauded, and Jack spoke. “About time. Now, let's focus on racing.”

We left the motorhome for the pits and I realized I was happier than I'd been in days.
What did
they say? You can't change how others behave, only how you react.
Finally, I'd taken control of my emotions. I looked at the stars appearing in the twilight, saw lights in pit boxes making tented awnings glow, and felt centered again.

“@katereilly28: I wear lipstick, can shoot a gun, and kick ass on track. If you have a problem with me, have the guts to say it to my face. I'm over it.”

We had two hours of practice ahead of us, during which each driver had to put in at least three laps as a prerequisite to driving in the race, which would end in the dark. At seven o'clock there was still enough daylight to identify specific cars behind the glare of their white (prototypes) or yellow (GTs) headlights. But when you raced in the dark, on a track like Road Atlanta that wasn't fully illuminated, you operated with a lot less information about the cars around you than you did during daylight hours.

On the other hand, cool air and pavement made the car faster, and less external stimulus made a driver's focus more complete. Stints last year at Petit and this year at Sebring gave me my first taste of night racing, and I'd enjoyed the quiet bubble of the car. More than once Bruce startled me, calling me in to the pits after an hour's run that seemed only ten minutes long.

Mike put in twenty-five minutes, and then Leon strapped in, getting comfortable quickly and inching closer to Mike's times as he clicked off laps. Jack left Leon in there for forty minutes, with one stop midway through for Leon to get out and resettle his seat insert, which was hitting a pressure point and making his left leg go numb. Drivers were strapped down and subject to so many forces that the slightest discomfort could quickly morph into something much worse. Seat position was a tricky thing.

Finally, it was my turn in the car. I took my time getting in as the over-the-wall crew added some fuel and looked over my tires. They also raised the engine cover and gathered around the engine, tools in hand. Jack had prepped me for this.

“We're going to take a look. Wave tools around, look concerned. Think of it as misdirection.” He'd winked.

The car was still a rocket, I'd translated.

The clustered crew members dispersed, latching the hood. I got a thumbs-up from Bubs and a radioed command from Bruce. “All yours, Kate. Fire 'er on up.”

My laps passed in the blink of an eye. The Corvette felt as solid and fast as I'd ever experienced, and I got out of the car excited about our chances in the race. Then I calmed myself. A thousand miles was a long distance, and anything could and would happen—from weather to breakage to accidents. But on speed alone, we had a contender.

Near nine o'clock, at the end of practice, pit lane operated at half its typical activity and energy levels. I climbed back over the wall, unstrapping my helmet, taking deep breaths, and feeling my heart rate slow from the typical 150 beats per minute I experienced on-track. Helmet and balaclava off. Wet towel from Aunt Tee on my sopping-wet head. I rubbed the towel over my face and used it to push back my hair. Then I gulped down a bottle of water. My firesuit and undergarments were soaked through, as usual.

Jack climbed down from his perch at the control center. “Looked good, Kate. We'll talk back at the motorhome in five.”

All six drivers filed out of the pits, me bringing up the rear. When I stepped into the paddock lane, I nearly collided with Felix. Predictably, he snarled at me. My head was full of the performance of our car, and I was in no mood to waste time or energy on whatever bile he offered.

I spoke before he could. “How about you stay out of my way?”

If looks could kill, I'd have been bleeding on the ground. He leaned close, his minty breath belying the hateful words spilling from his mouth. “Now you're looking for special treatment? You think you're God's gift to racing
and
God's gift to beauty—I'm not helping you shove that down anyone's throat.”

I didn't speak, but made a big show of looking around and behind both of us. Team members and drivers passed us as they left the pits. Fans watched the action.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Looking for the camera or microphone. Isn't that your trick?”

“Listen, you bitch—”

“Listen to
me
, you misogynistic piece of garbage, before you say something I'll make you regret. I don't care if you think women don't belong on the track—it's time to get over whatever hang-up you have. Welcome to the twenty-first century. I'm a racecar driver, and you can't stop me.”

Felix's face went white, then flushed red. He shook a finger under my nose, his Kreisel watch flopping around with the motion. “None of you females belong in racing. Not your friends—stupid idea, calling them ‘pit princesses.' That won't work now.” His short laugh twisted his face into something even uglier. “None of you belong. Especially not you. Think you're better than the others—”

I drowned him out, shouting, “I don't care. I don't want special treatment. You won't believe it. So we're done. I don't care what you think. Just stay away from me.”

By the time I reached the motorhome, I was cheerful, happy with the pace of the Corvette, and glad to have finally stood up for myself.

Plenty of drivers are hated. If that's my destiny, so be it
. I whistled a few bars of “I Will Survive.”