Authors: Tammy Kaehler
I got to the track at six-thirty Friday morning to prepare for our first practice session: two hours starting at seven forty-five. Before that, Mike, Bruce, Jack, and I gathered around a table in the hospitality area of our paddock setup, huddled into fleece jackets against the morning fog.
We talked through the changes we'd seen in the track the day before, what basic setup had been applied to the car, and what we'd particularly watch for and try to improve on during the morning runs. If the car was handling well, Mike and I would split the two-hour session evenly. If the car needed more work, Mike would stay in longer. As the meeting ended, I ordered Mike to make the car perfect for me and went to change into my firesuit.
One of the crew sat in the Corvette for the tow over to the pits. Mike and I caught a ride on the back of a small flatbed cart carrying bottles of fuel and a car's worth of crew.
I picked up a radio headset and settled myself on the pit box next to Bruce, ready to watch Mike go to work. Activity and anticipation slowly picked up as we neared the magic minute, and when the clock turned over to forty-five minutes past the hour, the word came down from race control: “The track is green. Track is green.”
Engines fired, and we were off. Twenty minutes in, I found myself grinning listening to Mike complain about the car's handling down into the “the bitching Turn 9,” as he referred to it. I hadn't had this much fun in days. I was so glad to be back racingâdoing what I knew I was good atâI could hardly contain myself.
As he got out of the car after his stint, Mike stuck his helmeted head next to mine and yelled. “I'll get on the radio. Track's slippery, but the car's pretty good.”
I gave him a thumbs-up, tucked my seat insert into the Corvette, and climbed in. I felt giddy. For at least the next forty-five minutes, no one would have expectations of me I couldn't meet. I wiggled my butt in the seat the fraction of an inch allowed by my belts.
“Radio check,” came Bruce's voice.
Time to focus.
I pressed the radio button. “Copy.”
“You settled?”
“Ready to go.”
“Crew's done, she's all yours.”
“Copy that.” I pressed the ignition button. A lone crew member checked pit lane and waved me on. I dropped the car into gear and pulled away without drama.
Yesssss!
The car felt great. Like a big, warm, rumbling cocoon around me. Like home. I took three deep breaths as I puttered down pit lane at the required 37.5 mph and relaxed my shoulders. I focused ahead. Smiled.
Past the end of pit lane. Push the button to turn the limiter off. Throttle, shift to second.
“Clear on track.” Bruce meant no one was coming my way down the straight.
I moved left, turning directly into Turn 1. Throttle, shift to third. Then braking, downshift to second for the minor left-hander of Turn 2. Arcing around Turn 3, the dolphin fountain in front of the Long Beach Aquarium. Seeing the purple and white petunias planted in a checkerboard pattern around the fountain's base. Third gear out of that turn. Braking, back to second for the ninety-degree Turn 4. Using the curb at the apex, moving carefully, feeling the lack of grip Mike warned me about.
Throttle. Shift to third. Pointed to Turn 5.
Remember the off-camber exit, more room, careful on the curb.
“Bunch of cars coming up on you, then another gap after,” Mike told me.
I went through Turn 5, came out of the exit wide left, and stayed off the throttle, letting six cars sweep by. I picked up the pace again through Turn 6. Third gear, slight rise, throttle, watching flag stands for the blue flag that would indicate more faster traffic approaching.
Out of Turn 6, moving from the right edge of the track to the left, over the crest in the track. Now downhill, looking at Turn 8. Fourth gear, wait for it. Looking at the apex. Brake. Downshift to third. Turning right, on the brake, feeling the car rotate. Track out, wall approaching. Wall approaching. Feeding throttle on. Not seeing how close the wall is because I'm focused down the track. Full throttle now. Up to fourth. Engine spooling up. Fifth gear. Sixth gear right before the braking zone. Back down to third, grinning under my helmet at Mike's “bitching turn.”
Through 9, directly into 10, the now-empty SCC paddock on my left. Staying tight to the curbs of 10, second gear. Out of 10, as far left on the track as I can go without scraping the wall. Down to first gear. Steering full right, wondering again if the car will fit through the famous hairpin, Turn 11, a tight, 180-degree corner marking the start of the long front straight.
Unwinding as quickly as possible, power down cautiously to ensure grip. Flying down the front straight, flat through the middle banking, climbing up through the gears. Freedom.
Then around again, my warmup lap over. Push myself for speed, grip, and time.
The session was over before I knew it, and following Bruce's instructions, I went past the checkered flag on the front straight. I continued around the track at reduced speed and, between Turns 9 and 10, turned directly into the paddock. I pulled carefully into the 28 car's assigned space and quieted the engine. A couple of the crew had hotfooted it over from pits to paddock to help me get out. The rest of the team trickled back slowly, towing tire racks and fuel bottles.
Jack strolled in as Mike, Bruce, and I chatted next to the car while I tried to cool down. As usual after a stint, I'd sweated through every layer I wore. Even though we had in-helmet and in-cabin air conditioning, we could still feel the difference between a hot, sunny day and an overcast, cool one. Left alone, the interior of a closed-cockpit racecar ran thirty degrees warmer than ambient. The AC could only do so much when we worked so hard every minute. We still got plenty warm.
Jack faced us with his usual wide stance and crossed his arms over his chest. “How'd it feel? Going to be good for qualifying?”
Mike and I glanced at each other, and Mike spoke. “Pretty good.” I nodded and resettled a cold towel around my neck.
“I sure hope so,” Jack replied. “Given that's all you get before qualifying. Stupid, short schedule.”
There was a lot of on-track activity to fit into three days here in Long Beach, and only the marquee event, IndyCar, got what anyone would consider a normal amount of practice time. However, every sponsor and manufacturer wanted us here in the great consumer mecca of Southern California, so we griped about it, but we played the game.
“Who's qualifying?” Jack asked.
Mike raised his hand. “She's got enough to do.”
I checked the time on my phone. “Speaking of which. We good here? Anything I owe you for the next couple hours?”
They assured me they'd call if they needed me, and I headed into the trailer to dry myself off and climb back into street clothes. Holly was waiting for me when I emerged, helmet and second firesuit in my hands.
“Morning, Sleepyhead,” I greeted her.
She gave me a warning look. “I've been awake and dealing with a media deluge.”
I flopped down in a chair with a groan. “Don't tell me, I'm having an alien's illegitimate love child. I'm really a man, and Lucas is having a secret homosexual affair. I'm having a psychic channel the late Dale Earnhardt to help me drive better.”
“You want to know or you want to make stories up? I can sit here all day.”
I took a deep breath. “Tell me.”
“You're driving SCC and Indy Lights, and you're coaching Maddie. That's it.”
“What a relief.”
“I've got it sorted out. We'll stop by the media center on our way to or from Maddie, and you can talk to the important people.”
“Thanks.” My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I smiled at the message. “Maddie is here and either freaking out or excited out of her mind, she's not sure which.”
“That your next stop?”
“After dropping my gear off at the Lights team.”
Holly stood up and settled her sunglasses on her face. “Let's saddle up and head out. I'm ready for my Hollywood close-up.”
Maddie was fretting by the time we made it into the Celebrity Race paddock. “Thank
God
you're here.” She threw her arms around me.
As I hugged her, I felt her shaking, and I glanced at Penny, a question in my eyes.
Penny mouthed, “She's fine.”
Maddie pulled back and looked straight into my eyes. “Get me out of this. I can't do it.”
I bit back a laugh. “Maddie, this is my best friend and manager, Holly Wilson.”
Holly knew exactly what to do. “Maddie, I'm so glad to meet you. I'm a big fan of your work on screen, and I'm excited to see you on track. Kate's told me you're a natural. Are you excited about getting out there today?”
Maddie detached herself from me to shake Holly's hand and froze, staring at Holly wide-eyed. “Really?” She turned to me. “No lie?”
I took Maddie's hands in mine. “Close your eyes.” I made her take three deep breaths. “Listen to me and believe me. You've got this. You picked up the basics fast, and you have good instincts. Don't get so over-excited or worried you can't think. Focus on what you were taught. Think about the next turn, going full throttle, hitting your braking point. You'll hold the wheel straight while braking, then turn, hitting your apex. Track the wheel out of the turn, and throttle back on. One thing at a time, one turn at a time. Channel your energy into that concentration on what's in front of you.” I paused. “Open your eyes now.”
She did so with another deep breath. I could still see nerves shimmering around her, but she seemed less frantic. “Okay.” Another breath. “Now I can do this.”
“No backing out?” I tested.
“If you tell me I got this, I believe I've got this.”
“Go out and focus on you and your car. Don't worry about how anyone else is doing. Do your best.” I glanced across the enclosure and lowered my voice. “And maybe kick a little soap opera behind.”
Maddie chuckled. One of the other competitors was a rising, but still minor, soap opera star, as well as the biggest ego in the celebrity group. He'd talked endlessly about attending driving school and doing his own stunt work, though we never figured out what driving stunts he'd need to do for a soap. He strained even Maddie's patience, as nice as she was, and her goal throughout training had been to be faster than him. She squared her shoulders. “Take that to the bank, sister.”
Celebrity drivers were called to their cars, and Maggie panicked for a second. Then she relaxed, smiled, and moved off.
Holly and I followed the forty-five minute practice session from the top of pit lane where we could see cars exit the hairpin and start down the front straight. More important, we could also see one of the track's giant video screens, which followed action all the way around the track and ran a crawl of average lap speed for each driver. The six drivers considered professionalâpast racing champions, current drivers in other forms of racing, and the prior year's celebrity winnerâoccupied the top spots, as expected, followed by the twelve celebrities. Maddie ran about tenth overall, fourth in the celebrity category, which I could tell surprised a lot of people. It satisfied me to no end, especially when she kept herself out of trouble, even as a driver right in front of her speared into a tire wall.
I checked the time. Getting in the Indy Lights car was next. “Holly, I don't think Iâ¦can you tell Maddie she did great? Tell her I swear I'll get to her before she pulls out to qualify, even if I have to cut my practice session short. I wishâI justâ”
“Slow down. Take a breath. Take your own medicine, Kate.” When she saw me calm down, she answered me. “I'll take care of Maddie. You need to do two things.”
She fished in her small backpack and pulled out a protein bar. “First, eat this. You aren't going to get lunch. Second, do the same thing you told Maddie. Focus on the next thing only. Don't freak out, don't second-guess yourself. Focus on what's in front of you. Don't let the doubting voices in.”
“I didn't say that to her.”
“That's my addition for you.” She slapped the protein bar in my hand. “Go, eat, focus.”
I walked and chewed, thinking over Holly's words.
Don't think about this as the start of everything. Don't think about other people watching, evaluating, or criticizing. Don't worry about what anyone else is doing. Get in and focus on yourself and the car. Do your best.
I hoped I'd listen as well as Maddie had. I paused outside the sports arena, taking one last deep breath before going inside to find the Beermeier Indy Lights team.
Half an hour later I stood in pit lane, fastening my helmet strap. I'd talked through setup and approach to the session with Tristan Rhys, the race engineer who'd be on the radio with me. Alexa had also shown up to make sure I felt settled in the car and with the team.
She cautioned me about feeling I had something to prove. “You don't. The point today is for you to get more comfortable in an open-wheel car to help your future. It's not about winning this race.” She'd flashed a smile. “Not that we don't want you to do everything you can. But we'd rather you take the checkered flag in last place than run first but crash out on lap ten.”
I wasn't thinking yet about finishing the race, starting the race, or even qualifying. I was thinking about the initial lap of the practice session ahead of me. I knew from the seat of the Indy Lights car, the Corvette I was used to would seem slow and lumbering, and I tried to prepare myself for the initial shock of the first couple laps.
I was accustomed to piloting a heavy, front-engine, normal-height, almost-production car with a roof. In it, I sat up straight and made use of plenty of technology, including a rear-facing camera that highlighted the speed and direction of approaching cars. Since we drove in multi-class competition, part of racing meant playing a chess game with the other cars on track, using them as picks for passing or as blocks to keep from being passed. With multiple manufacturers in every class, strategy was key, and we focused on how our Corvette used tires and fuel that was better or worse than how the BMWs, Porsches, or Ferraris used them.
They were both racecars, but the Corvette and the Indy Lights car could hardly have been more different. Like its bigger brother, the IndyCar, the Lights machine was open-wheel and open-cockpit, meaning no roof. I'd drive a spec package: the same chassis, engine, and tire package as every other competitor, with all cars built to the same formula and a known, proven window of peak performance. Differences between cars were entirely due to teams' setup and tuning tweaks and driver skill.
I put on my gloves and climbed over the wall from the Beermeier Racing pit box to pit lane, eyeing the car. I climbed in, squeezing my hips into the almost-too-narrow seat, and helped Pickle, the crew member, get my belts fastened. Compared to the sitting-in-a-chair position of the Corvette, the Lights car was like sitting on the floor. The foot box was narrow, and the pedals were close together, but at least I didn't have to move my legs or feet around much. Brake with my left foot, throttle with a flex of my right ankle. Once again, I was lucky to be short with small feet.
Pickle patted the top of my helmet and gave me a thumbs-up, which I returned. He grinned and climbed back into the pit box.
Tristan in my ear. “Radio check, Kate.”
My heart jumped into my throat, and a roaring filled my ears.
Knock that shit off! Do not screw this up.
I pushed the button. “Copy, Boss.”
I heard engines firing up and down pit lane as he replied. “Session is now green. Let's get you started, nice and easy.”
I shut down the scared, nervous part of my brain. No more time for that.
I was ready. I pushed the starter button, and a crew member waved me out. I took a breath, shifted into gear, and pressed the throttle.
I stalled it.
The most rookie of rookie moves, and I'd done it. On a big stage. I felt my face flame, even under my helmet and balaclava. I was mortified, but had no time to dwell on it. I started the car again.
I stalled again.