Red Flags (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

I'd made a trip to the Beermeier Racing shop in Indianapolis a month prior to make a seat—a two-day process that involved me sitting in the car for two hours while a vacuum pump helped chemicals and foam beads cure to my shape—as well as to fit belts and make pedal adjustments. But it still took some doing at the track to get me strapped down and comfortable, get a refresher on the buttons and knobs I had in the cockpit, and be sure the radios worked. I'd have Xavier, one of the team's race engineers, talking to me from the pit box and Alexa in my ear from the spotter's stand, high atop the main grandstand with a sweeping view of the full oval. She wasn't typically a spotter, but for this situation, where I needed as much driver-coaching as help staying out of traffic, she'd pull double-duty. Mick would do the same for Matt King.

Finally, I sat there in the unfamiliar position—slightly reclined, legs horizontal out in front of me—so different from my seat in the Corvette. I was belted and nervous, waiting for my turn to do a single out-and-in lap to check the car's systems, called an install lap. Each driver was sent out separately, to ensure clear track around us.

I heard Xavier's voice in my ear. “Almost time, Kate. You doing okay? Not too hot?”

I was sweating, but it wasn't due to ambient temperature. I pressed the radio button. “Temperature is okay. I'm fine, thanks.”

Like each rookie at the day's test session, my goal was to prove I could drive the car. Throughout the day, I'd demonstrate working up to acceptable speed, running appropriate lines, and maintaining smooth car control. I'd start with the single-lap install check, then run laps with no one else near me on track. Eventually, I'd work up to running in traffic.

“Nervous, Kate?” That was Alexa.

“Waiting's the hard part.” I hoped no one could see my knees shake.

“Remember, this lap is only to check basic functions. Use the warmup lane through Turn 2, move onto the back straight to click up through the gears, then down to the warmup lane again through 3 and 4, and back into the pits.”

“Copy that.” My heartbeat kicked up another level as two other cars drove down pit lane.

Xavier leaned over the pit wall as he spoke on the radio. “You're up, Kate. Ready?”

“Copy.” I gave him a thumbs-up.

“Flip the ignition switch.” As I complied, he twirled a finger in the air for the crew. “Let's fire her up.”

I felt a tug on the back of the car as a crew member connected a rod to the engine and turned it over. The car rumbled around me. In me. My heartbeat, my breathing, my thoughts all fired in time to the rhythm of the car.

“When you're ready, Kate,” Xavier told me. “Remember, cold tires mean wheel spin.”

I nodded at him. Looked at my hands on the wheel. One breath in, one breath out.
You've driven an oval before, even if it was five years ago and a less powerful car. It will be familiar. Trust the car and the team. Trust yourself. Breathe, and go.

I squeezed the clutch paddle behind the steering wheel with my left hand and flexed my right foot for throttle. I clicked the right-side paddle for first gear. Released the clutch and kept my foot in it. The tires spun, unnerving me. The car started to move. My heart leapt into my throat.
This was it. My first step to the Indy 500.

I had no more time for thought, only instinct and reaction. I kept the car straight while the tires found grip, then watched for the pit lane exit line, the marker where I could release the speed limiter. Mostly I tried to ignore the warning messages from my nervous system about how broken the car felt on the flat ground, when it was set up for banking.

Oval tracks had multiple lanes or lines: a low one against the inside edge of the track and a high one next to the outer track wall. Fontana was wide enough for four lanes, lane one down low and lane four high. Each would be faster for different car setups, at different times of day, over different temperatures. Inside of lane one, a flat apron served as a warmup lane so drivers could merge onto the track's banking on a straight, instead of in the middle of a turn.

As I exited Turn 2 in the warmup lane, Alexa radioed, “Clear racetrack, it's all yours.”

I gave the car more throttle, clicked the paddle to shift to third gear, and moved up the track. More throttle, shift to fourth, fifth, and sixth on the straight, checking out each gear. Trying to get a feel for the car.

As a driver, I actively listened to the health of my racecar with my entire body. I was attuned to the feel of balanced suspension and a happy engine—in a Corvette C7.R set up for right and left turns. This IndyCar chassis might have a Chevrolet engine, but that was the only similarity. The car felt bent—less so on the banking than on the flat. But still broken.

My conscious mind warred with my instincts.
It's bent! Get them to fix it.

“That's what it's supposed to feel like.” I muttered inside my helmet.
Bent! Turning left. Something's wrong!
“Get used to it.”

Alexa spoke again. “Good job, Kate. Now slow down. Get back to the warmup lane, then the pits.”

As I rounded Turn 4, the car feeling awful again on the flat, Xavier radioed. “Hit your limiter on the mark and remember where we are, midway down. There's Bill waving.”

I saw a mechanic standing out in the lane, sweeping an arm to signal me for my pit location. Xavier talked me in, and I pressed the button for neutral as I braked and parked the car.

“Did the car feel good? Any issues?” Xavier asked as two crew members hopped the wall and checked out the car.

Is he kidding? It felt awful.
I took a deep breath. “Fine so far.”

“Great, we'll take a minute to check you both out. Then you'll go out again for real laps.” All rookies would be on the track at the same time for those, but we'd be kept apart, to give us experience with open-track running.

“Copy, thanks.”

I'd been nervous in the few minutes before I got the car rolling the first time, but I took anxiety to a new level waiting for laps at speed. The install check did nothing to make me comfortable with the car, and I still hadn't tackled the worst of what Fontana Speedway had to offer: the seams.

All around the track, not matching up exactly with the four lanes, were thick, black lumps of tar and paint filling the gaps between widths of concrete. They were infamous in the IndyCar world for being difficult to handle, and they'd caused more than a few wrecks.

“Mind the seams,” Mick had emphasized during our orientation laps. “Debris can be another factor, as there is much grit—” it came out “greet” in his French accent “—that simply falls from the skies here. It will be slippery, with low grip. But the seams, if you try to cross them with any load on the car, they will grab you and spit you into the wall. Also, in the lower lines, there are little bumps. Too many to point out. Be ready for the car to be unsettled when you move out of the high line.” He'd looked at me as he held the throttle to the floor on the back straight. “Again I say, to stay out of trouble, mind the seams. Stay high to start, and be very careful about crossing them at speed.”

When I left pit lane again, I had the track's seams firmly in mind. Limiter off, throttle on. The RPM lights illuminated in a line across the top of the steering wheel, right below the number “1” indicating I was in first gear. Upshift to second in the warmup lane through Turn 2.

“Clear to blend,” Alexa said, advising me there were no cars coming behind me.

Steering up onto the track.
Seam!
Won't be a problem while I'm getting up to speed.
All the same, I angled the car to get higher on the banking, into that top lane. More throttle. RPM lights max out. Upshift to third. Breathe.

I take that back. The car's not balanced, it's touchy. Reacting to every input with a lunge.

RPM lights, fourth gear. Throttle. Not into top gear yet.
The car still feels bent. Ignore it!

“Doing fine, Kate. Remember to mind the seams,” Alexa called.

I stayed in the top lane away from seams as I flew toward Turn 3 of the oval. I was only in fourth gear, still building speed, and already going what felt crazy fast. Especially with a turn approaching. I knew an experienced driver with warm tires would drive the whole track in sixth gear, almost flat out, with only a bit of lifting from the throttle here and there. But my mind screamed at me to brake. I squashed the idea and lifted my foot a fraction from the throttle, then lifted it more. Held my breath.
How the hell am I going to go flat in sixth gear here?

I turned, trying to be smooth, but fumbling and bobbling the wheel back to the right after I turned too much to the left. I lifted from the throttle more, decelerated too much. Started to panic. Got mad at myself.
Figure this out. You're not screwing this up.

On the front straight, I kept the car moving forward, adjusted how much input I was giving the steering wheel to make it turn like I wanted, and started improving my speed. Into Turn 1, I lifted less than I wanted to but more than I thought I should, and called that a victory.

Alexa concurred. “You're doing fine. Let the tires come up to temp. If you're going to lift, do it before the corner and carry speed through it. That'll help the car feel more balanced.”

I held on through Turn 2, and put the hammer down on the back straight.
Holy God, the walls are close.
I followed Alexa's advice going into 3 and realized I could have handled more speed. Tried that in Turns 1 and 2.

“That looks smoother,” Alexa told me. “Keep working on it.”

Another lap, a little less lifting. Up to fifth gear on the straights. I felt the foreign sensation of air flowing over my helmet.

Alexa kept talking to me. “Keep working that high line. You're doing great, keep building up to it.”

Two more laps, and I finally clicked up to sixth gear. The car still felt weirdly bent, but it was starting to fit me better, and I started to find a rhythm. First a long, long sweeping left at one end of the oval, during which I focused on keeping my hands smooth and still, as well as carrying more speed each time around. Then a full-throttle sprint down a straight, barreling toward the other long, long arc of a left turn. Over and over. The walls constantly looming.

The popular notion among those who didn't know was oval racing was boring or easy, since you only turned left. Whoever thought that was wrong. Every lap—every hundred yards—was different than the one before. Track surface, car handling, tire wear, where the sunlight came from, and hundreds of factors changed from moment to moment. I was constantly adjusting. Constantly learning.

Right as I got the slightest bit comfortable, I was called off the track. On my in-lap, at Xavier's direction, I slowed on the back straight and crossed down the track to the warmup lane. The slower speed felt terrible, partly due to the increased number of bumps in that lane, but also because the car's rear end wanted to break loose and spin me up the track.

I reached the pits, turned off the car, and sat there, body thrumming even though the engine was quiet. Thinking if I didn't move, I couldn't hear bad news about my performance.

“Alexa is on her way back over to give you feedback from IndyCar.” Xavier paused. “Gotta tell you though, kid. From my perspective, you looked good for a rookie.”

I nodded, smiling under my helmet, though I knew he couldn't see me. I pressed the radio button. “Thanks, Xavier. Quite a ride.”

I peeled my fingers from the wheel and released the belts. Time to see if I'd cleared the first hurdle. I rolled my shoulders, feeling tension and muscle fatigue.

No, time to learn you've passed the test. This is only the beginning.

Chapter Seventeen

Alexa appeared after I'd gotten out of the car and before I'd finished gulping down a bottle of water. Matt King and I had both passed the initial test and, moreover, looked confident and smooth doing it. He and I compared notes on how the cars felt. We agreed on “horrible and bent.” Also “awesome.”

A short while later, we climbed back in the cars for another group session. Each of us, at least the rookies, was meant to be out on track with plenty of open space around us. That was true for me until two of the four current IndyCar drivers testing with us rookies came out onto the track well ahead of me. Or so I'd have thought.

Alexa and Mick had explained how different the cars would feel once there were other cars around us. I knew the sensation, from running in Indy Lights. Out on the track alone, we had “clean” air: nothing interfering with the optimum flow of air around, over, and under the car. But when other cars were out on track with us, the air was “dirty” from being disturbed by flowing around other cars before hitting ours. Dirty air made the cars unpredictable and harder to handle, but dealing with it was part of racing.

When the two other cars pulled onto the back straight four and five car lengths ahead of me, they affected my air, and I learned Alexa and Mick were masters of understatement. The car didn't feel different, it felt awful. Disastrous. The only reason I couldn't think of more synonyms was because I was too busy holding on for dear life and swearing.

The other cars ran single-file and then side-by-side, and whatever they did to the airflow hitting my car felt catastrophic. I had no grip, so the car felt twitchier than ever. I could barely muscle the car into a turn. And I was afraid to let off on the throttle because I thought I might unbalance the car and snap the back end around. The car was shit, and all I could do was try to lift as little and as smoothly as possible. And hold on.

“That's right, Kate, stay in it up in that high line. Get used to dirty air,” Alexa said in my ear. I didn't respond, too consumed with four-letter words and wrestling the wheel.

She talked me through the turns and the back straight, but left the time I was driving down the front straight for messages from the engineer, Xavier. “Nice smooth hands on the wheel, Kate. And remember your bars if you've got push,” he suggested.

“Copy, thanks.”

I nudged the anti-roll bar lever to add more stiffness to the front suspension and, hopefully, keep the car from rolling or “pushing” to the outside of the corners quite so much. If that happened, in theory, the car would turn left better. Once again, I held on in the wide, open radius of Turns 1 and 2, gritting my teeth, still behind the two side-by-side cars. I nudged the bar a little more and felt improvement in Turns 3 and 4. Either that, or driving something that handled like a piece of farm equipment was starting to feel normal.

By the time the morning session ended, I'd gotten familiar with the variations in car-feel, based on clean or dirty air. I hadn't gotten happier with other cars around me, but I'd gotten more used to the sensations. I knew the afternoon session would bring a new set of challenges, specifically driving lower lines on the track, which meant crossing the dreaded seams in the concrete. Plus, I'd keep upping my speed.

I reached a personal milestone before the lunch break when I kept my foot to the floor in sixth gear for an entire lap. No lifting. I'd had clean air and fresh “sticker” tires—meaning the manufacturer's stickers were still on the rubber—and I'd kept the throttle flat the whole way around the oval. That achieved, I wanted to work on speed.

The lap record stood at something above 225 mph, which I knew was accomplished by a top driver with a car trimmed out for qualifying. In contrast, our cars were set up for today's temperature and a balance of grip and stability, which wouldn't produce the fastest speeds. I expected the four active IndyCar drivers to be the fastest, in the 210 to 220 mph range. My stated goal was to keep getting better and to impress everyone with my ability to handle the car throughout the day. Secretly, I wanted to hit 215.

I grabbed a sandwich and more water and sat on the pit wall next to Alexa as she contemplated the front straight. “Are you considering the future or feeling wistful for the past?”

She smiled. “I miss the thrill of a race sometimes, but I still get to climb in the two-seaters to give hot laps, and we do regular team trips to the go-kart track.”

“Do you win?”

“Hell, yes.”

“What was the hardest aspect of this kind of racing for you, when you started?”

“The same thing that will challenge you. Learning patience.” She stopped my protests. “I don't mean you're impatient. You keep your wits about you in the car, and you have a good feel for continuously pushing, but not too much at once.”

“But?”

“When I was starting in IndyCar, I felt I needed to prove myself right away. I needed to be the fastest every day.” She narrowed her eyes and looked sideways at me, as I wolfed down the second half of my sandwich. “Can you tell me that's not what you're thinking?”

I swallowed. “No.”

“You probably have a speed goal you've set for yourself today, right?”

Busted.
“If a particular speed isn't a good goal, what is? Tell me what will make everyone leave more impressed with me than with anyone else.” I glanced around, grateful to see no one else was watching.

She put a hand on my shoulder. “Don't be embarrassed to ask the question. It shows maturity, and while I'd answer any driver, I'm especially happy to give another woman as much help as possible.”

“Thanks.”

She took a sip of her diet soda. “To impress everyone today, don't think about speed. Not about setting the top speed. We want to see you're comfortable in the car.”

“That's it?”

“It's a lot. I mean comfortable all day, getting used to speeds against the wall, dealing with a tough moment—and you'll have one at some point, everyone does—playing with different lanes, crossing the seams, and generally having a good feeling for the car. Also being able to talk to the engineers about how it's handling throughout.”

“That makes sense. Thanks.” I paused. “But if I can do that and also be pretty quick, that'd be even better, right?”

“And that's where the patience comes in.” She laughed. “You're not wrong, but I'll say it's unnecessary and, frankly, unlikely.”

I grinned at her. “Gotta have goals.”

A few minutes later, on my way back from the restroom, I stopped short at the sight of four unexpected visitors, all wearing aviator sunglasses and black suits, like a team of special agents. My father wasn't a surprise. Even Coleman Sherain, I understood. But why were Holden Sherain and Elizabeth Rogers there?

I tamped down my irritation and greeted my father and Coleman, who stood apart from the others. “Nice of you both to come out to support me today.”

“We wanted to see how you're doing,” my father said. “I was also curious how it works.”

“There's not much to see at a test. Ten cars in total. We'll do another session at one, and with any luck, no one will stuff a car into the wall.”

Coleman straightened his tie as he surveyed the other cars and teams. “We know you won't, at least.”

“That's the plan.” I gestured to the team setup in front of us. “This is the Beermeier Racing team, and I'm in the 40 car, parked on the other side of the wall there.”

Alexa caught sight of me with two men in suits, and she joined us, turning on the charm. She toured them through the car, pointing out the controls in the cockpit. I downed another bottle of water and pulled up the top half of my firesuit, which I'd knotted around my waist while out of the car.

Elizabeth walked over from the next team down, where she'd left Holden. “How'd the morning session go?”

Is she asking as an SCC Series representative, as my hated cousin's girlfriend, or as a woman trying to be my friend?
I didn't have time to work out an answer. “Pretty well, thanks. I'm slowly getting used to the car.”

“That's fantastic, I'm glad to see an IndyCar test. I've only been around sportscars.”

I zipped my firesuit closed. “Did you come to see how IndyCar does it?”

She stepped around me, into the meager shade cast by one of Beermeier's pit carts, and slipped off her sunglasses. “I guess it's strange we're here. Holden and I were in San Diego, and this, oddly enough, made a good place to meet Coleman. There's a family thing tonight for Billy, so we'll ride in to L.A. with Coleman from here. That's why all the black.” She grinned. “I know the situation is sad, but we actually took a limousine here, to the track! How crazy is that? I could get used to it, I tell you.”

I masked my confusion by pulling on my balaclava, a fire-retardant head sock. I'd never had such a personal conversation with Elizabeth, and I wasn't sure what to do. I might call it an odd time and place to display personality, but I couldn't call her bland. “I doubt the SCC will spring for a limo at the next race.”

She laughed again. “I'm sure not. Sorry to run on. Good luck. I'm sure you'll do well.” She patted my shoulder and moved away.

“Quick question,” I called, and she turned around. “How long was Nikki dating Billy? And how serious was it?”

“It was serious, as in spending time together, traveling together, sleeping together. But not serious like it was leading to marriage.” She laughed. “Can you imagine?”

“I really can't.”

“The first time I saw them together was at the Petit Le Mans race last year, and it'd only been a couple weeks. He was already advising her on racing matters.”

“They were together about six months?”

She slipped her glasses back on and nodded. “I think it'd run its course. My sense was she was ready to kick him to the curb. Definitely more irritated and less enchanted lately.”

“Interesting.”