I watched Tessler stand in front of us. For a split second, I glanced out of my passenger window—I shouldn’t have done it, but it couldn’t be helped. I saw Runaway standing between Grant and Stephen—she was giving me a thumbs-up and Grant was nodding at me.
I looked ahead just in time to watch the towel drop.
I stomped the gas pedal and let the clutch out so fast that my car lurched forward. I wasn’t expecting it to—it just seemed that my reactions were taking over where my mind failed.
Before I knew it, I looked down at my tach and saw the needle redlining. I slammed my car into second so fast that the wheels chirped. I didn’t pay attention to Derrick or the race or anything—in fact, by the time I snapped out of it, I was in third gear, I had passed Mr. Thompson, and I was going 98 miles an hour. I was way beyond the finish line.
Slamming on my brakes, I turned the wheel hard and skidded the back end around to head back to the diner. I drove slowly toward the crowd and as I approached them. They all just seemed to look at me.
Grant was already in his car, next to Bret—it seemed everyone was awaiting my arrival. I looked around for Derrick and saw him sitting in his car, off on the side of the road.
I quickly parked and walked up to where Stephen, Runaway and Brandon were standing. Runaway smiled at me and Stephen had his eternal grin, like Athos the Musketeer.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. “What?” I said.
“Wow,” was all she said. “Man, when you race, you are intense!”
I looked at her, bewildered. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you even see Derrick stop? Where were you going, anyway?”
I still didn’t know what they were talking about—I looked at Stephen for some clarification.
“Derrick failed to engage in the race. The poor fellow became so overwhelmed with fear that he drove off the road. Where you see him is where he came to rest. You, my friend, took off like a bat out of hell, and when you flew past Thompson, you just kept going.” Stephen pointed to the horizon.
So much for the Corvair on steroids.
“Yeah, I watched you and I kept thinking ‘where in the hell is he going?’” Runaway said. “Didn’t you notice that you had passed him?”
I just looked at her. “No, I didn’t.”
“Well, what were you thinking about?”
I just stared at her. “Nothing.”
She looked at me with those beautiful, deep eyes. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I said. I wanted so desperately for her to look away.
“Hey!” Brandon yelled. “You’re going to miss Grant and Bret!”
Thank God.
My attention immediately turned toward Tessler as the towel fell.
Both Grant and Bret jumped off the line at the same time. Bret’s car was fast. I could hear the scream of the engine as it roared past us, but Grant’s car was faster. The Willys was smaller and lighter than Bret’s ’55 and gained momentum quickly. Grant’s supercharged 426 Chrysler Hemi quickly ate Bret’s 427 Chevy big block. Grant was nothing more than a dull yellow blur in the darkness of the night. In a moment, all we saw were his taillights.
“Yes!” Runaway said as she pumped her fist. “I knew he could do it!”
“Were you worried?” Stephen asked.
“No—that’s why I don’t want to race him.” She smiled.
“Well, it’s your turn… have a good time,” Stephen said, smiling back at her.
She turned and walked away. “I plan on it!” she yelled over her shoulder.
I watched her as she strolled carelessly towards her car. With one swift motion, she backed out of the parking lot and drove toward the starting line. She never looked at us or anything else before a race—she just focused in on what she was going to do.
As Grant made his way back to the lot and parked, he slowly strolled over to where we were standing and said, “Glad that’s done—I’m starving.”
“Is that all you think about?” Brandon demanded. “Filling your gut?”
“Hey, little man, and I mean little.” Grant towered over Brandon and was now using his full height to his advantage. “The next time you exert any kind of hard physical labor for over two hours straight, you can shoot your mouth off.” Grant stared at him. He was clearly in no mood to be harassed and he was getting increasingly irritated. “Until that time, however, keep it shut!”
I threw a sideways glance and caught Stephen slowly looking away with a smirk.
I noticed Bret on the other side of the road—he looked aggravated. He glared once or twice at our side and then would say something to one of his friends. I would hate to be him tonight, or anyone around him, for he looked like he was in a bad way.
I saw him walking over to Kevin’s car—he was kneeling down, talking to him through the window. He nodded over to Runaway’s car and then looked at Kevin’s Mustang. Something told me that he thought he lost his race with Grant was because Grant’s Willys was smaller and lighter and his ’55 was so heavy. The same would apply to Runaway’s Chevy, being the heavier than Kevin’s small, light Mustang. I pitied him, because the one thing he didn’t know was that Runaway was one hell of a driver.
They were both still sitting on the line, waiting for Tessler to get the towel and start the race. Apparently, during the excitement of the racing, he decided he was thirsty and went to get something to drink.
I could tell by the way Runaway’s Chevy inched forward on the line she had it in first gear and was putting a lot of pressure on the clutch—it’s almost the same as Stephen’s power brake, except with a stick shift, it’s done with the clutch instead of the brake. There is a fine line between clutching and gas—Runaway had practiced this enough times that she could actually keep her car from rolling frontward or backward without using the brake at all.
Tessler returned and was getting the towel out when we walked closer to the road to get a better view. Runaway had her left hand on the top of the steering wheel and her right on her Hurst shifter—she watched Tessler’s every move like a hawk, never taking her eyes off of him for a second.
When he stood back and showed the towel for them to see I looked over at Kevin inside his car—he had a slight smile and was looking over at Runaway, who paid no attention to him. Kevin was revving his engine for show, as if to say, “Yeah, my car’s fast.”
Runaway, on the other hand, didn’t move. I could tell her clutch was held only partially to the floor—that way, when she stepped on the gas, she didn’t have much release, and the car would jump out ahead.
I knew she had taken into consideration that Kevin’s Mustang weighed about half as much as her car—she had to make up for it somehow. I watched her right front tire barely move and I heard her supercharger whine.
Kevin looked back at Tessler just in time to see the towel fall.
Runaway had great instincts and reaction time, because Tessler didn’t even get the towel all the way down before she was off the line. Kevin, however, did not read the drop of the towel well. He had already lost about a tenth of a second, which may not sound like much, but in a quarter mile, it’s everything.
Runaway’s ’57 screamed as she floored the gas pedal so she could shift into second gear as quickly as possible. When her RPMs were high enough, her shift was fast and smooth. I heard nothing and didn’t even see the car back off when she pushed the clutch in. She was so fast at shifting that the car didn’t even know it was in another gear, it just had more speed.
Kevin’s Mustang was fast, light, and small, but Kevin was in no way as good a driver as Runaway. He was slow and sluggish—when he shifted from first to second, his car backed off as he pushed in the clutch and then took off again as the let the clutch out.
Runaway shifted without even taking her foot off the gas, which is called power shifting. It can be tricky, because the driver has to have the RPMs perfect, or it can grind the gears in the transmission. Not many people do it—they have to know their car pretty well.
I wasn’t surprised when Runaway won, or even at how much she won by—I loved her driving and her reaction time. It was better than anyone I had ever seen. She was clearly the best driver among us. And it didn’t help that I was beginning to notice everything else about her.
“Damn, that girl can drive,” Grant said as his head followed her red ’57 to the finish line. “She is a force to be reckoned with.”
“You can say that again,” I replied. She was not only a force in a car, but more so, a force that unintentionally tugged on the strings of my heart.
I looked back over at Bret, who was furious—I don’t think he expected Runaway to be such a good driver.
At the end of the race, Runaway turned around and headed back to the parking lot. I didn’t need to see her face to know that she was completely beside herself with glee, but when she stepped out of her car the look on her face was calm and stoic.
“You’d think Kevin could drive better,” she said, walking up to us. “Where does Bret find these people? It wasn’t even a challenge.” She clearly looked disappointed.
“What do you want, woman?” Stephen peered at her. “You defeated him, did you not?”
“Yeah,” she shrugged her shoulders. “I just thought he’d be better than that.”
“Runaway!” Someone yelled from across the road. We turned to see Bret standing there.
“What?” She turned and looked right at him.
“This ain’t over—we’re coming back!”
“Good!” she yelled. “And when you do, bring some competition with you, will you?”
Bret glared at her and then muttered something under his breath. Runaway saw it and said, “Yeah, right back at you.”
“All right, all right, that’s enough.” Tessler was on top of the tension before it even got a chance to get off the ground. “Let’s just finish up with your pictures and then everyone can get home.”
Mr. Thompson came out with his camera and took Andy’s, Stephen’s, Grant’s, and Runaway’s picture. Each stood next to their car with looks of satisfaction on their faces. We saw the results from his stopwatch. Brandon, sixteen seconds to Andy’s fourteen—although my race was a bust, I ran a twelve-point-five—Stephen was a twelve flat to Kurt’s thirteen-point-eight—Grant ran also a twelve flat to Bret’s thirteen flat—Runaway ran an eleven-point-eight to Kevin’s thirteen.
After the pictures were taken, The Rebels left, but everyone else stayed. We went into the diner and, as Runaway promised, she bought Grant his much-desired dinner. He didn’t speak until he had eaten it all.
As we sat at our table, everyone came up to us and began asking questions about where we got our cars, how we built them, and could we help them. We answered the best we could. People really seemed to be pumped about starting their own clubs and racing—it seemed they loved our diner and they wanted to race, too.
Runaway sat back and smiled.