“Would all drivers approach the racing desk!” a voice called out.
Just outside the diner, the officials had set up a makeshift desk with chairs, where they would record who won the races. We were one of the first clubs to arrive.
“Thank you all for coming today,” the announcer began, as a crowd began to form.
“We have discussed this race with all six cities, and have come to an agreement on how the day’s events will proceed. If you look up on the board, you will see your city, with your club and all your names. We have drawn names and have put you in races already.
“If you lose only one race, you will be eliminated from future races, as it is a single-elimination competition. However, every time you win, we will be keeping the tally.
“After the first heat of racing is completed, we will draw names again for the second heat, and so on. The final race will culminate between two drivers. Ultimately each city will have one representative, one driver from the north and one driver from the south. The winner of the final race will also receive the city trophy for themselves and their club. Are we all in agreement?”
Officer Tessler had told us that the trophy was enormous, and he didn’t lie.
“Dude,” Brian said “Look at the trophy—I think it’s as tall as me.”
“Good Lord,” Stephen added. “It is mammoth.”
This time, Stephen was not exaggerating. The trophy was huge—it was at least five and a half feet tall, with columns galore. It really looked like the cities had gone all out for this.
“Next, the rules. There will be no debating a race—there will always be one winner and one loser—nothing is a ‘do over.’ Do I make myself clear on this point? Excellent. We will be having city officials start the races and time them, as well. Now, if no one has any questions, we will commence with the racing. Good luck to you all.”
The entire crowd cheered. The new board they put up, which we had not seen yet, showed all of the races that would begin the day. The north side was to begin, which meant us.
“Here we go,” Brian said pensively.
“Okay,” I said, as I exhaled slowly, trying not to show my nerves.
Stephen patted me on the back. “Not to worry—it will be a day to remember.”
I tried to smile—but my nerves were wreaking havoc on my stomach, so instead, I focused on the schedule in front of me.
“Drivers, please bring your cars in the proper order to the starting line,” the booming voice on the bullhorn now announced.
“Looks like we’re up,” Brian said, as he flashed us a grin.
Runaway barely looked at any of us as she said, “Yeah… good luck.” She immediately walked to her car.
By now, I was used to this. She was already in her zone and totally focused. I also knew that she wouldn’t snap out of it until our side had chosen the single racer who would head into the finals and then maybe not until after that. Runaway was first in the heat—she was at the starting line before her opponent.
About a minute and a half after pulling up to the starting line, The Kings’ driver, Phillip, pulled up in a yellow 1970 Camaro. I could see Runaway focused in on her race. We were all curious to see how her new automatic would do.
“Think it will make a difference?” I asked, to anyone listening.
“I hope so,” Brian reflected.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Stephen said, shaking his head. “Rest assured, gentlemen, anything she changes on that car will be to her complete and absolute benefit.”
“You speak like one who knows.” I looked at him, curious.
“I do.” He looked directly at me.
“How?” Grant asked.
He closed his eyes, and then opened them slowly. “Simple—do you remember when I received my car after it was fixed?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Well, were you aware Runaway and her dad did a little rebuilding on my engine?”
Grant’s jaw dropped. “No.”
“There wasn’t anything wrong with your engine,” I said. “It was mostly cosmetic, with the exception of a few trouble spots,” I added, referring to the roof.
Stephen smiled broadly.
“What did they do to it?” Brian asked.
“I’ll never know, exactly,” he said, looking away from us. “Nonetheless, I will share this with you, whatever they did; it shaved a full second off my quarter-mile time.”
“And how do you know that?” I exclaimed.
“We took it out and ran it,” he said with a smile.
I was exasperated. “Is there anything this girl is open about?”
“No,” he said flatly.
Runaway now began to power brake on the starting line, awaiting the drop of the towel. She immediately jumped off the line and out ahead of the Camaro. When she shifted from first to second, I never even noticed, it was so smooth, and even better than an automatic. I knew that perhaps her new shifter would give her the edge she needed against Bret—if it came to that.
The car didn’t even remotely balk—there was no lag time whatsoever. Runaway easily beat Phillip. It wasn’t really a race at all, as she had more than two car lengths on him—it was more of a practice run for her.
The heat went quickly, as there was little time to talk or reflect upon one’s win or loss. Just as one race was done, another was beginning. Next up was Grant, who was racing Darren from The Cruisers. Darren drove a ’41 Chevy Coupe. It was cool to see his car next to Grant’s ’41 Willys. They were both a bit similar, in that they had the same style, but the Willys was clearly smaller and on the shorter side. By the time the quarter-mile was over, we saw the Willys was faster, too.
Brian’s race was against Matt, who drove a ’40 Ford Deluxe coupe—again, his race was a breeze, as he crossed the finish line first.
I raced next against James, who drove a beautiful, deep-purple ’40 Mercury. I was a bit scared at first, but to my surprise, with some serious power shifting, I was able to win.
The last in our club to race was Stephen. He blew the doors off Tyler from Claremont, who drove a ’31 Model A coupe. Stephen’s new
Buick knew no mercy as he ate up the race. We realized his comment about Runaway was true.
The next race in our heat was won by Jim from Alta Loma, driving a ’54 Chevy pickup—he beat Ed from Claremont, who drove a ’47 Ford two-door sedan. Last in the heat were Larry from Claremont, driving a ’32 Ford three-window coupe, and John from Alta Loma in a ’54 Chevy coupe—John was the winner.
After we finished our heat, the south side was up for their heat. This heat went quickly—the winners were Bret, David, Kurt, Ethan, Derrick, Erick, Andy and Vincent. We were glad to see Kevin get beat—he was the conniving little twit who tried to entice Brian to throw a race. We just couldn’t believe that The Rebels had done so well—The Imperials were in the race with three only members left.
In the next heat, I was racing Steve, who had a buy from the last heat, which essentially meant he advanced without having to race. He drove a ’37 Chevy coupe that was pretty fast, but just too heavy compared to my Camaro, and I won the race easily.
Next was Brian, racing John in his ’40 Chevy coupe. Brian’s little Roadster was so light and fast that again, he had no problem wining and eliminating John from advancing.
Runaway was last, racing a ’54 Chevy. Their cars were similar, with the ’54 being slightly smaller, but it was not supercharged, so it didn’t stand a chance. I really tried to pay attention to her shifting the automatic and I noticed that it really did give her an edge—she never squealed her tires off the line, because she literally had that first clutch mastered. So far in the races, she never lost even a tenth of a second going from one gear to the other. I was just hoping this would be enough.
Chapter Twenty-One
The day was going by so fast that it was hard to keep up. There was always a race to watch. We had very little time to talk or watch other racers, as we had two places to be—looking at the schedule, and standing next to our cars in case we were up again.
The south side was quick and painless in their victories. Derrick’s ’63 Corvair amazingly won, as did Kurt’s Nova. The race that we loved watching the most, however, was Vincent in his ’56 ’Vette against David. Vincent easily sped past David before the race even began. It was evident that Vincent drove as smoothly as he spoke.
“A man after my own heart,” Stephen mused.
Moving into the fifth heat of the day, it was north vs. south.
“Ah, splendid,” Stephen said, when he saw he had a buy. “I need a bit of a break—my leg could use a little down time.”
“You okay?” Grant asked, immediately looking concerned.
“Perfect,” he retorted, not wanting to draw anyone’s attention to himself. “It is only standing that seems to be an utter nuisance.” He did look irritated.
“Not to worry man—I’ll get you a couple of chairs,” Grant said, before he ran off.
I felt bad for Stephen, he was still in a brace and getting in and out of his car was difficult. He couldn’t bend it properly, so he would undo the brace in order to get his leg into the car, and then re-strap it. I could tell that it was excruciating for him as he winced at every small movement and he was slow to move it. Grant was back in a moment with two chairs; one for Stephen to sit and the other to prop his leg up to alleviate some of the pain.
I knew that Stephen would appreciate a distraction so I checked the racing schedule. “Oh, great. Why am I so lucky?” I lamented upon seeing that my racing opponent was Bret. I looked over at Brian, who would be racing Kurt.
“Well, look who I get—I thought that dude was done with racing—he’s pathetic,” Brian said.
“Grant,” Stephen said, as Grant was now propping up Stephen’s leg gently on a chair. “Your race will be quite the match. I would love to race Vincent in his ’Vette—it is a beautiful car.”
“Yeah, it is,” Grant reflected. “But I hate to beat Vincent—he’s a decent guy.”
“True,” Stephen said.
I looked over at Runaway, “Well?” I said.
“It will be a pleasure to annihilate Derrick, that little piece of crap,” she said flatly.
She didn’t look at any of us—she just walked over to her dad. Together, they went to her car. I shouldn’t have let it, but her focus on the races was beginning to get to me.
“She’s in the zone, man,” Grant said. “She is one driven woman when it comes to racing—you should know that by now.”
“Yeah,” I said. “She is just so damn serious sometimes.”
“Hey,” he looked at me seriously. “Remember why she’s here.”
I nodded—I knew he was right, and I knew why she was this way. Sometimes, though, I just wanted to see her smile.
The bullhorn sounded again and the announcer instructed drivers to line up our cars and prepare for the races. I didn’t know how my car would perform against Bret’s Chevy, but I knew I would give it my best. I had very little time to feel sorry for myself as I walked toward my car, and then off to race Runaway’s nemesis.
Runaway raced Derrick first, and I was sure it was her pleasure to beat the pants off him. I couldn’t believe he had survived this long in the competition, but he was no competition for Runaway—she blew his doors off in an instant.
Next up was Grant, against Vincent from the Imperials. I think he really hated to race him, as everyone was so taken with him. It was a short-but-sweet match as Grant’s Willys pulled ahead of the ’Vette at the last second.
For Brian, it was all he could do to hold back his anger against Kurt for causing the accident with Stephen. Truly, we wished that he was already out of the competition, but we weren’t that lucky. The only thing left to do now was officially eliminate him. Brian sat on the starting line with anticipation pouring from every pore of his body. Before the race, he looked over at Kurt, but he smiled and then took off. It was easy to get Kurt out of the running.
I was already in my car, waiting to race Bret. I had mixed feelings—I wanted to beat him, but I knew there was a greater plan. My hands were sweaty and clammy as I sat waiting, so I continued to wipe them on my legs. I didn’t want Bret getting the best of me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to try, it was just that if I beat him, then Runaway would never see her revenge. I looked at my race as nothing more than trying to feel him out and let her know what I could about how his car went. Suffice to say, I lost and Bret advanced forward.
I didn’t see Stephen beat David, but I knew that with David’s elimination, there was only one driver left on the south side, and that was Bret. Within five minutes of Stephen finishing his race, we faced the next hurdle. The board went up again.
Runaway would race Brian and Grant would race Stephen.
The races had gone much quicker on the south side, as there was already a clear winner. The problem was on our side—Runaway and Brian had three wins each—Grant had two and Stephen one. So the officials were making us race each other to decide the final winner for the north.
“What the hell’s the point?” I said, exasperated. “Just have Brian and Runaway race and scrap ours.”
“I’m not doing it.” Brian said. “I can’t race her—to be honest, I don’t mind losing, but I do mind being humiliated!”
“There is no humiliation,” I said. “This is something that any one of us would do if we were in the same situation.”
“She understands,” Stephen added, looking at him and trying to give him encouragement. He was now standing and stretching out his leg. “It’s not as if she requested this—it is just the luck of the win. So drive to the best of your ability, and smile when it’s over.” He bowed like a butler, then straightening up and grabbing his crutch, he said, “Now, if you will excuse me, I must go tango with a Willys.”
“I heard that, and my Willys doesn’t tango!” Grant yelled over his shoulder as he was getting in his car. “It does the rumba!”
“Even better,” Stephen yelled back at him.
Stephen and Grant were evenly matched drivers, but we always knew that Grant’s car was much faster—perhaps even faster than Runaway’s. Grant and Stephen now sat on the starting line—they both looked over and grinned at each other, as if to say, “Who wants to end up racing Runaway for the final?”
The towel was dropped and both cars jumped off the line. However, as we all expected, Grant’s Willys was wicked fast. He beat Stephen by three-quarters of a car length. As the race ended, they both simultaneously pulled into the parking lot and got out.
“That was a rumba?” Stephen said, as he opened the door and slowly got out. His leg was really becoming sore and it took time getting it in and out of the car. “It felt like a waltz.”
“Um, excuse me,” Grant said, looking at him. “Didn’t I win?”
“Only because my car doesn’t waltz
.
” He refused to look at Grant.
“Yeah, right,” Grant chuckled, as he held out his hand to help him.
It was now Brian’s turn to race Runaway. As they headed to the line together, she didn’t look at him, or anyone else, for that matter—but really, no one expected her to.
We saw the towel drop and the two of them took off. Runaway showed her reaction time at the start of the race, for she left Brian wondering what happened. He tried to pull the race out by prolonging his shifts, but she was so fast in her shifting and she was showing no signs of mercy for anyone. She had one goal, and one goal only—that was to get to Bret. Runaway clearly crossed the finish line first—she had at least half a car length on him.
When Brian returned back to us, he shook his head. All he said was, “Damn, she’s good.”
“Well done, Brian.” Stephen patted him on the back. “Well done.”
That left Grant to race Runaway in the final north side heat.
“Aw, man, here we go,” I heard Grant say, as he hung his head.
Runaway never got out of her car—she just looked at him and drove to the starting line.
“I have always tried to avoid this,” he lamented.
“Dude,” Brian said, “don’t assume anything—she seriously beat me, and I tried my damnedest.”
It was that moment Grant had dreaded—the race that they swore would never happen.
He nodded in agreement and went to meet her at the starting line. Of course, this had always been one of our biggest questions—who would win? If I was a betting man, I still would have put my money on her… not because I thought her car was faster—because I doubted it was—I just trusted her.
They both pulled to the line and awaited the towel. Grant looked intense—we could only imagine what was going through his mind.
“Think he’ll throw it?” Brian asked.
“What—the race?” I looked at him.
“He has too much integrity for that,” Stephen said. “He may be an intense competitor, but true athletes, which he is, never lower themselves to duplicity.”
Both Brian and I looked at him and nodded—whatever duplicity meant.
Runaway and Grant both saw the towel drop at the same time—they were within inches of being neck-and-neck off the line. They did everything almost simultaneously, shifted and inched forward. There was even one point where Grant edged forward and I held my breath. His bumper was clearly out ahead of Runaway’s—she had that ’57 floored and was trying to bear down on him. The Chevy began to gain ground, but Grant hammered it and was pulling ahead again. Runaway held fast, and with the next gear, she tried to gain the lead again.
“No,” I whispered.
Then, all at once, we heard a deafening sound, something like a horrendous backfire, but we knew that couldn’t be the case. We saw Grant suddenly begin to slow as Runaway flew past him and crossed the finish line. One minute two cars had been screaming toward the finish line, and then the next, it was over. Runaway beat Grant by half a car length. I finally exhaled.
“Wow,” Brian said.
“Yeah, no kidding,” I said.
“What happened?” I asked, looking around.
Runaway’s dad was standing very near us.
“Grant’s blower belt broke—nothing you can do if your supercharger belt is split and comes off.”
“Aw, man,” I said, as I hit myself in the head.
Brian looked at me and said, “It was going to be close.”
“Yeah, but for who?” I looked at him.
“Whom.” I heard Stephen say beside me. He looked at us both. “You two need to have more faith,” he said.