Scarlet Thunder (11 page)

I heard the instructions to all the pit crew chiefs: “Crew chiefs, remind your drivers not to pass anyone until they reach the start/finish line.”

George Lot, standing down the wall from me, spoke into his radio, relaying the message to Sandy.

Seconds later, the pace car entered pit road. And seconds after that, the race began with all engines howling.

It was the first turn that drivers had to worry about. There, as they fought for position, the pack would be bunched so tight that there could easily be a wreck or two.

I had my camera on my shoulder, ready to move and film anything that happened in the pit. But I took a moment to look up at the monitor first. Sandy stayed well back as the pack moved into the turn. If there was going to be a wreck, she wouldn't be part of it. And if it knocked five or seven cars out of the race, it would move her up all those positions.

No wreck. She kept her position. And all of the cars shot into the straightaway.

I settled back into trying to shoot what I could in the pit.

I got some close-ups of the pit crew in their fire suits, staring at the track.

I took an upward angle of George Lot. He frowned at me. Which was good. It made him look even more serious and concerned.

I got some still shots of the organized tires, tools and fuel, ready for the pit stops.

And around me, I heard the chatter.

“She's moved up four spots.”

“Eight laps to pit.”

“Tire temperature holding.”

Four laps later, there was a yellow flag. One of the middle cars blew an engine, and it took two laps of yellow before the track was cleared.

That gave Sandy time to come in for her first pit.

I watched through my camera as I filmed her up close.

“You're doing good,” George told her. “Lots of cars pitted earlier during green. Keep your concentration going.”

Sweat poured off her face. In my camera, the drops of moisture were shiny beads.

Excellent, I told myself, great footage.

Twenty seconds later, she was gone.

Another twenty seconds later, three more cars were gone. Not from pit road like Sandy. But gone from the race.

The second-place car had bumped the leader as it passed, and both of them slid sideways together. The body metal of both cars shrieked at the high-speed stress.

A third car hit them both, and in a spinning whirl that threw debris in all directions, the pile slid down the track toward the infield.

Immediate yellow.

Fire trucks raced toward them and covered the cars in a sea of white foam.

On the track, Sandy called to George on the radio.

“I'm coming back in. Those cars bled some oil and I think the track's going to be slick. Let's adjust the wedge while we can.”

I swung my camera to George.

“Get ready,” he barked to the crew.

Sandy roared into the pit.

I ran down the wall to get a better view with my camera. I knew what she meant by wedge. We could add a voice-over on the segment I was about to film so viewers would understand the term too.

The voice-over would explain that since the racecar drivers go only one direction around the track, it helps if the car is tilted back slightly. Like a table with shorter legs on the front right and left rear corners. If you wad a piece of paper and stick it under the front right leg, the table will tilt back onto the shorter left rear corner. And vice versa.

The wedge on the car did the same thing, only on the front right and left rear tires. By tilting the car back just slightly, it could hang through the corners better or worse, depending on the adjustment.

Again, it took less than thirty seconds for her to get in and out.

I heard the scanner: Debris had been cleared from the track. The drivers were back to a green flag.

Over the next two hours, Sandy moved up steadily until, in the final five laps, she was in second place.

Second place!

People in the pit were on their feet, cheering and shouting. Except for George.

I snuck up behind him. I wanted to contrast their excitement against his calmness. His shoulders and head and neck filled my viewfinder. Just beyond him, out of focus, were crew members in their red coveralls.

I knew my job was just to stay out of the way. Especially in the heat of the race. But it looked like I could slip in for a second.

“George,” I said. “Is she going to win?”

George turned and faced the camera squarely.

“She's got three laps to go and maybe only two and half laps of fuel. But if we had pitted her at any time, she would have lost a lap to the leader. If she can find a way to save fuel, she's got a chance. But if she throttles back to save fuel, she won't hold her position. Now leave me alone.”

It got so exciting that I nearly set my camera down to watch the last few laps. And in the last minutes of a race that had taken three hours, I understood why victory was so precious. Defeat and heartbreak were always a heartbeat away, no matter how close a driver was to victory.

In the second to last turn, the leader blew a tire. Later, I would find out that he and his pit chief had gambled too, trying to stretch out tires and fuel between stops.

The blown tire sent him into the wall and out of the race.

Leaving Sandy in first place.

Until she ran out of fuel.

George had called it exactly.

She ran out in the final turn.

It was agony to watch her coast toward the finish, but losing speed. With two other cars catching up fast.

I found myself shouting along with the pit crew.

“Go! Go! Go!”

If voices could propel a car, she would have gained speed. Everyone in the pit was shouting that loud.

The other two cars began to catch her.

Closer, closer, closer.

And then they passed her.

So why was everyone around me cheering?

Then I figured it out. I'd been so worried about the cars behind her, I hadn't seen that she was moving closer, closer to the finish line. And that she had coasted to first place, half a car ahead of the other two.

She'd won!

I ran over to George Lot and gave him my handheld camera. I asked him to point it at me.

I stepped back.

I raised my arms in the air and grinned at the camera.

I wanted this on film. Not for the documentary. But for my family.

Because it was about time I shared my life with them. And this was a good place to start.

Sigmund Brouwer is the best-selling author of many books for children and young adults. He has contributed to the Orca Currents series (
Wired, Sewer Rats
) and the Orca Sports series (most recently
Winter Hawk Star, Hurricane Power
and
Hitmen Triumph
). He and his family live in Red Deer, Alberta, and Eagleville, Tennessee.

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