Speed Freak (3 page)

SATURDAY MORNING, DAD
rewarded me for getting the sponsorship by hauling me out of bed. ‘Up you get, Archie. We’re painting the spare room today. Get it all nice for young Felix.’

What that turned out to mean was me clearing the room while he went and bought the paint. My father has as much taste as a wet-weather tyre. He chose vivid yellow for poor old Felix.

‘No,’ I said. ‘We are not making that kid live in an egg yolk.’

‘What’s wrong with it? He’ll love it.’

‘I bet you a weekend off cooking he won’t.’ Dad was always a sucker for bets that had the chance of letting him off the cooking roster. ‘I say we get Felix here and we ask him.’

So that’s what we did. Dad painted a wide yellow stripe down one wall while I rang Erica.

‘But Archie — I’m at work and he’s at his carer’s. Why do you need him?’

I ran the egg yolk past her.

‘An emergency situation. I’ll call the carer and your dad can pick him up.’ I was about to hang up when she added, ‘Thanks, Archie. Thanks for looking out for my boy.’

Oh, crap. She was already moulding me into a big brother and he hadn’t even moved in. She possibly hadn’t factored in that I was a big brother who was a major speed freak. I went off to deliver the message to Dad.

Fifteen minutes later, Dad strode into the room, followed by Felix, who looked miserable.

‘Take a look at that, Felix,’ Dad said. ‘A real man colour, eh!’

I eyeballed my father. ‘Play fair, Dad. Get out of here and let Felix make up his own mind.’

Dad laughed but he ambled out. I shut the door on him. ‘Right, Felix. I think this colour stinks. Dad thinks it’s better than spaghetti. You’re the one who’ll have to live with it. Do you love it or hate it?’ I gave him a friendly big-brother grin.

He looked at the floor, muttered something and a tear splashed down. Shit and double shit. I put an arm around him and turned him away from the ghastly stripe of yellow. ‘How about we look at some colours? You can say if you like them. Okay?’

He gave the tiniest nod. I guided him out of the room. Dad took one look and changed his approach. ‘Ah, I see that Archie was right. Win some, lose some. Looks like I’m on kitchen duty tonight.’

He came with us to the computer and the two of us had to clown around for about five minutes before we could get a peep out of Felix. Eventually, he whispered that he liked blue, and could he have orange doors.

HE ENDED UP
staying with us all day. Dad gave him a small paintbrush, and he sat on the floor painting the skirting boards orange. Later, when Erica came for dinner, Felix showed her the room while Dad served up the meal. ‘It’s wonderful. I love it,’ she said, but what she was really looking at was her kid’s proud smile.

‘Shy little lad,’ Dad said when they’d gone. ‘It’ll be good for him to be around men more.’

‘Well, he looks like being your soulmate,’ I said. ‘You’ve both got lousy colour taste.’

I figured what he really meant was that karting could be the making of Felix — bring him out of his shell and all that. Well, Erica knew her own kid — maybe she knew he’d run a mile from the roar of an engine. Still, it was tempting to think that if we did try and get him into it, she’d move the two of them out. But no, I’d told the sponsorship guys I played fair. So I would.

Felix was quiet and little. As my mates said, it could have been worse.

THE NEXT WEEK
was full on. Every teacher took it into their heads to dump assignments on us. I cooked, mowed a couple of lawns, did my chores and slogged my way through the homework. There was no time to skype, except for short chats to Kyla. Maybe the workload at home would decrease when Erica moved in. I went off into a dream where she did all the cooking, hired us a cleaner and refused to let us touch the garden. Nice.

Dad put in quite a few Erica hours during the week. I didn’t say anything, but on Friday after school I dumped
my gear, changed into work overalls and took myself into the garage to do some prep on my kart.

I took the motor off, being careful not to ding anything. I set it down and picked up the spare. We’d take both engines tomorrow, as always. I bolted it on, connected the wires and hoses, then fired it up.

Except that it wouldn’t fire. I began to go over it, checking everything I could think of, running through what could be causing it. Still nothing. The spark plug was almost new, so I left that alone. It shouldn’t be the fuel mix because I was always careful to get the ratio of petrol to oil right.

I was standing back, frowning at it, when Dad came in. ‘Shit! Sorry, Dad. I lost track of the time.’ I waved a hand at the kart. ‘ That’s the spare. It won’t start. I can’t work out what the hell it is.’ I tried the starter again.

Dad said, ‘You get the tea. I chucked corned beef in the slow cooker this morning. I’ll sort this out. Don’t worry, son.’

I handed him the spanner I’d been using. ‘It’s just … I want to do well this weekend. Nail that track. I need all the advantage I can get over Craig. He won’t come down to Manawatu, but you can bet your arse he’ll put in the practice on all the other courses. It’ll give me a psychological edge if I can beat him next weekend.’

Dad took hold of my shoulders. ‘Listen, Archie. The sponsorship’s important. I’m not denying it. Those extra tyres would be bloody useful. But I want you to forget about that. Just get out there and race your heart out. That’s all I ask. We’ll buy the goddamned slicks if we have to. Stop worrying.’

It was enough to make a bloke choke up but I
managed to mutter, ‘Thanks, Dad,’ as I took myself off to the kitchen.

I was never going to win a cooking competition, but I got the job done, all the time turning over in my head what could be wrong with the kart.

I gave Dad a yell, mashed the spuds — and heard the sweet sound of the engine.

He came in as I was dishing up. ‘What was it?’

‘Let me get in the door, Archie.’

Damn it, he was in one of those moods when he’d tell me in his own sweet time. Still, I wasn’t too worried. The engine was going and it had sounded good.

But after he’d done nothing with his mouth except put food in it for five minutes, I gave in. ‘Everything’s sweet now?’

‘Yep.’

‘Dad!’

He laughed. ‘It was electrical. The starter motor brush wire was broken.’

I let out a sigh of relief — it wasn’t going to take big money to fix. ‘I didn’t even think of that. Good call.’

Craig wouldn’t know how much anything cost. He wouldn’t even be interested. Dad was right — the battle to win the extra sponsorship was going to add a kick to the year.

Bring it on.

WE DROVE UP
to Palmerston North on Saturday night, and there was a nasty surprise waiting for me at the motel — Craig came strolling out of the unit next to ours.

‘Thought you’d turn up sooner or later,’ he said.

‘Didn’t see your name on the entry list,’ I said.

‘Last-minute decision.’

I looked around for his kart trailer. ‘Are you planning on doing the course on your own two legs?’

‘I’d still beat you. Gary’ll be here in an hour or so.’

‘Gary? Isn’t Carl your mechanic?’

‘Gary’s new. He’s the best. Dad made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. He’ll be taking it easy. It’s a long drive from Auckland.’

I didn’t bother asking why Craig hadn’t jumped in the van and come down with Gary. His father would have handed him the plane tickets —
Here you are, son. We don’t want you getting tired by a long road trip.

‘Your dad’s going to be here?’

He shook his head. ‘Gary’s doing the honours.’

Dad locked the van, then said, ‘We’re cooking dinner. Got enough for three. How about you join us?’

Old Craig’s face lit up like a tail light. ‘Cool! Thanks,
Bill. I was just going to order pizza.’

Dad tutted and treated him to the
proper food
lecture. I winked at Craig, and he grinned back. He’d heard the same lecture a few times by now.

Over dinner of cold corned beef, coleslaw, mashed spuds and broccoli — possibly a more basic feast than Craig was used to — conversation inevitably got around to the Challenge.

‘Have to warn you, Archie,’ Craig said, ‘I’m planning on winning.’

‘Plans are good,’ I said. ‘But it’s the performance that counts.’

Dad just smiled, leaned back in his chair and listened to us sparring.

Craig and I dealt to the dishes — he did seem to know how to dry a plate. We’d just finished when we heard Gary pull up outside. Craig hung up the tea towel, thanked us for the meal and left. Through the sliding door I watched him go up to Gary and high five him.

‘I’m glad you don’t do that,’ I said to Dad.

‘What’s wrong with a high five?’

‘Not that. I reckon it must be lonely for Craig. Gary might be the best money can buy, but it’s not like having your old man with you.’

My old man didn’t respond to that, except to look pleased and tell me to make him a cup of tea.

WE GOT TO
the track at 7.30 in the morning. Craig and Gary were right behind us.

We set up our base and unloaded the kart. I pulled
on my race suit, picked up a rag and rubbed it over the bodywork.

Dad took the rag from my hand. ‘Calm down. Go and check out the track.’

I was a couple of steps away when he said, ‘Archie, drive your own race. Don’t worry about any other bugger.’

He was right, as usual. I couldn’t let Craig get into my head. I couldn’t worry about him beating me.

We took the kart to the tech shed for scrutineering. Gary and Craig were already there. Gary and Dad shook hands and I could tell they were sizing each other up —
I bet I’m a better mechanic than you are
. I caught Craig’s eye and we laughed.

Jim, an old guy with frizzy white hair, was in charge of scrutineering. He checked the brakes, the steering, the nuts and bolts for tightness, and the transponder. After he’d tugged at it, I checked it myself just in case he’d loosened it. I always did that — useless going all out to win if the transponder fell off during the race and couldn’t record my brilliant performance. But all was well. The little yellow box was firmly attached to the back of my seat just as it was meant to be.

The last of the drivers in our class arrived just as I was done with scrutineering. Next on the programme was the drivers’ briefing, and after that there was nothing to do but wait for my first race.

I went outside to look at the track. We’d be racing anticlockwise. It was tight and technical, a real driver’s track and probably my favourite. Craig came out too, and we wandered around, both of us intent on memorising the course. At one point, he said, ‘I warned Josh Gibbons to watch out at the end of that front straight. Told him to
watch out for the love-taps.’ Love-taps meant somebody was behind you, bumping the back of your kart, letting you know they wanted to pass you.

‘You’re so kind. Bet he didn’t fall for it, though.’

‘Just planting a seed of doubt, Archie. You should be grateful. That could earn us a tenth of a second on each lap.’

I tried a touch of psychological trickery myself. ‘Are you worried Josh’ll beat you?’

But Craig laughed. ‘Nice try, Archie.’

The loudspeaker called our practice.

As always, Dad was the one to push the trolley with my kart on it down to the dummy grid. We didn’t talk much, just a few comments about the weather, my position on the grid. Nothing earth-shattering.

Then we were into the tuning run, all of us doing our own thing as we spread out along the track, working on smoothness and speed instead of worrying about getting past the guy in front. Lap times weren’t so critical on a club day with a randomised, pre-determined grid, but next week it’d be a different story. Best lap time would get pole position.

My kart felt good, though I was glad to know there was a brand new set of tyres waiting and ready for the first of the Challenge series.

Back in the tech shed, I waited for my turn to weigh in. I’d grown over the holidays, but I still needed lead on the kart to bring me plus the kart up to the minimum for our class. Craig was taller and heavier-built than I was, and when we’d raced each other a couple of months ago he’d been not too far off the minimum weight. If he grew during the year, then the power to weight ratio could well end up in my favour. Even half a kilo over the
base weight would handicap him. I should start buying him ice creams.

My turn on the scales. No problem, but I knew there wouldn’t be. Dad was very particular about keeping to the rules. The minimum weight of driver plus kart was 145 kg for the Junior Max, the class I was racing in. I still had a few kgs to go before I’d reach that without the help of the weights.

We took the kart back to base. There was nothing I needed to do since it was running sweetly. I gave Craig a yell, we picked up Josh on the way and wandered down to the notice board to find our grid positions for the first race.

‘Shit,’ said Josh. ‘Look at that, will ya! I’m at the back. Again.’

We grinned at him, and Craig patted his head. The grid was worked out on a random mix format, and Josh knew perfectly well he’d be up the front at some stage during the day because there were only nine karts in our class.

He kicked at the fence. ‘I hate being at the back first up. It’s not a lucky start to the day.’

‘You don’t need luck,’ said Craig. ‘You need skill.’

‘The back of the grid’s okay,’ I said. ‘Think of it as the chance to practise your passing.’ I liked starting well back and hunting my way to the front — working out how to pass, how to sneak through.

Josh didn’t look convinced. We watched him run off to talk to his father, who seemed to say something that cheered him up.

‘Archie, when will you learn to stop helping the opposition?’ Craig shook his head. ‘That kid’s going to get competitive soon enough. You don’t need to hand out the advice.’

Josh was twelve and it was his first year driving in the Junior class. He was a bit of a nervy kid, but he’d settle down. Just give him time.

I stuck a concerned expression on my face. ‘I was right then? You
are
worried Josh’ll beat you.’

Craig laughed. ‘Shit scared.’

We joined Lewis and Tama at trackside to watch the cadet class. There were a couple of six-year-olds at the back of the grid with the big X on the back of their karts to show they were learners and, as yet, unrated.

Each competitor under eighteen had to have a parent or guardian with them on race day. For these little kids, that person also got to start the engine for their driver. The starter gave the signal, and the kids were off, leaving the adults to duck and dance out of the way as the karts roared away.

‘Whoa! Yay!’ The cry went up from the onlookers as one of the adults stumbled and nearly face-planted on the concrete. But he caught his balance and stayed upright to a round of cheering.

The kids didn’t notice a thing. They roared off the dummy grid, and round the track they went, in formation, waiting for the signal to start racing.

‘They’re away!’ Lewis yelled. ‘Watch 82. That’s Marina. My sister. She’ll go off at the end of the back straight next lap. Betcha.’

‘She’s a barger,’ Tama said as 82 bumped her way into a gap, shoving the drivers on either side so she could get through.

‘No manners at all,’ said Lewis cheerfully. ‘Here she comes. Watch this.’

Kart 82 hammered down the straight — and went barrelling off on to the grass.

‘What the hell was that about?’ Craig asked. ‘She didn’t even try to take the corner!’

Lewis was laughing too much to answer for a couple of seconds. ‘She was dead set on breaking my cadet speed record. I should have explained that I’d stayed on the track when I set it.’

We watched Marina jump out of her kart and push it further into the grassed area. She pulled off her helmet, scanned the spectators for her brother, then raised both thumbs. Her face was one beaming grin. Lewis clapped his hands at her and gave her the thumbs-up.

‘Will you tell her?’ Craig asked.

‘Nah. She’s too stoked.’

We watched the rest of the race. Already, even though those kids were so young, you could tell who the natural drivers were. There were at least a couple in the pack with the killer instinct. I’d be willing to bet that Marina would be good once she settled down.

We watched a couple more races, then it was our turn to collect our karts and take them down to the grid. I was in position five. Craig was next to me on six. I pulled on my helmet and climbed into my kart. Number 24.

This was the moment I loved. The helmet shut out the world, and it was just me and my kart. I stilled my mind, pictured the track, driving it in my mind. Next, I visualised the start. Craig would try to cut across me to the inside the second the lights signalled the start. I pictured myself hitting the throttle, sticking to the inside so that there was no room for Craig to muscle in. We’d probably catch the leading bunch at the corner.
Look ahead. Look at the gap, not the karts.

I was ready.