"Chance, what is so different here?" The reporter had his phone recording, pointed towards Chance as the driver adjusted his racing suit. A few pits down, a crowd was surrounding Sebastian Cevert, a star of IndyCar and former champion.
He gave a slight shrug before saying, "Qualifying is beyond nerve-wracking for the 500. At most races, you get one lap, and you can go out multiple times to set your fastest time. Not the case here. Around Indy, each driver has to clock in four solid laps, and they average the speed."
"That's different, too."
Chance nodded. "All other tracks go by times. It's the same, but different, really. Seeing over two hundred and thirty miles an hour on the timing sheets is just another small part of what makes this place magic.”
“Thanks Chance, and good luck out there.”
The reporter didn’t wait for another word before scrambling over to the hoard of reporters around the former French champ.
Chance was used to the rush job. He wasn’t news; he was just another one-off driver for a team that could go belly-up at the turn of a card. Every time that heavy feeling hit him, Chance put his head down and charged ahead full-steam.
He turned to look at Annabelle. The car was a beauty, and she drove like a dream. Chance couldn’t wait to put in his laps. He was shooting for fifteenth. It was a lofty goal, but his car had been running well in practice, and Chance was feeling in the zone.
“Let’s do this.” Derek leaned against the war wagon, his sunglasses dangling from his polo. “You ready to do this?”
Chance looked around, down the endless grandstands that curled around the turns. “I was born for this, Pops.”
“Dear God, please do not call me that.”
Kiwi popped up from the back of the car. “No, I like it. It’s got a real down home feel to it. Pops.” His accent made the nickname sound even more ludicrous.
Chance chuckled as he stepped around Derek in the crowded space. “It suits you.” He grabbed his gear bag and pulled out his helmet.
The moment that the clock struck eleven in the morning, the first car went out on track. Chance and the All-American Pro team were third from the end. It would be a long wait until he’d get his opportunity to put in the laps.
In years past, there would be fifty or more cars trying to qualify for the thirty-three spots. The high cost of running a team knocked that number down to only thirty-three. If you had a car, and you could get it around for four laps, you were in the race. It definitely took some of the spectacle out of qualifying, so to liven things up, the top nine fastest cars had to prequalify for the number one spot; the pole.
Once every driver had made their initial qualifying attempt, any driver could go out for another shot to be in the fastest nine. All-American didn’t have any illusions. They would be overjoyed with a spot somewhere near the middle of the field.
“Alright. You'll have one out lap, one warm-up lap, and then you're on. Shake the car down one last time. Listen, smell, feel. Whatever you have to do. As long as you set a time, you're in. This is no different than practice."
Pops was using his calm voice, which did little to ease Chance. What stood before him was different than practice. It was different than the rookie orientation. This was different than any other race of his life.
Chance cued up the radio. “If I have to abort, let me know right away. I'll kill the engine and coast in. I know we can't afford any issues.”
As Chance waited in line for his turn to qualify, the radio was silent. The only distinct sound was the car at the front of the line taking off from the pit lane. A minute later, the roaring engine would scream past the front straight. Chance pushed everything else away until his mind was blank.
It was blank right up until Heather popped into his head. That mean little smile of hers. Her messy, sandy blonde hair. How she made the yellow-shirt uniform look good somehow. Every detail was all there so clear in his mind.
Tilting his head slightly, Chance looked in the small rearview mirror to his left. The reflection didn't offer him much, but he knew Heather was back there somewhere, guarding the pit lane from the masses.
The pit crew began pushing Annabelle toward the end of the pit lane.This time DJ’s voice crackled over the radio. “One more car, then you're up, kid. How are you feeling?"
Chance was pulled out of his quiet space, but Heather was still present with him. “Ready to get this over with."
“Don't sound so damn excited. It's only the biggest race of your career." Any calming done by Pops was easily undone by DJ. The old man wasn't known for sugarcoating anything, even when it really mattered.
“Yeah, yeah.” Chance knew the car would do just fine. His mind was back to Heather. As soon as his laps were in, and he was on the starting grid for the Indy 500, he’d march up to her and ask her out.
**
The crew pushed him forward. A camera dangling from a long boom circled over him, and a myriad of photographers attempted to blind him. Pops stood at the nose of the car, waiting for race control to queue him.
Chance counted the laps of the car in front of him on track. After three times past, Derek twirled his finger in the air, and Kiwi fired up the electric starter. No matter how much meditation Chance did, his heart rate was still pushing 150. He knew it would be closer to 180 during the race.
“There's a wind pushing out of the east, so go easy on turn four. Give them hell." With that, the crew chief stepped to the side and waved Chance out on the track.
On his out lap, Chance double checked all settings on his steering wheel. Fuel maps, suspension settings, and a host of other minute changes were available with the turn of several knobs. For his qualifying run, not only was the engine set for maximum power and the suspension stiffest, but the team would go so far as to tape over any tiny gap on the exterior of the car. When it came to qualifying at Indy, every one thousandth of a second counted.
Heading north on the back stretch, Chance buried his foot to the floor. Every sense focused on the car. He listened for anything irregular, smelt for anything burning, and felt vibrations in his body, searching for anything that could signal a problem. Ever since the team had rebuilt the car, she felt absolutely perfect.
As Chance shot down the front straight and over the yard of bricks, he had a quick moment to think of every one of his races that had led up to this moment. He had won some, lost some, and lost some spectacularly, but every outcome and decision had been worth it, because Chance was about to qualify for the Indy 500.
Less than forty seconds went by, and he was back on the front straight. As was tradition for DJ and the All American team, he stood against the pit wall just inside the race track and waved his driver on the large green flag. Lap one of four began.
With the throttle still at 100%, Chance dove into turn one. He could feel the car flirting on the edge of grip. Just one mile an hour too fast, or one over-correction on the steering wheel, and the back end of the race car would snap loose without any warning, sending him out of control into the unforgiving concrete wall.
She held, though, and Chance straightened the wheel momentarily in the short straight between turns one and two. The backstretch was over half a mile in length, but he was down it into turn three in just two quick breaths. Before he knew it, one lap was in the books.
Derek came over the radio with the lap speed. "223 and change. You're sitting 23rd right now. How’d she feel coming onto the front straight?"
“Stable as hell. I see the flags waving, but the wind isn't on the track,” Chance replied, already into turn two.
“Don't be afraid to carry the car all the way out to the wall, then. Let's see if we can gain a little on this lap."
With the new information, Chance didn't lift his foot off of the accelerator coming out of turn four. As the car posted up towards the outside wall, he didn't fight it. The wind still wasn't disrupting the balance of his car, and Chance could feel the extra speed he carried onto the front straight.
Again, Derek gave him his speed. “223 and a half. Faster lap, would put you in 21st”
Chance pushed the boundaries, diving deeper into the turns and swinging out wider than he had any previous single lap around the track. On the third lap, frustration began to claw its way into his mind. He knew the car head speed. There was no way 21st was the best he could do.
Looking up in a flash, Chance saw the flags at the top of the grandstands still dancing in the invisible breeze. Coming out of turn four, his right wheels stopped less than an inch away from the solid wall. Chance was manhandling the car, but she responded beautifully to every movement.
"226. Holy shit. Give me one more lap like that, Chance." Pops sounded ecstatic.
One more lap, and it would be official. Even if everyone went back out and set a faster time, he would be in the big show. Chance knew that wouldn't happen, though. If he went back out and put in four laps above 226, he had a shot at the fast nine. The team might have a shot at fighting for the pole.
Just like that, it was done. The checkered flag waved, and Chance let his foot off the throttle and coasted into turn one.
Pops came over the radio, the calm fatherly voice back. "226 two. Average lap time 39.4 seconds. Right now we sit 15th. I don't know where you pulled that speed from, but god damn. That was one hell of a run, Chance."
He brought the car onto the backstretch, keeping the car close to the infield as the second to last car in line passed at full throttle.
His heart was barely contained to his chest. Every moment of Chance’s life had been leading up to this race, and he was in. That wasn’t what had him practically jumping out of the seat. Chance knew he had a shot at the top nine. A few minor tweaks on the car, and he could get there.
Once he reached the entrance to pit lane, Chance killed the engine, letting the car coast to a silent stop in the All-American pit. The crew was all smiles. After everything they’d been through, the success was just as much theirs as it was Chance’s.
He unlocked the five-point harness and pulled himself from the car. Frank’s thick arms pulled Chance in for a big bear hug before he could even get his helmet off. “Fuck yes!’
Chance felt the air get sucked from his lungs. Frank was a beast, lifting Chance off of his feet.
He squeezed out, “Ok, ok. Put me down, already.” Frank did.
After talking over the adjustments he wanted on the car, Chance headed for Heather’s post.
Derek called after. “Where are you off to?”
“Just knocking one thing after another off my list.”