Race day. Chance never had nerves on race day, but this was different. This was everything. This was the culmination of every lap he’d ever turned, every dollar he’d ever invested in a part, and every bloody knuckle earned wrenching on a car. It was Memorial Day and the hundred and first running of the Indy 500.
The sun may not have been up, but Chance was. There was plenty to do hours before the race. The car had to go through the scrutineering process, he had multiple drivers’ meetings to attend, and there was a short practice session to ensure that the car was as good as she would get.
Chance sat in the hauler, drinking in the silence. The ceremonial cannon would fire at any second, and the floodgates would open. Half a million fans would pour into the Speedway, ready for the big show.
Looking up, Chance found his helmet. It was his constant companion, his protection, the symbol of him.
Matte black with two white stripes running down the center, the helmet wasn’t nearly as flashy as most of the grid. The regulars in the series utilized their helmets as billboards more than anything. The only thing Chance’s advertised was the various scratches and scrapes.
Each one was a story, a crash, a lesson. Chance had learned from every one of them, including the small scrape on the right side. It was the newest, from the qualifying crash just a few weeks earlier.
Chance loved each imperfection for the memory it represented, but he didn’t want to add any more. After the race, he’d retire his helmet to some shelf beside a few trophies.
Ok. Let’s go chase the dream.
He slid the helmet into his gear bag with the hood and driving gloves. They’d all go on the golf cart to wait for him at the pit lane. Chance headed off to the first drivers’ meeting of the day.
The motorsport director turned on a microphone, the feedback getting everyone's attention. "Ouch. Sorry about that. Anyway, good morning."
In unison, everyone in the room send back, “Good morning."
“It sure is, and I hope it's a good afternoon, too. We’ve got good weather on the forecast. Last I saw, four percent chance of rain.”
There was a cheerful murmur that rolled through the room. Anything more than a brief sprinkle, and the race would go red, possibly to be canceled.
The directer looked around, maybe trying to single someone out, but not making a point of it. “I want to see a clean race. The fans might cheer for crashes, but I don’t. The goal is for thirty-three cars to start the race, and thirty-three to finish. Let’s make sure the rescue team stays put for two hundred laps, okay? Thank you, and I wish you all the best of luck.”
Most drivers hung around, shooting the shit with one other, but Chance was eager to get back to the team. He turned, ready to get back to the hauler.
Trouble was waiting for him just before the media center doors. Jack Savage stood leaning against the back wall, a grin on his face. It was the kind of grin a man got when he forgot what it meant to lose.
Chance was more than willing to walk past Jack without a word.
“You better stay out of my way today, back marker. If they have to throw the blue flag out for your ass even once, I'll put you into the wall. This is my day, this is my race."
Chance chuckled to himself. "Not sending Isla to do your dirty work, this time? Wow, you must be serious. I'm going to drive my race, Jack. You drive yours."
“Fuck off, loser.” The words were almost quiet enough to slip past Chance. Certainly no one else near the front of the room heard.
As he stepped through the door, Chance just laughed. “It’s going to sting so badly when I beat you this afternoon.”
He pushed the crash bar forward, almost sensing just how pissed off Jack was. Maybe he did sense something, because he made a point of putting a heel against the door just as Jack tried to shove it forward.
The heavy thud rattled the thick door, and Chance grinned from ear to ear as Jack cursed loudly. There was no need to look back. Chance could hear in the sound of the impact that Jack had hit his head squarely on the door.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
Chance’s heart would not stay steady. He would calm himself, only to think about the race and send his pulse sky high once again. There were some races that set him on edge. He hated anything on two wheels. There wasn’t enough protection in the world to keep a crash from hurting on a motorcycle.
The speed worried Chance. After his crash in qualifying, he was rattled. He’d been in hard crashes before, but he had always felt invincible. Heather changed that.
She made him feel powerful, strong, and manly, but not invincible. The feeling didn’t come from anything she said or did, just the way Chance felt in her presence.
He took the long way back to the garage area. Even in the early hours, thousands of people were streaming into the infield. Chance wandered, savoring the last few minutes of peace before the ceremonies began.
Driver introductions, military salutes, and a bevy of other events preceded the race. Chance wanted to keep himself occupied until he had to be in the spotlight. He wandered down Hulman Boulevard toward the museum. The Indianapolis Motor Speedway Museum housed a living history of the Indy 500. More than sixty of the winning cars and some of the more eccentric designs were housed inside the two-story building.
The woman behind the desk inside didn’t recognize Chance as a driver. He enjoyed that. To her, he was just another tourist in to see the history. She yawned and waved him past.
Walking down the rows of older race cars, Chance smiled to himself. He loved the history, the home-built creations, the dangerous and innovative machines that had lapped this track for over one hundred years.
I'll be a different man come this evening. The thought terrified him. Chance always knew who he was. He was a racer. Nothing more, nothing less. After 200 laps, he would just be the traveler without a home and a man without a direction. Heather was his keel, he realized. He was being battered and pushed aimlessly in a storm, and she was possibly the only one keeping him upright.
Chance loved his team, but the addition of Heather by his side was more motivation than any of them could give him.
When he arrived back at the hauler, the team was pushing Annabelle towards the technical inspection garage. IndyCar officials would pour over every inch of the machine, making sure she complied with all the rules. Fluids would be tested, pressures checked, measurements of every body panel of the car would be taken.
Back in his day, DJ was known for bending the rules to their breaking point. Often times, he would brag about rules created just to slow him down. In his older and wiser years, he recognized that the risks of cheating the system far outweighed the rewards. Annabelle would pass inspection with flying colors.
Chance watched the team from afar. Heather was pushing at the rear wing, and Chance wondered if she was thinking about the amazing sex on that very surface. The memory sent an exhilarating shiver down Chance’s spine.
As they grew closer, Heather looked up and caught Chance’s eye. God, that smile. Chance was willing to bet that smile was better than drinking the ceremonial milk in winner’s circle.
“Oi, get your yankee ass over here and push.”
Heather laughed. “Kiwi’s got a point. We’re doing all the work, and you’re just gawking.”
“I’m not gawking. I’m thinking.”
Frank shook his head. “You can push and think at the same time.”
“I could, but the last thing you need is for your driver to pull a muscle the day of the race. Hamstring, glute, who knows. Better safe than sorry.”
“Better get your ass over here, or you’ll be sorry.” Frank squinted at Chance as they rolled the car past.
Chance knew the large man was joking, but even still, he wasn’t about to risk it. Throwing his hands up in defeat, Chance moved to the left rear wheel and began rolling the car forward.
“Weather looks good,” Kiwi said.
Chance nodded. “Gonna run the full two hundred laps. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Kid.” From behind them, DJ’s voice boomed, even outside.
Chance turned to see DJ pulling up on the golf cart. Pointing at the passenger seat, the boss didn’t need to say anything else.
“Sorry, boys,” Heather shot Chance a harsh look. “And lady. When the boss says jump, you jump.”
“And when he says drive, you better run the wheels off this machine.” DJ laughed. “Excuse me and young Chance, but I need to have a word with the man that is going to win today’s race.”
“God damn right.” Frank slapped Chance hard on the back, sending him stumbling towards DJ.
DJ pulled away as Chance climbed into the seat.
“Now’s the time where I give my big speech. You know, the kinda shit they show during halftime in movies.”
Chance laughed and let his head fall into his hands. “DJ, if I hear another speech about the little guy persevering, I’m gonna go crazy.”
“Fine, I’ll give you the hard truth. We’re down on speed. Qualifying was sheer luck, but now we’re starting from dead last. Our team is rag tag at best. I scrounged up two more guys that have changed tires once before. We don’t have any spare parts, so one tangle and we’re out.” DJ’s voice was cold as he poured out the truth about the All-American Pro IndyCar team.
“Well, damn. You didn’t have to go quite so bleak.”
DJ gave a hearty laugh. “There’s some good news, too.”
With a exaggerated look of surprise, Chance asked, “Oh, yeah?”
“Tires, kid.” DJ said the word like it was passed down from on high. “You can stretch a set longer than anyone I know. We can do this race on one less pit stop.”
“Are you serious?” Chance had cultivated a smooth driving style his entire career. Instead of driving like a madman and boring through the tires, he was easy on the car. He didn’t think, however, that it would be enough to save thirty seconds on pit lane during a race.
DJ made a lazy turn through the garage area. He wasn’t headed anywhere in particular.
“We’ve run the calculations. If you can do your thing, we can save one stop.”
“That’s big.” Chance gave a whistle. “That’s big big.”
“Big big is right. We know we’re gonna be at the back, so I only want you passing people if it’s easy. No fights. Only gonna slow you down. Draft with Katayama if you can find him. We’re rolling the dice in a big way, kid.”
Chance didn’t want to ask what that meant. No one asks a magician how a trick is done, and DJ was just that; a fat, old, genius of a magician.
“Pops’ word is law.”
DJ brought the golf cart to a sudden stop. Chance reached out and grabbed onto the dashboard to stop himself. The old man stared at Chance for a long while.
“What?”
DJ shook his head. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Look, I know last year you were fighting for a regular ride, but we all know the reality of this year. This may very well be my last race, And I want it to count."
DJ wasn't the kind to talk about retirement. Chance had imagined him dragging his bold, body up and down pit lane indefinitely, but since the two of them were talking reality, DJ was pushing 80 years old. He lived and raced through a time when motorsport deaths were an average occurrence.
DJ Lancaster had raced in nineteen Indy 500s, and in those nineteen races, seventeen drivers had lost their lives. The boss didn't talk much about the dangers of the good old days, preferring to let the memories rest in peace.
“Whatever you do after this, you will always have a treasured place within these grand stands. Less than one thousand men and women have taken on this race. I want you to go out there and give them hell."
DJ’s cheeks were red as he grunted out the last sentence. If he weren't smiling, Chance might have guessed the old man was having a coronary.
Since Chance was last on the grid, he was first for driver introductions. By the time the other thirty-two drivers were announced, his cheeks hurt from the smile plastered on his face in front of the crowd. Finally all the drivers lined up at the starting line. The crowd was deafening, far louder than any that Chance had ever been in front of.
After numerous photographers took shots of the driver lineup, the cars were wheeled into position. The walk from the finish line to last place irritated Chance, but he knew Annabelle wouldn't be at the back for long.
Chance spoke with a few drivers on his way back, mostly answering questions about Billy’s condition. As Chance made his way, the sound of a mosquito with an Australian accent kept popping up behind. Despite starting from the very front of the field, Jack Savage seemed to be following.
Of course there was still time for intimidation in mind games. Jack Savage was a great driver, but that failed in comparison to his ability to piss people off.
Chance didn’t slow down, much preferring the company of his team and his beautiful lady. Just spotting her polishing up Annabelle eased his heart. The car truly looked like a jumbled mess. Four different colored body panels, including a few that were bare carbon fiber. Annabelle was a visual testament to hard work and even harder budgets. The last touch had been added just that morning. As a tribute to Billy, #Annabelle adorned both sides of the car in bright yellow.
“Hey you.” Heather’s voice was like smooth bourbon, and Chance wanted nothing more than to drink her in.
Wrapping his arms around her, Chance forgot the endless stretch of packed grandstands just fifty feet to his left and right. Heather’s hands came up to Chance’s neck, and he could see in her eyes that it was just the two of them.
Her voice was low, but he could hear her words clearly. “Be safe out there. Okay? That’s all I can ask.”
With a nod, Chance said, “I will. I’ll be coming back to you.”
She leaned up and kissed him. His heart soared, faster than during a race.
“The track temperature is climbing, so we’ve dropped your pressures.” She turned to look at Annabelle.
Chance’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me. What did you do with Heather? You’re obviously Kiwi in a wig.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m impressed. You’ve been busy this past week.” He couldn’t believe how far Heather had come. Speed had gotten a hold of her, and it wasn’t going to let her go.
Heather’s expression soured in the blink of an eye. Chance turned and saw Isla and Jack behind them. Jack’s trendy sunglasses hid his condescending eyes, but Isla’s were dangling between her breasts from a low cut dress. They looked like the kind of couple people threw popcorn at in theatres.
“Jack. Isla.” Chance didn’t bother to hide his contempt. At least he could take a small bit of pleasure in the swelling beneath Jack’s right eye. The door had left a thin red line where it connected. Heather moved directly beside him as he spoke.
Jack broke into a toothy grin, probably ignoring the pain. “If it isn’t Mr. Last Place. Just wanted to wander out to Bum Fuck Nowhere and say hello.”
“Get lost.” Heather snarled at them. Chance beamed.
“Feisty one, ain’t she?” Jack turned back towards the finish line. “Well, we’ve got quite a hike in front of us, so we’d better cut a rug.”
Chance shook his head. “Finally found someone as slimy as you, huh, Isla?”
Chance didn’t expect her to step towards him with a smile on her face, and he most certainly didn’t expect her to kiss him. By the time he realized what was going on, her weaselly tongue was trying to part his lips.
In disgust, he stepped back, shoving her hard toward Jack, who stood laughing at the whole scene.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Chance wiped the sweet lip gloss from him, sickened. He turned to Heather, ready to apologize.
Instead, she stepped forward and planted a hard kiss on Jack. He uncrossed his arms. Before he could put them around her, Heather gave Jack a rough shove, as well.
Chance was incredulous.
“Bloody ace! Now that’s what I’m talking about.” The Aussie broke into a giddy laugh.
Heather faced Isla, who was already staring down Chance’s girl. “See the different reactions? That’s the difference between loyalty and opportunism. Good luck with your opportunist.”
“Just what do you think—“
Isla started to retort, but Heather cut her off. “You don’t intimidate me, bitch.” Chance wanted to take a picture of the deer-in-the-headlights look on Isla’s face. “Now, I think it’s time you two get walking.”
Chance stood frozen as Jack and Isla walked away.
Heather turned. “I’m sorry I kissed him. Oh my god, please forgive me.”
“Forgive you? That was the ballsiest thing I’ve ever seen! Holy hell, that was amazing, Heather.”