“Fifty laps to go, kid. You’re hitting the marks. Fourteenth place.”
Chance waited until the car was straightened out on the back stretch before answering. “Copy. Car’s feeling great. What times are the leaders doing?”
“Doesn’t matter.” DJ was harsh as ever. “Run your race, not theirs.”
Despite the exhaustion creeping into Chance’s body, he smiled. DJ was one hell of a strategist. Nearing the top ten, Chance never would have guessed he could climb that high.
Despite running lean on fuel, Chance was gaining on thirteenth place in front of him. The slipstream on each straight allowed his car to inch ever nearer. It was all the encouragement he needed.
The neon strips on the rear of the car in front let Chance know that the next car was a rookie. They were the racing equivalent of a “Student Driver” bumper sticker. Annabelle had her own set of neon indicators, but Chance didn’t think about his own designation. Mentally, he looked for anything to give him the edge over the next car in line. Rookie? Easy pass. Braking early? Easy pass. Damaged car? Easy pass.
Thirteenth place was just a few car lengths ahead as they dove down into turn one. Chance would pass him on the front straight the next time around.
Derek’s voice crackled over the radio. “Fuel and tire save.”
“Why? I thought we were on target. I’m about to take the next place.”
“Negative. There’s a large gap to twelfth, and Cummins is having issues in sixth. I want you to partner up with Katayama for the next few laps. We’re betting on the yellow coming out.”
Try and tell a bird not to fly. Try and tell a band not to rock. Try and tell a racer not to push it to the limit. Chance hated hearing that, but he knew he had to play the long game. Three quarters of the two hundred laps were in the books, and he was knocking on the door of the top ten.
Each position he gained earned the team about fifty thousand dollars more in prize money. He had to silence the voice inside his head screaming to push the car for all it was worth. The last thing the team needed was for a mechanical issue or a wreck to drop them down the order.
“Copy.” Orders were orders. Chance knew what happened when he chose not to listen. He could drive a car with the best of them, but Derek and DJ knew strategy like no one else. He knew the smart thing to do was listen.
Katayama pulled to the low end of the track on the back straight, indicating that he would be diving for the pits. Together, he and Chance had gained one and a half seconds on the leaders by drafting.
“One more lap, then I want you to box. We’re looking great on fuel.”
Chance replied, “Copy on the box. Where’s the yellow you promised me?”
“Cummins is limping around. We’re rolling the dice, but either way, we’re looking damn good. Any changes?”
Chance checked his mirrors, anticipating the slow down before the mandatory sixty mile an hour speed limit in pit lane. He was clear behind and feeling very confident. In a race with infinite variables, it was all shuffling out in favor of them.
The next car in line was coming up much faster than Chance was used to. It must have been Cummins with whatever problem plagued the brakes.
At the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, the drivers simply let off the gas going into the turns. Brakes were only used for pit stops and emergencies, so Cummins must have had his brakes rubbing and slowing him down without even touching the pedal.
Easing off so that Chance wouldn’t catch the next car in the middle of the corner, he noticed a wobble as the driver turned in for the third corner. Something about the movement of the back end of the car looked very unnatural. Then Chance saw it. The piece of debris was tiny, but he caught sight of it flying off the back of the car, just on the edge of his periphery.
The car in front of him instantly snapped sideways, kicking up a plume of white smoke as the rear of the IndyCar began to rotate.
Chance let off the gas, keeping the car low on the track. He aimed Annabelle towards the spinning car, knowing that centrifugal force would force the out of control vehicle up toward the outside of the track.
“Caution, caution, caution." Derek spoke quickly, but he remained calm as ever. “Turn three."
"Way ahead of you." By the time Chance replied, he had passed the spinning car. He caught a glimpse of the impact in his rearview mirror. Yellow lights along the fence on the outside of the track flashed yellow. Chance turned the engine mode down to the largest fuel saving level and took a moment to stretch his fingers. Three hours clenching a steering wheel made it seem like arthritis had its death grip on Chance’s hands.
Less than fifty laps to go, and Chance was just outside of the top ten. After the last pit stop, he would be free to push the car as hard as he liked. Instead of passing cars as they headed off for the pits, he would actually be able to race. Wheel to wheel with some of the best drivers in the world, Chance wanted to prove he belonged among them.
Derek’s voice crackled over the radio. “Pit lane closed at the moment. We're going to bring you in as soon as we can. We will have to make one more stop, but it will be three laps later than everyone else. Coast as much as you can. We can move up a spot or two with a good stop."
Chance let off the gas, gearing up to sixth. The engine revved low, almost rattling the car as he passed the start/finish line. Chance hated that feeling, that vibration made him think every bit of the car was on the verge of divorcing itself all at once.
Putting that horrid thought out of his head, Chance tried to think ahead to the cars in front of him. He was catching up to them as they also coasted. Caution laps gave the drivers a bit of a break, but it was so close to the finish. Chance felt like he was already pushing his luck.
“Pits open, Chance. Bring it in slowly. Fuel save until the cows come home. We’re putting on four new tires, no adjustments.”
“Copy. Let’s bring this one home.”
He edged the car down onto the entrance to pit lane. All the cars Chance could see were coming in along with him. He wouldn’t gain any spots unless the team had a flyer of a stop. All-American Pro wasn’t as professional as the top teams, but Chance was impressed with how quickly they’d become a solid team working together time after time. He loved every single man that put their lives on the line jumping over the wall to change his tires.
Every position he moved up was more of a bonus for the boys. That pushed Chance forward. It focused his mind and drove him faster, harder, stronger. He wasn’t driving for himself anymore. Last year, yeah, it was all abut Chance. This year? He was driving for Billy, for Kiwi, for DJ, for Heather.
Sixty miles an hour was a snail’s pace, but the button on the steering wheel made sure Chance didn’t speed. One penalty would ruin the race, and he couldn’t risk it.
Chance hit his marks, pulling into the pit stall and coming to a halt. The car jacked up in the air as the mechanics pulled the old tires from Annabelle. The new ones went on and the car was fueled in less than ten seconds.
“Go, go, go.” Derek urged Chance on. Tire smoke shot from the back end as Chance pulled back out onto pit lane. He tried to count the cars he was passing to see if he had gained or lost any positions, but the shuffle was too much for him to keep track of. As he passed the gigantic digital screen pylon, Chance scrolled down the list looking for #59. Before he could spot the car number, he had passed it. Sixty miles an hour was fast at all the wrong times.
The flashing lights of the pace car passed turn one, and Chance pulled back onto the track, waiting for a report on where he was in the running.
“Eighth. We are sitting eighth.”
“Holy hell, are you shitting me?”
Derek didn’t respond for a few moments. “Fun fact, Chance. When you’re this high up, you tend to get some TV time, so let’s keep the profanity to a minimum.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to Chance. Other than a finish just outside the top five, Chance was rarely shown on TV, and his radio transmissions had never made it on air. He was in a whole new world.
Sure, there were close to four hundred thousand people watching him around the race track, but there were nearly three hundred million watching him around the world. He would surely be interviewed after the race, and for most race fans, that would be their first real taste of who Chance Pierce was.
“Two laps until green. We’re gonna go on strat three until the last stop. Just meet your deltas and you’ll be in good shape.”
“Can do, boss man.”
Chance weaved Annabelle back and forth, building up heat in the tires. He jerked left, then right, letting a little frustration out. Laps behind the pace car were interminable. Chance just wanted to get back up to speed. He wanted to count the laps down and cross that finish line.
Chance hit the radio button. “Who’s leading?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not exactly. Let’s say it’s morbid curiosity. Who’s leading?”
Derek groaned in response. “Jack Savage. He’s driven a flawless race. So have you. You’ve started last and moved up twenty five places. Keep that in your mind, not who’s leading the race.”
“I know, I know.”
Chance took the time to watch the grandstands go by. He would miss the screams from the crowd. The sound was infectious.
“Going green this lap.”
The crowd vanished. He focused his mind on the car in front. He was back at work, and that job was the most important thing. It would be the only thing for the next forty laps, and then Heather would take the top spot in his mind.
Derek, always the steady voice in his head, said, “Make sure you’ve got heat in the tires, don’t let them get a jump on you. I want you glued to Martinelli’s rear end.”
“Copy.”
Chance was a gunslinger. Where they had their right hand hovering just above their gun, his foot was steady on the accelerator, ready to pull his weapon. He waited, listening for Derek to tell him the green was back out.
Under a caution, all the cars bunched back up, ruining any gap the leader might have gained. Two hundred laps would come down to forty. A race that began as endurance would end as a sprint.
“Get ready.” Derek wasted his words. Chance’s heart was already back up to race levels, pushing one hundred and fifty beats per minute. Before the action heated up, Chance took a few pulls from the on-board drink system that hooked into his helmet. The electrolyte mix had grown warm over the last two hours, making the vaguely salty taste that much worse.
Coming off of turn four, Chance saw the pace car pull down into the pits. Wringing his fingers around the wheel, Chance waited. The leader decided when he wanted to take off, and Derek would relay as soon as he saw Jack Savage accelerate.
Waiting gave birth to doubt and questioning. Why was Jack waiting so long to go? Had the green been waved off because of some unknown problem?
Each question distracted Chance, as it would every driver behind the leader. Racing wasn’t just about going faster than the competition. If there was a way to make them slower, that could be just as important. Psychological warfare.
“Green, green. Go get ‘em.”
Chance did just that. He hammered the gas, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the mirrors and the cars in front. Everyone was on fresh tires and full fuel tanks, so there was no politeness. Respect, yes, but nothing resembling kindness.
On the back stretch, Chance followed the car in front of him to the low side. Before he could move back up to block, a car was passing him near the outside. He had to let off the gas early going into turn three, letting the #17 machine past. Nothing to be done.
Chance knew he had to stay out of trouble. If a car was faster, he had to let them by, counting on that last stop to get him back ahead. The strategy was unnatural, but it had worked brilliantly so far.
Lap 176 saw the first of the leaders head for pit lane. It would be his last stop, even if the caution came out. The tires would last twenty four laps, and the tanks would be full. Chance’s team could short fill the car, making his pit stop take half as long.
Two more laps went by, and Chance was second. Jack still hadn’t come in. Hanging back, Chance watched the lines that Jack drove. His car was smooth into turns one and three, but heading onto the straights, the car couldn’t quite hit the apex. At the end of each straight, Chance was gaining noticeably.
“Alright. Strat one, bring it in at the end of this lap. Smooth into the pits. Savage will probably stay out one more lap.”
“Copy, bringing her in.” Chance changed the engine to use every bit of fuel it could. By the time the lap ended, Chance had gained to within one car length of Jack, who was most likely saving fuel.
Coming out of the last turn, he kept the car low, ready to hit the brakes as late as possible.
At the last second, Jack dove to the left, cutting Chance off. He hit the brakes hard, locking up as he turned hard to the left. The white concrete wall was too close for comfort as Chance struggled to keep Annabelle facing forward.
“What the hell?” He shot over the radio. Raising a hand out of the cockpit, Chance gave Jack the one finger salute.
"Don’t worry about it." Derek's voice was beginning to crack. Even for someone as level headed as him, the stress was mounting. "The stewards will review it. If he gets a drive-through, that's just one more position you move up. Focus on hitting your marks and a clean stop."
He stopped perfectly. The stop felt much faster because only half as much fuel went in. Jack Savage’s stall was at the very end of the pits, so he had a clear shot back out onto the track. Chance had finished his stop and was on the limiter before Jack had even reached his stall.
The stop had been fast, but depending on how much fuel Savage’s team was putting on board, it might not be enough. Chance inched closer and closer, crossing the start/finish line.
Jack’s car veered to the left, taking his stop. Even though he was gaining, it felt like Chance was nowhere near Jack’s car. The constant revs of the engine teased Chance, daring him to take his finger off the speed limiter. In just a few seconds at full throttle, he could pass Jack Savage, but it would be for nothing. Any pass had to be done on track.
Jack’s back tires lit up as he pulled from the stall. Again, he cut right in front of Chance with no regard for safety or respect. Chance waved a hand, again, though he knew it wouldn’t do a damn thing.
Once the two cars crossed the stripe of white paint at the end of the pit lane, they were back and full bore, chasing down the last few laps and eternal glory.
“You are P2. You’re both going to be close on fuel, so don’t trade back and forth.”
Chance had never wanted to disobey more in his life. “I can take him.”
“Chance, we’ve been here before. It’s a bad idea. Follow him, fuel save if you can, and we’ll talk on lap 195.”
“Deal.” Chance focused everything he had on sticking with Jack.
On the straights, he would let off the throttle just enough to stay behind, but each time, Chance knew he could pass. He saw the opportunity. Jack blocked every time, but Chance had enough momentum to get past, either way.
Wait. Some voice of reason screamed in his ear. It wasn’t Chance’s voice. It wasn’t DJ or Derek. It was Heather, her voice stern like she knew what was best. She did, but it was so hard to hear.
A win was so close. Not just a win, but the win. The win that made a racer’s career, cementing his place in the history books. It was just two car lengths ahead.
Seven laps to go, and Chance checked in with Derek. “Tell me I’ve got fuel to burn.”
“Just a second.” The pause was far longer than a second. It was half a lap. “You are good to push. Heather checked the numbers. Go kick his ass, Chance.”
Maybe it was hearing her name. Maybe it was knowing that she was doing her part. Whatever it was, Chance was hit with a strong feeling. Switching the small knob on the steering wheel, he prepared to make a pass on Savage heading into turn one.