The early morning rain had gone, leaving behind the steam to rise up from the pavement in the morning sun. It had been a long time since Chance had bloody knuckles. His father’s had been scarred over from years of wrenching. His daddy had worked hard to make sure Chance never had to earn his living as a mechanic. Sully would be spinning in his grave if he knew what his son was doing to make a living
Chance didn’t mind, though. He knew it was a means to an end. The 500 was special, and special things happened at the 500. Drivers came and went all the time. The second a seat opened up, he’d be there, helmet and gloves in hand. His ear was always to the grapevine, and Chance knew that a few of the smaller teams were having difficulties. Drivers could be divas, and most teams budgets didn’t allow for greed.
He wasn’t in it for the money. In fact, Chance was willing to pay for his seat with every last dime he had. Chance didn’t race for the prize money. He did it for the same reason he had no problem wiping the blood from his hand with a greasy rag. The love of racing drove him.
“Catch yourself?” Kiwi stepped past Chance to open a sliding drawer on the toolbox.
Chance shrugged. “The ratchet slipped. No biggie.”
After pulling out a pair of pliers, Kiwi lifted his hands. He wore thin black gloves, a few of the fingers worn through. “Live savers, I swear by ‘em.”
Chance grinned. Kiwi’s New Zealand accent never failed to lighten the mood. “I’ll see if DJ will spring for another pair.”
“Good luck. He wouldn’t even give out a penny for your thoughts.” Kiwi headed back to the gearbox he had torn apart. “Just head over to the vendor garages. Impact has gloves for less than a tenner. With that, Kiwi disappeared back into the gearbox rebuild. During one of Billy’s rookie orientation runs, he felt a vibration in the higher gears. Kiwi was tasked with breaking the gearbox down to every last individual part looking for the issue. It was a painstakingly long job, but Kiwi took on every task with a smile.
Outside the garage, the morning rain had cleared, the puddles drying up and rising from the pavement. The sun warmed the chill from the air. Stepping outside, Chance tossed the rag spotted with oil and blood into a trashcan as Billy walked up.
“Treating her well, I hope?” The baby-faced driver threw an arm around Chance. His racing suit was tied at his waist, revealing the plain white flame-resistant Nomex undershirt normally covered up.
Chance laughed and threw his own arm around Billy’s shoulders. “Someone has to. You’re driving this thing like it’s a rental.”
“Isn’t it?” Billy winked.
“You ready for the 200 mile an hour test?”
“I’ve already run over 200. This rookie thing is bullshit. I’m ready for real practice. I know Annabelle can run with the best. They just have to release me from the rookie orientation. Then they’ll see.”
Chance believed him. Billy was fast. The kid had many years in the sport. If he got the opportunity to move into a well-funded team, Billy could be a star and future champion. He could feel the car instinctively, like it was part of him. Chance knew the feeling well.
From the first moment he sat in a go-kart as a ten year-old, Chance felt an unspoken bond to the machine. He hated it, though. The rec center go-kart capped out at twenty miles an hour, but for Chance even as a boy, it wasn’t enough.
Sixteen years of racing, and Chance had been behind the wheel of almost anything with an engine. From open wheel racing to motorcycles to boats, if there was a shot at victory, Chance took it.
“Billy, you’re gonna tear it up. Just keep it pointed in the right direction, and you’re in.”
The young racer shook his head. “I’m in because there’s only thirty three cars. Everyone’s in. No one’s gonna get bumped. That kinda takes away the magic, eh?”
“I don’t see it that way at all. The magic will be your name forever being chiseled into the grid of the 101st running of the Indy 500. Keep your mind on the positive.” Chance was talking to himself just as much as Billy. He had come to the track looking for a ride, but he had to settle for wrenching for someone else.
“Yeah, still—“
DJ’s large figure stepped into the garage, cutting Billy off. Despite his age, the man was intimidating as hell, especially for a young kid desperate for the ride. The owner of the team wasn’t mean—until he got mean, as he liked to remind everyone—but his presence was enough to make anyone feel guilty. He wore a windbreaker, jeans, and his ever-present cigar clung to the side of his mouth.
“Kiwi, tell me you’re gonna have that trans back together by lunchtime.”
Without looking up, he answered, “She’ll be right.”
“Well, we’re turning left, so don’t get your hemispheres all screwed up.” He turned to Billy and Chance. A wide smile appeared, but the cigar didn’t sway between his lips. “There he is. I just saw your times from orientation. You’re well on your way, Billy.”
Chance stepped away, knowing DJ wanted to speak with his driver, not a lowly mechanic. He turned back to the suspension and his scraped knuckles.
“Just where do you think you’re skittering off to, Chance Pierce?”
His eyes darted around. “Kiwi’s not the only one putting this heap of junk back together, sir.”
Billy visibly saddened. “Annabelle is no piece of junk. She’s gonna take us all the way.”
DJ nodded. “She sure is, and Chance is gonna make sure you know exactly how to do it.” Reacting to the surprise on Chance’s face, DJ went on, “Did you really think I hired you just to change tires? Come on, Chance. You’re one of the smoothest drivers out there, and I need you to pass that on to Billy. He tore up a set of sticker tires doing rookie runs, rookie runs under 200. He’ll burn through every set of rubber we got.”
For a second Chance just stood with the ratchet in hand. He really had thought he’d only be working on the car. DJ wanted him to be a driver coach, too. Part of him was honored. Part of him was pissed the fuck off.
Chance was a smoother driver than Billy. He had noticed that when the two were teammates. Admittedly, Billy had more speed, but that speed didn't mean anything if the car wouldn’t last.
Ultimately, Billy had one thing that Chance didn’t: sponsorship. Billy's family owned a chain of hardware stores, one hundred and seven of them to be precise. Their logo was plastered all over Annabelle, and arguably kept the team afloat. Having a company support a driver was just as important as lap times. Chance still had a naïve "back in the day" idea of what motor racing should be. It was pure sport, with no outside influence or money.
Back in the real world, however, Chance didn't have a manager, a business partner, a sports coach, or any of the numerous other roles professional drivers had supporting them behind the scenes. He was one man in a world where teamwork was essential.
Burying his emotion, Chance smiled. “Anything for you, DJ."