The Outside Groove (27 page)

As if just taking a nanosecond to process the reality of Wade being two cars back were a distraction, I lost a flicker of speed somewhere, and Wade was on my tail in one full lap. Apparently, he was track champion for a reason. Car 22 was fighting valiantly for the far outside, and while this line was clearly not the most efficient, his car seemed strong enough to keep pace. I drove my line as tightly as I could, knowing that there was just a smidgen of room on the inside for Wade to stick his front end. If I slipped too far to the inside, car 22 would take me on the outside. But if I didn't leave my line by a couple of feet to close out Wade, he'd snag the inside track on me. If either of the drivers bumped me, the other was guaranteed to take the lead.

I'd lost track of how many laps I'd driven, and I didn't dare waste a second's glance at the lap clock, but I could tell, from the push in Green's front tires, that I was deep into this race. I regained my focus. Star, Florida, skid mark, New Hampshire. Accelerate. Star, Florida, skid mark, New Hampshire. Accelerate.

In between skid mark and New Hampshire on my next lap, car 22's rear wheels slid again, this time more violently than before. I instinctively punched the gas to stay ahead if he started to spin. The sudden acceleration threw my own front tires into a microskid. My corner exit speed dragged by a mile or two per hour, and that was enough for Wade to move up on the inside.

Car 22 drifted back half a car length, but I knew how his story would end. His car was too tight and hadn't loosened up. While he and I'd been running even since the green flag dropped, his line way outside basically meant he was about to miss the entire race. The race—the whole race—was down with Wade and me in the meat of the track.

The flagman leaned out over the track, flashing ten fingers—ten laps to go. This was it, the last chapter in a story that had dragged on much longer than I'd expected—and certainly longer than anyone in my family had hoped. The beginning and middle chapters were written. I'd held the lead, I had the best line, but my tires were fading. How would the story end? As far as I understood this crazy sport, the answer hinged on one clue: Wade's tires.

Because I'd made my decision.

My older brother had chosen the inside track, snatched it up, in fact, with impressive skill. And that's where I intended to keep him. It was the only strategy that gave me any advantage. I could move outside if I wanted, but on the inside Wade could drift outside only as far as I'd let him—unless he wanted to bump me. In front of Circuit scouts? After dusting eleven cars to reach me? No way.

Wade's front wheels were still short of my rears. He'd passed every car in the field except mine. That must've been some superb driving to watch. As I ripped down the stretch close to the stands, out of the corner of my eye I saw the spectators on their feet.

Wade and I rolled around turns stuck together like two magnets. He seemed as committed to beating me on the inside as I was to pinning him there. But I had to ask myself:
Are there tires that can pass eleven cars in a fifty-lap sprint and gut out the last few laps on the inside lane?

Unlikely.

Wade's strategy suddenly hit me like a slap to the side of my helmet. I jerked my wheel to the right and looked in my mirror. Wade slipped in right behind me: I'd beaten him to it, stopped him from taking the outside groove. So he hadn't been planning to run this out on the inside after all.

I plunged into turn one and hit my marks.

Drifting farther outside as we came out of the turn, Wade had lost half a car length driving the longer line. Now he needed engine
and
tires to beat me. He couldn't do it. I knew he couldn't do it. When, in the next turn, he dropped back to the inside, I concluded that he was getting desperate, grasping for geometry to rescue him when that was only half of the equation. I clung to my line in the outside groove, and as he crept up on the inside, I moved closer to him. Pinned him. He stayed put. I made sure of it.

Coming out of turn four, I saw the flagman waving the white flag: last lap.

Wade was glued to my left rear tire, as close as two cars could be without touching. I could've tapped the brakes and he'd have rammed me. Bump-and-run. The scouts might've thought he'd done it on purpose.
But what would I gain from that?

Star crack. Florida. Accelerate.

Flying down the backstretch, the sweat streaming down my face, I felt a hollow space open up in my chest. Wade shook in my rearview mirror. Or maybe that was me shaking—shaking as the Widowmaker wall to my right faded away and disappeared, dissolving into an old stone fence fronting a neat, green lawn. The turn one-turn two bank became a grassy hill, with people sitting, reading, studying, learning. The pit gate was the on-ramp to the highway that would lead me away forever. Was that sweat in my eyes, or were those tears?

Wade got his right front tire up to my number in the backstretch, but I knew it wasn't far enough. As we rounded turn three—skid mark—I saw the flagman leaning out over the track, checkered flag held aloft. The Beer Belly Hill crowd was jumping up and down like they were watching a concert.

Turn four—New Hampshire. Accelerate.

In the main straightaway, Wade drifted up inches on the inside. I could see him pulling up to my window, and I could almost feel car 02's vibrations tingling along my arms. I'd become fused with his car and mine. Lightheaded and on fire, I experienced the illusion of silence amid the deafening noise enveloping us. A peaceful silence. Not like a racetrack. More like a tranquil college campus in autumn.

I lifted the gas pedal just slightly.

Just slightly ... lifted.

And watched car 02 glide past.

I trailed Wade under the flag and coasted into the turn. Star crack. Florida. Just for old time's sake.

Other drivers rolled up to me and gave me the thumbs-up. The sight of them startled me, as if I'd forgotten they were even out there. I nodded and shook the sweat from my eyes.

The pit gate opened, and the cars started to file off the course. Across the infield I saw the flagman hand the checkered flag to someone who ran it down to Wade's window. The crowd roared as Wade began his victory lap. When he got to the turn in front of the pit gate, though, he stopped. If he didn't move, he'd block my way. He waved for me to pull alongside. When I did, he tossed the flag in through my passenger-side window and then pulled off the racecourse.

“How about that show of sportsmanship, folks,” Bean said as I began a lap around the track. “A truly historic Firecracker 50 for you.”

I ignored Bean, focusing on the way the wind caught the flag as I held it out my window, the black and white against a cloudless blue sky. The breeze carried the scent of fried dough and exhaust—not the most environmentally friendly concoction, but a comforting smell nonetheless. Lost in my thoughts and delirious from the heat inside my car, I forgot to stop at the finish line and return the colors to the flagman after my lap. So I had to complete another one.

This gave Bean a golden opportunity to make a crack about how I should just pull over and ask for directions if I didn't know the way to the pits. The crowd thought that was funny. I could actually hear them laughing over the rumble of Green's engine. Or maybe that was me.

***

I pulled into the pits and braced myself for whatever would come next. Of course, the Sharks tackled me the moment I was out of my car. Uncle Harvey gave me a big hug. Even Jim gave me a hug. Beyond Jim, I saw Big Daddy approaching from down pit row, and he looked furious. “I apologize in advance for what you may be about to witness,” Uncle Harvey said. “If I live through this, Casey, I could sell this ride and help you out with school. I bet I could get good money for it, you know, now that it's been road-tested.”

Big Daddy was about fifty feet away when Bean's voice crackled over the loudspeakers: “Wade, you did it, boy.”

“Yeah, I did, but I'll tell you what, it wasn't easy.”

“Little sister gave you a run for your money.”

“Little nothing. She's as big as they come when she's settled in the outside groove.”

Big Daddy slowed down and stopped two pit slots away.

Uncle Harvey approached him.

The two just stood there, saying nothing.

“So, here's your trophy, Wade,” Bean said. “The Firecracker 50. You're our champion. Nice work.”

Finally, Uncle Harvey extended a hand. Big Daddy shook it. Then they stared at the ground, identically awkward expressions on their faces.

“Thanks, Bean,” Wade said over the speakers. “And I want to thank my sponsors, Valley Savings
Sc
Trust and Granite Autoland. I also want to thank my crew and the other drivers for pushing me so hard. But this trophy isn't for me.”

The crowd quieted down a little.

Big Daddy and Uncle Harvey turned toward the track.

“You know,” Wade continued, “everyone thinks it takes courage to drive a racecar, and maybe it does, a little. But I'll tell you something. What you really need to succeed is people who support you and are always there for you, pulling for you no matter what. Even if you make mistakes. And to me, that's what family is all about. This one's for my family.”

Wade held the trophy in the air, and the crowd rose to their feet again.

I looked at Big Daddy and Uncle Harvey, who stared blankly toward the track.

I spotted Fletcher standing in Wade's pit looking at me and shaking his head, as if he were amazed by it all.

I shook my head back at him because it really was amazing. It was amazing how much more there was to racecar driving than just driving around and around in circles.