Scarlet Thunder (6 page)

Not that there was total silence.

Every half lap or so we could hear George on her radio.

“How do the tires feel?” he asked.

“Hot,” she said. “But I don't want to give anything up going into the corners. Not when we worked so hard to get us here.”

“Pushing hard enough to squeal?” he asked.

“This isn't my first race,” she answered.

Another voice took me away from the race.

I realized it was Uncle Mike. Asking me to hit Pause.

“Tire squeal?” he asked.

“You know the answer, don't you,” I said, grinning. “This is a test.”

He nodded. “Pass it.”

I thought it over. “All right. Once tires get over two hundred and twenty-five degrees, they lose grip. As they lose grip, they slide and get even hotter. Squealing is the fastest
way to let you know you're pushing too hard.”

“A-plus,” Uncle Mike said, matching my grin. “Let's get back to the race.”

We watched another five laps. Again, all I could do was shake my head in admiration. The front and back camera views showed how much skill it took to stay on the track at those high speeds. She was still silent, intent on keeping her second-place position.

George's voice broke in. “Are you losing speed on the straights?”

“Don't seem to be. Worried about the bodywork?” she replied.

I hit Pause on the video playback.

“I asked one of the crew about the new fender they banged into place,” I said to Uncle Mike. “Actually, I did more than ask. I filmed one of the guys. He told me that their biggest worry was spoiling the air flow. He said banged-up bumpers and crumpled fenders were as much a part of stock-car racing as hot dogs and cola in the stands. A few dents won't slow a car, but any major fender damage will cause air drag above
one hundred and forty miles per hour. If they did a bad job, it might cost her ten miles an hour in speed.”

I hit Play on the video again, catching her voice as she went into the straights.

“The crew did a great job,” she said. “No vibration, no shake. I feel good about this race.”

She should have. She finished fourth.

Fourth might have made her happy, but it didn't do much for us. Because we didn't get it on film.

Ten seconds later, in the hotel room where we sat, the television screen went black. We figured out later that someone had loaded nearly dead batteries into all the equipment.

We were two weeks behind our shooting schedule.

We had traveled to a different track for a different race. Concord, North Carolina. But it still looked the same, because all I really saw was either a hotel room or an infield track with stands in the background.

It was the night before qualifying runs. The Scarlet Thunder crew had invited the film crew to a barbecue on the infield, in front of the motor homes. A storm had
passed by earlier, clearing the air of heat and humidity.

I looked around the gathered crowd. I saw Brian Nelson and Margaret Lynn, another camera person. Ken Takarura, a famous sports interviewer, sat with Uncle Mike. Mike had flown Ken in for the weekend to interview Sandy Peterson. Al Simonsen, who was in charge of audio, hovered nearby.

Tim Becker had joined us too. Sandy had gone back to her hotel room to try to get as much rest as possible. So Tim, as public relations man, had been assigned to stay with us to answer any and all questions. He was pleased we had accepted the invitation to enjoy this family-style barbecue with the crew instead of eating at a restaurant somewhere. I was too, because I had a huge steak on the grill that smelled great.

I was also filming with my handheld camera. People had long stopped joking about the camera as a growth on my shoulder. Now they just went about their business and left me alone. I got a few minutes of footage of the crew standing around talking and
laughing. Then I turned the camera to Uncle Mike.

He was talking to Tim Becker about Sandy's most recent crash during this week's practice runs. A crash that I had caught myself with my handheld. I felt real good about the footage; the flames and smoke would look pretty dramatic on television.

“We weren't that worried about her being hurt,” Tim said. “She slid off the wall and didn't have any real impact. Besides, the drivers wear special fire-retardant suits. She was out of the car right away, and the fire crew had the flames smothered in about thirty seconds.”

“Did Sandy say how she lost control?” Uncle Mike asked. I kept filming, moving my camera onto his face. “I mean, she's a great driver. She can qualify in her sleep. Why would she hit the wall with no one else on the track?”

“Loose rear wheel,” Tim said. “She says it wouldn't quite hold the turn.”

Tim turned to me. He smiled into the camera. “Remember, Trenton, even though
you've got that on film, Sandy won't let you air it on television. Can you imagine what the press would do with it? Can you imagine the headline? Crew Fails To Check Car. That wouldn't be good for the team. Or the sponsor. And we need to keep the sponsor happy.”

I nodded from behind my camera.

“If you shut that off,” he said, “I'll tell you more.”

I lowered the camera but let it run. I angled it upward from my hip, hoping he wouldn't notice.

“You see,” he continued, “in my business, you always have to worry about appearances. A rumor like that could really hurt the team. Besides, Sandy might have been looking for an excuse. She hit the wall pretty hard. That alone is enough to loosen any wheel.”

“But if she's a good driver,” I said, “wouldn't she feel when something's wrong? She does know what she's talking about, right?”

“Of course, of course,” he said quickly. Almost like he didn't believe it. Almost like he was a public relations person whose first
thought was always to say the right thing. “Sandy is one of the best. The whole team believes in her.”

He said that too, like it was something he was automatically supposed to say. I remembered Sandy telling me and Uncle Mike how much she needed to win a race soon or she wouldn't be driving much longer.

I hoped my camera had kept Tim in the viewfinder frame. This was great stuff, even if he didn't want me filming it.

I didn't feel guilty about trying to catch him on film either. Good directors didn't let anything or anyone stop them from getting the very best work possible.

The only thing that got me to set my camera down in the next few minutes was my steak, medium rare. And, of course, I had to take another short break for dessert.

“This is George Lot's specialty,” Tim Becker said as he came back with dessert dishes for the film crew. “He makes it every week for these barbecues. He uses at least a dozen
different types of fruits and berries. Always fresh. And healthy too. Except for the sweet whipped cream he folds into them.”

“No, thanks,” Margaret Lynn said. She was in her twenties. Uncle Mike thought she was great behind the camera; she often caught unusual angles. She'd pulled her long dark hair into a braid and wore a
Save the Whales
T-shirt. She was also a vegetarian and had chosen to eat a huge salad for her meal. “I don't generally eat dairy products. And that whipped cream looks too rich.”

Like everyone else, I dug into my bowl of fruit, enjoying the tangy flavors and sweet creaminess as the conversation continued around me.

I listened as Brian Nelson and Al Simonsen picked up a long-running argument they had with Margaret Lynn. Brian and Al had long hair and each wore a single earring. They, however, were wearing
Nuke the Whales
T-shirts. Not that they wanted whales to be nuked, but they loved doing anything that raised Margaret's blood pressure.
And now they were arguing that we didn't need farmers because everyone knew we could just get food from grocery stores.

I laughed at Margaret's expression as I finished my fruit and picked up my camera.

Ken Takarura sat quietly beside me and just listened as he ate. Ken was older, with fine gray hair and a thick gray goatee. He wore tiny, round glasses and looked the part he would play in our documentary: an intelligent interviewer unafraid of the difficult questions.

“So, Tim,” Uncle Mike said between bites of his dessert, “Sandy managed to qualify in spite of her crash. It seems like a banged-up car and blown engine could have kept her out of racing for about a month.”

The PR man shook his head. “A racing team is just that. A team. About thirty people. Engineers. Mechanics. Administration. There are two guys who just rebuild extra motors. Another two guys who can replace a motor almost as fast as some people can make a sandwich.”

I'd gotten all of that with my camera.

“In fact,” Tim said, “there's not much trouble that this team can't lick.”

“Same with my team,” Uncle Mike said. “This crew can handle anything.”

Except for what happened to us very, very early the next morning.

For me, it started with a bad dream. I was in a swamp. The water was up to my waist. My feet were stuck in mud. I watched an alligator swim through the waving grass in the water. It got closer. I couldn't run because my feet would not move. The jaws opened wide. I screamed. The jaws closed on my stomach.

The pain was so real that I woke up.

I blinked for a few seconds, expecting to still be in a swamp.

I wasn't.

I was in a rented motor home that I shared with Uncle Mike. We had decided to spend this week living like the pit crew and filming them in their everyday activities. So we too were parked in the infield among the dozens and dozens of other motor homes that housed the different racing crews. The rest of the film crew was in a motor home parked beside ours.

Still blinking, I was rattled by how real the dream had seemed. So rattled that it took me a couple more seconds to realize the alligator was still clamped on my stomach. Except, of course, there was no alligator.

I had stomach cramps. Real bad stomach cramps. So bad that I heard groaning, and it didn't even feel like it was coming from my mouth.

When I heard the groaning again, I realized that it came from another part of the motor home. The part where Uncle Mike slept.

I looked at the clock beside my bed. The red glowing numbers showed 1:30 AM.

My stomach cramps got worse. I groaned too. I almost felt like I was going to throw up.

I heard Uncle Mike get out of his bed.

I didn't say anything. I was afraid that if I tried to talk, all my insides would come out of my mouth in a big explosion.

Uncle Mike staggered through the motor home in the darkness. I heard a bang.

“Nuts!” he said. Probably his toe. There was a step in the motor home that I had already hit twice.

Uncle Mike hopped around.

So did my stomach.

It hopped and flopped. I got that feeling you get when you know you're going to blow. The feeling that says you have exactly 2.5 seconds until the geyser hits. The feeling that says you had better use those 2.5 seconds to get someplace other than the bed where you are lying beneath the covers.

I bolted upright. I hit my head on the low ceiling.

In the darkness, I saw an awesome display of circles of light. But my head hurt so bad
I didn't feel like applauding. And my body was already in full motion.

I shoulder-checked Uncle Mike, who was still hopping. He fell across the table. I didn't stop to apologize. I was down to 1.5 seconds.

I ripped open the bathroom door. I fell to my knees in front of the toilet.

As I was throwing up, I became aware that not all of the horrible sounds were mine.

Uncle Mike was using the sink to do the same thing.

It just made me throw up harder.

After what felt like five years of agony, there was nothing left in my stomach. About two pounds of steak and whipped cream and fresh fruit had just gone to waste.

I didn't feel any better though. Most times it is a relief to throw up. Not this time. I still felt dizzy and could hardly breathe.

In the darkness of the bathroom, I pushed past Uncle Mike as he leaned over the sink.

“Air,” I croaked. “I need air.”

I got to the motor home door. Because it was so dark, it took what felt like five years for me to figure out how to open the lock. It was five years filled with a stomach still in the grip of an alligator, lungs that were pushing against a giant vise, and hands and arms that hardly obeyed what I told them to do.

Finally, I snapped open the lock, flipped the door open and half fell getting outside.

The air was hot compared to the cool air-conditioned air inside of the trailer.

It didn't matter. At least I had room around me.

I sat on a lawn chair.

What was happening to me? My body was shaking. I could still hardly breathe. And my stomach hurt so bad I wanted to cry.

Then I heard the same sound I had heard inside our motor home.

The sound of someone throwing up. Except this time it was someone outside. Someone nearby.

I strained my eyes. There was just enough light for me to see Brian Nelson, our cameraman, and Ken Takarura, the interviewer.
They were both outside the rented motor home they shared with Al Simonsen. Brian and Ken were bent over and heaving in a horrible way.

Uncle Mike staggered outside to join me. He stood in front of me, leaning on his knees and gasping for breath.

All he could do was groan.

Brian and Ken kept throwing up.

They were so loud that lights began to come on in trailers nearby.

“Hey!” someone yelled. “Keep it down out there!”

That warning didn't mean a thing. Brian and Ken retched even louder.

“Look, you guys, if you don't stop that noise, I'm going to come out there!” the voice shouted.

“Knock off the shouting!” another person shouted. “We need sleep here.”

More lights flipped on. More shouting echoed through the infield.