1
Swirls of tiny insects danced in the breeze, shoved along by a steady, insistent southwesterly wind. The gentle rushes of air provided little relief, though, in what was already becoming a hot, hazy Midwestern morning. Thunderclouds were already lining up impatiently in formation out across the distant prairie, not even waiting for the heat of the afternoon to give them impetus to begin marching in.
But this particular early August weekend was promising to be a hot one in other ways.
Cars and trucks were already lined up, streaming in from all directions as if answering some kind of homing call only they could hear. The small neighborhood of modest homes seemed almost to be shielding the giant speedway from those who would seek it. But the fans found it all right, tucked there in the middle of the nearly cut lawns, trimmed shrubbery, and towering water oaks. Hundreds of thousands of racing enthusiasts were converging on the facility and its rectangular ribbon of asphalt. Most of them looked on respectfully as they approached its magnificence, gazing in quiet awe at the massive shrine, at its hallowed ground, sacred for anyone who worshiped speed.
What had not actually been visible before suddenly appeared above the roofs of the houses and the mature trees like one of those thunderstorms building out on the horizon. Many of those who were heading her way would unconsciously pause and stare at the massive facility. Others scrambled for cameras. They would literally turn the corner and, suddenly, there it would be, hulking proudly before them. How could anything so huge have been hidden from them until they had gotten so close?
The intricate ironwork of her long, low structure formed an almost natural beauty, as if the speedway had been created by something volcanic, geological, not by the hands of men. The place had a profound gracefulness that seemed lacking in most of the newer, more modern racing facilities. And that's why even those who had visited often would usually pause reverently for a moment and stare at her, as if in worship, before heading on for her gates and turnstiles.
It was, after all, Indianapolis, a place whose name was synonymous with speed the world over, regardless of the language that might be spoken there.
Inside the place there was already a festive atmosphere, as joyous and high-spirited as could be found at any major sporting event. There were brilliant colors, fluttering flags, all kinds of music, exotic, enticing smells, and, of course, a patiently waiting but clearly excited throng of loud fans. And down there before them, the focal point of all that excitement, were two long lines of multicolored racing machines, stretched along the pit lane like a pair of rainbow-hued snakes sunning themselves while they awaited the command to roar to life and race away.
Soon, the men who drove those machines would duel with each other to determine who among them had what it would take at the end of the day to bring home the victory. Who would head the field for that last time as the cars eventually crossed the narrow strip of bricks that marked the finish line for any event that might be run here? Who would make the strongest case for bringing the trophy home from Indy? The verdict was still several hours from being rendered, and the jury of several hundred thousand people was prepared to witness the testimony.
The race crews were mostly oblivious to the crowd and the prerace ceremonies as they made a series of last-minute checks on their machines. One of the crews scrambled around a sparkling, bright red Ford that rested in fifteenth position, on the inside of the eighth row. The sky-blue highlights of the car's trim and numbers blended well with the dark blue logo of the machine's primary sponsor. The scripted letters spelled out "Ensoft," the name of one of the hotter companies in the computer software business, and the benefactor who paid good money to support this particular racecar and its team.
The vehicle's improbably young driver wore a bright red driving suit that matched his car perfectly. Despite the nervous anticipation that seemed to permeate the atmosphere of the pit road, the handsome, blond-haired youngster lounged nonchalantly against the side of the car, idly playing with his shoestrings. It seemed he might be about to take a leisurely drive to the corner market instead of climb into the car and race a flock of speed demons for four hundred miles at a breathtaking pace. But anyone who might glance his way knew exactly what this young man was about to do, despite that fact he was hardly halfway through his rookie season at this heady level of stock car racing. He had built a name for himself already. The media had quickly named him "Rocket Rob" Wilder, partly for how quickly he navigated racetracks, partly because he grew up near the "Rocket City" of Huntsville, Alabama.
The kid had quickly burst onto the scene the year before, almost winning his first big-time race at Daytona, all the time charming fans with his easygoing style, his quiet determination to win, and his Hollywood good looks. Now, midway through his rookie Cup season, the twenty-year-old had impressed even the toughest-to-impress observes of the sport. Although he'd not yet claimed his first win at this level, most of those in the garage and the media fully expected it to come any week and no fan complained if he pulled Rob Wilder's name in the office pool.
It wasn't just the car's talented, good-looking kid driver that indicated imminent success. The owner of his team, Billy Winton, had put together a fleet of racecars and a crew that seemed to get better each week, even as his driver gained valuable experience while racing against the sport's best.
The critics noticed immediately that Wilder relied more on finesse and a smart, heads-up driving style than he did on the push and shove that made many of his peers famous. Or infamous, as the case may be. Rob Wilder was already developing an impressive following among race fans, attracted by his magnetic personality, his youthful, self-effacing manner, and his skill at handling a machine traveling nearly two hundred miles per hour. And along the way he'd won the respect of those he competed against, too.
But if pressed, Rob would admit that it was all hard for him to fathom. After all, he was still a few months shy of being legal in most states. He found it difficult to understand why people would show up at a computer store or shopping center or at a race event and wait patiently in line for hours to meet him, to have him sign a photo or slip of paper. He had often dreamed of such a thing when he was growing up in Hazel Green, just up the road from Huntsville. But now that it was actually happening, he couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. He was only a young kid, a racecar driver who had never won a Cup race. A raw rookie who had been running potholed local tracks in a wired-together junker only a short two years before.
Sure, he had done a couple of national television commercials for Ensoft and people were always asking him to deliver his tag lines from the spots for them. Or they would recite back to him something he had said in a radio or television or newspaper interview, or describe in amazing detail some on-track incident he had already filed away in his memory banks.
Yes, it was heady stuff. Someone with a less even keel might have let it turn him. But Rob Wilder had two big advantages.
One was the coaching of his mentor, Jodell Bob Lee. Jodell had been a legendary driver and was now a successful team owner. Along the way he practically adopted the hard-driving, quite-spoken youngster. It had been Jodell Lee who looked on one night as Rob won a feature race at a dusty little bullring of a track where the old driver was making an appearance. Jodell immediately recognized the kid's talent. He recommended Rob to his friend and former crewmember Billy Winton, who was, at the time, toying with putting together a full-time Grand national team. Along with his invaluable tips on racecar piloting, Lee also helped the kid deal with the pressures off-track commitments and the adoration of fans, as well.
Rob's other big advantage strolled right up to him at that very moment and slid down to sit next to him on the pavement.
"I don't think I've seen this many people in one place since the last time I sat in a traffic jam for two hours on the Hollywood Freeway," she said, surveying the huge, colorful crowd that encircled them.
Michelle Fagan. She was a high-level executive, the vice-president of marketing for Ensoft, the Winton team sponsor, but she was also much, much more. Nowadays, Michelle spent far more time following Billy Winton's race team from track to track, overseeing the sponsorship tie-ins, than she did running the marketing department of the software giant. She could have hired someone to do these chores for the race team but she readily admitted she didn't want to do that. She had immediately come to love this rapid, loud sport once she had gotten a taste of it, as incongruous as that might sound for a California girl with a master's in business administration from U.C.L.A. A lady who, up until the car sponsorship deal, had only caught brief glimpses of stock-car racing while flipping between the business channels on her local cable television system. And a sharply focused executive who also just happened to have a high-tech bucking bronco of a company to try to tame.
"You know, Chelle, there's more people here to watch us run tan there are living in Hazel Green and Huntsville put together?"
"You're nervous, then."
He snorted.
"Naw! All these parades and singing and stuffs is just postponing my winning this race, is all."
"No. I think you're nervous. I believe I see your little hands shaking and you've got dry mouth and I believe you're on the verge of breaking out in hives. Yeah, Mr. Stock Car Boy, I think you're as nervous as--"
Before she could stop him, he dropped a handful of gravel down the back of her Ensoft-team racing shirt.
"Look out! Spiders! Bi...
