two most promising racing drivers in Europe. Of course this was before
I was born. Daddy was about twenty and Worm the same age."
"What happened?" Woody asked.
"I don't think I ought to tell you," Rocky said. "It's Worm's secret,
and maybe you really ought to ask him. Though I'd advise waiting until
he's ready to tell you. I think he will one day. Here, you take over."
She pulled the MG to the curb. Woody climbed out, and she slid over
into his seat.
As Woody got back into the MG behind the wheel, he saw the Jacksons'
car going by. Mrs. Jackson was driving and Mary Jane was sitting beside
her. She stared at him in disbelief and then suddenly turned away and
looked straight ahead.
9
For the next two weeks Woody saw a great deal more of Rocky than he did
of Mary Jane. He felt vaguely guilty about it. The business of getting
the MG ready for the Hansen Dam races put him constantly in Rocky's
company. They went to the tech inspection together, and Woody, with
Worm's assistance, remedied the various defects in the MG that the
inspectors demanded be repaired. They were minor--a new tire, a stop
light that didn't work, some adjustment to the brakes so that all four
wheels locked evenly, and one or two other odds and ends.
Woody had to admit to himself that he liked Rocky. As a matter of fact,
the more he saw of her and the more he was with her, the more he liked
her. But he also liked Mary Jane, and he wondered whether there might
not be some character defect in himself, hitherto undetected, because
of this. Could a guy be keen on two girls at the same time? He hadn't
read much on the subject, but what little he had suggested that this
was contrary to human nature. Most fellows seemed to have just one
girl. Yet there he was with two and loath to give up either of them.
Rocky had all the things that Mary Jane didn't. She loved cars and
would talk about them for hours. She drove like a wizard and was quite
skillful when it came to making repairs. As a matter of fact, she knew
more about sports cars than Woody did, though she was very tactful at
concealing this.
Mary Jane, on the other hand, was more feminine. Maybe she didn't know
much about cars and was somewhat averse to them. But she was more of a
girl and, indeed, prettier than Rocky. Woody sometimes wished that the
two could somehow be combined, for the result would have been ideal for
him. Woody would hardly think of taking Rocky to a dance, nor would
he think of asking Mary Jane to help take the head off an engine.
Combined, he would have a girl who could go dancing and work on cars
with him as well.
Steve was not a great help in this dilemma. "What you think you're
doing?" he asked. "Getting together a harem?"
"If you want a punch in the nose you came to the right guy," said Woody.
"Who? Me?" said Steve innocently. "Your old pal? All I have is your
welfare at heart. Just don't like to see a promising young mechanic
getting dame trouble so early in his career." He skipped quickly out of
the garage as Woody threw one of Worm's dirtier oil rags at him.
The matter came to a head one evening shortly before the Hansen Dam
race when Woody had a date with Mary Jane.
She was tight-lipped through the dinner and Woody was careful not to
talk very much about either the race or cars. When they were sitting
over a dessert of sherbet, Mary Jane said suddenly, breaking an awkward
silence, "Woody, are you going to race at Hansen Dam?"
"Sure," said Woody, pretending to be surprised by the question.
"I suppose Rocky has talked you into it," said Mary Jane.
"No, she didn't," Woody replied. "I'm racing her car. But she didn't do
anything to persuade me. I wish I could get you to understand that I
just like racing cars. It means a lot to me. It's the one thing that I
really like doing."
"If you cared anything about me at all you wouldn't race," Mary Jane
said, looking straight into Woody's eyes.
"Gee," said Woody, "this hasn't got anything to do with whether I care
for you or not. You know I care for you. It's just that I like racing,
that's all. And I've got a swell chance to race Rocky's car--"
"Don't mention that Rocky to me again," Mary Jane flared. "She's just
a scalp-hunter. She's out to collect all the scalps she can. And I can
see that she's already added yours to her collection." And with that
Mary Jane got up and headed for the door.
Woody had a hard time paying the check in time to catch up with her.
He tried to explain more to her about racing, but people kept looking
at them, and even when he drove her home, he knew that she was not
listening to him.
Her parting words were "You can make your choice between Rocky and me.
And don't expect me to stand around weeping while you do."
This time Woody got mad.
"There isn't any choice between you and Rocky," he said. "That's just
your excuse. The choice is between you and racing. And right now, for
your information, Miss Jackson, I'm choosing racing."
With that he slammed the door of the car and drove off. He hadn't
gone more than a quarter of a mile before he regretted such an angry
parting. He wondered whether he ought not to go back and try to patch
things up. But then he recalled how mad Mary Jane had been over the
money he spent on his hot rod, Cindy Lou. And at the memory he gritted
his teeth and drove on. It was time for a real showdown with Mary Jane,
he told himself. She would either have to take him, cars and racing, or
find some other guy. He wasn't going to give up his chief interest in
life for Mary Jane, and he found it selfish of her to ask him to do so.
Early Saturday he was at Hansen Dam with Rocky and Steve. Rocky had
raced her MG before and was well known to many of the other drivers and
their crews. They drifted over to her pit and were introduced to Steve
and Woody. She seemed to be very popular with the racing crowd and held
in considerable respect by them. One driver in particular, a long,
dark-haired youth named Pete Worth whom Woody had never seen before,
seemed exceptionally friendly with Rocky. Woody decided that he didn't
like the guy though he couldn't say why.
"Racing today?" Pete asked Rocky when they met.
"Of course," said Rocky. "Second race. Woody's driving the MG in number
four."
"That so?" said Pete looking Woody over. "Haven't seen you on any of
the tracks before. You from back east?"
"No," said Woody shortly.
"This is his first race," Rocky explained.
"Hope you know the track," said Pete. "Lot of hero drivers have wound
up on the hay bales on this one."
"What are you trying to do, scare him?" asked Rocky.
"Me? No. But that number-four turn is a pistol. Well, see you." He
turned to Woody. "Good luck," he said.
"Who is he?" Woody asked when the other had gone.
"He races a lot," said Rocky. "He's a first-class driver. If you can
keep him in sight, you're doing good. But he likes to go around before
the race and find out what kind of competition he's up against. And if
he finds a new driver he tries to throw a scare into him. He's only
joking, of course, but some of the boys don't like it."
"What kind of a bend is that number four?" asked Woody.
"Oh, it's not really bad," Rocky replied. "Where is that map of the
course? Here it is. Look, there's a long run out, about a quarter of
a mile, then a full hairpin bend back again. That's number four. The
only trouble about it is that it's narrow and it's flat. No camber
on it to help you get around. The thing to do is to change down at
the hundred-yard mark to second and then gun her around. If you do it
right, you can drift around the bend. But if you take it too wide,
you'll hit the hay bales on the far side.
"Remember this. If you do leave the track, don't get back into the race
until a flagman gives you a high ball. And if you spin out and your
engine quits, hold both your hands up over your head as a signal to the
other drivers to miss you--that is if they can.
"Tell you what. I know this track pretty well. I've raced on it twice
before. The track will be open for practice in a few minutes. Why
don't you take the MG and get in five or six laps to familiarize
yourself with the turns? It'll help a lot."
"Gee, thanks," said Woody. He climbed into the MG and settled behind
the wheel.
"Fasten your safety belt and take this," said Rocky. She handed him a
heavy white crash helmet. "Here," she said, "I'll fasten it for you."
Her fingers, when they touched the side of his face to fasten the chin
strap, seemed cool and comforting.
Woody gave a little wave of his hand, put the racing goggles from
his helmet down over his eyes, and drove the MG from the pit to the
starting area of the track. A flagman signaled him to stop, and five
cars, all in a huddle, zipped past. Then came two more. The flagman
waved his arm and Woody swept out onto the track. He revved the MG
up, and she took off so fast that he could feel himself pressed back
against the seat. There was an angry roar from behind and a Singer
stormed past him. Woody started to move over to the left instinctively.
In the same instant a Porsche Speedster swept by him on the left.
"Cripes," said Woody to himself, "I'd almost forgotten. They pass any
side they want to."
He felt his knees shaking a little from nervousness, and his hands were
a little unsteady on the wheel. Then he thought of Rocky watching him,
changed from second to third and third to high and blasted down the
track after the two cars.
There was a corner in front of him before he realized it. It seemed to
be hurled out of space toward him. He dropped down into third, revving
up for a second in neutral. He heard a tire scream as he pulled the
steering wheel over to the left. The MG picked up a rear wheel skid,
careened over to her right a little, scrabbled around the corner, and
was off again. But Woody had hardly time to congratulate himself before
there was another bend ahead. Again he changed down, braking hard to do
so. He turned the wheel to the right, hit the accelerator, and with a
car on either side of him, skated, his rear wheel protesting, round the
bend.
"So that's how it's done," he said. "You slam on the brakes, change
down, rev her hard, pick up a rear wheel skid, and get around." He
began to feel a little more confident.
His confidence was nearly wrecked, however, when he came to bend
number four. A series of signs before it marked off the distances from
the hairpin; two hundred yards, one hundred yards, and fifty yards.
He remembered Rocky's advice and changed down at a hundred. But he
was still going too fast when he entered the hairpin. He picked up a
four-wheel drift, and the steering wheel spun around crazily between
his hands. Woody hit the accelerator hard three or four times and
turned the steering wheel in the direction in which he was skidding. A
monument of hay bales, stacked around a concrete telephone pole, loomed
before him. Then they flew past, the steering wheel steadied, and he
was off down the straight again.
He made five laps before he decided that he was at all familiar with
the course.
"You did swell," said Steve when he got back to the pits. "But, boy,
for a moment I thought you were going to wind up among the hay bales."
"Didn't you tell me that you'd never raced before?" Rocky asked.
"That's right," said Woody.
"Well, it's hard to believe," she replied. "A lot of drivers I know
wouldn't have got out of that four-wheel skid. If Daddy had seen that,
he'd have said you didn't have to learn to drive. You were born knowing
how."
"Thanks," said Woody and he could feel himself blush.
"The track is now closed," said the announcer over the loud-speaker.
"Cars for the first event please come to the starting grid."
10
The first event was for the big cars--three thousand cc.'s and over. By
common consent the three watched it from the start-finish line where
they also had a fair view of what was happening at turn number one.
Rocky, indeed, went out onto the starting grid to talk to some of the
drivers who were friends of her father. Tom Wisdom was there in his
Ferrari, and Woody could see him talking seriously to Rocky. He guessed
he was asking her about Randy.
"Is this big stuff much tougher to handle than the MG's?" Woody asked
when she returned.
"Some people say so. But Daddy says no. He says although they are
faster and heavier, they are also more easily controlled than the light
cars. Of course, a Ferrari is a lot more fun to drive than an MG. They
average about a hundred and twenty around the track, including the
hairpins and other bends, while an MG is doing super if it can average
seventy. I think it's just a matter of instinct and experience. And I
can't say which is the most important. You can't do it all on instinct.
And you can't do it all on experience either. Some of the top drivers
are those who have been racing the shortest while."
They only watched the first half-dozen laps of the first race because
Rocky had to get ready for her turn, which followed immediately. Tom
Wisdom won, and he was over in Rocky's pit just as she was ready to
leave for the starting area.
"Congratulations," said Rocky holding out a slim hand to him.
"Thanks," said Tom. "Good luck, kid. I came to tell you there's a
little oil right as you go into bend three. Not much. Nothing to worry
about. But I just didn't want you sharing the same ward with Randy."
"Oh, he's out of the hospital now," said Rocky. "But thanks all the
same. I'll take it easy."
Steve meanwhile had climbed into the driver's seat beside Rocky.
"Pile on in if you're coming," he said, leaving Woody to climb on the
back. Tom swung a leg over the side and crouched down beside him.
"You driving today too?" he asked.
"Yes," yelled Woody over the roar of the engine.
"Saw you during the practice lap," said Tom. "Nice bit of work on that
hairpin. Driven much before?" Woody didn't think he heard his reply.
There were eighteen cars in the race, and Rocky had drawn the ninth
position in the starting line-up. Ahead of her were five MG's, two
Singers, and a Porsche.
Rocky seemed completely calm as she did up her chin strap and pulled on
her racing gloves. Woody wondered whether the calm was all pretense,
whether she didn't feel waves of anxiety going up and down her spine,
and whether her knees weren't trembling a little.
"Good luck, Rocky," he said as they left the starting area. The smile
she gave him was not the least bit strained. It was eager, and her eyes
danced with excitement. In Woody's opinion, she was looking forward
eagerly to the race and had no qualms about it.
"Thanks," Rocky replied. "This is going to be lots of fun." She looked
around at the cars ahead, behind, and on either side of her, waved to
one or two of the other drivers, and seemed in every way completely
relaxed.
Back in the racing pits, Woody said to Steve, "Rocky doesn't seem a bit
nervous."
Tom, who overheard the remark, smiled.
"She and her father have nerves of steel," he said. "Just when other
people begin to get jittery, they begin to feel cool. I've been driving
fifteen years now. And I can tell you there hasn't been a race yet that
I didn't heartily wish myself somewhere else a few minutes before the
starter brought down his flag. There they are! They're off!"
A swarm of cars roared by them, and Woody hardly caught a glimpse of
the big five on Rocky's MG before it had flashed by.
Woody wished he could get over to the hairpin to see how Rocky handled
it. But he was compelled to stay in the racing pits in case the car
developed any trouble. He was able to see only snatches of the race as
the cars passed by the start-finish line at the end of each lap. The
rest, however, he followed through the announcer on the loud-speaker.
He confined his comments for the first four laps to the Porsche and
another MG, number fourteen, which had started a battle for leadership
at once. But by the end of the sixth lap, Rocky had come up to fifth
place and was fighting it out with a Singer ahead of her. Woody saw the
two speed by, and they were almost abreast at the bend. But the Singer
had the inside track and was the first around the bend.
The announcer now was beginning to take some notice of Rocky. "Keep
your eyes on Rocky Randolph in car number five," he said. "Miss
Randolph is the daughter of Captain Jim Randolph, one of the great
sports car racers of the day. She is driving an MG TF and doing a
magnificent job of it. Those who say that driving ability isn't
inherited may think differently after watching her. She and a Singer,
number twenty-two, are going into the hairpin together. The Singer has
the inside track. Boy! Look at that. The Singer, driven by Miss Simmons
of San Diego, took the hairpin a little wide, skidded to the far side,
and Randy slipped through the gap. She's now ahead--fourth in the race
and overhauling the Porsche in front of her."
"Here they come," said Steve excitedly. "There's the first MG, the
Porsche--and there's Rocky--third."
The announcer picked up the rest of the lap for them. Rocky was having
a hard time getting by the Porsche. She could corner better, but the
Porsche had more acceleration on the straightaway. She remained in
third place for the next two laps, and then the announcer said that she
had dropped back to fourth.
"Must be having some trouble," said Tom. They waited anxiously. The
first MG passed, then the Porsche, a Singer, then two more MG's, and
finally Rocky came almost crawling down the track.
She steered into the racing pits, and Woody saw at a glance that her
right-hand rear tire was almost flat.
Nobody said a word. Steve had the jack out and the rear of the MG off
the ground in almost the time it takes to describe it. In the meantime
Woody had taken off the flanged racing hub that held the wheel in
place. It was the work of less than a minute to remove the wheel and
put on the spare, and Rocky was back in the race in three minutes. But
in that three minutes, all the other cars had gained a lap on her. Try
as she would there wasn't time to make it up and get back into the lead
again. She did make up half a lap, but the checkered finish flag had
fallen before she could improve her position.
"Tough luck," said Woody when she drove back into the pit. "You were
doing swell."
Rocky's eyes were still bright with excitement. "It was wonderful," she
said. "I haven't had so much fun since the last time I raced. You boys
did a terrific job changing that wheel. Only lost a lap. Could easily
have lost two if you'd bungled it." Her smile was full of appreciation.
There was time, in the interval provided by the third race, to check
the MG over. Woody took it down to the gas truck to be filled up and
to have the oil checked. Rocky reported that the engine had behaved
beautifully, so he did nothing there but see that all the spark-plug
leads were firm and examine the valve cover for oil leaks. There were
none. When he got back to the pits, he found it hard to appear cool.
Steve and Rocky were watching the race, and he was glad of that. Rocky
had put on such a wonderful performance that for the first time he
became aware that he had better do at least as well if he was not to be
disgraced in her eyes.
He sat behind the wheel and looked into the rear-vision mirrors. They
seemed to be adjusted right. He got out and looked at his tires.
Nothing wrong with them. He opened the hood again, took the cap off the
distributor, and looked at the points. They were in excellent shape.
"What the heck am I doing?" he said to himself, replacing the cap and
shutting the hood firmly.
"Listen, Woody," he told himself, "all you have to do is keep cool and
drive as well as you can. No sense taking unnecessary risks. You've got
a long time to live. Besides, every other guy in the race is probably
just as scared as you are right now."
This thought, comforting for a second, was immediately dispersed by a
voice behind him.
"Feeling O.K.?" somebody said, and he spun around startled by the
unexpected words. It was Pete Worth, to whom he had been introduced
earlier in the day.
"Sure," replied Woody with all the calm that he could summon.
"Just dropped by to make sure you were in the race," Pete said.
"Sure, I'm in the race," said Woody, nettled. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Oh, nothing," said Pete. "I saw that Rocky had some trouble and
thought it might keep you out of it." He was quite cool, almost
insolently so.
"Just a flat tire," said Woody.
"Ah," said Pete. "Well, lucky it wasn't a front wheel. You can lose
control real fast with a front-wheel blowout. See you down there. I'm
in ninety-nine--the green TF." He pointed to his car, which was three
pit places away. Then he sauntered off. Woody fancied that he was
smiling slightly.
"Just trying to throw a scare into me," he said to himself.
"Front-wheel blowout! Bet they don't get one of them in a million
races." Nonetheless, he went around and inspected the tread on his
front tires. It looked good. The left-hand one was a little more worn
than the right. But not very much.
"Both tiptop tires," he said to himself. But he wished the left-hand
tire didn't show as much wear as it did. Probably the front end was a
little out of line. That would account for it. He tried to think of
something else.
When Rocky and Steve came back, Woody was looking very solemn.
"You feeling all right?" Rocky asked.
"Sure," said Woody, "raring to go." But actually he felt just like Tom
Wisdom did before a race. He wished he was somewhere else.
11
Woody didn't feel any better when he was down on the starting grid with
a school of cars snorting roaring around him. In fact he felt a lot
worse, though he would scarcely have believed it was possible to feel
worse. Only Steve seemed to notice, however, for both Rocky and Tom who
came down to the area with him, were chatting away quite gaily. Woody
thought their attitude positively brutal.
"Don't you worry, pal," Steve said. "You'll do all right. Take my word
for it. Have you done up your safety belt?" Woody discovered that he
hadn't. When he got it buckled, the firm clasp around his waist made
him feel better. But it didn't stop the trembling in his knees over
which he seemed to have no control at all. He hoped Rocky couldn't
see the trembling, but she was busy with Tom and not paying him much
attention anyway.
Woody looked around and licked his lips, which were uncomfortably dry.
There wasn't much moisture in his mouth, either. He had drawn a place
well back in the pack. In fact, out of a field of twenty-one, there
were only four cars farther back than his. He got some comfort out of
this. There would be some excuse, perhaps, if he didn't show up too
well. After all, a guy driving his first real race couldn't be expected
to pass seventeen other drivers. He figured that if he passed one or
two of them, he'd be doing well.
"Where's that guy Pete Worth?" he asked Steve.
"Oh, he's way up in front. About third or fourth," Steve replied. Well,
that was something. He wouldn't have to worry about Pete Worth passing
him and maybe rubbing it in afterward.
"Wish I knew the track a little better," he said.
"Listen, pal," said Steve. "All you have to do is watch the guys ahead.
Watch how they corner. When you see them jam on the brakes, slow down
yourself. When they give her the gun, do the same thing. And if you see
a chance to pass, why take it. And remember, pal, we're all pulling for
you."
Woody was conscious that Rocky was looking at him. He was also
conscious that the corner of his lip was trembling. He could feel the
twitch in it, but he hoped it was not visible. To make sure, he put his
hand casually up to his mouth.
"Good luck, Woody," Rocky said. "Got to leave you now. Put your foot in
it whenever you can. She goes like a bomb."
"See you in about half an hour," said Tom.
Half an hour, Woody thought. This is one half hour I could do without.
The three left, and he was now alone with all the other cars around
him. An almost lazy silence, disturbed only by the deep beating of
the cars around, settled over the starting area. Woody pushed in his
clutch and put the gearshift in low. His foot kept trembling on the
accelerator so that the note of his engine rose and sank. The driver in
the car on his right hand side looked over at him briefly and winked.
He knows how I feel anyway, Woody said to himself. All eyes were now on
the plump rubber-ball figure of the starter. As usual, he had his back
to the drivers. He bent down, seeming to pick up something from the
track. Then, almost before Woody realized it, he had leaped into the
air and brought down the starting flag.