Authors: Tammy Kaehler
“Shit!” Jack banged the edge of the desk with his fist. The only voice on the radio was Bruce's, telling Leon to stay offline, go slow, and come back to the pits. Leon had been brushed by a GTC class Porsche he was passing, and something on the other car must have cut our tire's sidewall.
The GT leader, a BMW, passed Leon on the back straight, putting us one lap down again.
“Careful, slow it down a little,” Bruce cautioned, and I saw why.
The left rearâvisible on the live SGTV feedâstarted to fray at the edges. Leon slowed further, to what looked like the pace of someone pushing a shopping cart. It was excruciating to watch, and it must have been hell in the car, with every nerve screaming to go faster. But Leon was smart. He didn't want to be the next car-be-que on the highlight reels, and he knew we could recover from laps lost with an undamaged car.
Our crew was in their places, fresh slicks with the tire changers on the wall, hoses in hand. I saw they'd readied tools to cover a variety of contingencies, because at this point, they didn't know what they'd face when the car crawled into the pits. They had to be prepared for anything from cutting away body panels or torn rubber to replacing suspension components or a brake assembly.
Race still green. The GT leader swept by on the front straight as Leon pulled the car to a stop in front of us. Two laps down. We stuck to the routine of fuel first, then tires, hoping for the best. Twenty seconds for fuel, during which as many crew as could get close peered at the damaged tire, inspecting without touching. All of us in the pits watched the SGTV feed, because the action was on the far side of the car from us. Fuel out, jacks down, car up, front tire changed. To the back tire. Damaged rubber off. A crew member shoved his head in the wheel well for an inspection, then pulled back and settled the new tire on. He raised his hand. Car down and away.
“No damage, Leon, good work. Go make it back up,” Bruce said. I slumped with relief, then felt a surge of adrenaline.
We're back in it.
Twenty minutes later I climbed down from the pit cart to start the process of getting ready to be in the car next. First, a trip to the porta potty, since I didn't want to be as far away as the motorhome. Some stretches and deep-knee bends to loosen my muscles. Then I deposited my phone in my pit locker and collected my gear.
Nash Rawlings walked by, suited up in LinkTime colors. He saw me watching him and managed a smile that was more grimace, as well as a jerk of his chin that passed for a nod. I stepped over to him, helmet, gloves, and other stuff still in my hands.
He looked unwilling, but stopped.
“I saw a photo of you in Siebkens Tavern that night after the race,” I shouted in his ear, then stopped, not sure where I was going from there.
Think, Kate!
He pulled back. “So?”
I didn't like getting as close to him as a conversation in the pits required, but I'd started this and I'd finish. “Did you talk to the cops? To help them figure out who was in the room and who was close to our table. My friend died from something in a drinkâthey don't know who put it there, so all information helps. Maybe you saw something useful.” I was out of breath by the time I finished, from the effort of shouting above ambient noise.
“I'm not sure why it's your business. I hope you don't think I had anything to do with itâwhat would I have against your friend, anyway?” He pulled back to give me a sly look. His face was too close to mine for comfort. My skin crawled.
“Yes, I talked to them,” he said. “Is that all?”
“Do you live full time in Atlanta?” I was guessing.
“Yes, why?”
“Just curious.”
He looked at me strangely and left without another word. He didn't like me, he'd been near our drinks at the Tavern, and he lived in the Atlanta area. He was my new prime suspect.
Later, Kate. Racing now.
I turned back to the monitors behind the pit cart. I handed the radio headset to Aunt Tee and secured my earplugs with tape. I had my helmet, HANS, gloves, and balaclava handyâbut I delayed putting them on.
Leon's fuel level got lower and lower, and still no yellow flag. The crew stirred to ready themselves for a green-flag stop. We didn't like doing a driver-change under green, because if anything went wrong and took more time, the impact was greater while the other cars were at full speed. However, our plan was for me to get in the car now, so we were going for it. We'd simply have to be careful.
Ten laps from Leon pitting. I helmeted up and climbed on the wall with the crew, at the left end of the lineup, ready to run around the back of the car.
Five laps. I focused on the driver change process, repeating it to myself, visualizing everything happening smoothly.
Run around the back of the car, Leon out, put my seat insert in. Right leg, left leg, slide through into seat. Lap belts, shoulder beltsâover HANS. Plug drink tube in. Bubs clicks the belts. Steering wheel. Radio check. Car in gear. Bubs done with belts, window net, door. Watch for the air-gun guy to move forward to the air jack. Push starter button.
Leon entered pit lane. The rest of the world disappeared and then I was moving. Forty-some seconds later I drove down pit lane in the car, cinching my belts down. My finger hovered over the speed limiter, ready to release it.
There's the line.
Limiter off, car into second gear, foot to the floor. Bruce in my ear telling me the track is clear. Third gear.
Go like hell, Kate.
My stint was eventful in a good way. Immediately after I got in, race control threw a double-yellow to retrieve a driver who'd gotten into Turn 10a too hot and stranded his car in the gravel. We stayed out, and I got a lap back on the leaders. That put us in sixth, on the same lap as positions four and five.
On the last lap before going back to green, Bruce spoke, “P5 four cars ahead of you, P4 six cars ahead of him. Go show everyone pole position wasn't a fluke.”
“Copy.” My heart rate was high.
Bring it on
.
Eight laps later I slipped past a Ferrari into Turn 6 for fifth.
Fifteen laps more and I dogged the back bumper of the Porsche in fourth. I nipped at his heels for three or four laps, unable to force him into a mistake. Then I held back, watching for his strengths and weaknesses. I could go deeper into a corner before braking than him, and the discrepancy was greatest in the corner with the hardest braking: the 10a/10b left-right complex. That's where I pounced.
I shot under the bridge, an angry Porsche now in my rear-view, and I imagined the high-fives in our pit box.
“Good work, Kate. P4 now. Settle in, keep pushing,” said Bruce.
I kept up the pace for the rest of my fuel load, through a green flag stop for fuel and tires, and for forty-three minutes of my second stint. That's when the racing gods smiled on us.
Two prototypes leading the LMP2 class tangled at the top of the hill in Turn 2, collecting one of the LinkTime Corvettes in the process. The Corvette got off easy, able to limp back to the pits with a broken right-front suspension to be repaired. They could finish the race and earn points. The two LMP2s were in worse shape. One smacked into the tire wall on the left side of the track, breaking too many parts to continue. The other tipped up and barrel-rolled three times. The driver walked away, but track workers needed shovels to collect car parts. We were in for a long caution for cleanup.
Bruce radioed me news of the accident and the full-course caution. He also shared the best news of all: the race-leading LMP1 was two cars behind me, about to be picked up by the safety car. My job was to hurry around the track to join the back of the long line of carsâwhich put us back on the same lap as the GT leaders.
Racing also meant blind luck sometimes.
I picked my way through debris and safety vehicles in Turns 2 and 3, then floored it around the rest of the track trying to catch up. That's when Bruce relayed another piece of news. The LinkTime Corvette involved in the accidentâwhich I'd passed between Turns 6 and 7, making its slow way back to the pitsâwas third in class. One lap later, I inherited that position.
“You are P3 now,” Bruce said. “Pit with GT class for driver change.”
I had three laps at slow speed to enjoy the track. We were officially in twilight, and the waning light made the racing more challenging, but made the cars look extra cool with headlights, reflective tape, and decals glowing. I'd been blinded by the setting sun between Turns 6 and 7 for the past half hour, but the trees finally blocked it, and I caught glimpses of a medium-blue sky with puffy clouds tinged pink.
The pits opened for the prototypes, and I spent my last lap behind the safety car focusing on pit stop procedure. Then I followed a Ferrari down pit lane.
A minute later, Mike pulled out for the run to the checkers.
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I put my helmet, gloves, and other gear in my pit locker for the time being, gratefully accepting water and a wet towel from Aunt Tee. I wiped my face and neck, and felt a lot more fresh.
Juliana waved from the wall, and I went forward, finger-combing my hair, to give her my comments on the race, the pace of our car, and what we might see in the final laps. We'd raced for eight hours at that point, tallying approximately 825 miles on 325 laps of the circuit. That meant about another hour and a half to reach 1,000 miles.
She asked me to make a prediction, and I shook my head. “We might still see anything and everything. I hope you'll see us hang on for a podium!”
Juliana tossed me a smile and a “good luck” before hustling off to her next story. I briefed Jack and Bruce quickly on the car and my stint, then ran back to the motorhome to change into another set of dry racing gear. Once back in the pits, I grabbed radio headphones and stood behind the pit cart watching the monitors with Leon.
A crew member stood to get a snack and offered me his chair, but I declined. I'd stand, pacing and nervous, for the remaining laps.
Sometime later, I was distracted by a group on a VIP pit tour, garbed in matching red firesuits with big ALMS logos, led by a Series rep. They got closer, and I blinked in surprise, seeing my father, his wife and kids, and his angry nephews.
I kept my focus on the monitors as they approached, but turned and waved when they stopped behind us, their guide pointing to our display and shouting something in Amelia, Eddie, and Lara's ears. My father had no need for the tour or the explanation, and Holden and Billy stood to the side, giving me dark looks.
My father noticed their behavior and spoke sharply to them. They stepped apart and smiled at both of us. Like sharks. My father mouthed “good luck” to me, and I nodded before turning back to the monitors. Mike kept reeling off laps.
At a tap on the shoulder, I turned to find Billy looming over me, Holden next to him, the others walking away. I steeled myself not to retreat as Billy leaned close. “Just stay away from our family, little imposter, for your own good.”
I had a hard time taking these pampered, rich kids seriously. “I don't need your advice,” I spit back. “Get the hell out of my pit space. Or maybe I'll start asking if anyone else knows you were in Siebkens Tavern two weeks ago.”
Billy reared back in surprise. Holden gave me a small, nasty smile, and pointed his index finger at me, thumb cocked to look like a gun. He bobbed his hand as if firing, while making a kissing motion at the same time. They walked away, chuckling.
Leon put a hand on my shoulder. “What the bloody hell was that about?”
“Spoiled brats who don't like me. Don't worry about it.” I might suspect the cousins of wanting me out of the way, but I wondered if they could be responsible for the ill will raining down on me lately. I also didn't know why they'd have killed Felix. I shook my head to clear it. Focus on the car and the race. Deal with unwanted family later. Or never.
The whole team heard Jack's voice on the radio. “Forty-five minutes remaining.” He meant we were in the fuel window to make it to the end of the race. Mike would stop under green in twenty minutes, just as fuel ran out, or under yellow between now and then for the last stop of the race. The crew started preparing.
“@katereilly28: One more stop for fuel/tires then good to go to the end of #PetitLM. Keep hunting them down, Mike! #hopingforapodium #afraidtosayitoutloud”
Ten minutes later the caution waved, for a Porsche GTC entrant with a blown engine. The pits were chaotic, every car in for service. All took fuel, some changed drivers, and most changed tires. Everyone in Sandham Swift congratulated each other on a perfect stopâand then we realized we were P4. A Porsche had leapfrogged us by taking fuel only.
Just like that, our podium finish slipped away. We were devastated. Every team member watched Mike with grim, laser-intensity focus, willing him to get the spot back.
He tried everything. For the next half-hour, he drove like his life depended on it, putting in lap times through traffic that rivaled my pole lap, even setting fastest lap of the race for the GT class. Six laps to go, he was nine seconds behind the Porsche, and try as he might, he couldn't make up more than a second and a half each lap. He pushed. We bit nails. Paced the pit walkway. Cracked knuckles.
Four laps, six seconds behind.
Three laps, five seconds.
Coming down the back straight, headed to the line for two laps to go, he flashed past a Porsche. Leon and I looked at each other.
“Wasn't thatâ¦?” I began.
Bruce, calm as ever on the radio. “P3 Porsche slow on the back straight, possibly out of gas. You're now P3, Mike.”
We started to cheer, then realized we still had two laps to go. We didn't breathe until Mike was half a lap from the end. That's when I grabbed Leon's hand and followed the crew as they hopped the wall, ran across pit lane, and stood at the track wall along the front straight.
The overall winner tore past us, taking the checkers. Fireworks went off at the start/finish line. We saw the LinkTime Corvette in P1, GT winners. The BMW in P2.
And then there was Mike, blinking the lights for us as he roared past. I hugged everyone and didn't mind crying at the racetrack, because we were third at Petit Le Mans.
Back at our paddock an hour later, Mike's only disappointment was our trophies weren't cups for drinking champagne out of. Instead, they were glass replicas of a waving checkered flag on a globe, all on a pedestal with “Petit Le Mans,” the date, our class, and our finishing position. Our third-place trophies were smaller than those for second or first, but we didn't care. We'd fought hard and pulled through for third against a tough, international field. Not only that, but our finishâand an early mechanical failure for another teamâmeant we'd taken second place in the season driver and team championships. The champagne flowed.
Anyone with a camera was invited in for photos of the car, trophies, drivers, and crew. That included my two journalist-buddies Colton Butler and Jimmy O'Brien. I even poured them plastic cups of champagne.
“Thanks again for that phone number,” I said to O'Brien. “I still can't believe it was Felix, though I suppose I can't be mad now the guy is dead.”
He looked confused. “Felix Simon? Can't be. It was a woman's voice. Why else would I think it was you who called?”
I was numb with shock, hardly noticing as they waved good bye.
It was Felix's phone, how could it not be Felix?
I smiled for more photos.
“You OK, Kate?” Tom handed me another glass of bubbly.
I snapped out of it as Juliana rushed in to hug me, Scott trailing her.
“Congratulations, Kate!” Jules danced me back and forth in her embrace.
I laughed with her. “Pretty awesome, huh? But how are you after that marathon?”
She waved Scott forward to stand with us. “Not bad, Scott was a big help.”
He smiled. “Glad I could step in.”
“Well, good for all of us.” I snagged cups of bubbly and handed them over. “Time to celebrate!”
“@katereilly28: Kudos to Sandham Swift team and Mike/Leon, great co-drivers. Third in GT at #PetitLM rocks! Sooooooo thrilling!”