Authors: Matt Christopher
The suit was becoming a sweatbox as Ken sat there, tense as a spring ready to uncoil. His foot was on the gas pedal, his left
hand on the steering wheel, his right hand on the shifting lever.
He reminded himself of the two things he could do that would prove fatal: stepping on the gas pedal too soon or waiting a
split second too long.
…Three…four…five…
Now! He jammed the gas pedal to the floor, and the car bolted like a Brahma bull, rear tires grabbing the asphalt like a million
angry, hungry fingers.
Ken held the steering wheel in a firm grip, guiding the car down the quarter-mile strip at a speed that increased with each
progressive millisecond.
“Come on, baby. Come on,” Ken coaxed the blazing Chevy.
He had a terrible urge to look beside him to see where the other car was, ahead or behind. But he didn’t dare. He wanted every
bit of his attention riveted on the lane in front of him.
Seconds later he zipped past the finish mark and took his foot off the pedal. Glancing at the rearview mirror he saw that
the bright light had turned on—on his side of the track! He had won!
His heart beating wildly, he slowed the car down and headed back toward the pits, his body bathed in sweat, as he waited for
the speed and time announcements of the race.
Silence fell over the track as the announcer’s voice crackled over the P. A. speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, Ken Oberlin’s
time: eleven point thirty-four seconds and a hundred eleven point twenty-eight miles an hour. Jim ‘Little Beaver’ Applejack’s
time: twelve point thirty-two seconds and a hundred and nine point ninety-seven miles an hour. The winner—Ken Oberlin!”
A thunderous cheer broke from the crowd, while Ken’s heart sang.
Dana came over to him and shook his hand again, a broad smile on his perspiring face. “Con
gratulations, brother. You ate up that track like a real pro.”
“Thanks, Dana.”
He looked around for Dusty Hill, and Dana told him that Dusty wanted to sit with Dottie during that round.
“I guess he felt he should be with her while you ran that race,” Dana said. “It was a pretty important one.”
An understatement, Ken thought. If he had lost it he’d be out of the competition. Now he had won the chance to compete in
the next round.
He and Dana checked over the plugs, the carburetor, the gas lines, and the tires, and found everything to their satisfaction/When
they finished they were standing close to each other. For a moment neither one of them said a word, as if each were trying
to think of what the other was thinking.
Ken could hardly believe that Dana had made such an about-face in his attitude toward him. It was something he had hoped might
happen, but he had never dreamed that it would.
A lump was in his throat as he said, “Know what, brother? I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I,” said Dana.
Finally the second round started. Ken won again and would now race in the third round. His time and speed were slightly slower
than his run against Applejack, but they were still fast enough for him to beat out a Ford driven by “Battlescar” Jones.
“You see who’s still running, don’t you?” Dana said, looking down the line.
Ken followed his gaze, although he was sure he knew whom Dana was referring to. He had Scott “Rat” Taggart in the back of
his mind all along. Taggart had been burning up the lanes at speeds in the 117-miles-per-hour range, beating his opponents
easily, and chances looked good that the race was going to wind up with Ken and Taggart and last year’s Division Champion,
“Ace” Moreno, fighting for first place. In some quarters “Ace” was favored to win the race, but the way Ken and Taggart were
blitzing their opponents, all three drivers were strong contenders.
It was ironic, Ken thought, that the race might end up that way. Although he felt sure that there was no hate between him
and Taggart, he was sure that Taggart had no love for Dana.
Because of Scott’s feelings toward Dana, Ken had no doubt in his mind that Scott was going to try his best to beat Ken if
the final round was
between them. He knew there were two important values at stake for Scott Taggart: the humiliation over the theft, and the
name of Nick Evans as his sponsor—Nick, who was known to bet heavily on cards, horses, and cars.
Ken won the third round in the first one hundred yards when the Chevy he was racing against broke. He later found out that
a stripped fuel line had caused a massive fuel leak in the car.
The cleanup crew hurried out onto the lane with soap and water and scrubbed it clean in minutes.
The fourth round came up and Ken saw that he was paired with a Camaro driven by Al “Grease” Adams, another driver the racing
brotherhood had learned to respect.
They drove up to the staging lanes, gave the thumbs-up sign to each other, then turned their full attention to the Christmas
tree. The winner of this round faced the winner of the round between Scott Taggart and “Ace” Moreno for the first prize of
five thousand dollars and the Pro Stock Eliminator Trophy.
The lights began to flash, then the last of the five amber lights popped on and Ken pressed his foot on the gas pedal. The
little Chevy leaped forward, tearing down the lane like a red streak,
front wheels almost rising off the asphalt, rear tires spinning, smoke streaming in gusts behind it. The cars were running
hub to hub as they sprinted down the lane, though Ken feared the Camaro was just slightly ahead of him.
Then, seconds later, both cars zipped past the 1320-foot mark and Ken saw, in the rearview mirror, the bright light flash
on, again on his side of the track! He had won!
With hammering heart, he drove back to the pits to listen for the timer’s announcement. He hopped out of the car, took off
his helmet, and heard Buck Morrison’s voice boom over the public address system. “Ladies and gentlemen, the time for Al ‘Grease’
Adams’s run: eleven point sixty-one seconds and one hundred sixteen point forty-eight miles per hour!”
A roar exploded from the crowd, then diminished again to silence. Breathless, Ken waited for the voice to continue.
“The time for Ken Oberlin’s run: eleven point thirty-two seconds and one hundred sixteen point ninety-four miles per hour.
The winner—Ken Oberlin!”
The roar exploded again, this time louder and longer than the time before. Ken lifted his arms in
a wave to the fans, then had to get back into his car to sit down and relax. Realizing that he had won the run that was going
to put him into con tention for first place was almost more than he could bear.
Dana’s perspiring face glistened as he smiled and stretched his hand out to Ken. “You did it again, brother. One more to go.”
One more, thought Ken, the pulse throbbing in his temples. With whom was it going to be? “Rat” Taggart or “Ace” Moreno?
He took off his firesuit and stood in his short-sleeved shirt and cut-off pants, listening to the crowd cheer as Taggart’s
name was announced as a driver in the first runner-up race. But, as “Ace” Moreno’s, name was announced, the applause was overwhelming.
There was no doubt in Ken’s mind who their favorite driver was.
The race began, both drivers starting off superbly. Then, seconds later, it was over, and what seemed like a deafening quiet
hovered over the fans as the light flashed on down the track for the winner. Then the silence broke and a smattering of cheers
and applause went up for Taggart, the winner over Moreno. It was obvious the fans were disappointed.
Taggart’s time: 11.10 seconds and 117.59 miles per hour.
It was the best recorded time so far today.
Ken wished he had time to take a shower to wash off the sweat, cool his hot body, and relieve the tension that waiting for
this important moment had built up in him. But all he could do was stand there and try his best to ignore the sticky humid
air that was thick enough to slice with a knife.
“Well, Ken, it’s down to the wire,” Dana said. “You and Taggart. I hope you’ll show him your tail when you shoot down that
lane.”
“Me, too,” Ken replied.
Several minutes later a call came from the timing tower for the two finalists to start their cars and drive up to the staging
lanes.
“Good luck, brother,” Dana said, shaking Ken’s hand.
Ken thanked him.
There was strength in Dana’s grip, and Ken felt a tightness in his chest as he looked into his brother’s eyes. He didn’t have
to wonder how Dana felt now that he, Ken, had gotten this far in the race. Seeing the proud gleam in Dana’s eyes told him
all he needed to know.
He got into his firesuit and then into the car. He put on his helmet and gloves, then started the car and headed for the staging
lanes.
“Scott ‘Rat’ Taggart, number one lane, please. Ken Oberlin, number two,” came the announcement from the timing tower.
Taggart got to the lane first. Two seconds later Ken drove up to his. As they sat in their cars side by side, Taggart glanced
at
Ken, his eyes like blue ice behind the plastic shield. Ken nodded to him, and Taggart raised a thumb in acknowledgment.
A crewman motioned them to approach the staging beams. Ken edged the Chevy forward till the staging light on the Christmas
tree flashed on. Scott Taggart echoed the move with his Volare. In a moment both cars were aligned.
Suddenly the staging lights flashed on, then the ambers. The countdown started. One…two…three…
Ken’s mouth was cotton-dry as he watched the lights flick on. His body was like wound steel as he concentrated one hundred
percent on the lights. Right now nothing else mattered.
He saw the fifth light flash on. Then, almost instinctively, he jammed his foot on the gas pedal as the green light flashed
on. The front end of the
car leaped up slightly, then came down, and for an instant panic shot through Ken as he thought that he might have started
too soon.
But the red foul light had not gone on: he was all right.
The red Chevy roared down the lane, smoke blazing from the rear tires as they bit, chewed, and ripped at the asphalt.
Ken kept his gaze away from the speedometer. He didn’t want to know how fast Li’l Red was going. She was going as fast as
she could.
He was about two-thirds of the way down the lane when suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Taggart’s
car veering off the lane toward him. He almost froze as the Volare rammed into the left side of his Chevy and shoved it off
the lane. Gripping the wheel firmly so he wouldn’t lose control of the car and probably strike the guardrail, risking a serious
accident, Ken quickly took his foot off the gas pedal and let the car roll to a gradual stop on the grass.
Anger swept in a tidal wave through him.
Taggart, I could kill you!
his mind screamed.
He glanced over at the Volare and saw that Taggart was back on his lane, but had slowed the car down and was peering at him
through the side window. Because of the shield of Taggart’s helmet
Ken wasn’t able to clearly see the expression in his eyes or on his face.
Dana came sprinting from the pits. He hopped over the guardrail, rushed to the Chevy, and flung open the door on Ken’s side.
“You all right?” he gasped, his face chalk-white with worry.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Dana glanced over his shoulder at the Volare. “‘Rat’ Taggart,” he said, bristling with anger. “The name is too good for him.”
He turned back to Ken. “He rammed into you deliberately, you know that? He saw you were winning so he did what he felt he
had to do—ram into you and hope that the judges will say it was an accident and demand another race.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Ken.
“Look,” Dana said, peering hard at him, “I know for a fact that Nick’s got a pile of money on him. I never told you this,
but Nick wanted me to do something to your car that would’ve stopped you in the first round. I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t,
I told him. Not to my own brother. Not to
anybody.”
He paused. “I had to bust a couple of faces when I told him I wouldn’t.”
Ken stared at him. “Hey,” he said, grinning, “maybe we’ll become real close friends after all.”
Dana put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “Why not?”
Some minutes later an announcement came from the timing tower. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen,” said Buck Morrison’s voice.
“My partner, Jay Wells, and I, as the event directors, along with the technical committee, have discussed the last round just
run between Scott ‘Rat’ Taggart in lane number one and Ken Oberlin in lane number two, and we have come to a decision. We
had videotaped the race and ran it over a couple of times here in the timing tower to make certain that our decision is fair,
honest, and conclusive.
“We have decided unanimously that crossing the strip’s center line, and the outer extremity line as noted in the rule book,
was a deliberate move on Scott ‘Rat’ Taggart’s part, and therefore an infraction. Based on that decision the winner of the
final race, the five-thousand-dollar prize, and the championship is—Ken Oberlin!”
Ken listened to the words in stunned silence.
“You won it, brother!” Dana cried, pulling him out of the car and throwing his arms around him. “You won it!”
Ken still felt in a state of shock as, seconds later, Dusty Hill and Dottie came rushing toward him
and threw their arms around him, too. Then his mother, father, and sisters were surrounding him and showering him with praise,
congratulations, and kisses.
For a long moment he met and held onto his father’s gaze.
Then a smile came over his father’s raw-boned face and he said, “Son, I wish that your Uncle Louis could be here to see you.
I’m sure he would be very proud of you. Just like I am.”
Ken felt a tightening in his throat. “That last thing you said, Dad,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Then he put his arms around his father again, squeezed him tightly, and felt his father’s arms squeeze him in return.
MATT CHRISTOPHER
DRAG-STRIP RACER
Ken has always dreamed of becoming a drag-strip racer, and when he inherits a super car, Li’l Red, from his uncle, he thinks
his dream will come true. However, things start to go all wrong for Ken. He fractures his foot, and his older brother seems
to be increasingly angry with Ken and jealous of his ambition and talent.