The Ragged Edge

By Richard Nisley

The Ragged Edge is the story of a man who is running— after the Grand Prix world championship he seems destined not to win, and after the woman who has left him. It’s a heart-stopping ride across three continents, on famed international circuits as glittering and intoxicating as Monaco and as beguiling and lethal as Germany’s ‘green hell’ Nurburg Ring.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665564373

Richard Nisley

Richard Nisley is a native of Southern California who makes his home in New Jersey. He’s married and has two sons. Nisley has written about topics as diverse as classical music, and the history of the Illinois and Michigan Canal, and has contributed to such magazines as Car & Driver, Racecar Engineering, Vintage Racecar Journal, Open Wheel, and Porsche Panorama. Nisley also wrote a series of articles for Investors Business Daily. “The Ragged Edge” was his first book. An avid reader of early American history, Nisley wrote a second book, a historical account of George Washington’s first four years as president, entitled “Washington in New York.” Nisley also has a blog, which can be accessed at richardnisley.com.

Book preview

Contents

Foreword: Why I Wrote The Ragged Edge

Chapter 1     Round One: South Africa, January 1

Chapter 2     Chicago

Chapter 3     The High Desert, March

Chapter 4     Diablo Pass

Chapter 5     Willow Springs

Chapter 6     The San Fernando Valley

Chapter 7     England

Chapter 8     Round Two: The Spanish Grand Prix

Chapter 9     London

Chapter 10   Round Three: The Monaco Grand Prix

Chapter 11   Interlude

Chapter 12   Round Four: The Dutch Grand Prix

Chapter 13   Round Five: The Belgian Grand Prix

Chapter 14   Time To Go Like Hell

Chapter 15   The Brig & Age

Chapter 16   Round Six: The French Grand Prix

Chapter 17   Thillois

Chapter 18   The Caves

Chapter 19   An Ultimatum

Chapter 20   Round Seven: The British Grand Prix

Chapter 21   Race Day

Chapter 22   Dad Wants To See You

Chapter 23   Thurloe Street

Chapter 24   Round Eight: The German Grand Prix

Chapter 25   Sometimes, There Are No Winners

Chapter 26   Team Wagner

Chapter 27   Southern California

Chapter 28   A Trip Back In Time

Chapter 29   Diablo Pass Revisited

Chapter 30   Round Nine: The Italian Grand Prix

Chapter 31   Lake Como

Chapter 32   Akron

Chapter 33   Turn Eight

Chapter 34   Round Ten: The Canadian Grand Prix

Chapter 35   Watkins Glen

Chapter 36   Loss Of Rpm

Chapter 37   One Last Question

Chapter 38   Round Eleven: The United States Grand Prix

Chapter 39   Wagner Luck

Chapter 40   Once More, With Feeling

Afterword: True Lies

The best darn racing novel that ever was,

— George Hacksaw Gilbert, legendary F-1 crew chief

Also, for more writings on motor racing, check

out Nisley’s website: "richardnisley.com"

To Cindy,

who never lost faith

Special thanks to Avie and Jerry Blount, for suggestions and help with editing; Jon Lang, for timely criticism, advise and encouragement; Danny Ongais, for taking time out from his busy schedule to read an early draft; and the real guys, John, for the cover photo, and dropping everything to go with me to Europe; David, for true friendship; and Rob and Charles, for those Porsche nights in the streets and hills of Southern California. Thanks to Dea Lenihen for enhancing the circuit maps.

Foreword

WHY I WROTE THE RAGGED EDGE

To me motor racing is a feeling, a feeling that beguiles the soul, and captures the imagination. Writing The Ragged Edge, was my attempt to capture that feeling.

I first became interested in motor racing in the summer of 1963, when my father introduced me to the sport’s highest expression–Grand Prix. All that first summer, I followed the sport religiously, reading about races in a host of European countries–from glamorous Monaco, to the rural landscape of southeast Belgium, to the ocean shoreline of the Netherlands, to the champagne region of France, to central England, to West Germany, to Milan, Italy, and finally, in the fall, across the Atlantic, to upstate New York, and on down to Mexico City. There was so much I didn’t understand, but was drawn in by the brilliance of Jim Clark of Scotland, who won seven of ten races, to become the 1963 world champion.

I particularly appreciated the international flavor of the sport, which reminded me of the Olympics, with drivers and racing teams representing a number of nations. I had to know more, and began an all-consuming study of the sport, starting with the drivers (three of whom were not only American, but came from my native California). I also was interested to learn that many of these drivers were well-read, refined and cultured individuals, mostly from well-to-do families. Many were English, who began their racing career as wealthy amateurs, competing not for money or fame, but for the sheer fun of it.

This spirit of amateurism that prevailed in England, prevailed on the Continent as well, where, after World War Two, money was in short supply. As with the drivers, many of the promoters who managed the sport were wealthy amateurs themselves. For drivers, moving up from the amateur ranks to Grand Prix Formula One, often depended upon getting someone to sponsor them, as opposed to having the requisite driving talent. As a result, Formula One in the 1960s was very much a mixed bag, of gifted amateurs and semi-professionals. The limited money that financed the teams was supplied mostly by oil and tire companies. The exception, of course, was Ferrari, which built luxury passenger cars to help finance the company’s aggressive racing department. To compensate teams and drivers, the track promoters would put up what they called starting money to guarantee a full field of cars.

If they were paid at all, drivers were allotted a rather meager salary of about $300 per month. On top of this they were compensated for their travel expenses. Other income came from starting money, winning races, and endorsements, plus a modest stipend from team sponsors.

Without a lot of money, little was done to insure driver safety. Many of the circuits were located far from major cities, and away from fully-equipped medical facilities. Many of the European circuits were created prior to World War Two, consisted mostly of ordinary country roads, and were little changed from that time, even though the racing cars had become much faster.

This was the world I discovered in 1963, a world mostly reported on by English journalists, who, in the spirit of amateurism, played down driver safety and the inevitable accidents, even the occasional driver death. Accidents were euphemistically reported as shunts, and should a driver be killed, it would be buried deep inside the race report. Were the drivers brave, or merely foolhardy? Neither, they possessed such superior car control, and such large egos, that they believed they were invincible.

BAND OF BROTHERS

Truly, they were a band of brothers, much as in the days of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table; friends and rivals in fierce pursuit of fame and glory, who, week in and week out, battled each other on the most demanding and dangerous circuits in the world.

As preparation for writing my novel, I enrolled as a journalism major in college, believing that journalism would make me a better writer, as it had for Ernest Hemingway. While it did sharpen my writing skills considerably, the detached, facts-based reporting style of journalism, proved of little advantage when it came to writing fiction.

For the story setting, I chose the 1968 Grand Prix season, the year technology and commercialism began to transform the sport into what it is today.

Another part of my preparation was to make a detailed study of the cars and how they functioned. I also traveled to Europe to see first-hand a number of the Grand Prix circuits.

A fellow college student from my journalism days, upon learning I intended to write a racing novel, urged me to read Jackie Stewarts’ Faster–A Racer’s Diary.

Stewart puts you right inside the cockpit and shows you what it’s like out there, he said. Don’t bother writing your novel until you’ve read Stewart’s book, or you’re wasting your time. I did indeed read Stewart’s book, which very much helped with describing the racing action from the driver’s point of view.

All well and good, except that when I actually sat down to write the story, I realized that my journalistic approach didn’t work with writing fiction. There is a very big difference between the two forms of writing. To put it simply, with journalism, it’s the facts that tell the story. With fiction, it’s the characters that tell the story. It’s the difference between telling, and showing. In Hollywood, this is called point-of-view story-telling. It was something I didn’t know about, but learned to do over the course of many rewrites, that consumed about five years.

Of course, to make a story compelling, the author must put his character on a quest, which was easy to do with motor racing, where the goal is to win races, and championships. More difficult perhaps, is to make the main character three-dimensional, and believable. While I struggled in early drafts to make my main character come alive, in time I learned that it’s conflict that reveals character and makes him believable. While plotting the story, I thought the best way to do this was to create conflict between the team owner (Edward W. Garret), and the driver (John Wagner).

However, by introducing a third person into the story–love interest and sports journalist Susan Jennings–a more complex conflict became a part of the story, which surprised me. John Wagner, being a race car driver blind to everything but winning, was decidedly strong-willed. What I didn’t expect was how strong- willed Susan Jennings would become. Early on, I introduced the idea that she objected to Wagner’s sport as too dangerous for her liking. When they fall in love, this becomes a point of contention–she wants him to quit and marry her, which he promises to do, after the racing season is over. However, as the story draws to a close, it becomes obvious to both of them, that Wagner loves his profession too much to just walk away

THE CIRCUITS

When I sat down to write The Ragged Edge my greatest challenge was to make Grand Prix racing believable to aficionados, as well as understandable to the casual reader. The biggest hurdle was in creating a dynamic and engrossing image of the various international circuits that consume much of the action. In this regard, I was helped again by Jackie Stewart. It was an article he wrote for Sports Illustrated, in 1970. The article was entitled Racing’s Most Dangerous Corners. What Stewart did very effectively, was to describe what it was like to negotiate a number of difficult and challenging corners, from Turn One at Indianapolis, to a long, chillingly-fast, downhill curve at Spa-Francorchamps in Belgium. Having been impressed by Stewart’s article, I decided the best way to create and hold reader interest was NOT to describe every circuit in detail, but instead to concentrate attention on one particularly difficult section of each circuit. This minimalistic approach resulted in creating the mystery, tension, and excitement, I was seeking.

Each Grand Prix circuit had a unique character, which I wanted to convey. Of all the circuits, the easiest to capture was Monaco. Sitting in the heart of old Europe, the tiny principality is famous for the Monte Carlo Casino atop one of the cliffs that overlooks the Mediterranean Sea. The circuit itself is a zigzag affair that winds up through the city streets, passes by the Casino, and plunges downhill to the waterfront. None of the hairpin corners are particularly difficult, but taken together they comprise a unique challenge, that only the very best drivers can master. As a playground for the rich and famous, and one of the few surviving monarchies in Europe, the atmosphere of Monaco provided a lot to work with. However, the other nine circuits proved to be more of a challenge than I had anticipated.

With some research, I found something unique and compelling to say about each of them. For example, the race that followed Monaco was quite literarily a world away, on the northern rim of Europe. This was Zandvoort, a beach town that was the home of the Dutch Grand Prix. Where Monaco was all about wealth and privilege, Zandvoort was decidedly egalitarian, a middle class resort town where Dutch pensioners vacationed annually, and, on race weekend, turned out in droves. They set up sun umbrellas amidst the towering sand dunes, braved the chilled winds blowing in off the North Atlantic, and snacked on a local favorite–french fries drenched in mayonnaise.

About a ninety-minute drive south of Zandvoort, is the aforementioned Spa-Francorchamps, home of the Belgian Grand Prix. Situated in the green rolling hills of the Ardennes, the circuit layout occupies an area where the Battle of the Bulge was waged in World War Two. The circuit itself, comprised of meandering country roads, connected three Belgium villages, made famous during the military engagement–Malmedy, Stavelot, and, to a lesser extent, Francorchamps. A variety of war memorials and a number of gravestones can be found throughout the area, testifying to the human cost of the battle. Beside the circuit roads, are a handful of memorials, not to soldiers but to race drivers who perished there. The 8.7-mile circuit is dangerously fast, and a stern test of drivers’ courage, and car-control. In 1968, the year of my story, the average lap speed was a breathtaking 150 m.p.h. Spa was particularly dangerous when rain threatened, which was often.

A two-hour drive south of Spa-Francorchamps, in the heart of champagne country, was "Circuit Permante de la Marne", better known as the Circuit of Reims, the home of the French Grand Prix. In contrast with the pine-covered hills of Spa-Francorchamps, Reims was a flat, brown, sun-scorched plain, where the average summer temperature hovered around 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Like Spa-Francorchamps, the triangular circuit was comprised of ordinary country roads. About the only danger Reims posed to racing drivers was dying of boredom on the eternally long straightaways that made up much of the circuit. The most difficult corner was the hairpin corner that concluded the long back strait. It was called Thillois (pronounced tee-la-wah), named after a nearby French village. More than one French Grand Prix had been decided at this very hairpin curve, including the one in my novel. Some five miles east of the circuit, the City of Reims is famous for champagne, as well as the striking Cathedrale Notre Dame, a masterful achievement of medieval architecture, that dominates the city’s skyline.

When my brother John and I arrived in Reims in 1992, we drove around the circuit, then went hunting for the vineyards where the champagne grapes are grown. We found them southeast of the city, growing on the south side side of a sunny mountain plateau, overlooking the River Marne. Afterward, we visited The Caves, where several million bottles of champagne were stored for the fermentation process. The Caves, are not really caves at all, but several limestone quarry pits, that the champagne vintners capped and connected with a series of tunnels, late in the 19th century, when the champagne industry went international. Each year, the post-race activities were held in The Caves, where everyone overate, drank too much champagne, and got a little crazy.

Following the French Grand Prix, the racing teams would pack up their cars and equipment, board a ship at Calais, and cross the English Chanel, for the British Grand Prix. The race was held on an ex-World War Two airfield, near the quaint English village of Silverstone. If you’ve seen the movie Twelve-O’clock High then you have a good idea of what the place looks like. Having only eight corners, the circuit appeared deceptively easy. In fact, it’s not. Finding the fastest line through the broad, fast curves took time to master. Indeed, one of Stewart’s most challenging corners was located there. That would be Woodcote, a bumpy, super-fast ninety-degree right-hander, where even the very best drivers occasionally would lose control and spin, including Stewart.

The next race on the Grand Prix calendar was in the Eiffel Mountains of West Germany, on a 14.2-mile serpentine monster that Jackie Stewart once dubbed The Green Hell, but was otherwise known as The Nürburgring, home of the German Grand Prix. Stewart selected a hellish downhill section of curves–known to drivers as the Adenau Descent–as among the world’s most dangerous corners.

Standing out above the local mountains is the Schloss Nürburg, after which the circuit was named. Schloss Nürburg is one of several castles between the Rhineland and the Belgian frontier. It’s neither the biggest nor the oldest, just the most famous, thanks to its proximity to the circuit. My brother John and I climbed up the dark, steep, cramped stairway that led up to the top, and were rewarded with a commanding view of the entire circuit.

The next race was the Italian Grand Prix, held on what had once been a Royal Park, near Milan. This was the Autodromo Nazionale de Monza, one of the oldest and most storied Grand Prix circuits on the Continent. Circuit Monza was tricky-fast, where slip-streaming tactics sometimes would power a slower car past a faster car, and win the race, as Stewart’s did in 1969.

After Monza, the teams would board a transport plane for a transatlantic flight to the Americas, for the U.S. Grand Prix. At the time of my story, the race was held in the Finger Lakes Region of upstate New York, at a medium fast circuit called Watkins Glen. The first three corners–Turn One and The Esses–comprised a subtle but tricky section of curves that Stewart included in his list of the world’s most dangerous corners.

In 1963, when I first began following Grand Prix racing, the circuits just described, were staged in the order as I have presented them, beginning with Monaco. However, five years later, in 1968, three new circuits were added to the Grand Prix calendar: Kyalami, Jarama, and Mosport, with Kyalami, rather than Monaco, kicking off the Formula One season. Once driver safety became paramount, Circuit Kyalami, built in 1966, proved to be a foretaste of things to come–short, flat, safe, and less challenging, looking more like a go-kart track than a proper Grand Prix circuit. Kyalami itself was located in the flat bushveld country outside Johannesburg, the capital city of South Africa.

Jarama, home of the Spanish Grand Prix, was pretty much the same: a flat, featureless circuit located on the desert sands, outside Madrid.

Located in South Ontario, Canada, Motor Sport Park, better known as simply Mosport, was anything but a routine, safe, featureless circuit. Situated on the downslope of a broad, rolling hill, the circuit was fast and challenging, with one corner that deserved mention among Stewart’s list of dangerous corners. This would be Turn Eight, a roller-coaster right-hander, hidden behind a crest in the road, that would dare drivers to take flat out. In my novel, one of Wagner’s rivals refuses to back off the gas, hits the crest much too fast, and launches his Formula One into a skyward flight toward his home in Fort Worth, Texas. After the inevitable crash-landing, Wagner rescues the Texan from his burning car, and counsels him to lift off the throttle prior to the rise that leads into the corner. The idea, he tells him, is to back off early, allow the racecar to sort of float over the rise, then, on the backside, brake firmly, and, at the turn-in, apply throttle. It’ll seem slow at first, Wagner tells him, but you’ll hit Eight smoother, and pick up a couple of tenths.

Later in the story, the Texan pays Wagner back at a critical moment during the U.S. Grand Prix.

The protagonist, John Wagner, like so many characters in my novel, started out as a composite figure, based on various people I’d known, including two of my brothers. As my ideal, I used an actual American Grand Prix driver, named Dan Gurney, who had a reputation for hard luck. At first, I wanted to write a story about what a season would look like, if my fictional Gurney should defeat his demons, and actually win the drivers’ world championship. That, initially, was my goal. However, once I began writing, Wagner’s true character began to emerge, and whatever similarities he shared with Gurney, gradually disappeared. In a sense, Wagner became his own man. This is one of the mysteries of writing fiction: you dream up a character, give him a role, and he takes on a life of his own. The same was even more true of Susan Jennings. I started with a photo of a model in a magazine ad–of a girl with striking red hair–gave her a name, and decided she was a sports writer who would fall in love with Wagner, while covering a story about him for a national magazine. Placing them in various social situations, and faced with the inevitable conflicts that arise between two professional, career-minded people, her personality began to emerge, as a decidedly strong-willed and independent woman.

WAGNER’S RIVALS

The plot I created was similar to that of the movie, Grand Prix – of four rivals, who compete on the world’s most demanding circuits, and by season’s end, are deadlocked in a four-way battle, which is not resolved until the U.S. Grand Prix.

Wagner’s biggest rivals are: Scotsman Ian Evans, Englishman Mal Parks, and Italian Giuseppe Bogavanti.

For my model of Ian Evans, Wagner’s biggest rival, I chose Jim Clark, a highly-gifted driver who dominated Grand Prix in the mid-1960s. Because Clark was basically a decent, modest man, and to avoid comparisons, I gave Evans an unpredictable, even quirky personality, which he demonstrates while having breakfast with his girlfriend, on the morning of the Dutch Grand Prix.

Englishman Mal Parks, is based on the quintessential English Formula One driver, Graham Hill.

The last rival is Ferrari driver, Giuseppe Bogavanti (pronounced Bah-Jah-Avanti), whom we meet in France. I really had no model for Bogavanti, as most of the great Italian F-1 drivers had all been killed by the time I became interested in Grand Prix racing. However, I did have an idea of what he looked like, and as the story unfolded, I began to have a feeling about him, so that by the time I introduce him at the awards dinner in France, I knew that he was happily married–and a womanizer. This fact drives straight-laced Susan crazy, which becomes a point of contention between her and Wagner. For his part, Wagner dismisses Bogavanti’s extra-marital affairs, as an amusing character flaw, which only annoys Susan more. Wagner counts the Italian among his friends, whom he will lean on for help at a crucial moment in the story.

Another key character is Wagner’s team owner, Edward W. Garret. Having become a fan of NFL football, I was keenly aware of how football coaches are so carelessly fired by arrogant team owners, even coaches with winning records. It was this callous attitude I wanted to bring out in Garret’s character, his lack of awareness and appreciation of the risks drivers routinely undertake in their quest to win races. Garret sees himself as something of a genius at spotting talent, and selects a 22-year-old relatively inexperienced driver (Michael Bravo) to be Wagner’s teammate, whom he intends to groom into a world champion. Garret fails to grasp that Bravo might be in over his head, despite several mishaps. Nonetheless, Garret is determined to make a winner of Bravo, and seeks Wagner’s help in bringing this to fruition.

Yet another key character is George Hacksaw Gilbert, Wagner’s crew chief, and friend. I based Hacksaw’s character on legendary Indy crew chief, George Bignotti, who did so much to make A.J.Foyt a winner. I based Hacksaw’s hard-boiled attitude toward life, and his rural vocal delivery, on so many mechanics I got to know, while working in the California High Desert.

Still another key character is Herb Cook, the president of Unirich Tire Company, Wagner’s friend and sponsor. The scene where Cook receives Wagner in his office at Corporate Headers in Akron, Ohio, while standing over his golfing putter, was something I’d seen first-hand while working for the Firestone Tire & Rubber Company. (The name Unrich is actually a composite of two U.S. tire companies: Uniroyal and Goodrich). Cook’s tough, no non-sense style, and unbroken loyalty to Wagner–despite Wagner’s betrayal–is consistent with a number Firestone executives, to whom I reported–both in Akron and in Los Angles–while I was working for the company.

The relationship between the driver and the team behind him is purely symbiotic–they need each other. This led me to create a secondary cast of characters, who built, and maintained Wagner’s high-tech racing machine. As with Hacksaw, they tended to be a rough-and tumble group, that despite occasional complaints, were prepared to work impossibly long hours to insure their driver had the best and fastest car on the starting grid. The poker game at Wagner’s London flat was written to demonstrate how the crew interacted with one another, and with Wagner.

ENJOY THE RIDE

Thank you for purchasing my novel. While Formula One racing has changed significantly, since the 1960s, the goals are still the same: to win races and championships at all costs, and that is the subject of my novel. May you enjoy the ride!

To be on the wire is life; the rest is waiting.

—Karl Wallenda

Chapter 1

ROUND ONE: SOUTH

AFRICA, JANUARY 1

Nothing could touch him now. Before, there had been the crowd pressing him, wanting his autograph, journalists questioning him, and the sickness in his stomach that always plagued him before every race. Now, all that was gone. He was seated inside his machine, cutoff from the outside world, his mind cold, empty, yet sharply focused.

The race starter, a man dressed in a trim blue suit, held up the two-minute sign.

Wagner reached out and adjusted the right sidemirror, but otherwise remained perfectly still. It was a bright, hot day in Johannesburg, South Africa, the kind that made the skin sweat from the slightest exertion, but for these final minutes, at least, in the shade of a sun umbrella, it was almost pleasant.

You gotta win this one, Hacksaw said, holding up the sun umbrella. You probably don’t want to hear that, but it’s a natural fact.

Wagner closed his eyes. He did not want conversation, not now, not this close to the start, or to think, or to strategize, or do anything but wait.

Shut up, Hacksaw, he said quietly.

An engine fired up and began revving, joined by another, and another, in a gathering chorus of throaty growls and shrieks. Wagner looked at the switches on the dash panel, crossed his arms, and waited.

One minute.

He tugged at his gloves and checked the vision in both sidemirrors. He was ready, really and truly ready. He flipped switches for the slave battery, fuel pumps, and ignition. He stabbed the starter button. He couldn’t hear his engine fire for the rage going on around him, but he could feel it in the pit of stomach, feel it lurch, clear itself of unspent fuel, and come to life.

Hacksaw folded up the umbrella, leaned over and shouted what sounded like Good luck and disappeared.

Thirty seconds.

Wagner grasped the small padded steering wheel and watched the starter step out onto the tarmac.

Ten seconds.

He upped the engine to a steady 8000 RPM and engaged first gear. He looked at the gap between the cars ahead of him–between Evans’ Lotus and Bogavanti’s Ferrari. If somehow he could squeeze through that gap, he would lead right off. It was possible. If he timed it right. If he was lucky.

Five seconds.

The starter looked over the field, making sure everyone was set, and then raised both hands. In one he held the South African National Flag. In the other he held five outstretched fingers, and began closing them one after the other–five, four, three, two, one....

Wagner released the clutch, felt his wheels spin and ... nothing. He was left standing at the grid while the cars in front and beside him burst away. He feathered the clutch as several cars from behind screamed past. Moving now, picking up speed, he upshifted. Two more cars passed him, but not as fast. He nailed one of them braking for Crowthorne Corner and passed the other one coming out.

So much for timing. So much for luck. So much for grabbing the damn lead. How far back was he? Eighth or ninth? The cars ahead darted back and forth and kicked up dust, negotiating Barbeque Bend and the Jukskei Sweep. He could see Evans’ green Lotus at the head of the pack, before it disappeared into Sunset Bend. A moment later, setting up for the Leeukop Hairpin, he saw it again, accelerating up the front straight, already leading by a sizeable margin.

Wagner shook his head grimly. He had to act fast. He passed a car at the start of lap two, passed two more on lap three, another on lap five, and another on lap six. That put him fourth, where he’d started the race. The next car ahead of him was the BRM, driven by Parks, the reigning world champion. Good old Mal Parks, never an easy man to pass. Wagner had no time to waste on him. He made a run on the BRM braking for Sunset, hit the curve too fast and had to back out of the throttle to keep from spinning. Two laps later, braking for Crowthorne Corner, he tried again, got crossed up as the corner tightened, and had to brake to keep from spinning. Before he recovered, two cars slipped past.

Nuts. He was trying too hard. When everything was clicking, speed came effortlessly, at will, but not now. The world was rushing at him in a blur. What else was new? The whole weekend had been one big blur. Driving for Garret-Hawk Racing Enterprises had been a last minute deal, arranged hastily mere days before the race, with details to be worked out later,