finished documentary.
Restart!
Sandyâs audio picked up the swelling roar of a couple of dozen 750-horsepower engines all gunning it together.
Another great audio clip.
Then the ducking and weaving and fighting for position began all over again.
Her front camera showed that she almost drove onto the trunk of the car in front of her. Her rear camera showed one car on each side, both of those almost banging her bumper.
And this was at 180 miles per hour.
âHeatâs bad,â Sandy said to audio. âItâs like sitting in a sauna for three hours. Not only thatââ
She stopped.
âHang on,â she said calmly. âI see daylight.â
I didnât. All I saw in her front-view camera was rushing pavement and the spoilers of the two cars ahead.
She swerved, and then I saw it. But it didnât look like enough room. Then the car on the right gave way, and she was through.
âThat was a paint-scraper,â she said. âItââ
Again, she stopped short. A car was coming up behind her fast on the left-hand side. The camera showed her going high into a corner. She moved slightly left, the car behind her backed off.
Then she was through the corner, coming out low.
She drifted high again, almost kissing the concrete wall. The pavement and concrete were moving so fast that I could not imagine the concentration it took to stay in place.
The silence over the next half hour showed exactly how much concentration it took. She had warned us before the race that talkingto our audio system would be the last thing on her mind. The race and her pit crew were more important.
Not that there was total silence.
Every half lap or so we could hear George on her radio.
âHow do the tires feel?â he asked.
âHot,â she said. âBut I donât want to give anything up going into the corners. Not when we worked so hard to get us here.â
âPushing hard enough to squeal?â he asked.
âThis isnât my first race,â she answered.
Another voice took me away from the race.
I realized it was Uncle Mike. Asking me to hit Pause.
âTire squeal?â he asked.
âYou know the answer, donât you,â I said, grinning. âThis is a test.â
He nodded. âPass it.â
I thought it over. âAll right. Once tires get over two hundred and twenty-five degrees, they lose grip. As they lose grip, they slide and get even hotter. Squealing is the fastestway to let you know youâre pushing too hard.â
âA-plus,â Uncle Mike said, matching my grin. âLetâs get back to the race.â
We watched another five laps. Again, all I could do was shake my head in admiration. The front and back camera views showed how much skill it took to stay on the track at those high speeds. She was still silent, intent on keeping her second-place position.
Georgeâs voice broke in. âAre you losing speed on the straights?â
âDonât seem to be. Worried about the bodywork?â she replied.
I hit Pause on the video playback.
âI asked one of the crew about the new fender they banged into place,â I said to Uncle Mike. âActually, I did more than ask. I filmed one of the guys. He told me that their biggest worry was spoiling the air flow. He said banged-up bumpers and crumpled fenders were as much a part of stock-car racing as hot dogs and cola in the stands. A few dents wonât slow a car, but any major fender damage will cause air drag aboveone hundred and forty miles per hour. If they did a bad job, it might cost her ten miles an hour in speed.â
I hit Play on the video again, catching her voice as she went into the straights.
âThe crew did a great job,â she said. âNo vibration, no shake. I feel good about this race.â
She should have. She finished fourth.
Fourth might have made her happy, but it didnât do much for us. Because we didnât get it on