Corner Two - No Place to Play

"Damn! That's what I was afraid of.""

"And, he got what he wanted alright," she continued, pausing for effect. "But not with me. I told him I'd never cheat on my lover at home."

"My god!" I burst out. "You don't know how I worried about you. All kinds of grim scenes running through my head...."

"You have to trust me, honey. Why would I want to lose a good man?"

Then she put a cap on our earlier disagreement.

"Just treat me as well outside the bedroom as you do in there. That's what a woman really wants."

****

I'd survived the first race weekend of the season unscathed, and the July event was coming up fast. But there was a problem- costs. To stage these races, clubs need to rent the track, cover hefty insurance costs, and pay for ambulance, wrecker, safety crew, even maintenance crew. Weekend costs are so high that it takes at least one hundred competitors each paying more than five hundred dollars just for the club to break even!

Road racing is expensive. Half a grand or more, four to six times each racing season just for entry fees- but Angela had a good suggestion.

"You could look into getting some sponsors to help pay the bills. We see that at the track all the time, even on F1 cars, right?"

"Like who?"

"Italian fashion houses, for example, or energy drinks. All types of businesses."

"No, I mean, who would sponsor us? Who would see the Camaro then buy from a sponsor?"

"You could start with your boss. Graphics design would have a market with the racing crowd- lots of business types watch- and probably with the other competitors too. Think about it."

"Maybe we could sell him on that. Any ideas how to go about it?"

"We! I see that you want me to help you work on Rod," she smirked.

"You do seem to have a certain effect on him," I laughed. "He'd be putty in your hands, Angie."

"We're in this together, so I'd back you up while you do a little presentation."

"Great! And dress 'business sexy'", I hinted.

"Greg, you don't need to tell me how to get his motor running."

Angie clearly knew how to put my boss under her spell. With her tight black skirt, starched white blouse and low heels, he didn't have a chance, especially when her steady eye contact froze him like a deer caught in the headlights. By the time we finished our talk, Rod had agreed to pay our entry fees for the balance of the season in exchange for some company advertising with the Camaro. That, along with team graphics apparel and promotional photos with Angie front and centre, of course.

Come July race weekend, we looked like a more professional team in our new gear. My engine-builder friend came to help with tuning and set-up. And, my adult son Martin showed up, curious about what his crazy old man had got himself into now. He knew about Angie from a few things I'd said, but he wasn't prepared for what he saw. She was only a few years older than Marty, and like every man she met, my partner dazzled him with her looks and personality. Later he confided.

"Jeez Dad. What the Hell! That's Angie?"

"Yup. Beautiful woman and nice person," I grinned, my ego stroked by my own kid.

"She's my age. How'd you do it?"

"I was a friend when she needed one. Right here two years ago. Sometimes it pays to be Mr. Nice Guy."

"Does Mom know about her? I mean, she would be so pissed...."

"Just a bit," I cut him short. "She knows that Angie got me started racing, but not that she's a thirty-seven-year-old model. Doesn't need to hear that, OK?"

"That'll be hard to hold onto. Hey, do you mind if I stay for the weekend, just to help out?"

"No problem," I smiled. "I have a tent on board because there's only one bed in the trailer."

"And it's occupied, right?"

"Yes it is," was all I replied, which left him shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

"With that hot fox," and his eyes rolled back at the very thought of it.

Marty helped us a lot that weekend, polishing up the car between races and handling the barbeque. There was team gear for him and before the Camaro was back on the trailer, he was already asking about the next event. I hadn't seen enough of him since his mother and I split, so there was some bonding going on. Angie commented that based on my son, I must have looked way better at thirty-five. Thanks!

I drove cautiously that July weekend, still getting comfortable with the reserves of power at my command. The car was a beast when I put my foot into it, but the corners came up quickly, often with another car poking in trying to pass me. There was a big vintage Grand Touring field for the first race, but at least I wasn't last in my class.

On Sunday morning, I moved up a few positions after some spirited battles. I still found the speed on the long back straight intimidating, the forest on both sides nothing more than a blur as I drew closer to the pedestrian bridge. It was like blasting through a long uphill tunnel, the V8 roaring as the tachometer arched closer to the red line.

In the afternoon, there were fewer cars in my race group- some racers had either damage or engine problems. With my engine-builder/tuner on hand, the replica Penske Camaro was as good as ever, maybe better. I finished third in the little GT2 group and Angie was jumping around excitedly as I pulled into the pits. Our first trophy!

We were both on top of the world, with Marty and my friend there to cheer at the trophy presentation. That chunk of wood and plated metal meant a lot to Angie and me. We'd been in it together from the beginning: her idea and some of her money- now our achievement. It just couldn't get any better than this!

But how could we know what was waiting for us around the bend- Corner Two specifically?

****

Angela's career was picking up again with her new agent on the job. That swimwear shoot in the islands had just been the beginning, and now she was busy a few days every week with catalogue shoots and commercial advertising. She had a new image, her bobbed ash-blonde hair tinted a chestnut shade and cropped a bit closer along one side of her head. Angie looked twenty-something now, and I definitely could be her father- or Sugar Daddy.

The new younger look brought more contracts for sexy sportswear, fitness centre ads, and the like. And my boss helped pay the racing bills with more promotional spots in her Grantham Graphics garb. He suggested some future public appearances for her and the car at industry trade shows- if she was willing. She was.

Our racing endeavours were keeping apace. I was registered for the September weekend event at the track and our hopes were high for another trophy, perhaps even better than a third in class. I was feeling bolder now, like I was progressing- next season the yellow Novice tape would be gone. Marty would be coming, maybe with his girlfriend, along with Angie and my engine guy, Sam.

Before barbeque time Friday, everybody had arrived. Marty had evidently told his girlfriend Suzanne all about my lovely lady because she was dressed for show. Tight top and short shorts, cork wedge sandals, perfect hair and makeup- she wasn't going to let any fashion model out-do her. We all pitched in to set up tents- even a canvas canopy over the car in case it rained.

Drinks around the campfire brought everybody together, and both Marty and Suzanne were more relaxed with Angie. Later, my love and I enjoyed another "Good Luck" send-off in the camper, a little pre-race tradition we were eager to keep going. And it worked! Another third-place finish in Race One on Saturday afternoon gave us high hopes for Sunday.

That morning was gloomy, with heavy cloud and a threat of rain later on in the day. It was an taste of autumn, a warning that unsettled weather lay ahead. The temperature had dropped overnight, leaving us scrambling to dig out warm sweaters and hoodies. Fortunately we'd invested in rain tires and practiced pit stops to get them on quickly if needed.

Our second vintage class race of the weekend was last of the morning, and by then the sky looked ominous. We hoped to complete our ten laps, then wait over the lunch break to see what would develop for the afternoon. We'd probably need to use our new 'wets' today, so we each rolled one to our pit box. Soon the cars were assembled on the starting grid, and the green flag dropped.

I knew that Angie and Suzanne were watching from Corner Two while the guys stayed in the pits ready to change tires. The Camaro was howling, straining like an animal to move up. I passed a couple of GT2s in the first few laps, using my steed's horsepower to take them on the back straight. This was going well.

But the sky was quickly darkening from deep blue to slate grey, almost to black in places. And me, with no experience racing in the wet!

Then disaster struck.

Just as I barreled up to the crest at Corner Two, the clouds suddenly opened, dashing blinding sheets of water onto the pavement. I lifted and tapped my brakes to avoid skidding, and then I caught a glimpse of two cars sliding side-by-side down into the dreaded curve. I tried to go outside around them, but on racing slicks there was no grip. My Camaro was out of control, with me as a passenger!

Angie saw it. I spun, then whacked sideways into the tire barrier- hard enough to bounce the front end high in the air. Body panels crushed from the impact and the steering assembly snapped, leaving the front wheels knock-kneed, pointing in opposite directions. I sat slumped at the wheel for a few moments, protected from serious injury by my five-point harness, HANS device and roll cage.

She probably thought I was dead. The red flag waved, and a white-clad corner worker came running toward me. I scrambled out through the side window, shook myself, then waved up to the spectators to show that I wasn't injured. Moments later Angie stood shouting at me from the top of the concrete barrier behind the tires. She'd run along the fence down to the curve.

"Are you alright? Oh my god, Greg, are you hurt?" she screamed.

"I'm fine! I'm fine! But the car...."

"To Hell with the goddam car!" she bellowed at me. "You're OK!"

The corner worker laughed to hear this lovely lady venting like a sweating stevedore. The last time I'd heard this was here at Corner Two, when she cursed out her ex-husband Rocco.

But for now, our race weekend- and maybe my short racing career- was finished.

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