Corner Two - Old Guy, Model, Ex-Wife

"Sure. We'll try it different ways and you can decide what you like best. Start on the stool. Pass her the sign, Rod. Ready now? Let's start."

The photo session continued like this for an hour or more. Angie was beginning to get hot under the spotlights when the photographer finally called it quits. By the look on Rod's face, he was overheating too.

"Well, what do you think, boss?"

"Oh Jeez! Worth every penny I'll be spending on that damn car!"

****

Autumn Colours was a fitting name for the October race weekend. The fall colours are usually spectacular here, especially the maple trees, their leaves changing in a striking pallet, from yellow and orange to resplendent reds. Warm sunny days are followed by nights cold enough to bring touches of frost. Angela the art lover finds the season glorious.

My tastes in art don't match hers, but I like the fresh blue and yellow colours of our repaired Camaro set against Nature's paintbrush. By Friday evening, our crew had all arrived: Angela and I, son Marty and his girlfriend Suzanne, engine- guy Sam, and a new addition, my boss, Roderick Grantham. He was eager to see his costly team up close, especially my woman.

Our hopes were high, but the Friday inspection put a real damper on the mood. I raced in Vintage Class and a sharp-eyed scrutineer immediately noticed a rules violation with our newly painted vehicle.

"You're running it as a vintage replica, right? The Penske- Sunoco Trans-Am Camaro from the late-Sixties."

"Right. Got the right shade of blue, the bright yellow lettering. The number used at Riverside. Why?"

She was scrolling through her phone, then stopped to show me the screen.

"It's the lettering across the front fenders and hood that's a problem, 'Grantham Graphics'. Look at the original Penske Camaro. I don't see it there."

"No. It's a sponsor I picked up to help repair the damage from my September crash...."

"Sorry," she interrupted. "Can't do it. The Vintage rulebook says that replica vehicles can only use lettering, colours and numbers true to the original."

Then the inspector opened the rules bible, thumbing through it until she found the relevant passage. As she quoted it word-for-word, I saw that in my haste for funding, I'd overlooked the strict rules governing Vintage. Then came her verdict.

"You have a decision to make before you can be classified for the weekend. Either tape over the new advertising or race in the contemporary classes."

I thought for a few minutes and conferred with Angie and Rod before coming back to talk with the official.

"Which division would I race in if not Vintage?" My boss was here for the weekend, and I wanted to display his advertising on the car.

"Grand Touring- GT1 or GT2, depending on engine displacement. Are you running the original Penske configuration, a 327 V8 and four speed manual transmission? If so, it'd be GT2."

"And what would I be up against there?"

"Tough competition. A mix of modern stock cars and pickup trucks converted for road racing, mostly fiberglass bodies on tube-frame chassis. Throw in some high-end BMWs and smaller-engine Porsches. It would be a tough crowd to run against with your heavier car."

She seemed to be trying to get me to cover up the lettering and run Vintage. It was important to confer with Rod, after all, his company's name would be eliminated. He wasn't happy.

"Damn it! I don't like it either way. Why not see how it goes against the regular GT1 and GT2 group?" he advised, eager to see his company brand displayed to the other competitors and the spectators.

"OK. Put us in GT2," I told the inspector tersely. "We'll show the advertising."

Then she continued her examination of the Camaro, tapping on the bodywork with her knuckle. There was a metallic ping along the side of the body from the back corner to the front of the doors. After that, a hollow 'thunk' sounded as she moved to the front corner.

"Ah, fiberglass fender! You can't just cover up the advertising now. Vintage cars need to run original bodywork and for early Trans-Am that means sheet metal, no 'glass. This is strictly illegal, you know, a clear Vintage Class rules violation. Any lightweight glass fiber is cheating!" She seemed a bit hostile now.

"Oh shit! I didn't know that. Metal fenders were more expensive!" I shot back defensively.

"The rules are clear, and you aren't in compliance. You run in GT2 this weekend, or you go home. Make your choice!" And with that she spun on her heal and went to the next car in line.

I caught up with her and apologized. The scrutineers know the rulebook like the back of their hands. Pleading ignorance is no more effective than arguing with the cops or the taxation people.

"Sorry. I should have read the rules. We'll run in Grand Touring," I said as calmly as possible.

"Good luck!" she said sarcastically, adding a little smirking grin as we passed her station and went to a shady spot to unload the car. The race weekend was off to a bad start.

Our Friday night campfire was more subdued than the last time. Sam compared September lap times for GT2 to ours in Vintage GT and didn't like the result. We were about four seconds per lap slower than the winning car, a big deficit that would become half-way round in a ten-lap race. We had no chance of winning against these cars!

"And the slowest times, Sam?" Rod asked.

"About the same as we ran last time out," was the tough verdict. I was crestfallen. There seemed no chance to even place well.

"Just have fun out there, Greg," Angie encouraged.

"It is as it is, Dad," Marty added, and I wondered when in life he'd adopted this realistic strategy. I hadn't seen enough of him in his teens and early twenties as his mother and I drifted apart. Now he was calling me Dad and offering support. If nothing else this weekend, I'd take heart in that.

Then Rod spoke up.

"I used to race motorcycles a bit when I was younger. How about I be your crew chief this weekend, Greg? Nothing to lose, right? I'd get a kick out of it, making all the important calls from the pit box," he joked.

"Well, why not?" Angie replied right away. "After all, it's partly your car now that your name is on it. No-one has done that up to now. Sam and Marty can look after tires and signs to update Greg and call him in if necessary."

At the time I didn't recognize the importance of this idea which would change the course of the weekend.

Later that evening, Marty and I talked privately around the dying campfire. Most of the others had drifted off to their tents and I knew that Angie would be waiting for our traditional "Good luck" send-off in our camper. He had something on his mind.

"Mum keeps talking to me about your racing and Angela. She says it's too dangerous of course, but she's really pissed about you being with a fashion model twenty years younger. Thinks she could be my sister...."

"Yeah, it must really bug her," I grinned.

"You have no idea! She's been online and found some of her early modelling shots. And that swimwear catalogue deal in the islands last winter. Lots of skin in some of them, so she thinks that Angie is a tramp who's going to bring you down. In her words, 'If racing doesn't kill him, that bitch will!'"

"That's funny, but it's not my problem. We divorced a long time ago. She needs to get her own life."

"Seriously, I think she still has some feelings for you. She hates Angela and would like nothing more than to see her out of the picture."

"Not going to happen, son," I replied smugly.

"Just telling you so you keep your eyes open. You know how hard she'll push sometimes to get her own way."

I knew that and thanked him for the warning, though I didn't give it much thought as I headed toward the camper, and another exciting romp with my new love.

****

Things were different in this last race weekend of the season. Word got around among the Vintage competitors that I had been caught breaking some rules during inspection. The Grantham Graphics advertising was no big deal, a rookie mistake with the detailed wording of the lengthy rulebook. But the lightweight front fender was a serious matter, a competitive advantage. The usual racer camaraderie wasn't there anymore. We were being shunned.

Vintage racing is different from conventional road race competition. It's a sport of 'gentleman/ gentlewoman' drivers, usually amateurs who treat their historic vehicles with loving care. Some own and race the same car for many years. Rules about equipment and presentation are very strict, though modern safety equipment is encouraged and often required.

The 'no-touch' provision is almost universal. One is not allowed to tap a car ahead or alongside to move it out of the way to pass. Common practice in regular race competition, this is forbidden in Vintage racing, though it does occur at some prestige international events. An offending driver is treated like a pariah by peers, and the competition licence could be suspended by the racing body.

We didn't expect much success in our new classification, a larger race group filled with many intimidating drivers and machines. This wasn't the same kind of animal as vintage. We knew that there could well be some beating and banging on our precious car in tight quarters, and we expected to run near the back of the pack too. I lined up on the grid with trepidation.

Really, could my mildly race-prepared 1968 Camaro expect to best Porsches and Bimmers with multi-speed transmissions, turbo-charging, and complex independent suspensions? Could I expect to run with fiberglass-bodied, tube frame stock cars with new 'crate engines', straight from the factory? Sam, my engine guy knew his stuff, but this was a new level of competition!

My practice and qualifying times from Saturday morning put me near the back of the eighteen-car GT1/GT2 grid. Competitors were looking at the old Camaro over intently, as if to say, "What the Hell are you doing here?"

Going into Race One, I was determined to stay out of trouble and give way to anyone intent on passing. I wanted to preserve our car. I was fast on the straightaways, but a sitting duck on the tight corners.

The first race was embarrassing. I started third last and finished there too. By the ninth lap of the ten-lap race, my rear-view mirrors were filled with the front runners coming up. The white-clothed corner marshals waved blue flags at me, the signal to give way to faster cars behind. To obey them, I had to take the slower outside line around corners instead of the preferred, faster inside route. I didn't much like racing this way, not at all competitive.

Angie tried hard to encourage me before our second race of the weekend.

"You're running so well, Greg. Your lap times are two seconds better than the last race weekend."

"It's not very satisfying just trying to stay out of the way to protect the car!" I complained.

"I know. It doesn't seem fair to have to race against all these expensive sports cars, does it. All because of graphics and a fiberglass fender."

"Maybe we'll need to change those things and get back to Vintage?" I groused.

"Just do what you can this weekend, Greg," my crew chief Rod reminded me. "Try to have some fun out there. The car looks fabulous, you know!"

A few cars had developed problems in Race One, so on Sunday morning only fifteen cars lined up for GT1/GT2, seven of them in my classification. I'd finished ahead of two of them in the first race, so if I could pass two more, I'd have a chance for third in class. It seemed doable, though I had to set my sights on a much newer Mustang and a Nineties BMW to claim a trophy. Unfortunately, it didn't happen.

I blasted up the long back straight, an uphill climb that favours big, low-torque engines, like my V8. The Bimmer was in my sights and by the time we crested the top, I had edged past it. Now there were three GT2s behind me and just one more to pass. But against the big Mustang I had no advantage on the fastest sections of the track, and after ten laps I finished a hundred metres back.

Everyone was back for the final GT1/GT2 race, even a car that couldn't make the morning grid. My hopes for a weekend trophy dimmed along with the weather. Sunday afternoon was overcast, with heavy cloud beginning to move in. I was slow at the start, missing a shift, and I dropped almost to the tail end of the field. By mid-race I was making some progress, but still nowhere near trophy contention.

Angie was watching from Corner Two as always, and she saw the worsening sky above. Both of us were probably thinking about my big accident in similar circumstances the month before. She had her cell with her to communicate with our guys in the pit box. But she used it for something else too.

The next time I came along the main straightaway, I saw my prominent blue and yellow signboard displayed.

"PIT NEXT LAP".

It seemed crazy to me because the conditions looked good enough to last for the remaining three laps. But Rod was crew chief today and my boss all week, so I knew I should come in next time around.

Marty and Sam jumped over the pit wall and installed four rain tires as fast as they could, but I was annoyed- almost half a lap in time wasted by a too-early call.

One lap later, the sky opened up, sending cars helter-skelter on their racing slicks.

As they slowly tip-toed to their pits for rain tires, the Penske Camaro motored past several of them.

By the final lap, I was mentally ticking off passed GT2 competitors and... by god! I was running third in class, headed for a trophy if I stayed out of trouble for one more circuit.

I was elated as I pulled into the cool-down area behind the pit boxes.

"Great call, Rod! I thought you were nuts and you got us third in class! Man, what a crew chief!" I shouted as I pulled off my helmet.

Rod just grinned at me.

"Not my call, Greg. There's somebody else to thank."

"Sam?... Marty?" but they just shook their heads.

"Dad, thank Angie. She was on her phone checking the weather radar. Called from Corner Two and said rain was expected in five minutes or less. Angie's call got us the trophy!"

****

"Trust me, baby. I only want what's best for you. I certainly didn't want to see you sliding down into that Corner Two tire wall again. Once was enough!"

That's how Angie responded when I thanked her profusely for the wise decision she made about the coming storm. Unfortunately, my lack of trust in her almost caused a rift in our relationship. It began with a late-night phone call from our son, Marty. He started out in a serious tone, so right away I knew that there was some problem. I wondered what he needed help with.

"No, this isn't about me. It's about Angie. Mum told me something today that I think you should know about. "

"She's probably trying to stir up trouble. I know she doesn't like Angie. One, she's in her thirties. Two, she's a fashion model. And three, she's gorgeous. What would she like?" I laughed.

"And four, Mum thinks she might be cheating on you. It's hard to believe, but I figured I should pass this on to you, so you could check it out."

"What!... OK. Shoot."

"Mum was out for lunch with somebody she's been dating recently. She'd like you to think it's some corporate millionaire, just to make you as jealous as she is of you...."

"Get on with it." I was already growing impatient.

"She knows what Angie looks like, and she saw her having a long lunch and drinks with some guy her age. She said that he was younger than you and very handsome."

I felt a twinge of jealousy because I was neither of these things.

"It could have been quite innocent, Marty. Somebody she works with. An old friend...."

"Apparently, they were very friendly. All touchy-feely, and after a long time, when he was leaving, she stood up to give him a big hug and kiss."

"Ohhh... what kind of a kiss?"

"Mum didn't say. Has Angie been acting different lately? You know, dressing up when she goes out?"

"I haven't noticed. I mean, she always looks good when she's out in public."

"Well... I've done my duty and I hope I haven't upset you, Dad."

This bothered me, and the more I thought about it, the worse it got. After supper on Friday, Angie dressed smartly and announced that she'd be out for the evening "to meet an old friend."

"What kind of old friend?" I asked warily, now on alert.

"Somebody I know from the runway. I'll be back by 11:00 or so. Don't wait up."

She winked provocatively and then she was gone. What was that supposed to mean? Where was she going with this old friend? And was it the same guy she was having lunch with earlier in the week?

Angie came in sometime before midnight after I had gone to bed annoyed that she was late. She was being extra quiet, but I stirred.

"Oh, I woke you up, Greg. Sorry."

"Did you have a nice time tonight, Angie?" I asked flatly.

"Oh yes. A bit late because we had so much talk about."

"Tell me tomorrow, OK," and I sighed, then turned over to sleep.

In the morning, Angie was on her phone with someone and didn't realize that I could hear her talking. Her voice was animated and very friendly. I could almost guess what the other person was saying.

"Oh, I did too. You're looking as good as ever."

"Yes, I'd love to while we have the chance."

"Send me some. I want to see them."

"Yes, I promise some for you too"

"Lunch next week would be great, Sven."

I couldn't contain myself any longer. As soon as she was finished her call, I marched into the kitchen and plunked down across from her at the table.

"Who the Hell is Sven? And why have you been seeing him so much lately?" I blurted out. Angie just looked at me wide-eyed as if she'd been caught in the act.

"I told you last night. He's an old friend. Sven and I used to do fashion shoots together in our twenties.... Hey Greg, you're angry. Do you think there's something going on behind your back?"

"Well Angie, is there? Last week it was lunch, then late coming home last night. Today I overheard you talking about exchanging pictures and planning lunch again. Why are you spending so much time with this guy, Angie?"

"You're jealous, aren't you, Greg? And, how do you know about my lunch date last week?" she bristled.

"My ex- saw you there and told Marty you were hugging and kissing this guy."

"She's trying to get back at you, Greg. A friendly hug and a peck on the cheek. That was it. And last night we were with his sister at her place. He's in town for a few weeks and staying there. Anything else you're suspicious about? Don't you trust me!"

Now Angie was the angry one. I felt like a fool for not trusting her. It all seemed quite innocent, but after my ex-wife had blown it out of proportion, I played her game and let my insecurities get the best of me.

You see, Angela is a young and very attractive woman, while I'm an older guy, and in my own mind, no more than Mr. Average. Would I ever be able to accept that Angie saw more in me than I did? Didn't I realize that women often place high value on character?

It was time for a big slice of humble pie.

"There's something I've never told you before, Angie."

"What's that?" she snapped sharply.

"Sometimes I think you're better than me. You know... beautiful, younger, sexy...."

"That's nonsense, Greg! You think you don't deserve me? What's wrong with that male ego of yours anyway? I find you very appealing- but not right now."

OK. Maybe Angie had a point there. Then I ventured a bit further into the mystery of our relationship.

"There are times when I wonder if you came on to me so you could get away from your husband. I mean, look how you practically seduced me with your 'Thanks' when I took you to the hospital that first day. Hot sex within hours and...."

"Now that's even stupider! Like you didn't want it!" Her voice went higher. "Rocco hurt me and you rushed me to Emergency, then home. A complete stranger! You were my hero that night, Greg, and my feelings won't ever change unless you stop treating me right."