Heel and Toe

Both women knew I'd have preferred to compete. Both knew the time and money investment we were making in children was putting an end to the parade weekends with the DBR. Eventually it seeped into their brains that I'd put my racing career fantasies on hold just for our time with the "family DBR". Now having the kids was going to preclude that too. I'd put even occasional racing on hold to fix my marriage when my wife strayed, then again to fix my mother-in-law, and to make a nice new life for the three of us. I think it was presumed that eventually I'd go back to club racing and, who knows, maybe pursue my dream as a professional racer. Now with the sacrifices needed for children there was no rainbow. I shouldn't spend the money on racing if we had children to raise, and you had to spend that money first to have any chance at a racing career at my point in life.

Even though racing was no longer a true blood sport, racing frightened my wife that she'd become a widow too soon, especially now that we had young children. Yet she was able to see it from another perspective too. It seemed to Devon I'd poured my life out for her and her mother, and now there simply was no reward for me, delayed or otherwise. She felt I'd traded my dream life for hers. Devon was prone to dramatic thinking at times now.

I'd just backed the DBR out of the trailer and into the garage after the last parade race of the season. The DBR was in for a long hiatus from the track. As I got out of the car, I noticed the ladies were unpacking a picnic basket on a nearby worktable. The two of them put a scotch in my hand, gave me a sandwich, sat me down, and laid out the background I just gave you. I confirmed the part about kids precluding my racing. I asked Marta if I could still work on the DBR, stating "If you don't keep them running, just like us, they turn to glue." She actually teared up telling me, "Of course!"

The gals were teary like someone had just gotten a bad medical diagnosis. It seemed like the tragic part of a Disney movie. I never could figure this dynamic out, and I was just as nonplussed this time. They were beside themselves at my decision. They said they understood, and if I said I couldn't swing racing with life's other demands, then that was good enough for them. They both made a point of saying they would support me if I changed my mind. I wasn't going to. Then they looked at each other and smiled before they dropped the bomb.

They said they understood my racing career never really got started. Then they said there was a big caveat: that it was sacrificed in service to others. They couldn't fix that even though they were the major beneficiaries. They said that such a sacrifice and such a great career that never was, should not go unheralded. I had no idea how to herald something that never existed. I told my mind to shut up and listen.

They looked at each other and asked, "What about a last lap race? How about one last race to officially retire my nascent career and dreams? It wouldn't be against top competition, but it would be against some really rich teams and some of the finest hardware ever made. How about I enter one last race to try to get it out of my system?"

I smiled at them like you would a five-year-old, asking, "What sort of race do you think I should enter?"

They already had the answer, "How about a classic vintage race?"

I started to kindly shut them down, explaining many of the complexities, not least of which was I didn't have a car.

Marta looked at Devon who smiled at her mother and gave a knowing nod. Marta turned back to me, "Reggie, how about you race, not drive, the DBR." Both women broke into huge toothy smiles. I sat back stunned.

"Marta, do you have any idea what that car is worth?"

For a second Marta looked worried, then consternated, then determined, "Yes, Devon told me more than I wanted to hear. Possibly more than my house, though real estate has gone up and we have a very large lot too. So ... it's worth a lot more than I dreamed."

Marta had a point, but not a very good one. She and James had excellent taste, they bought what they liked before the things they liked became classics. Her old house and estate grounds were out of fashion when they bought them, and they were much further out of town then. Her real estate was literally not in the same neighborhood anymore, as the town had grown out to surround it. It was worth millions now. But the DBR1 they bought was originally a factory racer. There were only five of the damn things, they bought it wrecked and took years restoring it, adding some comforts and a second seat because they enjoyed it together. Then it became a classic and completely unreasonable as far as its value.

"Marta that car is worth mi..."

"It's priceless, Reggie!" She cut me off. "It's priceless to me and to James. And damn it, it's priceless to you. That you race it again is priceless to Devon... and probably to you and certainly to James too. Before you try to convince me otherwise remember that you once told me James would support anything I wanted to do with it, but he would prefer I use it. This seems like the ultimate use to me. Think about it, Reg. It's the life you should have led, but instead you were sent to save my family. I can never repay you, but I can make this gesture. And what of the DBR? She was made for the track. How do you think she likes living in this garage? You saved her from moth balls. You're why we did the parade circuit at the races. She must long to stretch her legs and fill her lungs. And Reggie, this would make James so very happy."

Before I could process much of what Marta had laid out, Devon started in.

"Reggie?" Devon ventured quietly. "All the racing fraternity folks like you, they all like the car too. This would be a big boost for the vintage club series. We could promote it sort of tongue and cheek as your retirement race." Her tone became very serious, "But Honey, if you want to race in the future, I support you one hundred percent! Doing this the way I mentioned makes it fun and exciting for everyone. The way Mom and I see it, you start getting ready now. You practice and tune over winter and race the first full slate ticket in late spring. If you want, by that time you can have me good and knocked-up with our next child too." She beamed through her embarrassment.

I wasn't going to cry or anything, but I'd put dreams of racing to bed. I'd raced the DBR with James, I knew what it felt like, I wanted this. I looked up almost unable to speak. "Thank you!" They hugged me and cried passionately. For a moment that mother daughter tag-team thing seemed frightening close.

* * * * * *

People loved the idea of my "retiring" along with the DBR. They made up a joke fake racing history for me. I was very young to retire, especially with so many adventures and victories. People shared stories in the club newsletters of my having raced neck and neck with the great racers of the past eight decades! Everyone had a hoot. Especially me; I had volunteers: very, very, good ones to help me tune the car and act as my road and pit crew. That was a major push to my race effort. The club featured the car and its retirement race in its member and public outreach efforts. Folks had fun and anticipated the race all winter. The turnout was going to be huge.

The day finally came. I'd been lent all sorts of cars for practice. I'd taken the DBR out for practice too as we both needed tuning. She came back to hand so quickly I had to think that I had help from its owner, James. She felt responsive beyond my memories of driving her at speed.

The car was so beautiful. The weather was cool, great for racing engines, and sunny, great for the track. The cheers went up for the DBR as she rolled into position on the starting grid. Surprisingly a big cheer went up for me as I was announced. This sort of race didn't feature pit stops but some folks still raced with teams because of love for the old cars and their surrounding traditions. Also, if there was some sort of issue with the car, perhaps her day wouldn't end so quickly. Plus working on a car while the raced charged on fed what many were there for, fueling the fantasy of being part of those old hard charging glorious days. The DBR had a team! After the crucial tuning, my team existed mostly as a ceremonial gesture, yet they were all honored to be there.

I'd set up a little thank you for Marta. She just about fell to her knees when the loudspeakers announced James as my co driver. She later said it sounded like angles singing to hear his name announced again. At mention of his name as owner and co-driver there was just a second's hesitation as the crowd took it in. The resulting roar was a cacophony of joy. That got to me more than anything. I was ready.

There were cars from all eras, you have to meet certain qualifications in order to compete. Most vintage cars stopped racing because of their value, not their technical obsolescence. The car I was about to drive was not only moving artwork but was also something right out of a golden age or Speed Racer, take your pick. It would also return on a really, really, bad day a minimum of three million dollars. Perhaps on a good day several times that. There were other valuable cars out there, so people were careful. Still, racing is racing, emotions and passions flare and accidents do happen. If I kept that worry too much in mind it would kill my race and probably make me more likely to be in an accident. I really didn't think I'd have trouble finding the zone.

Back when James and I used to race, the car was worth under a million. So, we didn't have that as a distraction. We never placed better than eighth, but that was with a driver change. I was hopeful I could do better. I was up against newer cars, still old by racing standards but more sophisticated than my DBR's 1956 level of technology. I was in the fourth row of three. That wasn't wonderful. The placements were based on times taken while alone on the circuit. Driving in traffic is different. Racing is much different. I was a trained racer not a hobbyist. But there were better drivers and better equipment on this circuit. The extra attention the car and its "retirement" had garnered had made the race more serious, not less, to the true racers. The stakes were high. I didn't find any of it daunting. I loved this stuff.

It was, of course, nice at Monticello. Well worth the four-hour haul with a trailer, it took to reach the track in New York from Marta's house in Kennett Square. The track was a joy with a good bit of twists and curves and then some nice flats and straights. Someone had finagled the full course, not the abbreviated one. The extra curves were an advantage for the DBR. The race having garnered more attention than normal also garnered more and better participants. At over three and a half miles of racing circuit the more serious drivers should separate themselves. Additionally with that length of track the slower traffic should spread out, minimizing rolling roadblocks and mechanized abattis for those of us running to win.

I was at a serious disadvantage to some of the newer cars. I had a lightweight car with a bit more than two hundred and fifty horsepower. Due to the newer car's tires and brakes weighing more than the not as efficient, but lighter weight counterparts in the DBR, I had less mass to worry with. They also had more than half again the horsepower of my car, hell, maybe close to twice. Despite the weight penalty, most would believe the newer entries held the advantage. Wasn't that the verdict of history?

The trick was who had the best car and a driver to match. From what I'd seen that combination added up to nine. I really wanted to beat James' and my best finish of eighth. That was going to be a feat.

Not everyone has their best day on race day, both professional and enthusiast. Frankly, some people were scared to drive near the old DBR for fear of wrecking her on her last outing. Some of the drivers were professional racers retired from prestigious careers and wanted no part of career legacy marring publicity. Once the race was underway some enthusiasts backed off when around me when they realized I was driving the DBR seriously, just as they would for the professionals. And that left the pros for me to worry about. Their cars were expensive too. The pros had trophy cases, and they were full. They had nothing to prove. Some had racing in their blood, and so did some of us that never had the honor to strap on a helmet professionally. There was a strong difference however: whereas I was working my way towards being a pro once, those who had lived the life held a powerful advantage in both experience and, I'll admit it, talent.

The smell and the sound of a race are huge inducements if you love racing. The old cars shake you constantly, it's like performing in a mixer. The engine and oil smelled good, the cold brakes didn't have a smell yet, also good. I was familiar with the DBR's idiosyncrasies, nothing untoward there. The old girl was happily spinning to her intended redline. I had to drive smooth or I would use up my tires, so I had to watch it. If you were unwary, you could literally slide sideways a half car width on worn tires in the tightest corners. Even when I had to push matters a few times, she still kept her nose pointed where she needed to.

* * * * * *

We had far less than a half hour of racing left. Once the first car hit the mark the race was over; it was then a race back to the finish line for the rest of us. In effect, a last lap scramble to determine where you placed. My crew was keeping me abreast of pertinent track information the old-fashioned way: by using signs as I sped by. We could've used a radio, but it just wasn't in the spirit of the thing. I knew I was doing well. I'd passed or been given the road by two of the top nine. I had hard-fought passes of two more. I should be in fifth!

I knew we were near the end when a 911 variant, I could never keep all of them straight, started gaining on me. It was one of the cars I'd passed earlier. Though old the car was at least twenty years younger than mine with more horsepower to boot. 911's were famous for their handling prowess, or infamous for their lack of it when things went wrong.

He tried to take me in the straight, if I lost to him here, I wouldn't get him back. After the straight there were a series of curves including a hairpin. The Porsche may have had an advantage over many cars there. Not mine. The whole issue was going to be in the set up for taking the curves. If I could drive well enough to put him on the outside then I would win, not by outdriving him in the corners, which would also have to be done, but by driving well enough to put him in a position where I could use my strength and his weakness.

There was lapped traffic ahead, I took a chance at slowing us down. I pulled to the far left where I would just squeak past the slower car. As the DBR is a right-handed car with the steering wheel on what Americans would consider the passenger side, I would have an up-close and personal view of the pass. Sure enough, the Porsche tried to come up alongside me, to force me to back off. Hah! I had the lead, and I was in the best position. I wasn't backing off, that son of a bitch could either ram the car in front of him or veer to his left wrecking both of us, oooor get on his brakes allowing me to dictate my line entering the curves.

The slower car was coming up fast. There is a code among drivers that in the gravest extreme is intended to give us a chance to survive the race. Hemingway called motor racing and bull fighting the last remaining blood sports. When he wrote it, if a racer survived five years at a championship level the odds greatly favored death if they continued to race. Things had changed a lot, only the DBR and the Porsche were gaining on a much slower car at speed, this sort of thing had always been fraught with ill possibility. I was barley going to scrape past the slower car to its left, the Porsche was coming up right behind the slower car. Something had to give, or else everything would give. Sometimes when fate calls it's best to hasten to it. I stayed in the throttle and accelerated.

Wisely, the Porsche chose the last option: using his brakes. That would cost him. He would have to drop back, decelerate, stir his gears to get his speed back, and then try to pass me again. If I held my acceleration until just as he slowed, then I should still hold the lead by the time we got to the curve - a left hander. My whole race would depend on how I navigated that turn.

Sure enough, his nose, which had been on my right elbow, disappeared. I rushed a down shift and nailed it. The lapped car seemed to shoot past me going in reverse. It was less than a foot off my elbow as I whooshed by with a nice pressure wave as a reward. I was pulling away. Now the upshift and I was going faster yet.

I set my course like a laser beam: the inside lane of the upcoming curve. Typically, you want to make the corners as wide as possible. I was scared if I did that the Porsche would nose himself to the inside which I did not want. That meant taking the corner tight! Not too far out, not the normal line or he could sneak underneath me and reverse our lanes, and I would be undone. He took the bait of setting up for the wider and faster way through the corner, now traveling faster than I could manage he came up and took place on my outside right fender. He was going to attempt the pass before we entered the tight corner, he might be changing his line as he entered the corner that way. Even with his stronger engine and brakes that wasn't going to work for him. If he was that good, he would not be racing here, and he never would have been behind me.

Now I was off the gas as the hairpin corner loomed, I had to push him wider while we were still on the straight. I wanted him to have to change his arc while in the curve, I could do that by determining where he entered the turn, and I could do that while we were still on the straight. He would want to be as far left as possible and I wanted him further to the right.

He started to come over towards me. I didn't move. I still had the lead. Now I nudged right! The guy was almost up to me his eyes were angry and red at being forced wider in the turn. With his additional speed he needed to be narrower entering the turn. I don't know if he saw that mine were clam or if he saw my smile: grim and determined. I would wreck us, but the corner's inside lane was mine: I was leading. He needed to cede it, or we were going off the track. He didn't move. I kept coming, he still didn't move. The two car's bodies touched! It was subtle on the wheels. I was seated on the right of the DBR, if I was quick, I could have reached over and put my hand in his car. I could have steered his wheel or tapped him on the shoulder, we could have shaken hands. We weren't going to be doing that last one anyway. My shoulder was four inches from touching his car as we prepared to bite into the curve as our craft wound forward pressed together like Siamese twins.

I felt the vibration of the cars heaving against each other. His eyes were huge, though in anger not fear. He was a racer and he was being moved off his spot. I gave a quick nudge of the wheel turning just perceptibly more to my right taking him off his line, yet not enough for my tires to rub against his body panels. Then I was off a couple inches to the left, braking hard in a straight line. He had to dial in a slight arc, just slight, but not the Porsche's forte.

The rear engine of the 911 put a lot of weight behind the rear wheels to swish that body around and make oscillations in his line. If the Porsche goes in loaded fifty-fifty on the front and rear tires all is very well, change that percentage and the weight in the back becomes a detriment. Which is precisely why I wanted to force him off his line and make him dial in more arc.