Heel and Toe

I put in more brake; this was going to be close. Now he was finally in his brakes too. We were running out of straight pavement in ... three ... two ... one.

I started my tight inside curve. I was sure I had enough tread left, though I was about to use up a large part of it. Centrifugal force pushed my right shoulder right out of the cockpit in the old car. My arm was pinned up against the vestigial door's sill. I was too busy steering to worry. The old girl rotated and stuck just as I asked of her. As I kept the steering locked in, I heard the tires squeal then scream, The Porsche was having some trouble but somehow was still with me, though falling a tad farther behind. If he hit my rear quarter as he fell behind, I'd spin. This is where racers had to trust each other. One type of rub was racing, another was possibly murder.

The centrifugal force in that tight turn felt like it wanted to fling the DBR from the track, worse it felt like it wanted to launch me out of the car! It ... kept ... growing. Then the quick straight before going into a bender the other way! I snapped the wheel back straight. Actually, I did no such thing, such a "elbows out" maneuver may look nice, but it scrubbed off speed. Smooth is fast. I dialed in the new direction, but I did it smoothly.

The Porsche was indeed on my back flank though not in contact. He made up some ground in the sweeper. Then in the "lazy S" he made up time when he was inside only to lose it again when I regained the inside lane as the road curved back the other way once more. When I was on the inside we stayed in our lanes and that was my advantage.

The Porsche seemed frustrated that he didn't make up more time in the curves. Perhaps he didn't know his engineering history. The perimeter frame and Dion rear suspension let me sail as well as anything ever could through those sweepers, that first hairpin was the test. Now I was willing to put my handling up against the newer Porsche, especially as he would have to extend his arc to get beside me, then again to pass me; exactly what the Porsche didn't do well. All I had to do was hold my line. But, he had so much more horsepower...

We were heading out of the short chute into the last long curve, another left hander. I would be on the inside again. After this last curve was the short straightaway that ran by the grandstands. The finish line was halfway thought that straightaway. If the Porsche stayed tucked behind me and shot out a lane and used his horsepower in the straight, he might have me. Moving laterally brought you through undisturbed air, which was harder to push through but more stable, the difference was drilling one smaller hole or cutting a wide swath, making acceleration even more difficult. I could also take the right lane, but if I timed my counter move incorrectly taking his lane, I could wreck us. Still, that lane was his best shot.

Actually not. Thinking as one man on a course with obstacles, if he could be side-by-side with me or maybe a half car length back, coming out of the corner then I could not block, and he would have me. I was not a static obstacle, however. He learned that in the first hairpin. If he had to snap off his line, I would gain a second or two as the Porsche was one of the worst cars to recover snap quirky inputs while cornering. Horsepower and cars can be funny from a physics standpoint. If a car is all loaded into its suspension pushing to the side in a cornering maneuver, then much of the energy dialed in can go there and is not spent pushing the car forward. Physics.

The Porsche stayed on my rear flank. Damn it, I wanted him to tuck in behind me. We were in the last corner now. I tried not to brake too much I stayed in the accelerator, just not floored, and pumped the brakes while doing so. This was racing. The DBR stuck to its line. The Porsche pulled up a few inches. I stopped pumping the brakes and simply kept them on, I didn't care if I burned them up now, it's not like I needed them tomorrow. Besides, we were racing now: there was no tomorrow!

My competition moved up further. I was drifting outwards and he saw it moving a tad to compensate. He was trying to set up his movement smoothly to ensure it did not become an oscillation. I still had the lead. The curve was long and seemed to be getting longer. I saw a twitch from him! Instead of going in balanced front to rear I had ruffled his feathers: his rear engine was now hanging out there in space, an anchor of sorts, messing with his desired trajectory. He was having to make in-corner corrections. Here we go!

We were almost to the curve's mid-point. I didn't wait, easing down the accelerator to the floor right now! Adding the extra power made the DBR drift over a few inches towards the Porsche. We were going to touch again! His hood was up to my elbows then past now his hood was coming up he was going substantially faster, but I was speeding up. We were at the apex: max speed after this. I'd beaten him to full throttle, if only I could hold the line doing that. No! I slid over further, I controlled it, but it was happening. Fortunately, there was something there to buffer me and keep me from sliding further: the Porsche!

If I'd made contact with his nose or tail instead of his mid-section, one or us or both of would have spun. It's not always easy to predict what will happen when kinetic energy makes sudden transfers. We lined up exactly, like peanut butter spread on bread. We came into the last third of the curve that way, locked together like both barrels of a coach shotgun.

The crowd could see it now. I could feel them stand. I could feel them roar seeing my old classic then go silent looking at the situation with the Porsche. I felt their trepidation and excitement build and their sudden rush and spasm of explosive exaltation.

Then I saw it up ahead, at the finish line the checkered flag was waving for a competitor ahead of us. This was it! The race was over. Everything would be decided right now!

The old DBR was holding her own, taking it to the upstart Porsches that eventually displaced her! Side by side in contact racing for the win. The DBR was made to fight Ferraris, not Porsches, but she was game!

Then the Porsche fell away towards the outside of the corner. She went to the outside edge of what was safe. With the additional contact he couldn't hold the increasing arc with that rear engine weight already loading his chassis to the side. The collision and weight loading eventually threw off the driver's trajectory. He'd done an amazing job holding on as long as he had. Now he was sliding towards the marbles having a true battle on his hands. If he hit the marbles, chewed up bits of rubber and other debris that get shoved to the edge of corners, he would have virtually no chance of saving his line, he would slide off the track without control.

I took advantage of my now clean lane still tucking in as much as I could, actually scrubbing off some of my speed, giving him as much road as possible to save himself. He was going to be all over the track even if he could manage to stay on it. Suddenly he was coming back over fast. His car had found grip and shot in the direction the front wheels were pointed when it did.

I downshifted, as I should have to get ready for the straight, except now I was over revving, I only needed that for a few moments. We were entering the last straight. I upshifted and kept the throttle buried, the DBR settled into her highest gear a little over redline. Now she had to transfer that power to the wheels. I needed to buy her time.

Moving around the racetrack cutting into new air robs power and slows the car so I had to be careful. Then again, cars were meant to travel through air not solids: the car behind me could not drive through me. I'd messed up his cornering, maybe now I could mess up his acceleration.

I moved quickly a third of car width, less than two feet, to the right to deny him that lane while not to letting him in under me to the left. Then I decided, screw it, my momentum was taking me straight ahead towards the finish line. I wouldn't fight it: I would manage it. I wasn't going to let that speed scrub off. I continued into the right lane making the exit out of the corner wider and faster, taking the chance the Porsche hadn't caught up to me yet.

I almost expect to feel the collision. It would have been bad for both of us, but he'd come over so fast when he lost grip, then he would have had to correct to come out of the skid, then again to point in the right direction, and possibly again to set a new course. That's a lot of power robbing motion. He could not possibly be that close to me, I hoped, because I committed to my plan.

There was no collision. I checked the mirrors, there was only a blur with vibration from the old car. He was behind me and still running. Good! I hate crashes. Now I concentrated on taking the center of the road, protecting my line, and keeping the engine on the boil. He could dive in either direction left or right to go around me but doing so would scrub speed. The track was too wide here for me to block him, so I had to make a decision. If I had more power I could sway back and forth. I didn't have that power. That meant I didn't have options. This was simple, set the best course and keep my foot down, in every other way I was a sitting duck. All I could do was take my best shot and go!

In truth, although I didn't know which outcome yet, my day was done, I had already won or lost, it just had to finish playing out.

By taking the center I was making him work. I chanced the rear mirror, damn it, he was there and coming! I was almost just beyond redline, a little more, a little more ... a little more ... that was it. That was all she had. To go further would decrease horsepower by making her run ragged, slowing her down. She trusted me to do my best by her. I had to stay where I was. It was just the DBR1 and me hanging onto to each other for dear life. We trusted each other and would give the other everything we had; win or lose we were in this together.

I stayed in the throttle only that far. I made sure my hands were true, taking us in the straightest line we could. We were almost done. The Porsche would be moving faster now, but we were racing to a fixed point, whoever reached it first would win our personal race. There was nothing else the car or I could do, we'd both given out best. Fate and physics would decide the issue now.

I chanced to look: the Porsche was at my rear quarter panel to my inside. Hold on DBR, hold on! Now to he was to my rear wheel. Hold on! Now he was to my door. Hold on! He was to my windshield. He was going to pass me, nothing I could do would stop that now. He was to my hood and now... checkered flag.

We'd beaten him!

I sailed to the right a bit and got off the gas to slow and throttle down out of redline. The Porsche shot past us rocketing down the rest of the straight. I could just make out the fans jumping and hugging in the grandstands in my periphery. I continued to slow. We had taken on a newer, more powerful, and faster adversary and bested them. Wow!

I blurped the gas and down shifted letting the gears decelerate us. I took the corner at the end of the straightaway like that and figured what the hell: I took a victory lap of sorts continuing on the track instead of pulling off and heading for the garage area. Nothing bad, I was just going to take a leisurely trip in top gear at two thirds throttle: once more around the track. Only now did I realize the crowd was at the gates everywhere. Holy cow, I really was giving the old DBR1 a victory lap! Then I realized right behind me in parade formation was the Porsche. He had fallen back and was saluting the old gal too! I had no idea when he pulled over and let me pass him. We weren't the only ones on the track, and I had been lost in my thoughts.

As I sailed the DBR around the course I wasn't sure I'd ever enjoyed a ride more, that race to the finish with the Porsche was special beyond compare for me. I hated the fact that I'd no longer race, but I'd done my best and it had paid off. Many times, hell most times, it doesn't pay off. Sometimes for numerous reasons you can't even do your best: technology, weather, or wrecks all conspire. This had been a dream outing! I waved to the crowd who filled the edge of the track everywhere they could as this multi-million-dollar jewel ran around the circuit.

This was excellent for the track and club. All true enthusiasts would love it. The DBR1, a product of the fifties built before her time, only to find out in her prime that time was closing in too quickly. Here she was one last time making a last stand and acquitting herself well against technology of the seventies, decades after both had been put to pasture. It was a worthy last stand. How many actually get to experience that? "That's right old girl, take a bow, you earned it, and not just for yesterday's exploits, you've still got it!"

Further this was something fun to bring everyone together over the winter non-racing months. It had been fun, a lark to most, never to me or the DBR. And now the day had come and produced a real race, one that exceeded everyone's expectations. Even after all the winter's build up. This was the way to end it. For both of us.

I drifted her into the pits when we made it around the track. When I got there, I didn't want to get out. My crew swarmed me. It was like we had won. That felt great too. This is what winning would feel like I told myself. I drank it in, saving it for, well, forever.

They stopped me from unbuckling, telling me to drive to the winner's circle, they said it was a special ceremony because of the car. Sure, why not, it gave me a few more moments behind the wheel. I slowly lumbered the old girl up the pits through admiring happy fans reaching out to touch her, to the winner's circle; the three top cars were already there. They were parked to the side of the driver's podium which had spaces for the top three drivers. The marshals saw me and happily waived for me to pull in at the end of the line, the way it would have been if there were four top places celebrated instead of three.

I felt a little sheepish. I only wanted what I earned, anything else would tarnish the day. But the DBR sure earned recognition, this would probably be remembered for years as the DBR race. It made sense they would want her in the pictures. It was probably the last time these cars would be driven in anger for the purpose they were created. I was proud that she was getting her spotlight.

More than a little sadly I unbuckled my harness. I swing the door open and forced my legs back and out of the car through the small opening. I stopped placing my hands on the wheel again. The last memory of my penultimate racing day. "Good job girl." I said to her with honest pride in her achievements. "They'll never forget you. Neither will I." I pulled myself out of the cockpit and up to standing.

Another racer rushed up to me. I looked at the helmet in his hands; it was the guy in the Porsche I'd raced against! As I took my own off, I recognized him. Holy crap, this was a professional racer, well known in our circles! He'd raced at the highest levels. He'd only retired a few years back. Damn that would have intimidated me if I'd known.

I spoke without thinking, "What the hell? Why were YOU racing out there?" This race was a bit beneath his talent level.

"You and that DBR! Sterling Moss himself called it the greatest handling car of all time. I wanted to race against that. I'm retired but I love the whole sport and I'm a student of the game. I love that old car of mine I drove today; we've made some memories together and sure added to that today. And I don't mind scratching the paint on that one. Really, aren't those the best ones?"

I nodded dumbly. He was exactly right.

He took a moment looking at me very happily taking in my still shocked expression as I stood beside the DBR's cockpit. He added excitedly, "Let me tell you, maybe you didn't have overalls on, but you drove that car exactly to its strengths. I absolutely loved seeing the DBR put through its paces. I had the best seat in the whole world to see it."

That "overalls" remark was another Shelby reference, and a supreme compliment. But the last of what he said had a troubling portent. He saw my expression.

He seemed to read something in my face, "No sir, don't think that evil thought for a second: you beat me! I wanted to race the DBR. I dropped back, a couple of laps ago to make sure I was with you at the finish. Then I realized you were actually racing, that always gets my blood boiling. I suddenly had a chance to race the DBR with time running out. I thought I had all the advantage. I reengaged as you came up. You picked your lanes and stuck your placement. The DBR can't do that by itself. It has to listen to your command and try to obey. You challenged it and it held on. It was an absolute joy to watch! I knew I wasn't just racing a car, but a driver who knew how to properly use her. You know damn well you had me from the first hairpin."

I nodded that I did, and he bellowed with joy.

He exalted, "I've had a bunch of victories, some which mean the world to me, but that was as much pure fun as I've ever had racing. THAT is what it's all about. You could have spun me but didn't. You used up your tires giving me room to recover. If this was a prize race you shouldn't have done that; but considering everything, that was very ... professional. Say, are you interested in a career? It's a little late, but..."

I cut him off, "No, my wife and I have children, young children, we're still having them. I would have loved to though, once that was my fondest dream. But I, ah, met her and she's the only thing that I ever loved more than racing. There was a ... tragedy and I almost lost her. No, I won't play games with love. I do alright in the financial market. My racing with young kids to raise would worry her to death. She encourages me but racing scares her. I don't think she could stay with me generating that much worry for her."

I started to say something else. He saw the feelings in my eye, he stopped me from continuing by making a point of looking at something behind me. He smiled a broad smile, put his hand in my hair and rubbed back and forth, then cupped my cheek and gave it a little slap.

"You made a good call and played it well." He was referring to life, not our recent racing. "You've picked your lane, it's the best one, now protect it." He smiled. "Hey, look me up. We can spend some afternoons swapping stories, and you have to meet some racing friends of mine. Now that we are "retired" we need all the kindred spirits we can find, right?" He walked off with a purpose passing me. As I turned to see what he was doing I locked eyes on Marta. She was beaming standing right there beside the car's hood not five feet away. How had she gotten there? It occurred to me she must have heard every word I just said.

Which meant she knew I didn't pursue racing originally because I fell for her daughter. And subsequently because I thought my wife would leave me. Why? Because of the "tragedy" I referred to. Marta knew that tragedy was a doubt as to how much love my wife had for me after I found out she cheated. Now Marta knew I still didn't think Devon loved me as much as I once thought. She was now aware I hadn't returned to racing for fear of losing Devon, not losing my life. She now knew much better just how much I loved her daughter.

There was so much pride in her face for me and so much thanks. I started to her, yelling over the crowd, "You've given me one of the greatest experiences of my life!"

She shook her head. "No Reggie, that's what you gave us. You are exemplary!" She moved in to hug me. She whispered right in my ear. "Devon told you she'd support you. You can race to your heart's content. Even if it lays you low. You need to accept her love Reggie. You don't have to carry us on your back anymore. Let her love in, son." She backed off. Somehow what she said took hold.