Did Not Finish

Lap Two

The following morning, the Clark Paints Formula Ford Championship race had raised its profile in the paddock. Derek’s death threat had deposed the Porsche Cup as the feature race on the bill. It was all about Derek and Alex. An uncommon amount of interest went into that morning’s qualification session. Drivers and pit crews from all the other races packed the spectator area in front of the start-finish line. The bloodlust was palpable. They wanted to see if Derek would take Alex out during qualifying to make himself a shoo-in for the championship.

I couldn’t let their issue distract me. I needed to put up a fast lap during morning practice. I pulled on my race suit and Dylan held out the torque wrench to me.

‘You want this or are you going to break with tradition?’

I smiled and took the wrench. I gave the wheels one last torque and went around the car checking that every joint was tight. It wasn’t necessary, but it was my habit. I knew every inch of my car and until I was sure every nut and bolt was tight, I couldn’t focus on racing. Some might call it superstition. I call it good engineering practice. Well, maybe it is superstition, but it works for me. I completed my pre-race ritual by kissing my mum’s St Christopher that I now wore around my neck and prayed for a good day.

I climbed into the car, Dylan helped belt me in and I was good to go.

As I accelerated onto the track, I concentrated on my driving. I worked the brakes hard to get some heat in them before finding myself some space on the track. I used a car three hundred yards ahead as a target to home in on and went for it. I put in a nice set of four laps before I reeled the car in. Dylan held out my time board and I knew I wasn’t getting any more out of the car, so I backed off. Late in the practice session, Alex passed me on a flying lap. I gave him room and then tucked in behind him to catch a ride in his slipstream.

No sooner had I slotted in behind him than I veered back out. Alex’s tailpipe was shaking violently. It looked as if its support bracket had broken off and only a couple of spring clips and goodwill were keeping it attached. If his tailpipe did break off, I didn’t fancy catching it in the face.

The bracket had no doubt suffered a stress fracture, which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. There’s little to cushion the punishment inflicted on a racetrack. Take a close look at a racecar and it’s held together with duct tape, silicon bath sealant, plastic ties and twist wire.

As I watched Alex’s car pull away from me, it occurred to me that the mounting’s failure might not be a product of fatigue. Was mechanical failure Derek’s way of eliminating Alex from the race? It was more than possible. The honour system operates in the paddock. No one steals anyone’s stuff and no one messes with anyone’s ride. It didn’t mean someone couldn’t. If Derek wanted to interfere with Alex’s car, it wouldn’t be hard.

If Derek had tampered with the car, he hadn’t done a good job. All twenty-eight cars returned from practice in one piece. As soon as I parked in my spot in the paddock, I walked over to Alex’s area. He, his father and Jo-Jo were clustered around the rear of the car. They all looked up when I walked over.

‘Is it the exhaust mounting?’ I said. ‘I saw it flapping around.’

‘Yeah, it looks that way,’ Alex said.

‘Good, I just wanted to make sure you knew.’

As I turned to leave, Alex stopped me. ‘I don’t think you know everyone here. This is Aidy Westlake. His dad was Rob Westlake.’

My racing heritage didn’t end with my grandfather. I was following in my father’s footsteps. He’d made it all the way to Formula One, but never started a race. He slid off the road driving back from Brands Hatch, killing him and my mum. Dad had been gone over a decade and it never got any easier to hear his name mentioned in the past tense.

Alex’s dad came forward. ‘Eric Fanning. I enjoyed watching your father immensely.’

‘So did I.’

‘You know my fiancée, Alison, but not her dad, Clive Baker,’ Alex said.

He was the sour-faced man I hadn’t recognized from the clubhouse the night before.

Alex also introduced me to someone who hadn’t been with him last night. He was a tall, athletic man in his late-forties with black hair and a well-groomed beard. He leaned in to shake my hand. ‘Vic Hancock of Hancock Salvage.’

Hancock Salvage was the name splashed over the sides of Alex’s car in ten inch high letters. Hancock’s reputation preceded him. Hancock Salvage was the biggest salvage and car auction business in Britain. He’d sponsored several drivers over the years, but this was the first time I’d seen him at a race.

‘I’m glad to see motor racing isn’t as cut-throat as the salvage business,’ Hancock said with a laugh.

‘The racing world is filled with good people,’ Mr Fanning said, patting my shoulder.

The irony of the statement wasn’t lost on me considering the situation.

We chatted for a few minutes before I left them to the repairs. Everyone thanked me for my considerateness and I headed over to race control for the qualification times.

The head timekeeper emerged and posted the results on the wall before handing out copies to the eager drivers for their own records. I looked to the head of the times first. Derek’s mind games had proved ineffectual. Alex had taken pole position from Derek by three tenths, a pretty big margin. I couldn’t contain a smile but soon lost it when I saw my qualifying time. I’d qualified fourteenth. I was a second and a half off my times from just two months ago. I really needed to put my engine out of its misery.

Alex winning pole position served to incite the rumour mill. All anyone could say during lunch was if Derek was going to do something, he’d have to do it during the race.

In addition to being the track owner, Myles Beecham was the clerk of the course. He did his best to kill the rumour at the driver briefing. As clerks of the courses went, Beecham was the most pedantic, treating drivers like disobedient children. That was never more obvious than at his driver briefing. He reeled off his usual speech about drivers following track’s instructions and using mirrors during the race. Just as I thought he was finishing up, he added a caveat.

‘I know racing is a competitive sport by nature and there can be only one winner, but it’s not a contact sport. The best driver wins because he outdrives everyone else. Stowe Park has a reputation for fair and fun entertainment. I wouldn’t want anything to change that today.’

There it was. Derek was on notice. Myles was watching. As warnings went, it could have come with a keener edge. If Myles’s words were an attempt to shame Derek into behaving, he was wasting his time. Derek needed to be struck with something blunter than a verbal warning.

I looked over at Derek. He stood with Jeff Morgan and Matthew Strickland, his usual race day hangers-on. Morgan leaned in and whispered something. Derek shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t understand what Myles was talking about. It was a nice act, but I didn’t know who he was trying to fool.

‘Thank you,’ Myles said. ‘Good luck to everyone.’

Walking back to my spot in the paddock, I pushed Alex and Derek from my mind to concentrate on the race. I visualized a lap in my mind, picking out my braking points, turning points and apexes. I studied the starting grid to see who was around me and whether I needed to be careful of them at the start, as well as to concoct a plan of how I’d get the jump on them when the lights turned green.

When the announcement went out over the PA system for the Formula Ford drivers to make their way to assembly area, I needed to pee. After fifteen races, I hoped to be past this point, but nervous tension got me every time. Dylan fired up the engine and broke out his customary bag of sunflower seeds. He ate them all the time; especially when he was nervous and he was nervous anytime I hit the track. I left him to his munching and crossed the paddock to the toilets. I stood over the trough and tried to relax enough to go. I wasn’t the only one with this race-related bladder problem. Seven other drivers, including Alex, stood at the urinal with uncooperative prostates. By the time I managed to do what I intended on doing, Alex and I were the only ones left in the toilets. I get quiet before a race, putting all my energy into my thoughts, but I broke my custom.

‘Good luck today,’ I said. ‘I hope you win.’

‘Thanks. I won’t be back if I don’t.’

‘Moving up?’

He smiled. ‘No, moving out. Win, lose or draw, I’m retiring. Alison and I got engaged a while ago and the wedding is in the spring. As my wedding gift to her, I’m retiring from racing to concentrate on becoming a chartered accountant. If I’m going to be a husband, then I need to be a grown-up.’

He grinned and it took me a moment to return one. Alex had a promising racing career ahead of him. I couldn’t believe he was walking away from it. I knew I couldn’t.

‘Wow. Congratulations.’

‘Thanks. Don’t tell Alison, she doesn’t know. No one does, and I want to make it a surprise after the race.’

‘Your secret is safe with me. Now I really hope you win.’

‘So do I.’

I followed Alex out as three other drivers went in.

‘What’s in your tea leaves, Aidy?’

The opposite of what’s in yours, I thought. ‘I hope to run in the national series next season and keep moving up through the ranks.’

‘And go as far as your dad?’

‘If I can.’

‘Take this from someone who’s a few years older. Don’t ever let this come between you and a happy life. This sport crushes more dreams than it creates.’

I was more than aware of this fact. The sport had orphaned me. ‘I won’t.’

‘Then you’re smarter than the average driver.’

The call went out again for drivers to make their way to the assembly area. We shook hands and wished each other luck before going our separate ways.

Two hours later, Alex was dead.