A Sunday Drive, Greg Lyle [best novels in english txt] 📗

sewn into the first layer of Macs’ Nomex underwear. It keeps the normally volcanic personality that emerges from Mac any time he is strapped into a race car at more of a controlled ballistic level. More importantly it reduces driver fatigue and keeps him sharp deeper into the race.

With the second can empty Mac installs the fuel cap, closes and pins the deck lid and returns the empty can over the wall. He shoe horns himself back thru the window and settles into the seat. Supporting himself with his right arm Jerry is now leaned all the way across the inside aiding Mac reconnecting to the car. Wearing helmet, head and neck restraint system, and full fire gear Mac can’t quickly locate the belts, radio leads, and cool suit lines. Jerry uses his left hand to place these in Macs gloved hands and visually ensures they are properly attached. As Mac pulls the belts tight and fires up the engine Jerry races around the car to latch the window net. He performs a radio check as he goes.

Jerry slaps the hood of the car indicating he is clear and Mac drops the clutch and blasts out of the stall with the engine howling, tires screaming, and gravel flying. The whole thing took less than 90 seconds. It isn’t NASCAR but it’s not too bad for two fat old dudes.

Time lost in the pits is equal to time lost on the track. They practice their pit stop procedures at least once each night during the week leading up to a race. Their efforts are rewarded as they increase the lead of the race once everyone cycles through the pits.

Sandy blasts her Corvette off pit road a full 10 seconds behind, but now solidly in second place. Roy looses touch with Sandy due to a sloppy and uncoordinated stop. He does however manage to hold onto third as the other Camaros crew completely lays an egg in the pits. The Porsche that spun early in the race has recovered and leaves pit road in fourth nearly a lap down to Mac and the raging Mustang. Mopar boy, having been extracted from the kitty litter, leaves pit road two laps down in 10th.


2

The race continues.

Mac hits the apex at turn five. He lifts the light trail braking he has maintained to keep the right front tire planted in the pavement, and shifts his right foot to the gas peddle. He squeezes it genteelly mindful of the still cool tires. The monster begins to wind up eagerly gulping air and fuel. At 7500 RPM, the beasts never exceed speed, its’ pistons are racing along in the cylinder bores absorbing the extreme heat of combustion and creating more heat from friction. If not for the actions of the water circulating a few tenths of an inch away, and the cool soothing lubrication of the synthetic oil maintaining a life saving barrier, the pistons would self destruct in a fraction of a second. Air and fuel flows smoothly through the custom shaped intake ports. It swirls past the purposely chosen tulip shaped valves packing the combustion chambers with mammoth charges of automotive motivation awaiting the spark of life that will start the chemical reactions that propel the car through the fight.


He smoothly negotiates the S turns, accelerating hard, sweeping to the outside. He applies light trail braking to set the chassis, and then smoothly twists the wheel left. The car responds with eager aggressiveness. The g forces build crushing him into the seat. He clips the apex and squeezes on full throttle. There is only time for a short squirt of gas then back to trail braking, and a twist of the wheel to the right. His body is thrown to the left and crushed into the seat from the other side. He is in a zen like state, the car is he and he is the car. They have become one, a cybernetic being, each feeding from and using the other to become something neither can be alone. He sees, hears, feels, tastes, and smells the car, the track, the air rushing by outside the open window. He is oblivious to the universe outside the tunnel of vision immediately ahead and in the mirrors. He is concerned with no war, election, honey do, or college tuition due now. His entire existence is consumed by the race.

He has continued to build his lead and as the laps wind down he can no longer see the second place Corvette in his mirrors. He blasts up the short chute leading to turn 10. At his mark he hammers the brakes. He feels the belts digging into his body, clutch, blip throttle, 2nd gear, then clutch, blip throttle, 1st gear. He trail brakes to keep the chassis set and turns the wheel right guiding the car towards the apex. This is a tight 90 degree turn and he must carefully ease into the gas to keep the rear tires hooked up. As the car drifts towards the wall he unwinds the wheel and gets full throttle. He snatches 2nd gear, dumps the clutch, and is rewarded by a healthy kick in the ass by 650 screaming horse power. As is his habit he glances at the flag stand as he roars towards the start finish line, and this time the flagman is waving the double yellows.

“Shit! Caution, caution, full course caution!” Jerry cries over the radio.
“Ought oh some body must have screwed up big this time.” Mac mumbles.
“And screwed us out of a 20 second lead.” Jerry says dejectedly.

Mac lifts from the throttle, backs the speed down, and blends in behind the pace car as it pulls on track from pit road. Within seconds Sandy and her mean hot pink and black Corvette are on his rear bumper. What was an insurmountable lead with five laps to go is now zip.

“Well crap, the racing Gods giveth and they taketh away uh Jer.” says Mac.

“Damn it! How much you got left Mac? Sandy was closing on you by about six tenths a lap.” Jerry says.

“Six tenths why the hell didn’t you say something?” Mac demands.

“Shit Mac, you had her by twenty seconds. There wasn’t any need to get you excited.

"Now how much do you have left.” Jerry demands back.

“Ok ok no need to get huffy. To tell ya the truth not much.” Mac responds. “Maybe the tires will come back a little with this caution, but six tenths! I don’t know about that.”

“Umm must have been Shelton, he’s gone.” Says Jerry speculating about the Porsche missing from its fourth place position.

“No he’s in the trap in five, they wouldn’t go full course for…” Mac observes. “…oh there it is. Someone went over the berm in eight. This doesn’t look good Jerry.”

“What do ya see?” Jerry implores.

“A big off! Damn the tire barrier is still there, must have gone over it! Lots of dirt plowed all the way up the berm, but no car.” Mac responds. “They are all on top looking and working their way down the other side.”

“Hey Mac, might be Mopar boy. He’s missing too and he ain't in the pits.” Jerry says as he strains his head looking around for the missing Duster. “Ok Ok, marshal just yelled my way…ya Ok, their gonna go red Mac. Their gonna stop you on the front straight. You want some cold water?”

“Absolutely buddy! Must be a thousand degrees in here and the ice done melted a couple of laps ago.” Replies Mac.

When they come around the track again the head flagman is displaying the red flag. The pace car comes to a stop on the front straight and Mac stops just behind. He has both cooling fans running on hi but despite this the engine is getting hot without the high speed ram air moving over the radiator. He is forced to shut the engine down.

Without air flowing through the car the inside temperature quickly rises. As the temperature raises the air density decreases and Mac is becoming dangerously short of breath. He has no option; he must get out of this thing before he passes out!

He hits the quick release on the belts, lowers the window net and grabs the cage bar. He pulls his head and upper body through the window and clear of the car, and gulps down air. Ahh…near instant relief, he gulps breath after breath until his head clears. He settles back down into the car and disconnects the radio and cool suit lines. Now there’s an oxymoron “cool suit” he thinks to himself. With the ice melted heat has conducted from the hot floor into the ice chest and now the cool suit system is flowing HOT water; he had shut it off several laps ealier.

Jerry arrives and aids Mac getting out of the car. Mac is nearly exhausted, and collapses into a sitting position with his back to the car.

“Here you go buddy drink this.” Jerry says handing Mac a large bottle of cool water.

Mac tears his helmet off and snatches the water and gulps it down. “Damn Jer, there’s no air in that hot box, almost passed out!”

“Ya must be the outside temp coupled with the heat of the car.” Jerry responds. “Maybe we should add a forced fresh air intake system to your helmet.”

“It was ok till we stopped.” Mac says, still huffing in air. Sweat is pouring from his face and his color is red. He polishes off the water. “Hate racing in this kind of heat.” Jerry hands him another bottle and he tears the top off and drinks.

“You gonna be able to continue buddy?” Jerry asks with concern.

“Ya I’m ok, just couldn’t breath in the car. We do need to do something about that.” He says.

“Well we’re not often required to race in hundred degree plus weather, but a fresh air system is cheap, so I’ll put it on the top of the priority list. We’ll get it taken care of before the next event.” Jerry consoles Mac. He puts his hand on the back of Macs neck his army paramedic training kicking in. Damn the man is hot! He takes a third water bottle and trickles cool water onto Macs head. He knows not to pour water down Macs fire suit. It collects in the seat area and is heated by the aluminum seat and can boil!

They hear a whistle blaring and a marshal yells “Five minutes!”

“Shit...Ok, let’s get me back into this thing.” Mac grumbles as he struggles back to his feet.
Mac climbs back into the car and Jerry helps him strap in. The air is a little thicker inside now as some of the heat has radiated away while the car has sat. There is a slight breeze blowing through as well.

A whistle blares and a marshal yells out, “One minute!”

Mac fires up the monster and monitors the instruments as it comes back to life. Mac thinks to him self, Oil pressure is good. Water temp is 245 hot but ok, and it will come down once we are moving. He double checks both cooling fans are on. Oil temp is 275 that’s ok too. The machine is ready for battle. Wish I had some fresh tires. Sandy’s gonna eat my lunch.

“Ok Mac I’m back up, how ya doing?” Jerry calls over the radio.

“Fine…fine. What are they saying