Running Wide Open by Lisa Nowak Page A

else could have caught up to him.”
    “But someone did,” I guessed.
    “Nah, kid, some over-anxious punk spun me out.”
    “On lap 198,” Kasey added, “which meant there were only two laps left. The Pinto went sailing off the top of turn three and high-centered. Race managed to dislodge it by shifting into reverse, but when he tried to put it back in first, the linkage apparently jammed.”
    “So what did he do?”
    “He finished the race in reverse.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “She’s telling the truth,” said Jim.
    “In reverse?”
    Jim nodded.
    “He couldn’t get up to a competitive speed,” Kasey said, “but he was two laps ahead, so it really didn’t matter. All he had to do was keep out of the way of the remaining cars—there were about twenty still running—and finish the race.”
    “So, did he?”
    “Almost. On the last lap, as Race was coming out of turn four, the fourth place car caught up with him. The driver tried to pass on the inside, but he came out of the corner a bit too fast and his car began to fishtail. He hit the Pinto in the right front fender. Race must have seen it coming because he steered into it. Instead of spinning him off to the side, the other car pushed him across the finish line.”
    “No way.”
    “It’s true,” Kasey said. “And if that wasn’t dramatic enough, another driver came out of the turn, saw the checkered flag, and decided he was going to win it.”
    “He wasn’t even on the same lap,” Race added. “He just saw that flag and went after it like a bull.”
    “And?” I asked, directing the question at Kasey.
    “This new car, a Chevelle, hit the water spilled by the car that ran into Race. It spun out and slammed both of them into the wall.”
    “Plastered that Pinto against the concrete like a bug on a windshield,” Jim said.
    “And it didn’t explode?” I asked, remembering all those old stories I’d heard.
    “No,” Kasey said. “It didn’t have to. Everyone in the crowd thought it was all over for Race, anyway.”
    “Yeah,” Jim said, “those Pintos aren’t much more than an engine wrapped in tin foil. And that was before the insurance company started getting serious about making people put roll cages in Enduro cars.”
    “My Pinto had a roll cage,” said Race, slightly insulted.
    “Yeah,” Jim said, “and that’s the only reason you’re still here. Hell, I bet they didn’t even have to crush that thing when they got it to the wrecking yard.”
    Race laughed. “It wasn’t that bad.”
    “It was bad enough,” said Kasey, frowning. “The crowd let out this horrific roar, then the other cars reached the finish line, and it was worse than a demolition derby. When the dust and steam finally cleared, only two or three cars were still capable of moving.
    “The Pinto’s passenger side was wrapped around the front end of the Chevelle, and the driver’s door had been flattened against the wall. With the poor lighting, the dust in the air, and the steam rising out of all the punctured radiators, no one could see what was happening.”
    “It was a regular zoo,” Jim added.
    “Well, obviously he didn’t croak,” I said.
    “Of course he didn’t croak .” Kasey’s eyes reflected her opinion of my cavalier remark. “The flagman and some other officials tried to get through the wreckage to the car. But before they could, Race crawled through the passenger window out onto the hood of the Chevelle. He stood up, gave the crowd that smart-aleck grin of his, and took a deep bow.”
    I looked at Race doubtfully. He shrugged in response.
    “I had to do something . All those people were staring at me.”
    “It was a riot,” Jim said. “The crowd loved it.”
    “I’d had my eye on Race for awhile, even though I’d originally intended to sponsor a car in a higher division,” Kasey said. “It was plain he was a hard charger who had a real rapport with the fans. The Enduro clinched the deal. Anyone that crazy and determined to win