Wheels (64 page)

Erica was two rows from the front, with Adam beside her. Kathryn
Hewitson had gone to the rear of the box, which had tiered seats rising
from front to rear, and was sheltered from the
sun. Kathryn told Erica as they came in, "Hub likes me along, but I don't
really care for racing. It makes me frightened at times, and sad at
others, wondering what's the point of it all
.”

Erica could see the older
woman in the back row now, busy with her needlepoint.
The private box, like several others, was in the South grandstand and
commanded a view of the entire Speedway. The start-finish line was immediately in front, banked turns to left and right, the backstretch
visible beyond the infield. On the nearer side of the infield were the
pits, now thronged with overalled mechanics. Pit row, as it was known,
had ready access to and from the track.
In the company box, among other guests, was Smokey Stephensen, and Adam
and Erica had spoken with him briefly. Ordinarily, a dealer would not
make it in here with the high command, but Smokey enjoyed privileges at
race meets, having once been a big star driver, with many older fans
still revering his name.
Next to the company box was the press enclosure, with long tables and
scores of typewriters, also ranged in tiers. The press reporters, alone
among most others present today, self-importantly hadn't stood for the
national anthem. Now, most were clattering on typewriters, and Erica,
who could view them through a glass window at the side, wondered what
they could be writing so much about when the race hadn't even started.
But starting time was close. The praying was done; clergy, parade
marshals, drum majorettes, bands, and other nonessentials had removed
themselves. Now the track was clear, and fifty competing cars were in
starting positions-a long double line. Throughout the Speedway, as
always in final moments before a race, tension grew.
Erica saw from her program that Pierre was
45 m row four of the starti
ng lineup. His car was number
.
The control tower, high above the track, was the Speedway's nerve center.
From it, by radio, closed circuit TV, and telephone, were controlled the
starters, track signal lights, pace cars, service and emergency vehicles.
A race director presided at a console; he was a relaxed and quietly spoken
young man in a business suit. In a booth beside him sat a shirt-sleeved
commentator whose voice would fill the p.a. system through the race. At
a desk behind, two uniformed Alabama State Troopers directed traffic in
the nontrack areas.
The race director was communicating with his forces: "Lights work all the
way 'round? . . . okay . . . Track clear? . . . all set . . . Tower to
pace car: Are you ready to go? All right, fire'em up I"
Over the Speedway p.a., voiced by a visiting fleet admiral on an infield
dais, went the traditional command to drivers: "Gentlemen, start your
engines I"
What followed was racing's most exciting sound: The roar of unmuffled
engines, like fifty Wagnerian crescendos, which swamped the Speedway with
sound and extended for miles beyond.
A pace car, pennants billowing, swung onto the track, its speed increasing
swiftly. Behind the pace car, competing cars moved out, still two abreast,
maintaining their starting lineup as they would for several preliminary,
non
-
scoring laps.
Fif ty cars were scheduled to begin the race. Forty-nine did.
The engine of a gleaming, vivid red sedan, its identifying number 06
painted in high visibility gold, wouldn't start. The car's pit crew rushed
forward and worked frantically, to no avail. Eventually the car was pushed by hand behind the wall of pit row and, as it
went, the disgusted driver flung his helmet after it.
"Poor guy," somebody in the tower said. "Was the best-looking car on
the field
.”

The race director cracked, "He spent too much time polishing it
.”

During the second preliminary lap, with the field still bunched
together, the director radioed the pace car, "Pick up the tempo
.”

The pace car driver responded. Speeds rose. The engines' thunder grew
in intensity.
After a third lap the pace car, its job done, was signaled off the
track. It swung into pit row.
At the start-finish line in front of the grandstand, the starter's
green flag slashed the air.
The 300 mile race-113 grueling laps
began.
From the outset the pace was sizzling, competition strong. Within the
first five laps a driver named Doolittle, in number 12, charged through
massed cars ahead to take the lead. Shooting up behind came car number
38, driven by a jut-jawed Mississippian known to fans as Cutthroat.
Both were favorites, with racing pundits and the crowd.
A dark horse rookie driver, Johnny Gerenz in number 44, ran an
unexpected third.
Pierre Flodenhale, clearing the pack soon after Gerenz, moved up to
fourth in number 29.
For twenty-six laps the lead switched back and forth between the two
front cars. Then Doolittle, in 12, pitted twice in quick succession
with ignition trouble. It cost him a lap, and later, with smoke pouring
from his car, he quit the race.
Doolittle's departure put the rookie, Johnny Gerenz, in 44, in second
place. Pierre, in 29, was now third.
In the thirtieth lap a minor mishap, with debris and spilled oil, brought out caution flags, slowing the race while the
track was cleared and sanded. Johnny Gerenz and Pierre were among those who
pitted, taking advantage of the noncompeting laps. Both had tire changes, a
fill of gas, and were away again in seconds.
Soon after, the caution flag was lifted. Speed resumed.
Pierre was drafting
staying close behind other cars, using the partial
suction they created, saving his own fuel and engine wear. It was a
dangerous game but, used skillfully, could help win long races.
Experienced onlookers sensed Pierre was holding back, saving a reserve of
speed and power for later in the race.
"At least," Adam told Erica, "we hope that's what he's doing
.”

Pierre was the only one among present leaders in the race who was driving
one of the company's cars. Thus, Adam, Hub Hewitson, and others were
rooting for Pierre, hopeful that later he would move into the lead.
As always, when she went to auto races, Erica was fascinated by the speed
of pit stops-the fact that a crew of five mechanics could change four
tires, replenish gasoline, confer with the driver, and have a car moving
out again in one minute, sometimes less.
"They practice," Adam told her. 'Tor hours and hours, all year-round. And
they never waste a movement, never get in one another's way
.”

Their seat neighbor, a manufacturing vicepresident, glanced across. "We
could use a few of their kind in Assembly
.”

Pit stops, too, as Erica knew, could win or lose a race.
With the race leaders in their forty-seventh lap, a blue-gray car spun out
of control on the
steeply banked north turn. It came to rest in the infield, right side up,
the driver unhurt. In course of its gyrations, however, the blue-gray car
clipped another which slid sideways into the track wall amid a shower of
sparks, then deep red flames from burning oil. The driver of the second
car scrambled out and was supported by ambulance men as he left the track.
The oil fire was quickly extinguished. Minutes later the p.a. announced
that the second driver had sustained nose lacerations only; except for the
two wrecked cars, no other damage had been done.
The race proceeded under a yellow caution Rag, competitors holding
their positions until the caution signal should be lifted. Meanwhile,
wrecking and service crews labored swiftly to clear the track.
Erica, a little bored by now, took advantage of the lull to move
rearward in the box. Kathryn Hewitson, her head down, was still working
on needlepoint, but when she looked up, Erica saw to her surprise that
the older womans eyes were moist with tears.
"I really can't take this," Kathryn said. 'That man who was just hurt
used to race for us when we had the factory team. I know him well, and
his wife
.”

Erica assured her, "He's all right. He was only hurt slightly
.”

"Yes, I know
.”

The executive vice-president's wife put her needlepoint
away. "I think I could use a drink. Why dont we have one together
.”

They moved to the rear of the private box where a barman was at work.
Soon after, when Erica returned to rejoin Adam, the caution flag had
been lifted, the race was running full-out again, under green.
Moments later, Pierre Flodenhale, in 29, crammed on a burst of speed
and passed the
rookie driver, Johnny Gerenz, in 44, moving into second place.
Pierre was now directly behind Cutthroat, clinging to the lead in
number 38, his speed close to 190 mph.
For three laps, with the race in its final quarter, the two fought a
blistering duel, Pierre trying to move up, almost succeeding, but
Cutthroat holding his position with skill and daring. But in the
homestretch of the eighty-ninth lap, with twenty-four more laps to go,
Pierre thundered by. Cheers resounded across the Speedway and in the
company box.
The p.a. boomed: -ies 29, Pierre Flodenhale, out front I"
It was at that moment, with the lead cars approaching the south turn,
directly in front of the south grandstand and private boxes, that it
happened.
Afterward there was disagreement concerning precisely what had
occurred. Some said a wind gust caught Pierre, others that he
experienced steering trouble entering the turn and overcorrected; a
third theory maintained that a piece of metal on another car broke
loose and struck 29, diverting it.
Whatever the cause, car 29 snaked suddenly as Pierre fought the wheel,
then at the turn slammed head on into the concrete retaining wall. Like
a bomb exploding, the car disintegrated, breaking at the fire wall, the
two main portions separating. Before either portion had come to rest,
car 44, with Johnny Gerenz, plowed between both. The rookie driver's
car spun, rolled, and seconds later was upside down in the infield, its
wheels spinning crazily. A second car smashed into the now spread-out
wreckage of 29, a third into that. Six cars altogether were in the
pileup at the turn; five were eliminated from the race, one limped on
for a few laps more before shedding a wheel and being towed to the pits.
Apart from Pierre, all other drivers involved were unhurt.
The group in the company box, like others elsewhere, watched in shocked
horror as ambulance attendants rushed to the two separate, shattered
portions of car 29. A group of ambulance men had surrounded each. They
appeared to be bringing objects to a stretcher placed midway between
the two. As a company director, with binoculars to his eyes, saw what
was happening he paled, dropped the binoculars, and said in a strangled
voice, "Oh, Jesus Christ
!
He implored his wife beside him, "Don't look
!
Turn away
!
"
Unlike the director's wife, Erica did not turn away. She watched, not
wholly understanding what was happening, but knowing Pierre was dead.
Later, doctors declared, he died instantly when car 29 hit the wall.
To Erica, the scene from the moment of the crash onward was unreal,
like a reel of film unspooling, so her personal involvement was re
moved. With a dulled detachment-the result of shock-she witnessed the
race continuing for twenty-or-so laps more, then Cutthroat the winner
being acclaimed in Victory Lane. She sensed relief in the crowd. After
the fatality the gloom around the course had been almost palpable; now
it was cast off as a triumph-any triumph-erased the scar of defeat and
death.
In the company box the despondency did not lift, unquestionably because
of the emotional impact of the violent death a short time earlier,
but also because a car of another manufacturer had gained the Canebreak
300 victory. A degree of talk-quieter than usual-centered around the
possibility of success next day in the Talladega 500. Most in the
company group, however, dispersed quickly to their hotels.
Only when Erica was back in the privacy of the Motor Inn suite, alone
with Adam, did grief sweep over her. They had driven together from the
Speedway in a company car, Adam saying little, and had come directly
here. Now, in the bedroom, Erica flung herself down, hands to her face,
and moaned. What she felt was too deep for tears, or even for coherence
in her mind. She only knew it had to do with the youthfulness of Pierre,
his zest for life, the good-natured charm which on balance outweighed
other faults, his love of women, and the tragedy that no woman,
anywhere, would ever know or cherish him again.
Erica felt Adam sit beside her on the bed.
He said gently, "We'll do whatever you want -go back to Detroit right
now, or stay tonight and leave tomorrow morning
.”