Chapter III: Part 3

"I don't think I ought to tell you," Rocky said. "It's Worm's secret, and maybe you really ought to ask him. Though I'd advise waiting until he's ready to tell you. I think he will one day. Here, you take over." She pulled the MG to the curb. Woody climbed out, and she slid over into his seat.

As Woody got back into the MG behind the wheel, he saw the Jacksons' car going by. Mrs. Jackson was driving and Mary Jane was sitting beside her. She stared at him in disbelief and then suddenly turned away and looked straight ahead.

9

For the next two weeks Woody saw a great deal more of Rocky than he did of Mary Jane. He felt vaguely guilty about it. The business of getting the MG ready for the Hansen Dam races put him constantly in Rocky's company. They went to the tech inspection together, and Woody, with Worm's assistance, remedied the various defects in the MG that the inspectors demanded be repaired. They were minor--a new tire, a stop light that didn't work, some adjustment to the brakes so that all four wheels locked evenly, and one or two other odds and ends.

Woody had to admit to himself that he liked Rocky. As a matter of fact, the more he saw of her and the more he was with her, the more he liked her. But he also liked Mary Jane, and he wondered whether there might not be some character defect in himself, hitherto undetected, because of this. Could a guy be keen on two girls at the same time? He hadn't read much on the subject, but what little he had suggested that this was contrary to human nature. Most fellows seemed to have just one girl. Yet there he was with two and loath to give up either of them.

Rocky had all the things that Mary Jane didn't. She loved cars and would talk about them for hours. She drove like a wizard and was quite skillful when it came to making repairs. As a matter of fact, she knew more about sports cars than Woody did, though she was very tactful at concealing this.

Mary Jane, on the other hand, was more feminine. Maybe she didn't know much about cars and was somewhat averse to them. But she was more of a girl and, indeed, prettier than Rocky. Woody sometimes wished that the two could somehow be combined, for the result would have been ideal for him. Woody would hardly think of taking Rocky to a dance, nor would he think of asking Mary Jane to help take the head off an engine. Combined, he would have a girl who could go dancing and work on cars with him as well.

Steve was not a great help in this dilemma. "What you think you're doing?" he asked. "Getting together a harem?"

"If you want a punch in the nose you came to the right guy," said Woody.

"Who? Me?" said Steve innocently. "Your old pal? All I have is your welfare at heart. Just don't like to see a promising young mechanic getting dame trouble so early in his career." He skipped quickly out of the garage as Woody threw one of Worm's dirtier oil rags at him.

The matter came to a head one evening shortly before the Hansen Dam race when Woody had a date with Mary Jane.

She was tight-lipped through the dinner and Woody was careful not to talk very much about either the race or cars. When they were sitting over a dessert of sherbet, Mary Jane said suddenly, breaking an awkward silence, "Woody, are you going to race at Hansen Dam?"

"Sure," said Woody, pretending to be surprised by the question.

"I suppose Rocky has talked you into it," said Mary Jane.

"No, she didn't," Woody replied. "I'm racing her car. But she didn't do anything to persuade me. I wish I could get you to understand that I just like racing cars. It means a lot to me. It's the one thing that I really like doing."

"If you cared anything about me at all you wouldn't race," Mary Jane said, looking straight into Woody's eyes.

"Gee," said Woody, "this hasn't got anything to do with whether I care for you or not. You know I care for you. It's just that I like racing, that's all. And I've got a swell chance to race Rocky's car--"

"Don't mention that Rocky to me again," Mary Jane flared. "She's just a scalp-hunter. She's out to collect all the scalps she can. And I can see that she's already added yours to her collection." And with that Mary Jane got up and headed for the door.

Woody had a hard time paying the check in time to catch up with her. He tried to explain more to her about racing, but people kept looking at them, and even when he drove her home, he knew that she was not listening to him.

Her parting words were "You can make your choice between Rocky and me. And don't expect me to stand around weeping while you do."

This time Woody got mad.

"There isn't any choice between you and Rocky," he said. "That's just your excuse. The choice is between you and racing. And right now, for your information, Miss Jackson, I'm choosing racing."

With that he slammed the door of the car and drove off. He hadn't gone more than a quarter of a mile before he regretted such an angry parting. He wondered whether he ought not to go back and try to patch things up. But then he recalled how mad Mary Jane had been over the money he spent on his hot rod, Cindy Lou. And at the memory he gritted his teeth and drove on. It was time for a real showdown with Mary Jane, he told himself. She would either have to take him, cars and racing, or find some other guy. He wasn't going to give up his chief interest in life for Mary Jane, and he found it selfish of her to ask him to do so.

Early Saturday he was at Hansen Dam with Rocky and Steve. Rocky had raced her MG before and was well known to many of the other drivers and their crews. They drifted over to her pit and were introduced to Steve and Woody. She seemed to be very popular with the racing crowd and held in considerable respect by them. One driver in particular, a long, dark-haired youth named Pete Worth whom Woody had never seen before, seemed exceptionally friendly with Rocky. Woody decided that he didn't like the guy though he couldn't say why.

"Racing today?" Pete asked Rocky when they met.

"Of course," said Rocky. "Second race. Woody's driving the MG in number four."

"That so?" said Pete looking Woody over. "Haven't seen you on any of the tracks before. You from back east?"

"No," said Woody shortly.

"This is his first race," Rocky explained.

"Hope you know the track," said Pete. "Lot of hero drivers have wound up on the hay bales on this one."

"What are you trying to do, scare him?" asked Rocky.

"Me? No. But that number-four turn is a pistol. Well, see you." He turned to Woody. "Good luck," he said.

"Who is he?" Woody asked when the other had gone.

"He races a lot," said Rocky. "He's a first-class driver. If you can keep him in sight, you're doing good. But he likes to go around before the race and find out what kind of competition he's up against. And if he finds a new driver he tries to throw a scare into him. He's only joking, of course, but some of the boys don't like it."

"What kind of a bend is that number four?" asked Woody.

"Oh, it's not really bad," Rocky replied. "Where is that map of the course? Here it is. Look, there's a long run out, about a quarter of a mile, then a full hairpin bend back again. That's number four. The only trouble about it is that it's narrow and it's flat. No camber on it to help you get around. The thing to do is to change down at the hundred-yard mark to second and then gun her around. If you do it right, you can drift around the bend. But if you take it too wide, you'll hit the hay bales on the far side.

"Remember this. If you do leave the track, don't get back into the race until a flagman gives you a high ball. And if you spin out and your engine quits, hold both your hands up over your head as a signal to the other drivers to miss you--that is if they can.

"Tell you what. I know this track pretty well. I've raced on it twice before. The track will be open for practice in a few minutes. Why don't you take the MG and get in five or six laps to familiarize yourself with the turns? It'll help a lot."

"Gee, thanks," said Woody. He climbed into the MG and settled behind the wheel.

"Fasten your safety belt and take this," said Rocky. She handed him a heavy white crash helmet. "Here," she said, "I'll fasten it for you." Her fingers, when they touched the side of his face to fasten the chin strap, seemed cool and comforting.

Woody gave a little wave of his hand, put the racing goggles from his helmet down over his eyes, and drove the MG from the pit to the starting area of the track. A flagman signaled him to stop, and five cars, all in a huddle, zipped past. Then came two more. The flagman waved his arm and Woody swept out onto the track. He revved the MG up, and she took off so fast that he could feel himself pressed back against the seat. There was an angry roar from behind and a Singer stormed past him. Woody started to move over to the left instinctively. In the same instant a Porsche Speedster swept by him on the left.

"Cripes," said Woody to himself, "I'd almost forgotten. They pass any side they want to."

He felt his knees shaking a little from nervousness, and his hands were a little unsteady on the wheel. Then he thought of Rocky watching him, changed from second to third and third to high and blasted down the track after the two cars.

There was a corner in front of him before he realized it. It seemed to be hurled out of space toward him. He dropped down into third, revving up for a second in neutral. He heard a tire scream as he pulled the steering wheel over to the left. The MG picked up a rear wheel skid, careened over to her right a little, scrabbled around the corner, and was off again. But Woody had hardly time to congratulate himself before there was another bend ahead. Again he changed down, braking hard to do so. He turned the wheel to the right, hit the accelerator, and with a car on either side of him, skated, his rear wheel protesting, round the bend.

"So that's how it's done," he said. "You slam on the brakes, change down, rev her hard, pick up a rear wheel skid, and get around." He began to feel a little more confident.

His confidence was nearly wrecked, however, when he came to bend number four. A series of signs before it marked off the distances from the hairpin; two hundred yards, one hundred yards, and fifty yards. He remembered Rocky's advice and changed down at a hundred. But he was still going too fast when he entered the hairpin. He picked up a four-wheel drift, and the steering wheel spun around crazily between his hands. Woody hit the accelerator hard three or four times and turned the steering wheel in the direction in which he was skidding. A monument of hay bales, stacked around a concrete telephone pole, loomed before him. Then they flew past, the steering wheel steadied, and he was off down the straight again.

He made five laps before he decided that he was at all familiar with the course.

"You did swell," said Steve when he got back to the pits. "But, boy, for a moment I thought you were going to wind up among the hay bales."

"Didn't you tell me that you'd never raced before?" Rocky asked.

"That's right," said Woody.

"Well, it's hard to believe," she replied. "A lot of drivers I know wouldn't have got out of that four-wheel skid. If Daddy had seen that, he'd have said you didn't have to learn to drive. You were born knowing how."

"Thanks," said Woody and he could feel himself blush.

"The track is now closed," said the announcer over the loud-speaker. "Cars for the first event please come to the starting grid."

10

The first event was for the big cars--three thousand cc.'s and over. By common consent the three watched it from the start-finish line where they also had a fair view of what was happening at turn number one. Rocky, indeed, went out onto the starting grid to talk to some of the drivers who were friends of her father. Tom Wisdom was there in his Ferrari, and Woody could see him talking seriously to Rocky. He guessed he was asking her about Randy.

"Is this big stuff much tougher to handle than the MG's?" Woody asked when she returned.

"Some people say so. But Daddy says no. He says although they are faster and heavier, they are also more easily controlled than the light cars. Of course, a Ferrari is a lot more fun to drive than an MG. They average about a hundred and twenty around the track, including the hairpins and other bends, while an MG is doing super if it can average seventy. I think it's just a matter of instinct and experience. And I can't say which is the most important. You can't do it all on instinct. And you can't do it all on experience either. Some of the top drivers are those who have been racing the shortest while."

They only watched the first half-dozen laps of the first race because Rocky had to get ready for her turn, which followed immediately. Tom Wisdom won, and he was over in Rocky's pit just as she was ready to leave for the starting area.

"Congratulations," said Rocky holding out a slim hand to him.

"Thanks," said Tom. "Good luck, kid. I came to tell you there's a little oil right as you go into bend three. Not much. Nothing to worry about. But I just didn't want you sharing the same ward with Randy."

"Oh, he's out of the hospital now," said Rocky. "But thanks all the same. I'll take it easy."

Steve meanwhile had climbed into the driver's seat beside Rocky.

"Pile on in if you're coming," he said, leaving Woody to climb on the back. Tom swung a leg over the side and crouched down beside him.

"You driving today too?" he asked.

"Yes," yelled Woody over the roar of the engine.

"Saw you during the practice lap," said Tom. "Nice bit of work on that hairpin. Driven much before?" Woody didn't think he heard his reply.

There were eighteen cars in the race, and Rocky had drawn the ninth position in the starting line-up. Ahead of her were five MG's, two Singers, and a Porsche.

Rocky seemed completely calm as she did up her chin strap and pulled on her racing gloves. Woody wondered whether the calm was all pretense, whether she didn't feel waves of anxiety going up and down her spine, and whether her knees weren't trembling a little.

"Good luck, Rocky," he said as they left the starting area. The smile she gave him was not the least bit strained. It was eager, and her eyes danced with excitement. In Woody's opinion, she was looking forward eagerly to the race and had no qualms about it.

"Thanks," Rocky replied. "This is going to be lots of fun." She looked around at the cars ahead, behind, and on either side of her, waved to one or two of the other drivers, and seemed in every way completely relaxed.

Back in the racing pits, Woody said to Steve, "Rocky doesn't seem a bit nervous."

Tom, who overheard the remark, smiled.

"She and her father have nerves of steel," he said. "Just when other people begin to get jittery, they begin to feel cool. I've been driving fifteen years now. And I can tell you there hasn't been a race yet that I didn't heartily wish myself somewhere else a few minutes before the starter brought down his flag. There they are! They're off!"

A swarm of cars roared by them, and Woody hardly caught a glimpse of the big five on Rocky's MG before it had flashed by.

Woody wished he could get over to the hairpin to see how Rocky handled it. But he was compelled to stay in the racing pits in case the car developed any trouble. He was able to see only snatches of the race as the cars passed by the start-finish line at the end of each lap. The rest, however, he followed through the announcer on the loud-speaker. He confined his comments for the first four laps to the Porsche and another MG, number fourteen, which had started a battle for leadership at once. But by the end of the sixth lap, Rocky had come up to fifth place and was fighting it out with a Singer ahead of her. Woody saw the two speed by, and they were almost abreast at the bend. But the Singer had the inside track and was the first around the bend.

The announcer now was beginning to take some notice of Rocky. "Keep your eyes on Rocky Randolph in car number five," he said. "Miss Randolph is the daughter of Captain Jim Randolph, one of the great sports car racers of the day. She is driving an MG TF and doing a magnificent job of it. Those who say that driving ability isn't inherited may think differently after watching her. She and a Singer, number twenty-two, are going into the hairpin together. The Singer has the inside track. Boy! Look at that. The Singer, driven by Miss Simmons of San Diego, took the hairpin a little wide, skidded to the far side, and Randy slipped through the gap. She's now ahead--fourth in the race and overhauling the Porsche in front of her."

"Here they come," said Steve excitedly. "There's the first MG, the Porsche--and there's Rocky--third."

The announcer picked up the rest of the lap for them. Rocky was having a hard time getting by the Porsche. She could corner better, but the Porsche had more acceleration on the straightaway. She remained in third place for the next two laps, and then the announcer said that she had dropped back to fourth.

"Must be having some trouble," said Tom. They waited anxiously. The first MG passed, then the Porsche, a Singer, then two more MG's, and finally Rocky came almost crawling down the track.

She steered into the racing pits, and Woody saw at a glance that her right-hand rear tire was almost flat.

Nobody said a word. Steve had the jack out and the rear of the MG off the ground in almost the time it takes to describe it. In the meantime Woody had taken off the flanged racing hub that held the wheel in place. It was the work of less than a minute to remove the wheel and put on the spare, and Rocky was back in the race in three minutes. But in that three minutes, all the other cars had gained a lap on her. Try as she would there wasn't time to make it up and get back into the lead again. She did make up half a lap, but the checkered finish flag had fallen before she could improve her position.

"Tough luck," said Woody when she drove back into the pit. "You were doing swell."

Rocky's eyes were still bright with excitement. "It was wonderful," she said. "I haven't had so much fun since the last time I raced. You boys did a terrific job changing that wheel. Only lost a lap. Could easily have lost two if you'd bungled it." Her smile was full of appreciation.

There was time, in the interval provided by the third race, to check the MG over. Woody took it down to the gas truck to be filled up and to have the oil checked. Rocky reported that the engine had behaved beautifully, so he did nothing there but see that all the spark-plug leads were firm and examine the valve cover for oil leaks. There were none. When he got back to the pits, he found it hard to appear cool. Steve and Rocky were watching the race, and he was glad of that. Rocky had put on such a wonderful performance that for the first time he became aware that he had better do at least as well if he was not to be disgraced in her eyes.

He sat behind the wheel and looked into the rear-vision mirrors. They seemed to be adjusted right. He got out and looked at his tires. Nothing wrong with them. He opened the hood again, took the cap off the distributor, and looked at the points. They were in excellent shape.

"What the heck am I doing?" he said to himself, replacing the cap and shutting the hood firmly.

"Listen, Woody," he told himself, "all you have to do is keep cool and drive as well as you can. No sense taking unnecessary risks. You've got a long time to live. Besides, every other guy in the race is probably just as scared as you are right now."

This thought, comforting for a second, was immediately dispersed by a voice behind him.

"Feeling O.K.?" somebody said, and he spun around startled by the unexpected words. It was Pete Worth, to whom he had been introduced earlier in the day.

"Sure," replied Woody with all the calm that he could summon.

"Just dropped by to make sure you were in the race," Pete said.

"Sure, I'm in the race," said Woody, nettled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, nothing," said Pete. "I saw that Rocky had some trouble and thought it might keep you out of it." He was quite cool, almost insolently so.

"Just a flat tire," said Woody.

"Ah," said Pete. "Well, lucky it wasn't a front wheel. You can lose control real fast with a front-wheel blowout. See you down there. I'm in ninety-nine--the green TF." He pointed to his car, which was three pit places away. Then he sauntered off. Woody fancied that he was smiling slightly.

"Just trying to throw a scare into me," he said to himself. "Front-wheel blowout! Bet they don't get one of them in a million races." Nonetheless, he went around and inspected the tread on his front tires. It looked good. The left-hand one was a little more worn than the right. But not very much.

"Both tiptop tires," he said to himself. But he wished the left-hand tire didn't show as much wear as it did. Probably the front end was a little out of line. That would account for it. He tried to think of something else.

When Rocky and Steve came back, Woody was looking very solemn.

"You feeling all right?" Rocky asked.

"Sure," said Woody, "raring to go." But actually he felt just like Tom Wisdom did before a race. He wished he was somewhere else.

11

Woody didn't feel any better when he was down on the starting grid with a school of cars snorting roaring around him. In fact he felt a lot worse, though he would scarcely have believed it was possible to feel worse. Only Steve seemed to notice, however, for both Rocky and Tom who came down to the area with him, were chatting away quite gaily. Woody thought their attitude positively brutal.

"Don't you worry, pal," Steve said. "You'll do all right. Take my word for it. Have you done up your safety belt?" Woody discovered that he hadn't. When he got it buckled, the firm clasp around his waist made him feel better. But it didn't stop the trembling in his knees over which he seemed to have no control at all. He hoped Rocky couldn't see the trembling, but she was busy with Tom and not paying him much attention anyway.

Woody looked around and licked his lips, which were uncomfortably dry. There wasn't much moisture in his mouth, either. He had drawn a place well back in the pack. In fact, out of a field of twenty-one, there were only four cars farther back than his. He got some comfort out of this. There would be some excuse, perhaps, if he didn't show up too well. After all, a guy driving his first real race couldn't be expected to pass seventeen other drivers. He figured that if he passed one or two of them, he'd be doing well.

"Where's that guy Pete Worth?" he asked Steve.

"Oh, he's way up in front. About third or fourth," Steve replied. Well, that was something. He wouldn't have to worry about Pete Worth passing him and maybe rubbing it in afterward.

"Wish I knew the track a little better," he said.

"Listen, pal," said Steve. "All you have to do is watch the guys ahead. Watch how they corner. When you see them jam on the brakes, slow down yourself. When they give her the gun, do the same thing. And if you see a chance to pass, why take it. And remember, pal, we're all pulling for you."

Woody was conscious that Rocky was looking at him. He was also conscious that the corner of his lip was trembling. He could feel the twitch in it, but he hoped it was not visible. To make sure, he put his hand casually up to his mouth.

"Good luck, Woody," Rocky said. "Got to leave you now. Put your foot in it whenever you can. She goes like a bomb."

"See you in about half an hour," said Tom.

Half an hour, Woody thought. This is one half hour I could do without. The three left, and he was now alone with all the other cars around him. An almost lazy silence, disturbed only by the deep beating of the cars around, settled over the starting area. Woody pushed in his clutch and put the gearshift in low. His foot kept trembling on the accelerator so that the note of his engine rose and sank. The driver in the car on his right hand side looked over at him briefly and winked. He knows how I feel anyway, Woody said to himself. All eyes were now on the plump rubber-ball figure of the starter. As usual, he had his back to the drivers. He bent down, seeming to pick up something from the track. Then, almost before Woody realized it, he had leaped into the air and brought down the starting flag.

Woody let out the clutch as if it were burning his foot and jammed down on the accelerator. There was a haze of blue smoke before his windshield, and the whole pack of cars, with him in the middle, shot forward. Two passed by him and cut in front into a space barely big enough to hold them.

"Cripes," said Woody, "that makes me third from last." He changed into second, into third, and into high, and before he knew it, there was a knot of cars braking ahead of him to get around the first bend. How he made it himself he could not recall. He got around in a screech of tires with glimpses out of the tail of his eye of other cars, inches from him, swaying and screeching around with their drivers crouched over their steering wheels.

When he was around the turn, he glanced, by instinct, into his rear-vision mirror. It showed the clear view of the track behind him. There was not a car in sight. He'd dropped to last place in the first three hundred yards.

The thought angered him. It angered him as much as the fact that his legs were still trembling, his mouth as dry as blotting paper, and his hands unsteady on the wheel.

He jammed his foot down on the accelerator and watched the needle of the speedometer creep up to sixty-five, then to seventy, hover there a fraction of a second, and then move on past. He grinned as he saw he was steadily overhauling two cars ahead. The stop light on one of them flashed red. Ahead were a series of S-bends. Woody remembered them from his trial runs around the track. He glanced at his speedometer. Seventy-two.

"O.K., brother," he said, "you're going too fast. But you just might make it." He entered the first S-bend abreast of the Singer that had been ahead of him. He left him behind as if the Singer were standing still. But when he brought the steering wheel over to the right for the next turn, the MG seemed to lie down on two wheels and started skittering toward a pile of hay bales. There wasn't time to change to a lower gear. Woody took his foot completely off the accelerator, and it seemed for a second as if the car were going to turn over. He was thrown hard against the side and stabbed his foot on the accelerator again. For a second the car teetered. Then the MG recovered and flashed off so close to the bales that he felt a slight thud as his nearside fender tipped the edge of one of them.

Ahead now lay two more cars. And another bend. This time Woody changed down. He revved the engine to a roar in neutral and let the clutch out hard as he slipped the gear lever over into third. The MG jerked forward, and Woody headed for a gap between the two cars in front of him. If the gap remained he could get through. But if it closed he would be flung against one car or the other. He jammed the accelerator down and crept into the gap. His front wheels were level with the driver's seat of the first car and six feet from the rear wheels of the second car.

"Come on, baby," he said and urged the MG to more speed. Slowly he crept abreast of the first MG and was now fully in the gap. The car beside him started to slip behind. Woody felt a tinge of pleasure and triumph. He was now ahead of the first MG but not enough to swing over and pass the second. Suddenly he saw the brake light on the car ahead flash red for a second. He was braking for a bend. Woody made a split-second decision. If he braked now, he'd lose the ground he had made. If he speeded up, it would be to go into a corner again faster than he should. He hit the accelerator.

To the spectators it looked as if he were a bolt shot from a crossbow. His car leaped forward swiftly to pass the one ahead right on the curve. There was a cry of "Ooh," which Woody heard clearly above the roar of the engines.

He had to take a chance now. He was going much too fast. He had to step on the brakes and risk being hit by the car behind. It was either that or spin out on the corner. He hit the brakes hard--so hard he could hear his tires scream and feel the back of his car slew around. Then he stepped on the accelerator again and pulled the steering wheel over to the right. For a second it looked as if he was going to spin around completely on the track. Woody did indeed spin around at a right angle. But this served to help him around the corner and when he hit the gas again, he was safely on the straightaway and had passed three of the cars that had passed him in the early seconds of the race.

He hardly saw Rocky, Tom, and Steve as he flashed by the start-finish line. If he stopped for a second to think of what he was doing and the risks he was taking, the trembling and anxiety would return. Instead, he concentrated on urging the MG to even greater efforts.

On the next three laps he passed three more cars. A fourth dropped out for a pit stop, and that put Woody seventh from the end. Since he had started out fourth from last he was doing well. He began to feel much more confident of the MG's ability to stay on the track when other cars would have skidded off into the hay bales, and began also to enjoy himself.

The crisis of the race came at the beginning of the hairpin in the sixth lap. In the five times he had passed it previously he had noticed that there was a tendency for the cars to bunch up there. Everyone slowed down and concentrated more upon getting around the bend than in passing each other on it. There was a straightaway of about a quarter of a mile leading to the hairpin, and Woody tearing down this caught up with a huddle of five cars that had changed down to get around the hairpin. They were all hugging the inside to give themselves a chance to skid wide over to the far side of the track when they got around the hairpin.

Woody decided to reverse this process. He would start into the hairpin from the uncrowded far side of the track and try to cut the MG hard over to the inside when he was around. There would be great risk of a collision in doing this. But there was also the chance of passing two or three cars on the one bend if the maneuver came off.

He approached the hairpin then on the outside and picked a place on the inside as his target, toward which a red Porsche was speeding. If things went well the Porsche would be out of the way when he wanted to get in there. He changed down from fourth to third and third to second, and, with his engine roaring, cut hard over.

Then everything happened at once. There was a scream from behind, and a Singer squeaked by right under his front wheels. It went by as a black blur, and in so doing, trapped the driver of the Porsche so he had to step on his brakes to avoid a collision. The gap that Woody had expected to appear just wasn't there. The Porsche still half filled it. Woody glanced in his rear-vision mirror. There were two cars on his tail, the Porsche dead ahead, the Singer, and another car blocking him on the left.

His only chance was to cut off the track onto the dirt shoulder and make room for himself there. He headed the MG for the shoulder, picked up a skid, slewed sideways, straightened, caught a glimpse of a telephone pole, pulled his steering wheel hard over to the left, hit the gas, and then, to his astonishment, found himself around the hairpin with only the Porsche ahead.

Woody swallowed hard. He must have passed two or three cars on the hairpin. But he had nearly broken his neck doing it. The old nervousness, now forgotten, returned in a flood. His legs began to tremble. The Porsche fled before him down the straightaway. Woody changed up instinctively. But when he came to the next bend, he slowed down well in advance of it, and took the corner cautiously. He was scared, badly scared.

He retained his place but didn't pass anybody on the next three laps. There were only two more to go. But he could not bring himself to take any more risks. The memory of the skid, of being locked in a whirl of cars doing sixty miles an hour around a hairpin, and of the telephone pole hurtling toward him was too fresh in his mind. He made an attempt at passing the Porsche on the S-bends. But whereas previously he would have taken a risk and gone hurtling by, trusting that the MG would stay under control, he now braked and changed down, and the Porsche kept ahead of him without much trouble.

"You've got to snap out of this," he told himself. "You've got to take a couple more chances. Otherwise you'll lose your nerve."

He steeled himself for another try at the hairpin. He forced himself to delay changing down and shot the corner from a wide angle. But just as he thought he was going to get through and felt a tingle of self-confidence returning, a blue MG ahead spun out. One second it was holding the track doggedly before him. The next it gave a sort of lurch or jump and turned broadside on to him. Woody flung his steering wheel over with a cry almost of anguish. His bumper just missed the front wheel of the car, which had turned completely around on the track. In pulling out, he nearly sideswiped another car on his right, and though he stepped on the gas and pulled ahead out of the mess, he was in a panic when he got clear of it.

"I've got to get hold of myself," he kept repeating. "I've got to get over this." But when the race concluded, he had passed no more cars and taken no more chances.

When he pulled up to the pit, Rocky was almost dancing with excitement. "You drove like a wizard," he said. "I went up to the hairpin to watch you. It was terrific. You knocked off three cars on that corner and must have finished about eighth. If you'd had any kind of a position at the start, you'd have won."

Tom and Steve were full of congratulations, too. But their words were empty for Woody. If they knew how he felt, he told himself, they wouldn't be saying what they were. They wouldn't want to have anything to do with him.

For Woody knew that he could have passed at least one or two more cars except for one thing: he was afraid. It wasn't just nerves or anxiety. It was plain cold fear. He'd driven his first race and come out of it a coward.

12

Woody made up his mind that the only way he could get over the fear and dread that he now had of racing was to race some more. In fact, he determined to do as much road racing as he could. In this decision he had a willing helper in Rocky, and in the two months after the Hansen Dam race he drove in five events. He was no longer considered a junior driver and had got over some of the thrill of seeing his name in the list of contestants at road-race events. He had even drawn mention in one of the Los Angeles sports columns as an up-and-coming driver with a lot of dash and courage.

When Woody read that paragraph, eagerly pointed out to him by Steve, he wondered how much the man who wrote it knew of his real reason for racing. Far from having a lot of dash and courage, he was always filled with caution and plain fear on the track. He only placed at all in the events in which he entered because he had a natural driving gift--an instinctive combination of judgment and timing that took him through tight spots. But he knew he could do better, a great deal better, if he could get rid of the black fear that settled on him whenever he came to a bend with half a dozen other cars roaring around him.

He wished there was someone with whom he could talk over this problem. He wished he could discuss the way his palms sweated, his limbs trembled, and his mouth went dry even as he sat down behind the driving wheel at the start of a race. He wished he could explain how those symptoms never left him all through the event; how he was filled with dread from start to finish and heartily wished he had never taken up racing.

Once he thought of mentioning it to Steve and went so far as to say he always got the shakes just before the start of a race.

"Shucks, pal, everybody has the same thing," Steve said. "But you get over it, don't you?"

Woody didn't have the courage to say no, he didn't get over it. Other drivers did and took chances and won races. But he, although he seemed to be taking chances, was actually avoiding them and getting through on sheer driving talent. He didn't drive a race with any courage at all. He drove it with nothing else but fear in his mind. If he could find some courage, he might win a couple of times. But fear held him back constantly--fear of being wrapped around a telephone pole or being mangled under the wheels of cars behind or turning over and being pounded to death in his own car.

About the nearest he got to talking to anybody about his problem was one evening when Randy and Rocky had come up to Hermosa Beach and asked him out to dinner. When dinner was over, Randy, who by now was getting along without crutches though he had a slight limp, started talking about racing. He discussed the subject as if it were a philosophy, a mode of living calling out the very best in the character of those who followed it.

Woody had never known him to be so serious before. He wasn't sure whether the conversation was being held for his own benefit or for Rocky's.

"Road racing condenses into a few minutes or hours all the problems, the fears, and the triumphs of life," Randy said, smoothing his fair hair with a thin sensitive hand. "It demands the one thing that no man can get through life without successfully. Self-reliance. There are millions of people quite talented and able who go through life being unsure of themselves. They haven't enough self-confidence to take a risk--to change their jobs, their localities, and so on. They live rather miserably without ever having fulfilled themselves.

"But in racing, such people are soon ruled out. The driver who has no basic confidence in himself will keep coming in last. Either that or he will develop self-confidence. If he remains unsure of himself, he will quit racing. Just as in life, if he remains unsure of himself, he will quit trying and seek some job that offers security rather than opportunity."

"You don't think it is possible to get by on just driving skill alone?" asked Woody. "I mean, suppose there was a man who was just naturally a good driver. But he really didn't trust himself. Wouldn't he still show up pretty well on the track?"

"He would for a while," said Randy, "but after, say, half a dozen races, he'd be fighting himself. He might think he was racing the car ahead. But he'd really be racing the guy within him. One part would be telling him to go ahead and take a few chances and rely on his skill in getting through. The other part would be telling him to save his skin and not take any risks.

"That's where the real testing comes in, of course. But I've seen some good men crack up, fighting themselves like that. They'd have been a lot better off if they never went in for racing in the first place. Unless they win a victory over themselves and achieve self-confidence, they remain miserable for the rest of their lives. They drop out of racing. But they can never be happy."

"What about fear?" said Woody. "I mean you've been in a couple of accidents. Didn't that make you real scared the next time you drove?"

"It certainly did and does," replied Randy. "But self-confidence doesn't mean that a man is without fear. You've got to be afraid, to get any self-confidence that comes from overcoming fear. But some people never make it. They spend the rest of their lives doubting their own abilities.

"The time I cracked up and had my foot amputated, I broke out in a cold sweat whenever I thought of racing again. All my friends advised me to give up the game. On the surface, it would have been the sensible thing to do. But they did not realize that if I quit, it would have been a victory for fear, and I would have to live with it for the rest of my life."

Up to this point Woody had been on the verge of confessing his own fears to Randy. But now he found he could not do so. This seemed to be a battle he had to fight alone. It was one with which none of his friends could help him. He realized dimly that men always fight their battles alone--not just in racing cars but in their daily living. They alone can make the critical decisions, and nobody can help with them.

"How do you feel about the Black Tiger now?" Woody asked instead of mentioning his own fears.

"To be honest with you, I'm scared stiff," said Randy with a laugh. "If I wasn't scared, I might put off racing her for a little while. But if I postponed it now, though other people might say I had good reasons, I'd know that the real reason was fear. And then I might never race again." Woody did say that he was always scared himself when he got behind the steering wheel of the MG. But he didn't say that he remained scared all through the race and deliberately neglected chances to pass other cars because he was afraid to take them. He felt that both Randy and Rocky would be contemptuous of him if he did. And he wanted them both to have a good opinion of him.

A month remained before the Santa Barbara race. It was a pretty miserable month for Woody. He got nervous and a little irritable, which was unusual for him. Both his father and mother noticed the change in him, and one evening his father put down his paper, took off his glasses with a swift decision, and nodded to Woody's mother, who left the room. When she had gone, Mr. Hartford said, "Woody, your mother and I are both worried about you. You're not eating much, and you seem nervous all the time. Is there anything the matter?"

"No," said Woody shortly. Mr. Hartford groaned silently. He could recall a similar occasion in his own youth when his father had tried to talk to him man to man, and he had withheld his confidence. He was hurt that his son should do the same to him now.

"Son," said Mr. Hartford, "I never pry into your affairs. I look upon you as a sensible young man of whom I am proud. But I've lived a lot longer than you. That's a mathematical fact. I don't say I'm smarter than you. But I've just had more experience. Now if you've got some sort of a problem that's bothering you that I, with my experience, can help with, I wish you'd let me know about it."

"It's nothing, Dad," said Woody.

"Is it money?" Mr. Hartford persisted. Woody shook his head.

"Is it Mary Jane? I notice you haven't been seeing much of her lately." Woody hesitated. He missed Mary Jane a great deal. At one time he might have been able to talk his problem over with her. But she was so dead set against racing that all she would tell him would be to give it up. She wouldn't understand that there was more than racing involved in the problem.

"No, Dad," Woody said, "It isn't Mary Jane. It's really nothing at all. I just don't feel well. I think I'll go for a walk." He left the room rather hurriedly, for he wanted to avoid further questioning. When he had gone, Mrs. Hartford came in.

"Did you find out anything?" she asked.

"No," replied her husband. "There's something the matter, but only time will bring it out. The boy has some problem, and feels he ought to keep it to himself."

"But we're his parents," said Mrs. Hartford. "Surely he should be able to tell us."

Mr. Hartford smiled. "Mother," he said, "when a boy decides not to discuss his troubles with his parents, it doesn't mean that he doesn't love them any more. It means that he's becoming a man. I'm pretty proud of Woody. I'd have been just a little disappointed if he'd broken down and told me what was the matter with him."

For two weeks before the Santa Barbara race, Woody spent most of his time working on the Black Tiger. Randy made the deal with Worm, agreeing to pay Woody's wages. Randy and Rocky rented an apartment in Hermosa Beach so they could be near the car, and the Black Tiger was given a thorough overhaul from rear axle to fan belt. In those two weeks Woody became more and more fond of Randy. The man had a buoyancy of spirit and a quick humor that was completely captivating. It was hard to believe that he had any fears at all about the forthcoming race. He spoke of it with enthusiasm and excitement, as if it were something he was looking forward to eagerly.

Woody often wanted to ask him whether he still felt nervous about it, but could not bring himself to do so.

The Thursday before the race, which was to be held over the weekend, they took the Black Tiger out to the salt flats, and Randy let Woody drive her. Woody had once wanted nothing more in life than to be seated behind her wheel. But now that the opportunity was offered him, he sought to get out of it.

"I'm not used to the car," he said. "I might chew up your gearbox."

"Nonsense," said Randy. "Hop in. She's getting maximum torque at six thousand. Rev her up to that before you change. Then change fast and with full throttle. You'll get a real thrill out of it."

When he got going, Woody did get a thrill out of it. For a while he experienced the old exhilaration at his effortless arrowing forward in the Black Tiger, with the landscape around reduced to a blur. The car handled much more delicately than the MG. It was, he told himself, a real racing machine. He glanced at the speedometer and saw he was hitting a hundred and sixty in high. But when he got back and climbed out he was trembling slightly and his mouth was dry.

"How'd she feel?" asked Randy.

"Beautiful," Woody replied.

"One day," Randy said, "you might be able to race her yourself." Woody hoped heartily that that day would never come.

13

There were two other events before the Black Tiger was due to race at Santa Barbara. In the first, for cars under fifteen hundred cc.'s, Rocky raced the MG, and drove better than Woody had ever seen her drive before. She came up from seventh at the starting line to second when the race was over, and if the race had gone another lap she would have been first.

"This is our day, Randy," she told her father when she got back to the pit. "You're bound to win in the Black Tiger now. I just feel it."

"If I drove like you, I'd feel it myself," said Randy.

The second race was for old-style racing cars and more of a novelty than a sporting event. Woody saw little of it, being busy with last-minute details on the Black Tiger. The car was in tiptop shape. It was still the magnet of attention among the other drivers and mechanics in the pit area. They came over in twos and threes to look over the engine and comment on the streamlining. Tom Wisdom and Kurt Kreuger, old rivals of Randy's who were to race against him again, were there. They were obviously delighted to know that Randy's leg was in good enough shape for him to race again.

Woody overheard Tom say to Kreuger, "If it was a matter of guts alone, Randy would be sure to win. Boy, he's got more guts than all of us put together."

"You can say that again," said Kurt. He looked back at the Black Tiger and shook his big head solemnly. "Hate to say it," he said, "but that car just bothers me. Too new. Too many unknown bugs in it."

Tom nodded his head solemnly, and the two drifted off.