Free Avoidable Contact by Tammy Kaehler Page A

not.”
    â€œYou giving me slicks?”
    â€œSlicks are ready. Racing line’s still dry. Be careful if you move offline.”
    I stepped back down to the floor of the pit space and went around to the other side to check with Bruce, our car chief. He assured me the Corvette’s handling hadn’t changed much—only what I might have expected from a couple hours of running and a track growing cooler and damp. “But the traffic is brutal,” he added.
    â€œHow’d the prototype go off?”
    â€œSomeone must have laid down fluid, because four different cars slid off the road in the infield, but continued. The fifth got stuck.”
    â€œFluid, not rain?”
    He shrugged. “Colby says not rain.”
    Our crew was perched on the pit wall, tools and tires in hand. I pulled on my gloves as I hurried to join them. Bubs helped me step up on the adjacent metal bench and then onto the wall in the center of the crew lineup. He handed me my custom-molded seat insert. I took a deep breath then let it out slowly. Cleared my mind of everything but the Corvette C7.R and Daytona International Speedway. Visualized the driver-change process. Breathed deeply again.
    The lollipop swung down, and I knew the car was coming down pit lane. I ran through the steps of our driver-change over and over, focusing on the car. Ready to leap into action.
    It’s all going to be okay.
    Holly had better be right.

Chapter Eleven
    5:35 P.M. | 20:35 HOURS REMAINING
    Colby stopped the car smoothly, turning off the engine and tilting the steering column up to give us space to get in and out. The car was already up on its jacks and fuel was flowing. She released her belts and hauled herself through the doorway Bubs had already opened. The near tire-changers finished their job as she pulled her seat insert clear of the car. They moved to the right side of the car, and I settled my own insert and climbed inside.
    Bubs leaned in to help me fasten my five-point safety harness and plug in my radio cable and helmet air-conditioning hose. I lowered the steering column back into place. The car bounced down onto its tires—tire change done. Waiting on fuel.
    Bubs snapped the window net in place and slammed the door shut. I heard Bruce’s voice. “Five more seconds.”
    I tightened my belts quickly, ready with both feet on the pedals. Though Series regulations allow teams to keep cars running during pit stops, for safety reasons, we chose to turn off our Corvettes while fuel flows and sparks fly from tire changes. My finger rested on the ignition button.
    A tug at the back of the car. The crew member at the front waved me on.
    â€œClear. Go, go, go.”
    I was in motion as Bruce spoke. Push the button. Car starting. Throttle down, steer right out of the pit box. Check mirrors for other cars. Be sure the pit lane speed limiter was engaged. Tighten belts more.
    Bruce’s voice in my ear again. “Radio check, Kate.”
    I pushed the radio button on the steering wheel with my left thumb as I approached the end of pit lane. “Copy.”
    â€œGreat. Easy out of the pits. Remember that exit’s tricky, and you’ve got new tires on damp track.”
    We’d seen plenty of drivers be overly ambitious on cold tires and run into the wall of the pit lane exit. I had the possibility of wet pavement on top of that. I was cautious.
    Once out on track and in the lineup behind the pace car, I found the drink tube and inserted it into the front of my helmet. Pressed the button to make sure it worked. Pressed the radio button again. “Who ended up around me?”
    â€œFerrari jumped us in the pits,” Bruce reported. “BMW is P1, four cars in front of you.” I could see the BMW ahead, a couple prototypes between us. “That Ferrari in front of you is P2. You’re P3. Two prototypes behind you. The Porsche-Corvette-Porsche sandwich after them are P4 through P6.”
    â€œLap