Free Avoidable Contact by Tammy Kaehler Page B

times?” I asked, as I turned left through Turn 6 and swung up onto the banking of the oval part of the track.
    â€œHard to tell for sure with so much traffic, but Ferraris seem to have the speed by a couple tenths, though the Porsches and factory Corvettes have shown flashes. We’re in there. Mike and Colby held their own.”
    â€œCopy, thanks.” I usually knew our competition’s lap times even before I got in the car, but I didn’t get to those today. Not with Stuart in the hospital fighting for his life and text messages from strangers.
    Stop it! Nothing but the car! I yelled at myself inside my helmet.
    I wove in and out of the Bus Stop. Keyed the mic. “It’s the most damp on the backstretch, but I wouldn’t call it wet.”
    A new voice on the radio. Male. “Kate, your spotter here. To confirm, you want ten lengths’ warning of overtaking cars?”
    â€œYes, please, Cooper.”
    â€œAnd you want ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ as indicators, rather than ‘right’ and ‘left,’ correct?”
    â€œYou are correct, Spotter. Thanks.”
    Cooper and Millie had spoken with all of the 28 car’s drivers earlier in the weekend to understand what each of us wanted in terms of warning about other activity on the track. A couple teams had started using a new radar system that integrated with our rearview camera displays to warn drivers of overtaking cars. Though Jack had investigated it, he hadn’t sprung for the new system yet. We were using the original, low-tech spotting method: humans with binoculars, stationed up high.
    â€œCopy that, be careful out there,” Cooper returned. I knew he was standing on top of the ten-story building in the cool air and mist—or even rain—with no cover. It wasn’t only the drivers who worked hard in a twenty-four hour endurance race.
    We’d cross our fingers for clear skies and sun tomorrow morning, but first we had a dozen or more hours of cool, and possibly wet, night ahead of us. The stadium lights had been turned on an hour ago and were already helping illuminate the pavement all the way around the track.
    Bruce radioed. “Race Control says going green in two laps.”
    â€œI’m ready.” I pulled my belts tighter. “Who’s in the prototypes near me?” I knew the drivers in the Ferrari, BMW, Corvette, and at least one of the Porsches were professionals, but I wasn’t sure about the faster prototypes.
    â€œThe two ahead are a pro and an amateur—Andy Padden in front and Roger Lee behind. Roger’s pretty good.”
    Sportscar racing was a mix of pros and amateurs—the gentlemen drivers, who paid their own way to race cars. They had to qualify for a racing license with training or seat time in lower-level races, but those guidelines still allowed for a wide range of skill level. It was the rare amateur who had the hours of experience a pro had—and mostly it was seat time that was crucial. Given a set of on-track conditions, from weather to other cars, I knew how a pro would react. An amateur wasn’t as predictable, which could easily make him, or her, dangerous.
    Bruce came back on the radio. “Right behind you is a NASCAR guy, Sam Remington, and behind him is a rookie amateur, Francis Schmidt. Careful of him. That’s the red car.”
    Has to be Sam behind me. I shook off the distraction and focused on the guy in the red prototype. He was sure to want to pass me in the first lap, as would Sam. The difference was the amateur might not know how to do it well.
    We rolled under the starter’s stand in our orderly line. I glanced left, found our pits. Noted a Porsche with its hood up in the massive pit complex two spaces up from us.
    â€œLights out on the pace car,” Bruce said. “Green next time by.”
    I spent the last yellow lap thinking about braking points, turn-in points, apexes, and moisture on