Team Off-the-Books, 8 pm - Midnight
It was 8 pm, and Hank Richmond was regretting every decision he had made to get himself to this point...
He hadn’t felt that way a mere two hours ago, when he had been woken up by a smiling Hans Gustavson. Hans had just finished his second two-hour driving stint and had come to get some rest. Hans told Hank the team was in the lead, and that it felt “just like old times” out on the track. They had shared a quick bite to eat, swapping pieces of their light meals and giving each other some good-natured ribbing over each other’s food choices. Hans described Hank’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich as “a combination of the world’s worst Nutella and jam with way too much sugar in it,” while Hank had offered that Hans’s pickled herring on crispbread was like “edible cardboard” and “something that old-time sailors probably ate just because they had to.” Then Hans turned in for some rest, and Hank headed to the pits.
That was when the feeling of dread in Hank’s stomach had started to grow.
The first thing he saw was their Flint coming around a bend with Sam Prescott behind the wheel and some considerable damage to its front quarter. He pulled on a headset.
“Sam,” he said, “what happened to our car?”
“Oh, that little scratch?”, came Sam’s reply over the radio. “Just a little dust-up with some bugger who didn’t know how to drive.”
“Sam–,” Hank started, but he was cut off.
“Look, Hank, I’ve already been thoroughly scolded by Hans about that little incident, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to focus on driving. I pinky swear that I will try to keep my nose clean this time out.”
It did not, in fact, seem like Sam was really trying to keep her nose clean. Hank listened as the radio was punctuated with exclamations from Sam. “Come on, you bugger!” “Don’t you know how to drive!” “Woo! Eat my dust!” Hank saw Sam attempt–and manage to execute–more than a few passing maneuvers that he would have described as overly aggressive, but Sam miraculously managed to avoid another collision.
He couldn’t say the same about the other cars, though. Cars were slamming into guardrails. They were slamming into each other. And there were a few personalities on the track who made Sam look tame by comparison. There was a young man a few places down in the pits who seemed to be constantly yelling at everyone about everything in some foreign language–maybe Finnish? And there was an older man–he guessed German–who also seemed to do an awful lot of yelling.
This was not Hank’s classic car club he usually raced with, where the other drivers were just as interested as he was in not scratching their carefully restored paint. Heck, most of these cars hardly had any paint actually left.
As his sense of dread grew, Hank started wondering why he had spent his own money and used his own vacation days to come to the subarctic hinterlands to drive around with a bunch of maniacs in deathtraps. He could have used that time and money to go somewhere else. Like a beach. A nice, warm, tropical beach, where he could be relaxing in the sun. Maybe with a nice fruity drink in his hand with one of those little umbrellas in it. And a strong shot of alcohol. But no, he’d had to let himself get strong-armed into this by Sam. Wasn’t he supposed to be the mentor in the relationship? The one who talked his young colleague out of doing rash things? Instead, he’d let her talk him into doing something rash.
So it was 8 pm, and Hank Richmond was regretting every decision he had made to get himself to this point, when Sam Prescott came roaring into the pits for the driver change. His driver change.
Sam leapt out of the car looking tired and sweaty, but with a triumphant smile on her face.
“Come on Hank, let’s go! We’re in the lead!”
Hank froze.
“No, no, I can’t do this,” he said, a hint of panic creeping into his normally calm demeanor.
“What do you mean you can’t do this, Hank? You’re up on the driving roster! It was your idea to swap drivers every two hours. And if we don’t follow our roster, we’ll be disqualified!”
“Sam, these people out here are crazy! I’m used to a little friendly competition with my classic car club for a couple hours on a weekend here or there, not racing with a bunch of lunatics with a death wish!”
A hint of fury was creeping into Sam’s face and voice. “Hank, come on! We’re in the lead! Pull yourself together! If you weren’t ready to do this, the time to make that decision was weeks ago! Not now!”
Hank just looked at the ground and shook his head tensely.
“Alright, then, maybe Hans can talk some sense into you!” Sam reached for the walkie-talkie to contact Hans, who was sleeping nearby. Hank grabbed her arm. “Hank!,” Sam shouted, glaring at him with a combination of surprise and fury.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Hank muttered, letting her arm go. “No need to wake up Hans. He needs to rest. I’ll do it.”
“OK! Come on, get a move on!”
Hank reluctantly pulled on his helmet and made his march to the gallows as he approached the Flint and pulled open the door. Sam pulled on the headset.
As Hank started to pull down the pit lane and approach the merge point with the track, a red Cago station wagon came barreling down the track. Hank was hesitant to accelerate.
“Come on, Hank,” Sam yelled into the headset, “You can beat that car onto the track!”
Hank pressed down on the accelerator for a moment, then lost his nerve and slammed on the brakes. He felt the stuttering of the anti-lock brakes as they struggled to bring the massive car to as sudden of a stop as they could manage. The Flint came to a rest with its nose just sticking out into the track, and the Cago swerved to avoid it.
“Thank you, Fred!,” Hank exclaimed over the radio.
“Fred? What, is that what you say when you don’t want to take the Lord’s name in vain?”
“Huh?” said Hank, as he now finally piloted the Flint onto the track. “Oh, no, I meant Fred Jovanovich. He was the lead engineer for the ABS system on the Sovereign back in the day. He taught me pretty much everything I know about anti-lock braking systems. He retired a few years back. I think he has a condo down in Florida now…”
Hank continued prattling on about his old colleague and all of the lessons he had learned from him. Sam was, at first, exasperated and considering telling Hank to shut up and drive, but then she realized that Hank’s rambling about the intricacies of anti-lock brake systems, the finer points of traction control design, the early struggles of designing for side crash protection, and so on, and so on, was actually helping Hank calm down. So instead of cutting Hank off, she half-listened and threw in the occasional “Really?” and “Interesting” to encourage Hank to keep going. Eventually, it seemed Hank settled down and was rounding the track at a reasonably consistent pace. Not a fast pace, mind you, and the team seemed to be losing ground. But at least Hank no longer seemed on the brink of a panic attack.
Hank was still going on about the time Fred had accidentally started a fire while testing a seatbelt pretensioner when Sam interrupted. “Alright, Hank, it’s 10 pm. Time to bring it in.”
“What? It’s 10 already? Oh man, I shouldn’t have been talking that whole time. You know, talking while driving puts a strain on the driver’s attention and takes away from their attention on the road.”
“I know, Hank, but it was either let you talk or let you have a panic attack. I figured talking was the better option.”
“Thanks, Sam.” Hank pulled into the pits, and as he stepped out and Sam approached the car, he smiled a broad grin, clasped her hand, and embraced her. “Thanks, Sam. Now let’s go win this thing!”
“You know it!,” Sam shouted as she hurried into the car.
And for the next two hours, Hank once again listened while Sam cursed, shouted, and rejoiced as she made her way around the track without incident, only punctuated by a routine fuel stop. He could do this, he thought. He could, couldn’t he? Only time would tell.
), and 
