American Dreams by John Jakes Page B

heard his riding mechanic yell. It might have been, 'Lord Jesus,' or 'Oh, God,'
    because a chunk of flying gumbo could smash goggles and put out a driver's eye. This piece luckily glanced away to the right, gone.
    Four cars remained in the race, a Peugot, a National, Artie's Mason, and Carl's Edmunds Special with lightning bolts painted on the cowl. The Peugot and National were a lap and a half behind; they had no chance.
    Carl was on Artie's tail, battling for the lead.
    By now the race was taking its toll. His rear end hurt, and his legs were killing him, not only cramped but aching from working the accelerator and clutch pedal up and down, up and down, every few seconds. Carl Smash-up
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    looked like a mummy: long-sleeved shirt, leather gauntlets, leather helmet, goggles, chamois face mask. Underneath his shirt hot, itchy burlap wrapped his chest and belly to help absorb the severe vibration of the frame. It came through the wheel to his gloved hands, his arms, and his shoulders.
    The first sections of the crowded grandstand flashed by on his right.
    Seated to his left, Jesse, his mechanic, was constantly in motion, peering at the gas and oil gauges, pumping up the gas pressure to spurt gas to the front carburetor from the rear tank, watching the four smooth rubber tires, especially the rear ones. They'd already changed two tires in the pit halfway through the race. Jesse also kept a lookout behind, signaling Carl if someone wanted to pass. The signal was one tap on Carl's left knee. With all the noise, shouting and being understood was impossible.
    Halfway past the grandstand now, clocking something like fifty mph.
    On the fence rail at the turn coming'up, amid people wearing drab clothes, something bright white shone. Artie Flugel roared out of sight into the far back turn. Carl shoved the accelerator pedal down. Jesse tapped his knee frantically, twice. Tire going.
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    Carl looked at Jesse for a second. Jesse stabbed a finger over his right shoulder. Right rear. It always took the worst beating: He knew he should slow down for the turn, but Artie was. already showing him too much dust, and driving was more than a friendly sport, it was a game of high risks. Carl roared into the turn high up on the track near the fence where all those people roosted like crows on a wire. Jesse shouted another warning an instant before the right tire blew like a Fourth of July torpedo.
    Carl pushed his cars, took chances. This time, as the Special began to slew and slide, he knew he'd guessed wrong. The Special headed straight for, the fence sitters, who were screaming and scrambling and trying to get down, get away, but couldn't, not fast enough.
    As the Special hurtled toward the fence through the sun-bright dust, Carl experienced a strange, suspended moment, the kind of moment that had come to him in tight places before. He was scared, terrified, but it was an exhilarating kind of fright - nearly unendurable, but if you survived it, if you tricked fate one more time, the fear would be followed by a giddy pride - fast breathing, laughter at nothing -- when you walked away from the car. This time, unless he did something fast, he and Jesse wouldn't walk away.
    If he drove into the fence, a lot of people would die. At the fence's far 66
    Striving
    end, hay bales were banked in the turn. Carl yanked the wheel over left, stood on the brake. The rear end juddered and slid. The Special just cleared the end of the fence, where all the spectators were diving for their lives. Carl shouted a pointless 'Hang on, Jess' as the Special hit the hay bales, burst through, slammed down into a ditch, and threw them both out of the car like rag dolls.
    A tree limb raked the top of Carl's head. He landed violently on his back in long grass, wind knocked out, ready to wet his pants because he reckoned that if he'd sailed an inch or two higher, the tree limb would have decapitated him, chop.
    He clawed his way out of the grass, ripped his goggles and