activities at the church.
Jamie’s hands perspired, and she rubbed them against her shorts and bit her lower lip.
Her mother kept a hand over her mouth, staring at the upper right-hand corner of the screen as Jamie’s dad got a quick drink of Gatorade and tossed the bottle out the window.
“Dale Maxwell comes out of the pits first,” the announcer said. “The pit crew got him out of there in 14.2—not too shabby.”
“Yeah, they’re really firing on all cylinders now,” the commentator said. “And Dale sure looks like he’s driving with new life. Maybe he got something extra in that chapel service today, huh? Maybe a little extra power?”
“We’ll see if he can hold this slim lead. . . .”
Chapter 25
Chasing the Leader
TIM WALKED DOWN PIT ROAD, careful not to get in anybody’s way. Several cars had already been taken to the garage, and their pit boxes had been removed. One driver who was involved in a nasty crash had been taken to the infield care center, and Tim watched as the man’s wife, sparkling with lots of jewelry (even her sunglasses had diamonds), was escorted to the center.
The sun baked him, but he wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. The sounds and sights sent a surge of excitement through him, and he felt like this was what he wanted to do—to race like Dale Maxwell, just like his dad had wanted to do.
The race continued without another yellow flag until lap 304. Dale was in third place when he entered the pits.With four new tires and a full tank, he roared back to the track in a jam of cars.
Tim switched to the race coverage on the radio. The guys in the booth were saying this might be the last pit stop. “And it looks like Dale Maxwell just took control of this race, boys. He’s driving like the old Dale.”
As Tim switched the radio back, he wondered what that meant. What was different with Dale now? Cars followed the pace car until it finally trailed off. Tim rubbed his hands together as the green flag flew and the engines roared past the starting line.
“This one is ours, guys,” Dale said.
They had gone 324 laps around the 1.5 mile track, only 14 miles from the finish of the 500-mile race, when a black car, #13, blew through the pack and into second position behind Dale.
“Oh no,” Tim muttered.
“Stay low. Stay low,” Scotty said. “You got Devalon coming up high. He’s swapping paint with just about everybody behind you.”
The radio clicked twice.
“Right behind him is #27.”
The radio clicked again.
Tim knew that #27 was Butch Devalon’s teammate. They would try to push Dale and overtake him if they could.
“Come on,” Tim mumbled.
“You got ’em, Dale,” T.J. said. “Just stay in the groove.”
Tim remembered the first year #27 raced for the cup. His father had said the guy didn’t deserve to race at the top level. “Last year he hit everything on the track but the lottery.” The memory made Tim smile.
Dale stayed low around the track with the two Devalon cars right behind him. When the white flag came out, signaling the last lap, #13 and #27 were side by side, following Dale by less than a car length.
“One more, Dale,” T.J. said. “You can do it.”
Dale came up on a slower car in the middle of the track just before the first turn.
“Stay low. Stay low,” Scotty said. “Coming up on the right is #13. At your bumper.”
They hit the turn, and Tim watched Dale sail around the corner and into the backstretch. He lost him in the line of haulers and RVs, so he instinctively looked at the stands and all the eyes riveted on the three cars. He looked at the computer screen, but crew members were bunched up in front of it. He moved to the wall as the lead cars screamed into turns three and four. Tim glanced at the starter, who grabbed the checkered flag and held it like it was a life vest in a hurricane.
“Go high,” Scotty said. “Stay high. Stay high. . . .”
A plume of smoke rose from the back turn.
Chapter
Jamie’s hands perspired, and she rubbed them against her shorts and bit her lower lip.
Her mother kept a hand over her mouth, staring at the upper right-hand corner of the screen as Jamie’s dad got a quick drink of Gatorade and tossed the bottle out the window.
“Dale Maxwell comes out of the pits first,” the announcer said. “The pit crew got him out of there in 14.2—not too shabby.”
“Yeah, they’re really firing on all cylinders now,” the commentator said. “And Dale sure looks like he’s driving with new life. Maybe he got something extra in that chapel service today, huh? Maybe a little extra power?”
“We’ll see if he can hold this slim lead. . . .”
Chapter 25
Chasing the Leader
TIM WALKED DOWN PIT ROAD, careful not to get in anybody’s way. Several cars had already been taken to the garage, and their pit boxes had been removed. One driver who was involved in a nasty crash had been taken to the infield care center, and Tim watched as the man’s wife, sparkling with lots of jewelry (even her sunglasses had diamonds), was escorted to the center.
The sun baked him, but he wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. The sounds and sights sent a surge of excitement through him, and he felt like this was what he wanted to do—to race like Dale Maxwell, just like his dad had wanted to do.
The race continued without another yellow flag until lap 304. Dale was in third place when he entered the pits.With four new tires and a full tank, he roared back to the track in a jam of cars.
Tim switched to the race coverage on the radio. The guys in the booth were saying this might be the last pit stop. “And it looks like Dale Maxwell just took control of this race, boys. He’s driving like the old Dale.”
As Tim switched the radio back, he wondered what that meant. What was different with Dale now? Cars followed the pace car until it finally trailed off. Tim rubbed his hands together as the green flag flew and the engines roared past the starting line.
“This one is ours, guys,” Dale said.
They had gone 324 laps around the 1.5 mile track, only 14 miles from the finish of the 500-mile race, when a black car, #13, blew through the pack and into second position behind Dale.
“Oh no,” Tim muttered.
“Stay low. Stay low,” Scotty said. “You got Devalon coming up high. He’s swapping paint with just about everybody behind you.”
The radio clicked twice.
“Right behind him is #27.”
The radio clicked again.
Tim knew that #27 was Butch Devalon’s teammate. They would try to push Dale and overtake him if they could.
“Come on,” Tim mumbled.
“You got ’em, Dale,” T.J. said. “Just stay in the groove.”
Tim remembered the first year #27 raced for the cup. His father had said the guy didn’t deserve to race at the top level. “Last year he hit everything on the track but the lottery.” The memory made Tim smile.
Dale stayed low around the track with the two Devalon cars right behind him. When the white flag came out, signaling the last lap, #13 and #27 were side by side, following Dale by less than a car length.
“One more, Dale,” T.J. said. “You can do it.”
Dale came up on a slower car in the middle of the track just before the first turn.
“Stay low. Stay low,” Scotty said. “Coming up on the right is #13. At your bumper.”
They hit the turn, and Tim watched Dale sail around the corner and into the backstretch. He lost him in the line of haulers and RVs, so he instinctively looked at the stands and all the eyes riveted on the three cars. He looked at the computer screen, but crew members were bunched up in front of it. He moved to the wall as the lead cars screamed into turns three and four. Tim glanced at the starter, who grabbed the checkered flag and held it like it was a life vest in a hurricane.
“Go high,” Scotty said. “Stay high. Stay high. . . .”
A plume of smoke rose from the back turn.
Chapter
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