Chapter 2 - First Impressions
(Go A Long Way)

Extract from Dan Graney's article in local small-print newspaper, Sideways, June 14, 1978:

… Hurricane Howe has found refuge, folks. Okay, that didn't come out right. Anyhow, he did. Have you ever heard of Nicole Myers? The name ought to be familiar, either from the "Noodle" Myers incident she caused at West Helden… or maybe her father, short-track hero, Scott Myers. Nicole has taken over Scott's team due to his untimely death three years ago, as owner and driver. Myers Motorsports is a new team at Simitreu, green, green rookie. Apparently she has taken a liking to Hurricane and hired him as their own head mechanic.

Not much about Myers is known, but considering the fact that she apparently saw nothing wrong with climbing behind the wheel of a race car and spilling spaghetti all over West Helden Speedway, you have to wonder the sort of chemistry that's going to boil up over at the 33 team.

Meanwhile, upstart Dick Nolam caused sparks by his blistering qualifying run today…

"Is that a hurricane, a train rushin' through, or a conniption?" The young woman rolled out from underneath the white-and-green late model, pushing sweaty red hair from her eyes. Her comment was more an excuse to cool off a moment than anything.

"Sounds like Kenny Jackson," a stocky man near her said thoughtfully.

"Well, apparently he doesn't have laryngitis."

Her companion laughed. "No. If I'm not mistaken on rumor, he's firing someone. He goes through a head mechanic a season."

"Poor fellow," the girl smiled wryly. She was just ready to turn back to her work when he burst out -

"Say, Nic!"

"Yeah?"

"I heard Alan Howe is their head mechanic. If he's being fired, maybe -" The man cut of significantly, looking for her opinion.

Her eyes widened. "Alan Howe? I've heard he's one of the best mechanics in the region."

"Yeah, that's the point!"

She shrugged doubtfully. "Why'd he come with us? He's used to teams that run on money, not gas." She turned to the pair of jean-clad legs from under the car. "Leppy, how's it look?" Back to the task at hand, heat or not heat. The girl kicked herself back under the car, collaborating with Leppy on suspension.

*

"Mr. Howe, a comment?"

"What jus' happened there, Hurricane?"

"Whatcher plannin' ta do now, Alan?"

Alan half-winced, half-snarled at the circle of reporters that had suddenly hounded him. He called Jackson something that none of the reporters for the larger papers would dare send to their editors and brushed them off, cutting through the crowd like a steak knife in butter. One brave soul trailed after him.

Alan turned. "Do I have to spell it out for you? 'F-U-' -"

"No, sorry, see you around!" the young reporter mumbled, scurrying off.

The reporters having gotten the point, Alan had spent the past half an hour on the pit road "wall", staring at the cars going by and mind working a mile a minute on what to do now.

Any team would welcome any extra hand, particularly if the extra hand was Alan Howe, and he looked fairly harmless at the moment. Alan lived to work on cars, and doing what he loved right now would ease the brooding welling up inside of him like a caged animal trying to break free. He could make it a nice night.

But afterward? He had searched for a month before Jackson hired him; could he find a job anywhere now? Had he exhausted all the dirt late model teams in the entire South in a matter of five years? Probably. Alan could look around him now, up and down pit road, and recognize nearly every team; he had worked for them at some point. He'd be camping outside tonight with his shattered pride and self-disgust with his own temper, that he could never control and wasn't sure he really wanted to.

Back to working at the Good Warehouse for a while.

"Hallo. You Hurricane Howe?"

Alan stopped resting his chin on his hugged knees and glanced up. The voice belonged to a stocky, smiling man with hair about the same shade as Alan's own and eyes a lighter, friendlier brown, with what Alan's mother called the "howdiyado" look. "Those are the sort of decent people with nothing to hide," she would say… although never with company. She was the topic of too much gossip as it was. The guy was hiding his notepad or recorder. Still, if it hadn't been for the howdiyado look, Alan would have told him off as he had the other reporters.

Instead, "Yeah."

The man held out a hand. "I'm Tom Sturdy."

Alan shook it warily. "And?"

"Well, I overheard you just got fired."

"We were that loud?"

Tom Sturdy chuckled broadly. "Are you kidding? Every reporter in the world kneeling by over there, and, well, yeah, everyone's heard."

"Oh."

"D'you have a job lined up?"

This caught Alan's attention. "No. Why?" He tried to keep his voice even and calm, but a spark of hopeful excitement lit inside of him.

"'Cause we need a head mechanic."

I'll be a good boy from now on, I swear! He was skeptical, but incredibly hopeful. "Really? Why do you need a new one?" What did you just ask? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Howe.

"We never had one before," Sturdy chuckled.

Now Alan was more than skeptical. "Just what have you done wi'out a head mechanic?"

"Won races, son. How d'you think we can afford to hire a head mechanic?"

Alan hesitated. That meant Sturdy's team hadn't a lot of money. But his thirty-nine cents wasn't exactly anything to be proud of, either. "What team d'you belong to?"

"You probably never heard of us. We're new down here. Come on, I'll introduce you; you won't be forced to make a decision snap-quick."

He had nothing to lose. Rising, he followed Sturdy down the pit road, a good few makeshift pits (nothing more than blocked-off grass areas) from Jackson's. Had he been sensitive to that sort of thing, Alan would have noticed that if he and Jackson's voices had carried so far, over the growl of engines and chatter of crowds, they must've been pretty darn loud.

Tom stopped in front of a skeleton trailer with a plywood platform by it. On it was the toolbox, and next to it was Sturdy's car: a threadbare white late model, not half so good-looking as Jackson's 69. The only break on the refrigerator shade of the machine was a gaudy number 33, a script reading "Noodle Myers" above the roof, a few dingy, miniscule decals, and a dark green strip along the bottom. From underneath the car were two pairs of legs.

"Nic, Leppy. Come on out and put on your best smiles. We might have our new head mechanic."

The two people squirmed out. Alan raised an eyebrow. One was a short, slight man with long red hair, whose eyes darted a little warily; the other was a girl. Women were rarely found in the pit.

"Guys, this is Alan Howe." The two redheads in front of them grew a little wide-eyed. "Alan - may I call you Alan? - this is Nicole Myers and John Weaver, only no one calls him that anymore. He's 'Leprechaun'."

"Nice to meet you," Nicole Myers said, sticking out a hand. Alan took it. Leprechaun Weaver (it felt odd to call a man "Leprechaun", but that about summed up Weaver's looks) was next and shook without meeting Alan's eyes. Alan could see it was from shyness, rather than rudeness.

"I think we'd all work out real good," Tom said, breaking an uncomfortable silence as Alan and Nicole eyed another guardedly. "What d'you say, Nic?"

Nicole shrugged. "I guess so."

Alan knew better than to mistake this for a welcome. Nicole had used the same tone one might use while saying: "I guess I gotta go to the dentist soon."

"We don't have too many options," Nicole continued grudgingly.

Alan felt a little affronted. Here was this girl treating him like he was some worthless - well, she was new down here. That explained a lot.

"We'd be happy to have you aboard," Leprechaun spoke up quietly.

"Perhaps just a trial tonight? See how we work together," Nicole continued.

Alan glanced around at Tom and Leprechaun uneasily. This girl seemed to be running the show. "Yeah. Where's the boss?"

Nicole smiled a little sardonically. "Sorry for not elaborating. I'm the boss when Tom lets me be. I guess it's fair; I couldn't drive the car if he didn't make his 'mazing engines."

Alan openly stared at her, feeling his jaw dropping a bit. "You - you're the owner?" He appraised her slight figure. She couldn't have been older than him, and he was twenty-two. He had heard vaguely of a woman racer in the pits, but had assumed she wouldn't qualify. He was too busy with his work to worry about gossip. "And the driver?"

Nicole seemed to brace herself, frostiness overriding her friendly features. "Yeah."

"But - but you're just a little girl!"

Nicole hadn't prepared for this. She visibly stiffened, looking angry. "Yeah. Why? D'you need a job, Hurricane?" She pronounced his handle a little snidely, snubbing him back into his place as a temperamental and unemployed gearhead. Coolly, she shook his hand again. "Tonight, then. We'll see how it works out."

"Uh, yeah."

She turned on her heel to drag Tom off, talking with heads inclined. Alan had a feeling she was speaking pretty sharply. He decided to get to work and turned to Leprechaun Weaver.

"So what've you been doing?"

*

Nicole wondered what she had gotten herself in to. She hadn't thought there was any way Tom would actually convince Alan Howe to consider working with them. She kept an ear on the talk, and knew him to be very good, while meanwhile few knew the name "Myers" down here in South Carolina.

And when Tom appeared again with Howe on his arm like a wrapped gift, Nicole had been wary. Was Howe here to mock them? Why else would be bother with them? She had heard he was overbearing and had a temper. Would he try to run the show? Nicole loved her independence. Would be sullen? He certainly looked it.

But she had been willing to give him a try (although she had really been hoping to hire T.J. Dammon) - until he found she would be in charge. She was still smarting and fuming. Little girl, indeed! Little girl!

Nicole was used to discrimination; unavoidable, really, if you were in female in a highly man-dominated sport that had been that way a good while. Many times she would try to work out a deal with someone in racing - support, sponsorship, merging, loose allying that had sprouted up in the Midwest - and her would-be partner would fumble before finally hinting that her sex was their problem. Others were more direct. Nicole, frustrated, had once snapped: "Last time I checked I'm absolutely human, I'm over eighteen, I've won before, and my left foot works perfectly fine. Okay, maybe my old English teacher would disagree with the human part, but I can drive the darn car."

She finished talking with Tom, who meet her incredulous rants calmly, and turned back to Leppy and Howe.

They were chatting together amiably, focused on their work. Leppy didn't meet her eye when she tried to catch it and didn't look nervous to be talking with this complete stranger. A stranger with an infamous temper and foul mouth.

Nicole stood watching them a moment, feeling a wave of jealousy wash over her. Leppy was the shyest young man she had ever met. He could only talk easily with a certain select few, and Nicole was one of them. She had never realized before how proud she was of Leppy's friendship. Tom was a different story; they had known each other a while. He had even first called him "Leprechaun". But Alan Howe!

Whether by chance or design, when she stepped to them, they both turned away, a subtle inch or two. Nicole's mouth fell open a moment. Finally she turned and went aside, resigned to the dreary task of wiping off some of the tools, and brooded.

*

Alan Howe may be smart but he was hopeless.

Nicole jammed her fingers against her temples as she finished talking to Howe. She had a horrible headache already, and it had nothing to do with the noisy pit. It did have something to do, however, with the fact that Howe did not understand the concept: tires cost money. And a good deal of it! She walked to her car, nodding to shouts of luck from competitors and ignoring catcalls from others.

"Daddy, Charley, Mom - this is another one for you guys," she whispered, raising an eye up to the dusky sky. "I love you." Then she wrenched her helmet over her head and climbed into the racecar with a sigh of relief.

She loved each and every car she raced in; all of them were as real to her as people, each with distinctive personalities, quirks, chemistry, and all. She loved the feel of being in a contraption that just fit her; ready to work with her totally to do everything they could to win. This one was smooth and a little passive, somewhat slow to response but reliable and fast.

The noise of the pits dimmed; it was only her and the car, which Tom had fondly named Trixie. The world beyond was shut out. Now she was calmer, more focused, even more languid, although the latter would only be until the command to fire the engines. Nicole rather hated having to hook up the staticy radio, knowing she'd hear other voices, particularly Howe's.

Sighing again, she did so anyway. "Leppers? How're you doing? Clear?"

Leppy's soft voice came over the scratchy transmitter more clearly than anyone else's. "Ten-four, Nicole. How's it feel?"

"Great as always. Set?"

"Speak up, girl, can barely hear you." It was Howe's deadpan tone. Nicole stiffened.

"Get used to it, buddy. 'Cause unlike some deep-pocketed guys, we don't have enough money for anything else." She knew very well this was the root of the problem; she had wasted a lot of time the past few hours explaining the concept of "conserving" to him, ignoring how several times he had reddened in embarrassment at her sharp chastisements. All she had noticed was his sullen retorts.

"Excuse me." Howe was being anything but polite.

"I gather you're being typically sarcastic."

"Huh?"

"Never mind." She tapped the steering wheel, scanning her gauges. Satisfied, she glanced out the window at the nearly-full moon and grinned.

Racers by nature were superstitious, but Simitreu really took the cake. It was one thing to think a race on the night of the full moon was bad luck, but quite another to reschedule the entire thing just to avoid it.

Nicole had mentioned this earlier and gained the opinion of Simitreu's elder statesmen (a polite way of saying old geezers) that she was a very arrogant woman. They had explained about all the racers who had died at Simitreu at full moon. Nicole wasn't able to hide the fact that she thought it was stupid.

Then they had explained about Israel and Leslie Clayton, who had been at the track alone (at a particular night of the month). They were found the next morning dead, although the hospital could find no medical explanation.

"Well, how old were they?" Nicole had asked. She had been trying to find a way to ask diplomatically, but could find no other method of phrasing it.

One of them gave her a cool stare. "Eighty-nine and ninety-two."

"I rest my case," Nicole had muttered under her breath after she had parted with the Simitreu men. On those nights alone on the road with an eighteen-wheeler, when she resigned herself to the fact she'd never set the world on fire in racing, she amused herself with a more attainable fantasy than the Wilkins Cap for Charley - winning a race under a full moon, with a green car, numbered "13", with as many peanuts in her pits as she could afford to cram in. Smash the superstitions to smithereens!

In any case, this race was on a Thursday night, an unusual night to hold a race. Friday, Saturday, even Sunday nights, yes, but rarely Thursday. All because tomorrow was the full moon - the next three days, in fact, depending on which argument you subscribed to.

Undisturbed, Nicole, Tom, and Leppy had green on their car and pistachios in the pits. Tom would have died a slow and agonizing death without his pistachios.

"Big race, Nik. Hundred laps," Leppy told her, as if they hadn't discussed it all of the past week. "You know what to do. Conserve. One pit stop. Come on strong at the end."

The static muffled a sound that sounded like Alan Howe had snorted. "Ah, the lovely 'keep-noses-clean-and-we'll-come-through-smellin'-like-a-rose' speak. Just race, dammit."

"I do have nieces and nephews whom I love very much. I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut with that language when you meet them," Nicole snapped.

Back in the pits, Alan turned to Tom and Leppy, made a face, and mouthed: " 'Whom'?" Who the hell went around saying "whom"?

Tom had the ability to break up petty disputes like an expert. "Probably the static make you hear wrong. Now shut up and take your hat off."

A local girl whose fifteenth birthday was that night sang the nation anthem rather badly, although with great patriotic spirit, and her older brother, also in his teens, who was trying desperately to act as if he had never seen his sister before in his life, gave the command: "Let's have a race - engines!"

It wasn't much of a surprise to anyone who had ever heard the following moment that most people in racing went a little deaf. The roar of the engines drowned out the cheers from the stands.

This race had no heats, only a feature; Myers Motorsports had drawn the tenth starting spot out of sixteen cars. This could have spelled trouble for a girl who couldn't afford to be aggressive (could barely afford to be cautious), but as it was a whopping hundred-lapper, there was time for finesse.

If Nicole had her way, she'd run flat-out. Strategy and restraint wasn't her strongest point. As she hadn't the money, she tried to be more patient as the race started, not attacking positions, feeling out the other cars, keeping her eye on the lines, mentally noting how the track was changing as the night grew cooler -

"What the hell are you letting everyone pass you for?!"

Nicole jumped and had to veer the wheel quickly. She was used to Leppy's calm voice guiding her; he acted as her spotter. This, however…

She took a deep breath and regained her focus. Everyone's emotions ran high during a race…

Howe never got control of his. He didn't shut up. Lap after lap, Nicole's concentration was broken by strings of curses and exclamations on her errors. According to him, she was being too wishy-washy, not hard enough, going too high, not taking advantage of Richie McDillion's looseness, not going in deep enough -

"Shut up already, I hired a crew chief, not an extra spotter!"

Howe was silent for about one lap before he started up again. The Italian dinner earlier - the one "superstition" or luxury she indulged in - to help her stamina and focus didn't help as a headache slowly welled up due to constant noise in her left ear.

"Pit!" he suggested loudly.

She held in a groan as her head throbbed. "Too early."

"This car ain't gonna beat anyone if she doesn't do out-of-sequence," Alan told Tom and Leppy in exasperation.

Nicole heard it. "Too early."

"Girl, did you hire me as a crew chief or not?"

Already, Nicole was feeling nostalgia for the days she, Leppy, and Tom called the shots, no formal titles necessary, thank you very kindly. But he had a point. What else was she planning to blow money on? She pitted.

Alan Howe was apparently never satisfied. It only took a few laps after her stop for him to bellow again: "What the hell you doing?"

"What now?"

"You slowed down."

Yes, that's what happens when one releases their foot from the gas pedal… Nicole paused a moment, intent on getting through the breathtaking turn three in one piece. "Right. You brought me in early; everyone else needs to pit. Now I save the tires and fuel," she answered matter-of-factly.

"No! This is racing, woman! Don't slow down! You could have the whole field lapped!"

"And then the tires and engine'll blow. This is a low-budget team, Howe!"

"And when you win, you get money. Listen to me."

"It wouldn't work! Who's the racer here? Me or you?"

Leppy clearly heard Alan mutter something to the effect of: "You're the driver. I'm the racer." The long-suffering leprechaun smiled wryly and keyed up his radio. "Calm and easy, Nicole, we've still a good over half a race to go…"

"Thank you for that brilliant piece of wisdom, Leppy," Nicole snapped. Leppy flushed a deep red.

It was the longest race of her life, Nicole reflected wearily… before remembering that she wasn't being melodramatic about Howe. This was, in fact, the longest race she had ever been in… and everything seemed to be working against her.

Though Howe's pit-early, then lead strategy and Nicole's hard defense against the charging cars behind her, she was in third by the time the race had winded down to five laps. Despite frayed nerves, fatigue, and a headache, Nicole kept her mind solidly on attacking the second-place car.

"Nolam was one fast son-a-gun in qualifying, but his car's wearing down now, see -"

"HOWE! Lemme concentrate…"

With two laps left, Alan couldn't restrain himself: "C'mon, now, Myers, get 'im low!" he hollered.

The shock of his nerves on her focus was so great that Nicole swerved and just missed spinning out completely in the first turn.

"Nic, slow, slow!" Even levelheaded Leppy was shaken, and while part of it was probably concern for Nicole, the other part was probably dismay at the positions lost at the mishap. "You all right?"

"Boilin'!"

"The car?"

"Not a scratch - lucky for you, Howe!"

"Not my fault!" Alan protested.

"Stop talkin' -" Nicole no longer sounded scholarly " - you scared me half to death!"

"Hey - "

"And look! Now we fell to eleventh!"

Alan was quiet the last lap, but the damage was done, and in the last not-quite-half mile of a lap, Nicole had kept eleventh. She pulled in and climbed out exhaustedly. Everything seemed to be shaking and jumping in her vision as if they were doing the bunny hop. A horde of reporters, drawn by the ARCL series taking control of the track and Nicole being female, hurried over, anxious to hear from the girl who had been in a position to win, despite all naysaying, and had blown it right at the end of the show.

Nicole brushed past them; usually she was a polite person, but the fatigue and anger had gotten to her. The fifty-mile race was an event for her, and the stamina needed for these races got to many a racer, not to mention Nicole didn't get the healthiest amount of sleep to begin with. She headed straight for Howe.

"Nice save, Nicole," Tom offered.

"Where is he?"

"Hey, don't blame me for your lack of driving skills!" Alan defended, emerging from behind the shabby Streamliner trailer.

Nikki, in calm rage and burning eyes, poked her finger into his chest. "Alan Howe, you pull a move like that again and I'll clobber you!"

Alan eyed down at her in a sort of incredulous amusement. Nicole was a head and a half shorter than him.

While Tom and Leppy loaded the car on to the trailer (no staying for the party for the 33 team; they had to travel to a race in Virginia for the next night), Tom whispered, "What a day, what a day."

Alan looked up. "I heard that." He, too, was "gatherin' up the luggage," term a la Tom Sturdy.

"And? Nothin' - much - 'gainst you," answered Tom jokingly. Alan didn't seem to be taking offense.

When Alan headed off to collect the remaining tools, Leppy asked, "Who'll you bet comes 'round first?"

Tom thought a moment. "I'm bettin' Howe'll hold out, Nicole'll break down."

Leppy paused in thought. "Nah ... you watch. Nic'll come round first, but she ain't gonna say a nice word 'til Alan does. She'll just wait him out."

"In that case, they'll never be civil. Howe won't give in, Lep."

"Something'll happen, then. Want to bet?"

"Ten dollars."

"You're on."