Chapter 7
Mack pulled her gear bag from the battered Bronco and looked up at the towering glass building in front of her, the iconic Indianapolis Motor Speedway Pagoda.
The ten-story glass and steel building was a far cry from the single-story wooden grandstand at Haubstadt, and Mack felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, suddenly lifted from her grayscale life and dropped into a Technicolor dream world.
Dorothy spent her time in Oz trying to find her way home, but as Mack took in the enormity of the Speedway—not so different from Oz, really, with its bright colors and magnitude—thoughts of home quickly faded.
“You get the helmet?” Janet said by way of greeting.
Generously, Janet paid in advance for Mack to have a new helmet fitted since her own was painfully outdated, without the connection points for a water straw or cooling hose.
Many drivers put elaborate designs on their helmets, but Mack asked only for a bright blue helmet with her initials and the number of the car she’d be driving, the same style she’d used throughout her career.
Mack held up her bulging bag. “Thank you.”
Without another word, Janet turned and headed toward the long, low rows of garages known as Gasoline Alley.
The sharp tang of renewable ethanol fuel seared Mack’s nostrils and she allowed herself to stop for a moment and breathe in the cool, acrid air.
She’d once been an insider in this sport, walking through tracks and taking for granted the joy of being part of something she loved so much.
She inhaled and let herself feel the honor of being one of the few drivers to walk this infield.
The weather was cold but clear, every driver’s dream, and a charged stillness pervaded the infield.
IMS was the largest sporting venue in the world, with 250,000 seats surrounding the two-and-a-half-mile oval track.
Inside the giant asphalt loop were a museum, a golf course, a regulation dirt track, a concert venue, the pagoda-shaped media and control tower, multiple parking areas, and over one hundred garage bays.
Come race day, the track would be teeming with almost a half million people and the chaotic energy of spectators, teams, sponsors, officials, and drivers, but today it was empty but for the JJR team.
Mack’s back pebbled with goose bumps as she took in the three long, low concrete buildings that stretched farther than she could see, each with a bold black number painted over the garage door.
From this angle, Gasoline Alley appeared to stretch on without end.
Janet strode silently in front of her, and as Mack watched her boss march forward, she remembered the old racing superstition that women in the garage area were bad luck.
Only fifty-five years had passed since the first woman was allowed in Gasoline Alley, and Janet raced here not long after, when men still routinely spat on and shouted death threats at any woman who dared walk on this grease-stained concrete.
It was a prejudice many young women imagined as long past, but Mack knew that if she qualified she would be only the tenth woman to start this race in one hundred years.
“You actually read all that lawyer paperwork?” Janet asked over her shoulder.
Mack nodded in acknowledgment of the massive deck of information Janet overnighted to her house.
Background information on the team, insurance riders, waivers of liability, and Mack’s contract with JJR. With no time or money to find an agent and desperate for the chance, Mack signed it all.
Last night, she’d warily asked Laurie to read it over, and to her surprise, her sister examined the contract and explained it in regular words without making Mack feel stupid.
Her translation: Mack was at Janet’s mercy.
“So you understand that our main sponsor, Hartley, is supporting a share of both cars, but the eleven machine is still blank,” Janet said, using the practice of referring to a car by its assigned number.
“You’re responsible for securing additional funding for your ride.
If you can’t cover the final cost of running the car, you’ll owe me.
Any additional income you want from this opportunity, you’ll have to find through sponsorship. ”
Mack’s throat tightened at the reminder of the risk she was taking.
Not only was she not making any money on this endeavor, she could potentially put herself deeply in debt if she couldn’t find sponsorship.
A single car for the Indy 500 cost upward of $1 million, and Janet was only providing the physical car.
Mack needed to raise six figures alone to support the cost of her team members and supplies.
She was too scared to ask Laurie if she was putting the family business at risk, and she couldn’t even begin to think of the consequences for Shaw if Mack brought a load of debt on their heads.
It had been so long since she’d courted sponsors, and back then she’d had it easy, coasting on her youthful success and, admittedly, Wes’s reputation.
Janet pursed her lips, seemingly reading Mack’s mind. “Kissing ass for cash is hell on earth, but the Indy 500 is worth it. You working on sponsorships?”
Mack hummed a nonanswer. She saw no point asking for money until she passed the rookie test.
“Well then, here we are.” Janet stopped at an open garage and Mack gasped at the work of art in front of her.
The shiny machine looked more like a spaceship than a race car.
A long, narrow nose cone flared into a sleek, low body, topped by a cockpit-like capsule where the driver sat, and thin bilateral wings bookended the front and back of the vehicle.
The low-slung car measured only three feet high but stretched almost seventeen feet long.
Mack could smell the fresh rubber of the wide tires even twenty feet away.
Janet placed her thumb and index finger on her lower lip, filling the garage with a shrill whistle. “Some of you met Mack Williams at the seat fitting yesterday. The rest of y’all come say hi to our new driver.”
Mack recognized a few faces from the previous day’s visit to the JJR team garage for a seat fitting—a laborious process involving sitting in a puddle of poured foam to create a custom fit—and a crash course on the controls and features of the race car.
Mack greeted the other team members and tried to memorize their names.
She did not need to memorize the name of the man smiling at her from the front of the garage.
Leo Raisman was the star driver of JJR and one of the most popular drivers in IndyCar.
His laid-back California attitude, charming yet self-deprecating YouTube channel, stint on a reality TV dancing competition, and a near-win at last year’s race vaulted him from niche sports star to national fame.
On track, he was a captivating combination of steady yet aggressive, and he’d racked up enough wins to take tiny JJR from obscurity to a competitive threat.
He was Shaw’s favorite driver and for good reason: Leo Raisman was an all-American star.
He was also alarmingly good-looking in person.
Dark hair brushed his shoulders in loose curls and several days of beard shadowed his suntanned face.
Leo lazily chewed a piece of gum while studying her a little too long, like he was trying to keep his eyes on her face but couldn’t stop himself from flicking his eyes down to take in all of her, her compact frame and tight jeans and the freckles across her cheeks.
His perusal didn’t make her uncomfortable, but she fought the urge to fidget anyway.
“Hey, Rookie,” he said, grinning. He had tan lines at the corners of his eyes, like he spent a lot of time squinting in the sun.
She would not think about how he looked like a model for a sporting brand, or how his joggers and team polo fit juuust right.
Her focus here was the Indy 500, not Leo Raisman.
She straightened her spine. “I may be a rookie, but you’ll be chasing me down the track.”
Leo threw his head back and laughed with abandon. His teeth weren’t perfectly straight and Mack was annoyed that it worked in his favor. “I look forward to it.” He held out a hand. “Leo Raisman.”
His hand was warm and calloused, how Mack liked a man to feel. Nope, nope, nope. She did not date men who raced. Ever. She would not let his unusually dark eyes make her forget that hard-earned personal rule.
She dropped his hand and rolled her eyes. “I know who you are.”
He nodded. “Likewise. Sick win at Perris a few years back. I saw that one from the stands.”
Mack blinked in surprise. She’d won at the California track eleven or twelve years ago.
“Moving on,” Janet said as she flicked her fingers dismissively in Leo’s direction, but her tone held obvious affection.
Mack was grateful for her intervention. She needed to focus on what was important, and Leo Raisman wasn’t it.
She turned so she couldn’t see him and gave Janet her full attention.
“Lucie and Jimmy are JJR’s engineers. Lucie is with Leo, and Jimmy will call strategy on the eleven car.
On race day, he’s the voice in your earpiece and he makes decisions about fuel strategy, tires, pit stops, and the like. ”
Jimmy, a stocky Black man in his sixties, gave Mack’s hand a perfunctory pump before returning to the rows of computers at the back of the garage.
Mack took no offense; she knew she had to earn respect from her team.
Nothing in racing was given, and even drivers with deep pockets had to prove themselves on the track.
Janet pointed to the restroom outside the garage bay. “You may be in the big leagues now but the locker room situation is the same. Get changed and the crew will tow the car out. I’ll wait for you.”
Women were still an anomaly in racing and most tracks had little incentive to add separate locker rooms. Mack had changed in countless bathroom stalls, and in this one she quickly stripped and replaced her clothing with fireproof everything—underwear, tight-fitting long-sleeve top, and borrowed fireproof coveralls.
She’d brought her own worn racing boots, and she couldn’t decide if she felt embarrassed or proud of the rusty dirt stains.
Mack exited the bathroom in time to follow the team toward pit lane.
Premier race cars were towed from the garage to the track, both because it was important to conserve every drop of fuel on race day, but also because firing up a turbo-charged engine inside an enclosed space could burst eardrums. Janet and Leo chatted easily ahead of her, but Mack lagged behind, too anxious for chatter.
Today of all days, she did not need distractions, and Leo Raisman was definitely a distraction.
Instead, she focused on every detail of the moment: the hard concrete under her soft-soled boots, the chilly spring breeze in her face, the crackling sound of the rubber tires on pavement.
There was a time in her life when she’d used this exact moment as a visualization technique for success, an image she’d used to motivate herself to work toward her goal of racing at Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
In her dreams, she’d walked confidently down Gasoline Alley, but now she had to grip her helmet tightly to hide the shaking of her hands.
God, she wished Wes were here to see this.
He’d know exactly what she was feeling, what it meant to stroll down the same pit lane as her heroes, what it meant to be here after she’d thought she’d lost her chance.
He’d know how to calm her, how to say the right thing to wipe away distractions.
She bit her lip, letting the pain confirm that it was real, that she was really about to drive an IndyCar.
She looked all around her, at the enormous metal grandstands, the scoring pylon that jutted almost a hundred feet into the air, the colorful flags that bordered the exterior of the track.
The sight of those signal flags flapping in the breeze brought back a long-buried habit. Ray Harroun. Joe Dawson. Jules Goux . . .
She hadn’t recited the list for almost a decade, but superstition won out over pride.
Johnnie Parsons. Lee Wallard. Troy Ruttman. Bill Vukovich . . .
She said the names of the former Indy 500 winners, still remembering each one in order.
Mario Andretti. Al Unser, twice in a row. Mark Donohue . . .
The exercise settled her breathing like it always had.
She finished the list, naming last year’s winner as the crisp air ruffled her hair, and she felt a fizzle move through her blood.
She used to feel this way before every race: electric with energy, full of her own potential, certain she belonged, exhilarated by the challenge.
Only now, anxiety mingled with excitement.
If she couldn’t handle the car today, her Indy 500 chance would be over before it even started.
Muscle memory took over, even while her nerves jangled.
She wove her long hair into a quick braid and stuffed the end down the back of her coveralls.
Her pulse reverberated in her ears as she inserted earplugs, pulled her fireproof balaclava over her head, eased on the new helmet, and wiggled it into place.
Silently, Jimmy helped Mack connect the awkward HANS device, the head and neck restraint that prevented fatal spinal cord injury, and Mack pulled on her gloves.
They were new, and she flexed her fingers against the stiff fabric.
Beneath her fire suit, Mack’s body erupted in a fine layer of moisture.
She would be drenched after a few laps, but she hoped Janet didn’t see her sweating like a rookie before she even took a turn.
The helmet muffled sound, and Mack belatedly realized there were two people in suits walking toward her.
Janet watched them, hands on hips and scowl on her face.
The man looked nondescript—suit, tie, glasses—but the woman was effortlessly stunning in a light gray suit and black pointed-toe pumps.
As she came closer, the woman removed oversize sunglasses and tucked them into her hair.
The woman was her sister.